Sermon for Sunday, September 22, 2013: God is not the rich man (Parable of the Crafty Steward)

Sermon for Sunday, September 22, 2013

Luke 16:1-13

"God is not the Rich Man."

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie Smith

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

“The parable of the dishonest steward has baffled interpreters since the beginning of time.”

“The parable of the dishonest manager has puzzled many readers.”

“This parable of the Dishonest Steward is one of the strangest of the strange.”

“This one is variously titled as The Parable of the Dishonest Servant, or of the Unjust Steward, or of the Crafty Manager etc., etc. But always, universally, it is referred to as “the most difficult parable of them all.”

Thus began the various Bible commentaries I consulted this week in preparation for preaching on this text. Everyone says this parable is problematic, and not just because it means the pastor has to preach about money on a day when we’re celebrating baptisms and new members (although that does make this pastor tremble a bit!) Why is this parable so hard to preach and to hear? Because Jesus says “You cannot serve God and wealth”, but we consistently come to this parable believing we can.

When Robert was learning to serve God at Luther Seminary in St. Paul, Minnesota, I became good friends with the wife of another seminary student. Kim and I loved to take walks around the neighborhood, mostly because walks were cheap entertainment (we were, after all, married to grad students!) One of our secret destinations was the convenience store a ways up the street, just beyond the seminary grounds. At least once a week we walked there for one purpose: to purchase a lottery ticket.

The most we ever won was a few dollars, which we promptly spent on more lottery tickets. It’s probably good we never won big, anyway, because we had the darnedest time determining what we’d do with the money. Kim suggested we should pay off student loans first (of course). We would make sure our parents’ houses were paid off and our future kids had college funds. But after that we got a little stuck. Our husbands were studying to be pastors! What congregation would call a millionaire pastor who had just won the lottery? Maybe it would have to be a secret. Or, maybe, it would look better if we gave some of the money to the seminary. We knew very well the student housing could have used some updating! We dreamed of putting in full-size ovens that would actually hold a casserole dish no matter which way you put it in.

These were fun walks, mentally spending money that wasn’t ours, but by the time we got home we were always reminded: You can’t serve both God and wealth. Any way we figured it, having all that money was incompatible with the lives we had chosen. If our idea of a happy future was willing millions, we were married to the wrong people for sure! We knew our hope did not reside in lottery tickets, but in God, and our lives were to be about sharing that Good News with others.

Hear again the words of Jesus, who said: “You cannot serve God and money. You will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to the one and despise the other.” In other words, as people who seek to follow Jesus Christ in this world, we are constantly caught between two competing sets of rules. One says “Money makes the world go round” and gives us slogans like “American Express: My Life, My Card.” The other says “You shall have no other gods before me” and has as its only tagline: “Blessed are the poor.” (Luke 6) You can’t have it both ways. You cannot serve God and wealth. Who will you serve? And when you decide, what will that look like?

Well, in his usual helpful manner, Jesus tells the disciples a story to clear things up. Except that over the centuries, preachers, commentators and theologians have twisted themselves into pretzels trying to explain what it means.

They say:

God (the rich man) gives us the riches of the world to manage and we squander it all, but just like in the prodigal son story, God welcomes us back anyway.

OR…

God (the rich man) praises the dishonest manager because he collects the money owed (minus the commission) in order to get his job back.

OR…

God (the rich man) doesn’t want us to serve money and wealth, but does want to us to be shrewd with it, so he invites us all to a special presentation by Thrivent Financial after worship.

Each of these interpretations makes sense in a way. But I get nervous when my understanding of Jesus makes too much sense—because parables are more than just stories. Parables are crafted to subvert our thinking, and to surprise us with a twist. The parables of Jesus reveal to us a new reality and a reversal of our assumptions.

So let’s start with this assumption: God is the rich man.

Quick, call to mind your image of God. Don’t think too much about it: Just grab the first thing that pops into your head: the image you grew up with. Is God male? Is God white? What does God look like? Does God have a long beard and hair? What does God wear? Pretty white robes? A crown? Does God look powerful or powerless?

 

It’s no wonder, when Jesus starts telling this story, that we immediately identify the rich man with God. We know God is powerful, and money equals power, so obviously God seems to be the rich man in this scenario.

But try as I might, when I read this parable this way – with the rich man as God – even if it makes sense, it doesn’t work. It doesn’t work because it doesn’t meet up with anything else we know about who God is. Because if God is the rich man, then God praises the manager for bowing to his needs, grabbing as much money as he can, and kissing up so he can get his job back. I don’t know about you, but if this is God, then I might be an atheist.

Jesus clearly says “you cannot serve both God and money.” So where is the money in this story? It’s right there, in the beginning: There was a rich man. If this parable is about how we are caught between two masters (God and wealth) it seems to me the rich man represents wealth. Are you with me?

So who represents the competing paradigm? Who represents the other set of rules? If the rich man is where we see money and wealth, where in this parable do we see what it looks like to choose to serve God?

Hear again the Word from Luke 16, verse 4: “I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me into their homes,” said the crafty manager.

Desperate, soon to be unemployed, and caught in a dilemma of his own making, the manager decides…to serve the debtors. By lowering their debts, he chooses to stand in solidarity with the indentured servants, the folks on the edge of town, the people he formerly used to threaten and persecute, and from whom he once extracted taxes and payments.

Caught between two worlds, forced to make a decision, Jesus tells us the crafty manager chose to use what he had to serve the poor. After all, In Luke chapter 6 Jesus said “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of heaven.” The poor will welcome us into the eternal homes. As Pastor James Forbes once said, “Nobody gets into heaven without a letter of reference from the poor.”

Let me be clear: we’re not talking about charity. When we give charity to the poor we retain power. If we bring the casseroles and serve up the plates and then eat in the kitchen by ourselves, we’re still on top. We get to feel good about ourselves and our generosity. Making friends with the poor is different. It’s not nice: it’s shrewd. Why? Because these are the folks Jesus has said own the deed to the kingdom of heaven. We have heard, time and again, what Jesus has said about the poor, the oppressed, the ones who live outside the gate, and the ones who are so in debt they’ll never earn their freedom: They are blessed. Theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Furthermore, Jesus says he came specifically to proclaim the Good News to them.

This, then, is why the name of the parable is not “the unusually nice debt collector” or “the man who did nice things for the poor” but rather “The Parable of the Shrewd Steward” or the “Story of the Crafty Manager.” As Jesus tells it, the manager is commended for using what he was given, working within the system, and then subverting it for the good of the poor. Therefore, we, too, serve God when we choose to stand with the unemployed and underemployed, the uninsured and the undesirable. 

Sisters and brothers in Christ, this morning I hope you will hear that the Gospel of Jesus frees us from the filthy, rotten system which tells us “God is the rich man.” What Jesus does for us is challenge all those messages we’ve grown up believing: That to be rich is to be blessed. That money buys happiness. That to be poor is greater to be feared than all else. That using food stamps is a sign of weakness or laziness. That our credit score and fiscal health give us our identity.

Instead, Jesus frees us to identify ourselves not as who we are in relation to money, but who we are in relation to God. Rich or poor, head honcho, middle manager, or indentured servant, we are all, in baptism, claimed by God, sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked by the cross of Christ forever. This morning, when Amber Sheils and Madison Behrens come to the font, they come to the water the same as we did: as it says in Isaiah 55:1 –

“Everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.”'

Yes, this morning I proclaim to you the Good News that “God is not the rich man.” Say it with me: God is not the rich man!

And why is this Good News? Why does this give us joy and freedom? Because as long as we believe God is the rich man, we will twist and turn and contort ourselves in our efforts to serve both God and wealth. We will serve, and sacrifice and suffer for whichever god we choose.

So let it be the One who “raises the poor from the dust, and lifts the needy from the ash heap, to make them sit with princes, with the princes of his people.” (Psalm 113). Let it be “the one mediator between God and humankind, Christ Jesus, himself human, who gave himself a ransom for all.” (1 Timothy 2). And let the people say “Amen.” 

Sermon for Sunday, September 1, 2013

Sermon for Sunday, September 1, 2013

Pentecost +15 

Luke 14:1, 7-14

PREACHER: Pastor Carrie B. Smith 

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

School has begun, and with a new school year comes an important annual ritual: finding your place at the table in the school lunchroom. It’s been a long time since I was in middle school, but I remember well the worry about which lunch period I would get in my schedule, which friends would have the same lunch, and most importantly, which table would welcome me. I remember the butterflies in my stomach as I stood tightly gripping that plastic tray of food, surveying the lunchroom for a friendly face. And then, blessed relief, as a classmate waved me over to a seat saved just for me! (nod if you remember, too!)

I think most of us would agree we’re glad those days are behind us (and to those of you who are still navigating the lunchroom wilderness—we’ve got your back! It gets better! If you’re sitting next to a young person this morning, please turn to him or her and tell them “It gets better!)

It does get better, but lunchroom politics can be seen as a microcosm of the larger world, in which we humans are constantly jockeying for better positions in the office, in society, and in life in general.

In Jesus’ day, these strategic moves played out not in the lunchroom but at the dinner table, where hosts invited guests based on their ability to repay the favor. If I, a Pharisee, invited you to my dinner party and seated you next to someone with a measure of power and influence, I would expect you to return the invitation next week, honoring me with a seat of equal importance and opportunity for furthering my agenda. It was a “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours” sort of system, where every invitation, every seating chart, and every dinner conversation had inherent meaning that was just understood by everyone else.

This sort of highly organized and formal system of mealtime etiquette may be a bit hard for us to understand, given our super-casual American way of dining. Not only have we given up on the seating charts and the cloth napkins, we often don’t sit at a table at all, but instead eat our meals standing around the kitchen counter or racing off to the next band practice, the evening meeting, or the second job that keeps food in the fridge in the first place.

Dinnertime may not be the political stage it was in the time of Jesus, but be not fooled into thinking we don’t have similar elaborate structures of honor and privilege in place today. Just as in 1^st Century Palestine, our culture has its own rules we often can’t articulate, but which order our lives and especially our relationships with each other. We know, instinctively, who belongs—and who doesn’t—in any given situation. We know who gets to sit at the head of the table and who sits in the kitchen. We know where the best schools are, which hospital has the best reputation, and where the people in our neighborhood shop for groceries, clothes, and cars. In fact, we know more about this system of honor, privilege and social status than we want to admit.

I learned that lesson in a deeply personal, and deeply embarrassing, way as a young college student.

It was junior year, and I was excited to be moving in with two friends.  

Freshman year was in the dorm of course, and then I spent sophomore year in a tiny apartment with three Mormon girls (there’s a story for another day!) But this move was momentous. Julie and Andrea, two fellow music majors, would be sharing a house with me for the year. We felt like real adults!

The 1940’s-era rental we found was adorable, at least by college standards. There was a large living room for hanging out with friends, and plenty of space for the piano (we were music majors, remember?) And there were three bedrooms. At least—sort of.

There was one large master and another normal sized bedroom, with a shared bathroom in between. And then there was a third tiny room in the back, a later addition, which had a curtain in place of a door and was accessible only through the kitchen. It was probably never intended as a bedroom, but the landlord could charge more money by renting it as a three-bedroom house to cheap college students.

No, it wasn’t ideal, but we loved the house, and signed on the lease. As we prepared to move in, the inevitable discussion about who would get which room began. Round and round we went, arguing as only college age girls can. No one wanted to live off the kitchen in the curtained room, for obvious reasons. Finally, in an effort to end the argument, I made what seemed to my 19 year old self a perfectly valid point:

“Julie should get the master bedroom, because she has the big water bed. I’ll take the middle-sized room in front, and Andrea should take the back room. After all, it’s way better than what she’s used to.”

That’s right—I actually argued that our friend Andrea, who had grown up in New Mexico on a chili farm, in a house with one bedroom for the entire family, should obviously get the tiny, added-on, curtained, poorly insulated, non-bedroom, because of the three of us, she was used to it. She was accustomed to such humble surroundings. We shouldn’t be expected to give up our comfort, when she wouldn’t even notice! Why upset the apple cart? Why change the natural order of things? To my mind, I belonged in the front room just as much as Andrea belonged in the back of the house.

In the end, that’s exactly what happened. The argument pretty much ended there. But I will never forget the look on our friend Andrea’s face. It was a look that said, “Yeah, I get it. I know my place. I know how this system works.” It wasn’t the first time she had been given the last place at the table.

Jesus knew how the system worked, too. He knew the guests at the Pharisee’s dinner party would elbow each other out of the way in their efforts to get into the seats of honor. He knew the host had invited all the right people. He knew there were hungry people just outside the door. And he also knew this dinner party was about more than food–it was about catching him in a mistake, maybe healing or talking to the hired help again. As usual, however, no matter what was on the menu, Jesus served up a healthy portion of learning for those gathered around the table.

First, he spoke to the guests, saying:

"When someone invites you to dinner, don't take the place of honor. Somebody more important than you might have been invited by the host. Then he'll come and call out in front of everybody, 'You're in the wrong place. The place of honor belongs to this man.' Red-faced, you'll have to make your way to the very last table, the only place left.  "When you're invited to dinner, go and sit at the last place. Then when the host comes he may very well say, 'Friend, come up to the front.' That will give the dinner guests something to talk about! What I'm saying is, If you walk around with your nose in the air, you're going to end up flat on your face. But if you're content to be simply yourself, you will become more than yourself." 

Then, turning to the host, he said:

"The next time you put on a dinner, don't just invite your friends and family and rich neighbors, the kind of people who will return the favor. Invite some people who never get invited out, the misfits from the wrong side of the tracks. You'll be - and experience - a blessing. They won't be able to return the favor, but the favor will be returned - oh, how it will be returned! - at the resurrection of God's people."

At first, this little sermonette from Jesus seems like helpful advice on how to play the game: Sit just a few chairs down, and you’ll look great when the host asks you to move up! To my 19 year old self, this may have sounded like: “Don’t take the master bedroom. But that medium-sized room in front should be fine!”

But hear Jesus’ words again. He says: “Sit at the lowest place. Take the very last table. Better yet, sit in the kitchen, with the servants!” That’s not exactly a strategy for success. And when Jesus tells the esteemed host to invite the poor, the crippled, the lame and the blind to the next soiree, the point is made clear: Jesus isn’t giving helpful hints for winning the game, he’s undermining the game altogether. He’s crashing the system. He’s throwing out the place cards and the seating arrangements, doing away with the palm-greasing and the hobnobbing, and is showing the dinner guests a new way. Jesus’ words open up for the listeners the possibility of a completely new paradigm, a system in which the humble will be exalted and the exalted humbled; where the first will be last and the last will be first. He presents for them a topsy-turvy world in

which the powerful are brought down from their thrones, the lowly are lifted up, the hungry are filled with good things and the rich are sent away empty. This is a vision of a life lived with the knowledge that the only judgment that matters is God’s and the only honor that counts is that which comes from seeking first the kingdom and all its righteousness.

In just a few words, Jesus transforms the dinner table into the stage for the radical reversal that is the hallmark of the kingdom of God.

This is the sort of transformative power we experience right here at this table, every time we gather for communion as the whole people of God. In spite of appearances, and putting the ushers and the elaborate communion choreography aside, there are no seating arrangements or dinner protocols at the Lord’s table. It’s very simple: Here is bread, here is wine. Christ is with us. All are welcome! Rich and poor, black and white, gay and straight, band members and football stars, the well-connected and the nobodies, all come to the table with hands outstretched, ready to receive the gift of grace in the bread and wine. Every seat is a seat of honor.

But, my sisters and brothers, the radical reversal Jesus introduces here goes beyond this table. Here we catch a glimpse of the heavenly banquet, but it is in the cross that we see the full picture. Jesus Christ our brother, Son of the Most High God, took the lowliest place of all—that of a criminal, executed in plain sight—and in doing so lifted up the lowly people everywhere. Through the cross of Christ, the transformation is complete. All things are made new! Sins are forgiven and sinners become disciples. Privilege and power become opportunities for service and humility. Prejudice and discrimination become things of history. 

Because of the cross, there is no more fighting for the head table, for Jesus himself sits at the right hand of God. And, thanks be to God, because of the cross of Christ, there is no more back of the bus, no bottom of the heap, and no back bedrooms, for all have been lifted up with him.

Let the people say Amen!

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTObtM6qhVw