“The mission field starts here.” This is the sign that greets parishioners of a church I recently read about, as they go out of their sanctuary or parish hall into the parking lot. The mission field starts here, right on the other side of our doors. Of course, our churches have a long history of overseas evangelism. The Episcopal Church was especially active in the American west, during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. These days young people often go on “mission trips,” short-term forays to remote places in Appalachia, Haiti, Honduras, and elsewhere. And you have heard me preach more than once about our need to care for our sisters and brothers in other countries, to find that one square inch where we can make a difference in their lives. I still believe in that square inch, and Jack and I are still trying to make a difference in the lives of children in a square inch of Haiti. But what of the world on our doorstep? What of the people who share this neighborhood with us? How do we care for them?
In today’s Gospel reading, we hear Jesus’ answer to that question. You remember that Luke’s overarching goal in this section of the gospel narrative – and really in the whole gospel – is to teach people what it means to be disciples of Jesus. In this poignant story we have a powerful lesson in discipleship.
Jesus has gone abroad with his friends. They are on a “mission trip.” They have gone into the territory “opposite Galilee,” i.e., the territory on the eastern side of the Sea of Galilee, which, of course, is not a sea, but a big lake. However, this word “opposite” is not just a geographical allusion. Luke is reminding his hearers that Jesus has ventured into gentile territory. Jesus is daring to minister to those who are culturally and religious “opposite” to him. Jesus is risking ritual defilement to preach the good news to those whom observant Jews regard as unclean and off-limits. Worse yet, as soon as he sets foot on shore, Jesus is accosted by someone who is as unclean as a person could be in the ancient world. The man who meets him is demon-possessed – or mentally ill in contemporary terms – and beset by multiple ills. He is dirty, naked, homeless, and violent. Worst of all, having been cast out by polite society, he spends his time in the most unclean possible place: the graveyard. Make no mistake: pious, polite people do not associate with this man!
But Jesus does. Jesus accepts the man. He asks his name. He listens to the man. By his very attention Jesus transforms the demon-possessed man. Can’t you imagine the astonishment the man’s neighbors must have felt – to say nothing of the man himself – when they found him in his right mind, fully clothed, sitting at Jesus’ feet, begging Jesus to allow him follow Jesus? Can you imagine the fear his neighbors felt when they saw reversed their whole sense of who this man was – to say nothing of the herd of pigs spooked by the change? No wonder they wanted Jesus out of there! And what was Jesus’ reply to the transformed man? Did he say, “Follow me,” as he had said to so many others? No, he said something unexpected. He said, “Return to your home and declare how much God has done for you.” And the man did indeed proclaim that message throughout the city.
Now can you guess what Luke’s message was for his hearers and for us? Luke has given his hearers and us two models of discipleship, both focused on caring for others. In the first model, we have Jesus himself. Jesus has gone abroad. He has gone into the overseas mission field. He has a taken a “mission trip.” And he has cared for someone – and doubtless others like him – whom he encountered. The early church, as it ventured far beyond Israel, and those through the centuries who have crossed international borders in Jesus’ name, have followed Jesus’ direct example. And I repeat: we too have a responsibility to support Episcopal Relief and Development, other aid organizations working overseas, and any square inch of need that speaks to our hearts. We too are charged with encouraging our elected representatives to craft aid formulae and farm bills that benefit all of God’s children. And there’s nothing wrong with “mission trips,” so long as they also educate us on the realities of poverty and sensitize us to our own complicity in unjust systems.
However, there’s another way for us to go to the “opposite” side. As baptized people, we are charged to proclaim God’s love in broken and desolate places. When we take Christ’s Body and Blood into our own bodies, we implicitly commit ourselves to follow him into the mission field. Where do we find that mission field? All we need to do is cross our own parking lot. There are people right here who need our ministry and care. There are people in communities who right this minute are homeless. They sleep on park benches, in doorways, or in alleys. In the winter, they search out heat vents. They forage in dumpsters and gather under bridges. Some may be addicts. Karla Miller tells the story of how, on a frigid winter night, on the upper west side of Manhattan, she came upon a woman lying stark naked on the sidewalk near a Crate and Barrel store. The woman was strung out on drugs, shivering, and begging for money for the next hit. Like all well-trained New Yorkers, Karla averted her eyes and walked around the woman. But as she did so, she wondered what Jesus would have done had he been there.
Most of the homeless people in our communities are not addicted. Many more of them bear a strong resemblance to the Gerasene man in that they are mentally ill. They cannot live a normal life, hold a job, provide for their basic necessities, or even access healthcare. Unclean and unwelcome in our communities, they risk assault, rape, and murder. Just as we don’t know how the Gerasene man became possessed or so profoundly mentally ill, we don’t know the stories of most of the homeless people who wander our own cities and towns. But they are still our neighbors, and we can still minister to them.
A few years ago, our Diocesan Convention met in a hotel opposite Trinity Church in Columbus. That particular convention was unique in that delegates were asked to spend Saturday morning engaging in hands-on mission in different venues. Trinity has an active ministry to homeless people. After hearing from a woman who had come off the streets with the help of Trinity parishioners, several of us spent the rest of our time filling shopping bags with blankets, warm clothing, and non-perishable food. All would go to street people in need. Just west of downtown, St. John’s Town Street also ministers to street people. Every Sunday, their rector celebrates the Eucharist in a vacant parking lot. Afterwards, parishioners pass out sandwiches. Could we do that? Would any of you be willing to help me minister to homeless people in our community through a street church?
Of course we already have two viable ministries very close to home – one right across the street and one right in our own parish hall. These ministries serve real people with real needs. Our Dry Bottoms diaper ministry could certainly use additional help. Right now, we also need donations of either diapers or funds. More important is Loaves and Fishes. The people who come into our parish hall are not homeless – although I’d guess some of them live in substandard housing at best. They are not for the most part mentally ill. Most of them are not outcasts. But they are people with real needs, needs for fellowship and concern, perhaps even love. They are people who need to hear from us what God has done for us, and how much God loves them. And they need to hear those messages not in pious words or formulaic prayers, but in our presence, in our attention to them as people. We are all much blessed by those of you who work hard in the kitchen or scurry around serving. However, our diners have one more need – and for some of us it’s even harder to meet that need than is cooking or serving. Our diners need fellowship. How about the rest of you? Can you leave your comfort zone, cross to the opposite side, and come listen to people’s stories? Can you learn their names? Can you sit and eat with them, extend the hand of friendship, and, through your very presence, concretely demonstrate God’s love? Can you share with them what God has done for you? Can you hear what God has done for them?
We are all God’s beloved children. We are friends and disciples of Jesus. Our mission field may be on the other side of the world. It may be on the other side of the street. It may be on the other side of the office or store. Or it may be on the other side of our church building. Jesus says to all of us, “The mission field starts here.”
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
If This Man were a Prophet
“If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what kind of woman this is who is touching him – that she is a sinner.” What is a prophet? What do you think a prophet is? More to the point, what did Simon think a prophet was? He was a Pharisee, steeped in the Mosaic Law. He wanted fervently to be a good and faithful Jew. Thus, he was especially concerned with keeping himself free of ritual defilement and with observing as many of Moses’s 613 commandments as possible. Simon surely also knew his Scripture. He might have been skeptical of Jesus’ teachings, but he surely also knew that a prophet is much more than someone who knows who is touching him. Of course, Jesus did not need to be a prophet to know that the woman touching him was an outcast of society. He could see how she sneaked into the house through the back door. He could see how the pious men drew back from her to avoid her touch. And he could see how she flung herself at his feet and began to weep.
So what is a prophet, and what could it mean to think that someone might be a prophet? From your own hearing of Scripture, you know that a prophet is not someone who foretells the future. Purporting to read the future is fortune-telling not prophecy. Our word “prophet” comes from the Greek prophetes, which means someone who speaks God’s word intelligibly (as opposed to speaking in tongues or some other unintelligible language), or someone who has insight into the divine mind. In Hebrew, the word for prophet is navi, i.e., “someone who is called.” We can relate to that: think of some of the call stories in the Old Testament: Samuel being called as a boy, while lying beside the sleeping old Eli; Isaiah in the temple having his lips cleansed with a live coal and being sent out to proclaim God’s message; Jeremiah hearing God’s call and protesting, “But I am only a boy.” Along with the other prophets, all were called to speak for God and to act as God’s intermediary with the people.
Our lections today give us two powerful examples of prophets who spoke for God, Nathan in our first lesson, and Jesus in our Gospel lesson. In the Hebrew Bible the writings of the prophets were collected and edited over many centuries. All of them spoke to particular times, places, and issues. Yet their words were deemed universal enough to be worth preserving for succeeding generations. The earlier prophets tended to be private counselors to kings. Most of the later prophets, prophets like Amos, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Micah, and others, proclaimed their words publicly. They were often in conflict with the rulers, often speaking against injustice and for the poor and the outcast.
Nathan was one of the earlier prophets. As such, he was a private counselor to King David. David has committed adultery with Bathsheba. To cover up Bathsheba’s pregnancy, David has sent her husband Uriah to his death at the front lines. Enter Nathan. Speaking for God, Nathan calls David to account. By means of a poignant parable, he enables David to see how wrongly he has acted, and how deeply he has transgressed God’s law. Unlike Simon in our Gospel story, David readily admits his guilt. Nathan continues to speak for God as he pronounces God’s forgiveness. Even so, he reminds David that, even with God’s forgiveness, he may not be able to escape the consequences of his sin. As the story plays out, the illegitimately conceived child dies, while David’s taking Bathsheba as his wife causes turmoil in the rest of David’s family.
Our Gospel lesson reminds us that Jesus’ prophetic role is a continuing motif in Luke’s gospel. In Luke’s Jesus, we especially come to understand that Jesus is a prophet in the later tradition, i.e., he is one who speaks for God through public proclamation. More important, Jesus is a prophet who is especially called to speak truth to power, i.e., to speak God’s word to the powerful on behalf of the powerless. In the scene before us, Jesus clearly knows who this woman is. Luke gives her no name, nor does he identify her sin. There is no evidence that she is a prostitute, although later tradition has read that into the story. In that society, her sin could be anything. She could be living with someone without marriage. Clearly she was wealthy enough to afford an alabaster jar of costly ointment, so perhaps she was an unscrupulous businesswoman. Perhaps she cooperated with Roman authorities. Whatever her sin is, it is well enough known for the polite guests at Simon’s dinner party to be scandalized not only by her appearance, but by what she does to Jesus. Only Jesus is not scandalized. Speaking for God, in response to her courageous gesture of repentance and deep love, Jesus proclaims that her sins are forgiven. Actually, through his parable, Jesus proclaims that Simon’s sins are also forgiven. Indeed, Jesus proclaims God’s acceptance of all who throw themselves on God’s mercy. Whether one is repenting sins of pride and arrogance, as Simon might, or whether one is repenting other transgressions of God’s law, as the woman presumably does, all debts are forgiven for those who acknowledge their need for God’s forgiveness.
Who are the prophets in our time? Who speaks for God now? Jesus was the prophet par excellence. But did prophecy cease when Jesus was nailed to the cross? If prophets are called to reach out to outcasts, as Jesus did with the woman in our story, if prophets are called to speak to the powerful on behalf of the powerless, then prophecy is still very much alive in our time. It’s not hard to think of those who were directly called by God to the prophetic role. Martin Luther King, Jr., Rosa Parks, and Abraham Joshua Heschel, who was a prominent scholar of the Hebrew Bible, frequently testified to the connection between their faith and their commitment to the Civil Rights movement. Since the 1970s, feminist theologians have argued passionately for the full inclusion of woman and other marginalized people in the leadership of the church. In this century, Diana Butler Bass, Brian McLaren, Rob Bell, and others are calling us to look again at how we view God, how, how we care for the poor, and how we relate to other faith communities.
However, I’d like to share with you a story from the middle of the last century that demonstrates the way that those with only modest social standing can speak and act for the powerless. In the late 1930s, as Nazi tanks were rumbling across Europe, André and Magda Trocmé were living in Le Chambon-sur-Lignon in south-central France. André was a pastor in the French Protestant Church, who had been assigned to a small obscure parish because of his pacifist views and anti-Nazi preaching. In 1938, he and the Reverend Edouard Theis founded the Collège Lycée International Cévenol in Le Chambon-sur-Lignon. The lycée was initially founded to prepare rural students for university entrance. However, it soon became a home for Jewish refugee students who were flooding into France.
After France fell to the Nazis in 1940, André and Magda became part of a wide network that rescued Jews fleeing the Nazi Final Solution. Trocmé and other area ministers encouraged their congregations to shelter "the people of the Bible". Through Trocmé’s advocacy, the area around Le Chambon became a unique haven in Nazi-occupied France. Inspired by their faith, the Trocmés established "safe houses" where refugees fleeing the Nazis could hide. The Trocmés and other families enabled many refugees to escape to Switzerland following an underground railroad network. Along with the rest of the village, they took in under false names children whose parents had been sent to concentration camps. Trocmé himself spoke truth to power. "We do not know what a Jew is. We only know men," he said when asked by the Vichy authorities to produce a list of the Jews in the town. In 1942, Vichy gendarmes came into town to locate "illegal" aliens. Fearing his own imminent arrest, Trocmé urged his parishioners to "do the will of God, not of men". He reminded them of Deuteronomy 19:2–10, a passage calling the Israelites to give shelter to those who are persecuted. Fortunately, the gendarmes left the village without any “illegals.” Trocmé was eventually arrested in 1943. He was released after only four weeks. He went underground and continued his rescue work until the end of the war. Because of his leadership, about 3500 Jewish refugees were saved by the small village of Le Chambon and the communities on the surrounding plateau, as he and people like him refused to give in to Nazi rule
In January 1971, the Holocaust memorial center in Israel, Yad Vashem, recognized André as Righteous among the Nations. In July 1986, Magda Trocmé was also recognized. Several years later, Yad Vashem honored the work of the village of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon and the neighboring communities. Today, the Plateau Vivarais-Lignon and Le Chambon-sur-Lignon have become symbols of the rescue of Jews in France during World War II.
“If this man were a prophet….” Who speaks the prophetic word for you? Is it one of the prophets of the Hebrew Bible? Is it Jesus? Is it a contemporary prophet? As one of Jesus’ followers, to whom might you speak the prophetic word?
So what is a prophet, and what could it mean to think that someone might be a prophet? From your own hearing of Scripture, you know that a prophet is not someone who foretells the future. Purporting to read the future is fortune-telling not prophecy. Our word “prophet” comes from the Greek prophetes, which means someone who speaks God’s word intelligibly (as opposed to speaking in tongues or some other unintelligible language), or someone who has insight into the divine mind. In Hebrew, the word for prophet is navi, i.e., “someone who is called.” We can relate to that: think of some of the call stories in the Old Testament: Samuel being called as a boy, while lying beside the sleeping old Eli; Isaiah in the temple having his lips cleansed with a live coal and being sent out to proclaim God’s message; Jeremiah hearing God’s call and protesting, “But I am only a boy.” Along with the other prophets, all were called to speak for God and to act as God’s intermediary with the people.
Our lections today give us two powerful examples of prophets who spoke for God, Nathan in our first lesson, and Jesus in our Gospel lesson. In the Hebrew Bible the writings of the prophets were collected and edited over many centuries. All of them spoke to particular times, places, and issues. Yet their words were deemed universal enough to be worth preserving for succeeding generations. The earlier prophets tended to be private counselors to kings. Most of the later prophets, prophets like Amos, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Micah, and others, proclaimed their words publicly. They were often in conflict with the rulers, often speaking against injustice and for the poor and the outcast.
Nathan was one of the earlier prophets. As such, he was a private counselor to King David. David has committed adultery with Bathsheba. To cover up Bathsheba’s pregnancy, David has sent her husband Uriah to his death at the front lines. Enter Nathan. Speaking for God, Nathan calls David to account. By means of a poignant parable, he enables David to see how wrongly he has acted, and how deeply he has transgressed God’s law. Unlike Simon in our Gospel story, David readily admits his guilt. Nathan continues to speak for God as he pronounces God’s forgiveness. Even so, he reminds David that, even with God’s forgiveness, he may not be able to escape the consequences of his sin. As the story plays out, the illegitimately conceived child dies, while David’s taking Bathsheba as his wife causes turmoil in the rest of David’s family.
Our Gospel lesson reminds us that Jesus’ prophetic role is a continuing motif in Luke’s gospel. In Luke’s Jesus, we especially come to understand that Jesus is a prophet in the later tradition, i.e., he is one who speaks for God through public proclamation. More important, Jesus is a prophet who is especially called to speak truth to power, i.e., to speak God’s word to the powerful on behalf of the powerless. In the scene before us, Jesus clearly knows who this woman is. Luke gives her no name, nor does he identify her sin. There is no evidence that she is a prostitute, although later tradition has read that into the story. In that society, her sin could be anything. She could be living with someone without marriage. Clearly she was wealthy enough to afford an alabaster jar of costly ointment, so perhaps she was an unscrupulous businesswoman. Perhaps she cooperated with Roman authorities. Whatever her sin is, it is well enough known for the polite guests at Simon’s dinner party to be scandalized not only by her appearance, but by what she does to Jesus. Only Jesus is not scandalized. Speaking for God, in response to her courageous gesture of repentance and deep love, Jesus proclaims that her sins are forgiven. Actually, through his parable, Jesus proclaims that Simon’s sins are also forgiven. Indeed, Jesus proclaims God’s acceptance of all who throw themselves on God’s mercy. Whether one is repenting sins of pride and arrogance, as Simon might, or whether one is repenting other transgressions of God’s law, as the woman presumably does, all debts are forgiven for those who acknowledge their need for God’s forgiveness.
Who are the prophets in our time? Who speaks for God now? Jesus was the prophet par excellence. But did prophecy cease when Jesus was nailed to the cross? If prophets are called to reach out to outcasts, as Jesus did with the woman in our story, if prophets are called to speak to the powerful on behalf of the powerless, then prophecy is still very much alive in our time. It’s not hard to think of those who were directly called by God to the prophetic role. Martin Luther King, Jr., Rosa Parks, and Abraham Joshua Heschel, who was a prominent scholar of the Hebrew Bible, frequently testified to the connection between their faith and their commitment to the Civil Rights movement. Since the 1970s, feminist theologians have argued passionately for the full inclusion of woman and other marginalized people in the leadership of the church. In this century, Diana Butler Bass, Brian McLaren, Rob Bell, and others are calling us to look again at how we view God, how, how we care for the poor, and how we relate to other faith communities.
However, I’d like to share with you a story from the middle of the last century that demonstrates the way that those with only modest social standing can speak and act for the powerless. In the late 1930s, as Nazi tanks were rumbling across Europe, André and Magda Trocmé were living in Le Chambon-sur-Lignon in south-central France. André was a pastor in the French Protestant Church, who had been assigned to a small obscure parish because of his pacifist views and anti-Nazi preaching. In 1938, he and the Reverend Edouard Theis founded the Collège Lycée International Cévenol in Le Chambon-sur-Lignon. The lycée was initially founded to prepare rural students for university entrance. However, it soon became a home for Jewish refugee students who were flooding into France.
After France fell to the Nazis in 1940, André and Magda became part of a wide network that rescued Jews fleeing the Nazi Final Solution. Trocmé and other area ministers encouraged their congregations to shelter "the people of the Bible". Through Trocmé’s advocacy, the area around Le Chambon became a unique haven in Nazi-occupied France. Inspired by their faith, the Trocmés established "safe houses" where refugees fleeing the Nazis could hide. The Trocmés and other families enabled many refugees to escape to Switzerland following an underground railroad network. Along with the rest of the village, they took in under false names children whose parents had been sent to concentration camps. Trocmé himself spoke truth to power. "We do not know what a Jew is. We only know men," he said when asked by the Vichy authorities to produce a list of the Jews in the town. In 1942, Vichy gendarmes came into town to locate "illegal" aliens. Fearing his own imminent arrest, Trocmé urged his parishioners to "do the will of God, not of men". He reminded them of Deuteronomy 19:2–10, a passage calling the Israelites to give shelter to those who are persecuted. Fortunately, the gendarmes left the village without any “illegals.” Trocmé was eventually arrested in 1943. He was released after only four weeks. He went underground and continued his rescue work until the end of the war. Because of his leadership, about 3500 Jewish refugees were saved by the small village of Le Chambon and the communities on the surrounding plateau, as he and people like him refused to give in to Nazi rule
In January 1971, the Holocaust memorial center in Israel, Yad Vashem, recognized André as Righteous among the Nations. In July 1986, Magda Trocmé was also recognized. Several years later, Yad Vashem honored the work of the village of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon and the neighboring communities. Today, the Plateau Vivarais-Lignon and Le Chambon-sur-Lignon have become symbols of the rescue of Jews in France during World War II.
“If this man were a prophet….” Who speaks the prophetic word for you? Is it one of the prophets of the Hebrew Bible? Is it Jesus? Is it a contemporary prophet? As one of Jesus’ followers, to whom might you speak the prophetic word?
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Who Are the Widows?
What do you do when you see a funeral procession? The Ohio Revised Code requires the cars in a procession to have their headlights on and carry purple or orange identifying pennants. The ORC allows the procession to travel through intersections regardless of stoplights and requires the rest of us to yield to the procession. So what do you do when you see one of these processions, or when you wait on the other side of the intersection while the procession crawls through? Do you fret and fume, “Just my luck to get stopped by this?” Do you say, “I wonder who that is?” If I can remember to do so, when I see a funeral procession, I offer up a prayer for the soul of the deceased and ask God to comfort his or her family and friends.
In this country, we put the dead away in coffins and hearses, while the mourners hide themselves from passersby in their cars. In India, in contrast, you could often see shrouded bodies being borne on handcarts along the streets, the Hindu dead to the riverside cremation grounds and the Muslim and Christian dead to their respective cemeteries. Whichever faith community, lines of chanting or wailing mourners would walk behind the carts. Oxcarts, bicycles, trucks, country busses, and cars would grind to a halt, while pedestrians respectfully acknowledged the dead person’s family. Those Indian funeral processions came to mind as I confronted today’s Gospel story. Can you picture all those people clogging the narrow streets of Nain? There’s Jesus followed not only by his disciples but also by a large crowd of curious wannabes. Coming towards him is the bier with the dead man, the grieving mother, clearly a widow, and the large crowd of mourners. For a few seconds time stops as the two crowds face each other.
This is the second of a pair of stories of unexpected healing. We heard the first one last week, in the story of the sympathetic centurion who sought Jesus’ help through religious leaders and friends. Actually, much of Luke’s Gospel presents us with the unexpected. Gabriel’s announcement to Mary that she would bear God’s Son, Mary’s hymn of praise in Elizabeth’s house, and Jesus’ first sermon in Nazareth all hint that God is doing a new thing.
Now surrounded by the crowds, Jesus does something totally unexpected. As the chattering of his disciples and the wailing of the mourners dies out, Jesus stops the funeral procession. He sees the mute and grieving widow, and he has “compassion for her.” Without having to be told, Jesus understands the desperate straits this widow is now in. Already without the support a husband would have provided, and now deprived of the safety and support that her son would have provided, this woman now has absolutely no livelihood. Without handouts from grudging relatives or struggling friends, she is herself in danger of dying. No wonder the Hebrew prophets – whose writings Jesus would have known well – constantly shouted out that care for the “widows and orphans” was a mark of the nation’s holiness, a reflection of the nation’s mercy and justice.
As the onlookers on both sides hold their breaths, without being told, without even being asked by the widow, Jesus does something else unexpected. Risking ritual defilement by touching a corpse he touches the dead man and calls him back to life. In so doing, not only has he resuscitated the dead man, but, what is much more important, he has restored the widow to life, to the prospect of having the support of a son and her proper place in society.
What are we, as Luke’s readers and hearers, to make of this story? We hear the answer in the reaction of the crowds – on both sides. At first struck dumb with holy fear and awe, the people then realize that they are in the presence of a great prophet. Shouting, “God has looked favorably on his people,” they acknowledge that God has begun to fulfill God’s promises, and that their world has begun to change. God has come to God’s people. The Kingdom of God has broken into this world in Jesus, who is both prophet and king, who is God’s anointed one. Most important, we hear this: God comes first and most mightily to those on the margins of society. God has compassion on those who are discarded and despised by polite society. God does not come first to the rich and powerful. God does not come first to us respectable and pious middle class folks. God does not come first to the scion of a patriarchal house or the beautiful, jet-setting entertainer. God comes first to those who are desperate, to the poor, the prostitutes, the tax collectors, the least, the lost, and the left behind. Make no mistake. Luke’s message throughout the Gospel is this: we see God most powerfully at work – and others can see God most powerfully at work through us – when the needs of the most neglected and vulnerable people among us are being met.
Which leads me to ask myself who are the neglected “widows” among us? Certainly, there are still many parts of the world where the situation of widows is scarcely better than it was in Jesus’ time. Traditionally among Hindus in India – and probably still in many places – widows were expected to dress in plain white clothes – the color of mourning – for the rest of their lives, wear no jewelry, eat once a day if that, and spend their days in prayer, secluded in their husband’s family’s houses. In Italy, Greece, and other parts of the Mediterranean world, you can still see older women, widows presumably, dressed all in black.
But you don’t have to go to South Asia or Europe to find women in desperate straits. In this week’s very issue of the Christian Century, in an article entitled, “Poor and Unwanted,” Amy Frykholm describes the work of sociologist Susan Crawford Sullivan.1 For a recent book entitled Living Faith: Everyday Religion and Mothers in Poverty, Sullivan interviewed a diverse group of poor women, asking them about the challenges of raising children, working, and getting by on a meager income. Although many had strong religious beliefs, they seldom went to church. How come? The simple answer, Sullivan found, was that they felt “unwanted.” If they did venture into a church, they felt looked down on because they smoked, or they didn’t have the right clothes. Some were ashamed of being on Medicaid or using food stamps. Some had been in jail – most for using drugs – and were sure no church would welcome them as felons. And truth be told, many church members, though good-hearted people, didn’t quite know how to relate to women living at the poverty level. Speaking to pastors, Sullivan tells the story of “Rebecca.” A religious woman, Rebecca lived in a shelter. She was dependent on public transportation – such as it was. She prayed and read the Bible. On the few occasions when she went to church, she knew she didn’t fit in. Without a family and permanent home, she had no community, and the churches seemingly had no way of helping her to find one. Sullivan wonders: is there a better way?
I don’t have an answer to Sullivan’s question. However, I myself recently had an experience that perhaps is pointing me towards an answer. As part of my Wellstreams program, this past semester I’ve had a class on the practice of prayer, which was an introduction to all different kinds of prayer. The best part of the class was the requirement to actually practice every day for the two weeks until the next class the form of prayer learned in a session. One week the topic was prayer on the outer limits, i.e., praying for those on the margins of society. As part of the class, we went to actual places in Columbus where people were ministering to those in need. I went to a recovery meeting in a Methodist church. The meeting began with a hot dinner. The clientele looked like most of the folks who come to Loaves and Fishes. I took my dinner to one of the tables, told the other diners my first name, and learned their first names. One woman and a couple of the men shared their stories with me. During the recovery meeting, they all shared something with the larger group, either something for which they were thankful or something for which they needed prayer. As part of my prayer practice for the next week, I prayed intentionally for all the people at my table. In one way, it felt odd to pray for them, since I didn’t know much about them besides their names, and obviously I was in no position to materially help them. Indeed, I ran the risk of doing what the writer of the Letter of James warns against: “If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill,’ and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that?” (2:15-16). Even so, it felt important to pray for them. And it’s possible that I was one of the few people in their lives actively praying for them. Would any of those folks have felt welcome here at St. Peter’s? I don’t know.
If God truly comes first to those on the margins of society, if Jesus ministered first to widows, prostitutes, and task collectors, as his disciples where are we? Are we out there with him? If not, why not?
1. 130, 12, June 12, 2013, 10-11.
In this country, we put the dead away in coffins and hearses, while the mourners hide themselves from passersby in their cars. In India, in contrast, you could often see shrouded bodies being borne on handcarts along the streets, the Hindu dead to the riverside cremation grounds and the Muslim and Christian dead to their respective cemeteries. Whichever faith community, lines of chanting or wailing mourners would walk behind the carts. Oxcarts, bicycles, trucks, country busses, and cars would grind to a halt, while pedestrians respectfully acknowledged the dead person’s family. Those Indian funeral processions came to mind as I confronted today’s Gospel story. Can you picture all those people clogging the narrow streets of Nain? There’s Jesus followed not only by his disciples but also by a large crowd of curious wannabes. Coming towards him is the bier with the dead man, the grieving mother, clearly a widow, and the large crowd of mourners. For a few seconds time stops as the two crowds face each other.
This is the second of a pair of stories of unexpected healing. We heard the first one last week, in the story of the sympathetic centurion who sought Jesus’ help through religious leaders and friends. Actually, much of Luke’s Gospel presents us with the unexpected. Gabriel’s announcement to Mary that she would bear God’s Son, Mary’s hymn of praise in Elizabeth’s house, and Jesus’ first sermon in Nazareth all hint that God is doing a new thing.
Now surrounded by the crowds, Jesus does something totally unexpected. As the chattering of his disciples and the wailing of the mourners dies out, Jesus stops the funeral procession. He sees the mute and grieving widow, and he has “compassion for her.” Without having to be told, Jesus understands the desperate straits this widow is now in. Already without the support a husband would have provided, and now deprived of the safety and support that her son would have provided, this woman now has absolutely no livelihood. Without handouts from grudging relatives or struggling friends, she is herself in danger of dying. No wonder the Hebrew prophets – whose writings Jesus would have known well – constantly shouted out that care for the “widows and orphans” was a mark of the nation’s holiness, a reflection of the nation’s mercy and justice.
As the onlookers on both sides hold their breaths, without being told, without even being asked by the widow, Jesus does something else unexpected. Risking ritual defilement by touching a corpse he touches the dead man and calls him back to life. In so doing, not only has he resuscitated the dead man, but, what is much more important, he has restored the widow to life, to the prospect of having the support of a son and her proper place in society.
What are we, as Luke’s readers and hearers, to make of this story? We hear the answer in the reaction of the crowds – on both sides. At first struck dumb with holy fear and awe, the people then realize that they are in the presence of a great prophet. Shouting, “God has looked favorably on his people,” they acknowledge that God has begun to fulfill God’s promises, and that their world has begun to change. God has come to God’s people. The Kingdom of God has broken into this world in Jesus, who is both prophet and king, who is God’s anointed one. Most important, we hear this: God comes first and most mightily to those on the margins of society. God has compassion on those who are discarded and despised by polite society. God does not come first to the rich and powerful. God does not come first to us respectable and pious middle class folks. God does not come first to the scion of a patriarchal house or the beautiful, jet-setting entertainer. God comes first to those who are desperate, to the poor, the prostitutes, the tax collectors, the least, the lost, and the left behind. Make no mistake. Luke’s message throughout the Gospel is this: we see God most powerfully at work – and others can see God most powerfully at work through us – when the needs of the most neglected and vulnerable people among us are being met.
Which leads me to ask myself who are the neglected “widows” among us? Certainly, there are still many parts of the world where the situation of widows is scarcely better than it was in Jesus’ time. Traditionally among Hindus in India – and probably still in many places – widows were expected to dress in plain white clothes – the color of mourning – for the rest of their lives, wear no jewelry, eat once a day if that, and spend their days in prayer, secluded in their husband’s family’s houses. In Italy, Greece, and other parts of the Mediterranean world, you can still see older women, widows presumably, dressed all in black.
But you don’t have to go to South Asia or Europe to find women in desperate straits. In this week’s very issue of the Christian Century, in an article entitled, “Poor and Unwanted,” Amy Frykholm describes the work of sociologist Susan Crawford Sullivan.1 For a recent book entitled Living Faith: Everyday Religion and Mothers in Poverty, Sullivan interviewed a diverse group of poor women, asking them about the challenges of raising children, working, and getting by on a meager income. Although many had strong religious beliefs, they seldom went to church. How come? The simple answer, Sullivan found, was that they felt “unwanted.” If they did venture into a church, they felt looked down on because they smoked, or they didn’t have the right clothes. Some were ashamed of being on Medicaid or using food stamps. Some had been in jail – most for using drugs – and were sure no church would welcome them as felons. And truth be told, many church members, though good-hearted people, didn’t quite know how to relate to women living at the poverty level. Speaking to pastors, Sullivan tells the story of “Rebecca.” A religious woman, Rebecca lived in a shelter. She was dependent on public transportation – such as it was. She prayed and read the Bible. On the few occasions when she went to church, she knew she didn’t fit in. Without a family and permanent home, she had no community, and the churches seemingly had no way of helping her to find one. Sullivan wonders: is there a better way?
I don’t have an answer to Sullivan’s question. However, I myself recently had an experience that perhaps is pointing me towards an answer. As part of my Wellstreams program, this past semester I’ve had a class on the practice of prayer, which was an introduction to all different kinds of prayer. The best part of the class was the requirement to actually practice every day for the two weeks until the next class the form of prayer learned in a session. One week the topic was prayer on the outer limits, i.e., praying for those on the margins of society. As part of the class, we went to actual places in Columbus where people were ministering to those in need. I went to a recovery meeting in a Methodist church. The meeting began with a hot dinner. The clientele looked like most of the folks who come to Loaves and Fishes. I took my dinner to one of the tables, told the other diners my first name, and learned their first names. One woman and a couple of the men shared their stories with me. During the recovery meeting, they all shared something with the larger group, either something for which they were thankful or something for which they needed prayer. As part of my prayer practice for the next week, I prayed intentionally for all the people at my table. In one way, it felt odd to pray for them, since I didn’t know much about them besides their names, and obviously I was in no position to materially help them. Indeed, I ran the risk of doing what the writer of the Letter of James warns against: “If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill,’ and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that?” (2:15-16). Even so, it felt important to pray for them. And it’s possible that I was one of the few people in their lives actively praying for them. Would any of those folks have felt welcome here at St. Peter’s? I don’t know.
If God truly comes first to those on the margins of society, if Jesus ministered first to widows, prostitutes, and task collectors, as his disciples where are we? Are we out there with him? If not, why not?
1. 130, 12, June 12, 2013, 10-11.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Web of Faith
It was August, 2004. Ray Johnston lay in a coma in Presbyterian Hospital in Dallas.1 Ray had always loved basketball. In 1999 he had lettered as a walk-on point guard at the University of Alabama. However, his college basketball career ended after that first season. He went on to graduate with a degree in marketing and landed a job with a mortgage company in Dallas. In Dallas he played a lot of pick-up and, through a friend, even managed to play a summer season with the Dallas Mavericks. On August 26, 2004 a collision with another player left him with a painfully swollen leg that landed him in the hospital. By the time medical personnel diagnosed him with acute promyelocytic leukemia, a rare form of cancer, Ray’s lungs were filled with fluid, his kidneys had failed, and he was in a coma. However, when doctors told Ray’s mother that his chance of survival was one in a million, she defiantly replied, “Then you’re looking at the one that’s gonna make it.”
Ray stayed in a coma for the next ten weeks. His mother stayed by his side. Friends sent out calls: “Pray for Ray,” and congregations in Dallas and Alabama responded. Other friends vowed to forgo shaving until Ray woke up. Finally, the prayers hit their mark: on the 70th day Ray woke up. Two weeks later, Ray left the hospital with no visible brain damage and a treatment plan for the leukemia. Once in remission, Ray went on to found the Ray Johnston band and began touring the country telling his story. Ray’s cancer recurred in 2009. Through the use of an experimental drug, he is once again in remission. At thirty-four, Ray has big plans for the band, but he’s also happy to just be “smiling and breathing.”2 Is Ray Johnston’s continued survival a “miracle?” Of course it is, it’s a miracle that medical science and the prayers of all those who love Ray Johnston have helped bring about.
And it’s a miracle that would not have surprised the community who first heard Luke’s gospel. We have returned to Luke, which will give us our gospel readings from now through the end of the liturgical year. Luke’s gospel is distinctive in its emphasis on Jesus’ humanity. As you hear the various readings, try to get a glimpse of the actual man teaching and ministering to those around him. Luke’s gospel also reminds us of the importance of an inclusive community of faith that excludes no one from God’s love.
Today we have heard the first of two stories of unexpected healing, stories that are actually meant to be heard together. (When you hear the story next week of the healing of the son of the widow of Nain, I’ll remind you of what you’ve heard today.) Following his first sermon in Nazareth, his ministry in Capernaum, and his “sermon on the plain,” Luke’s parallel to the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus has returned to Capernaum, where today’s story begins.
Perhaps you noticed something surprising about this story: no one in it is alone. Jesus is surrounded by his disciples, his friends, and the women, mentioned in Luke 8:2, who travelled with the Twelve and “provided for them out of their resources.” More important, the rest of the principal characters, including those we don’t see, are also part of a web of human relationships. The invisible ill slave is a valued member of the centurion’s household. We may shy away from confronting the ancient world’s institution of slavery, conveniently forgetting, of course, how similar the modern-day scourge of human trafficking is. Unquestionably, the slave has economic value. Even so, perhaps there is also enough of a human connection between this servant and his master for the centurion, a gentile, to dare to ask the famous rabbi to heal the slave.
The centurion himself is part of a social web, of the hated Romans who ruled over Israel. As a gentile, he has no obligations to the Jews around him, all of whom must submit to their Roman masters. However, the centurion surprisingly seems to also be embedded in a web of faith, as the Jewish leaders explain, when they rationalize their bringing his need to Jesus’ attention. Perhaps the centurion was a “God-fearer,” a gentile who was attracted to Judaism because of its monotheism but was prevented by the requirement of circumcision from converting. Clearly, as the leaders stress, he was a benefactor of the local Jewish community: he “loves our people,” and he even built a synagogue. The centurion is sensitive to the realities of relations between Jews and gentiles. Anticipating Jesus’ reluctance to interact directly with a gentile, he lets the delegation of religious leaders press his case. The centurion is also part of a web of “friends,” who convey to Jesus the centurion’s wish to avoid embarrassing Jesus by forcing him to decide whether or not to risk ritual pollution by entering the centurion’s house. Finally, as the friends’ report so eloquently conveys, the centurion is also embedded in the community of those who recognize Jesus’ authority. Comparing himself with those who are under him, the centurion implicitly recognizes himself as one of those who are under Jesus, and who ultimately must seek Jesus’ favor.
It’s a challenging story. Of course, the gospel always challenges us to ask whether we are under Jesus’ authority, and whether our faith has any impact on the rest of our lives. But this story of the invisible centurion challenges us in another way: it challenges our contemporary perception that faith is a solitary endeavor. Ever since the Reformation, Christians have, for better and for worse, believed in their own ability to understand Scripture, theology, and Christian practice, irrespective of the teachings of a community. Where disagreements occurred, people have simply gone their separate ways. Witness the proliferation of denominations! In our own culture of extreme individualism, we are convinced that faith is personal and private. We “shop” for a church, we hesitate to commit ourselves to a particular community, and we don’t hesitate to leave one faith community for another when the minister or some other aspect of the community does not please us. We shy away from offering each other or receiving from each other pastoral care or spiritual guidance. Perhaps we even hesitate to pray for each other – or to let others know that we are praying for them!
That is not the life that we are called to live as Jesus’ disciples. As Ray Johnston’s story and the centurion’s story remind us, we are – or should be – embedded in a web of faith. As baptized members of Christ’s Body, we too are – or should be – members of a community that supports all its member, a community whose members willingly offer and receive help from one another and offer pastoral and spiritual care to one another. We are – or should be – a community of faith that together reaches out to serve others – even those on the margins of society, even today’s equivalents of slaves, gentiles, prostitutes, or hated tax collectors, even those whom we might not consider “worthy” of God’s love.
How might we begin doing that? I’d like to propose three possibilities. The first is that we continue to pray for those who need our prayers, especially for those who are sick. Perhaps those who have requested our prayers might make sure the rest of us know why. For example, we are currently praying for the wife of our web master. He sends me periodic updates on her condition. Right now, she does not have a clear diagnosis. Secondly, I suggest that we become more intentional about offering pastoral care. We have several members of this parish whose physical limitations, temporary or permanent, prevent them from worshipping with us. We have talked about visiting shut-ins, possibly even those in nursing homes. We have licensed Eucharistic visitors. I can always train more. Can we form perhaps a committee, or a team, that will take responsibility for helping to coordinate pastoral care?
Third, our physical plant is a great gift to the community. As most of you know, “anonymous” groups meet here almost every day. Other groups also use our facilities. Some time back, we had talked about becoming a disaster relief center. The tragedy in Moore, Oklahoma reminds us yet again how much such a facility might be needed. Parishes have responded to disasters like the one in Moore through immediate pastoral care, longer-term rebuilding efforts, and the gifts of prayer and financial support. Recently, our diocese began a relationship with the Lutheran Disaster Response of Ohio. Mary Woodward is now the Disaster Coordinator not only for the Lutheran Church (through Lutheran Social Services of Central Ohio) but also for our diocese as well. Our bishop has expressed the hope that we have at least one person in every congregation trained by Woodward to serve as a volunteer at the time of disaster. Who among you might be willing to pursue this possibility with me? During last summer’s derecho, could our building have been used by those who had lost power? Might it be available in a coming disaster?
We are not isolated dots. We are part of a web of faith. A lived faith is one that is truly part of a community, a community that supports its members and that together reaches out to the rest of the world. With God’s help, and with the prayers of the faithful, St. Peter’s can be such a community.
1. Based on “Ray of Hope,” Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit (Lima OH: CSS, 2006), 108-10.
2. http://abcnews.go.com/Health/CancerPreventionAndTreatment/experimental-drug-maverick-shot/story?id=13668311#.UaecB5z4ItA (accessed May 30, 2013).
Ray stayed in a coma for the next ten weeks. His mother stayed by his side. Friends sent out calls: “Pray for Ray,” and congregations in Dallas and Alabama responded. Other friends vowed to forgo shaving until Ray woke up. Finally, the prayers hit their mark: on the 70th day Ray woke up. Two weeks later, Ray left the hospital with no visible brain damage and a treatment plan for the leukemia. Once in remission, Ray went on to found the Ray Johnston band and began touring the country telling his story. Ray’s cancer recurred in 2009. Through the use of an experimental drug, he is once again in remission. At thirty-four, Ray has big plans for the band, but he’s also happy to just be “smiling and breathing.”2 Is Ray Johnston’s continued survival a “miracle?” Of course it is, it’s a miracle that medical science and the prayers of all those who love Ray Johnston have helped bring about.
And it’s a miracle that would not have surprised the community who first heard Luke’s gospel. We have returned to Luke, which will give us our gospel readings from now through the end of the liturgical year. Luke’s gospel is distinctive in its emphasis on Jesus’ humanity. As you hear the various readings, try to get a glimpse of the actual man teaching and ministering to those around him. Luke’s gospel also reminds us of the importance of an inclusive community of faith that excludes no one from God’s love.
Today we have heard the first of two stories of unexpected healing, stories that are actually meant to be heard together. (When you hear the story next week of the healing of the son of the widow of Nain, I’ll remind you of what you’ve heard today.) Following his first sermon in Nazareth, his ministry in Capernaum, and his “sermon on the plain,” Luke’s parallel to the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus has returned to Capernaum, where today’s story begins.
Perhaps you noticed something surprising about this story: no one in it is alone. Jesus is surrounded by his disciples, his friends, and the women, mentioned in Luke 8:2, who travelled with the Twelve and “provided for them out of their resources.” More important, the rest of the principal characters, including those we don’t see, are also part of a web of human relationships. The invisible ill slave is a valued member of the centurion’s household. We may shy away from confronting the ancient world’s institution of slavery, conveniently forgetting, of course, how similar the modern-day scourge of human trafficking is. Unquestionably, the slave has economic value. Even so, perhaps there is also enough of a human connection between this servant and his master for the centurion, a gentile, to dare to ask the famous rabbi to heal the slave.
The centurion himself is part of a social web, of the hated Romans who ruled over Israel. As a gentile, he has no obligations to the Jews around him, all of whom must submit to their Roman masters. However, the centurion surprisingly seems to also be embedded in a web of faith, as the Jewish leaders explain, when they rationalize their bringing his need to Jesus’ attention. Perhaps the centurion was a “God-fearer,” a gentile who was attracted to Judaism because of its monotheism but was prevented by the requirement of circumcision from converting. Clearly, as the leaders stress, he was a benefactor of the local Jewish community: he “loves our people,” and he even built a synagogue. The centurion is sensitive to the realities of relations between Jews and gentiles. Anticipating Jesus’ reluctance to interact directly with a gentile, he lets the delegation of religious leaders press his case. The centurion is also part of a web of “friends,” who convey to Jesus the centurion’s wish to avoid embarrassing Jesus by forcing him to decide whether or not to risk ritual pollution by entering the centurion’s house. Finally, as the friends’ report so eloquently conveys, the centurion is also embedded in the community of those who recognize Jesus’ authority. Comparing himself with those who are under him, the centurion implicitly recognizes himself as one of those who are under Jesus, and who ultimately must seek Jesus’ favor.
It’s a challenging story. Of course, the gospel always challenges us to ask whether we are under Jesus’ authority, and whether our faith has any impact on the rest of our lives. But this story of the invisible centurion challenges us in another way: it challenges our contemporary perception that faith is a solitary endeavor. Ever since the Reformation, Christians have, for better and for worse, believed in their own ability to understand Scripture, theology, and Christian practice, irrespective of the teachings of a community. Where disagreements occurred, people have simply gone their separate ways. Witness the proliferation of denominations! In our own culture of extreme individualism, we are convinced that faith is personal and private. We “shop” for a church, we hesitate to commit ourselves to a particular community, and we don’t hesitate to leave one faith community for another when the minister or some other aspect of the community does not please us. We shy away from offering each other or receiving from each other pastoral care or spiritual guidance. Perhaps we even hesitate to pray for each other – or to let others know that we are praying for them!
That is not the life that we are called to live as Jesus’ disciples. As Ray Johnston’s story and the centurion’s story remind us, we are – or should be – embedded in a web of faith. As baptized members of Christ’s Body, we too are – or should be – members of a community that supports all its member, a community whose members willingly offer and receive help from one another and offer pastoral and spiritual care to one another. We are – or should be – a community of faith that together reaches out to serve others – even those on the margins of society, even today’s equivalents of slaves, gentiles, prostitutes, or hated tax collectors, even those whom we might not consider “worthy” of God’s love.
How might we begin doing that? I’d like to propose three possibilities. The first is that we continue to pray for those who need our prayers, especially for those who are sick. Perhaps those who have requested our prayers might make sure the rest of us know why. For example, we are currently praying for the wife of our web master. He sends me periodic updates on her condition. Right now, she does not have a clear diagnosis. Secondly, I suggest that we become more intentional about offering pastoral care. We have several members of this parish whose physical limitations, temporary or permanent, prevent them from worshipping with us. We have talked about visiting shut-ins, possibly even those in nursing homes. We have licensed Eucharistic visitors. I can always train more. Can we form perhaps a committee, or a team, that will take responsibility for helping to coordinate pastoral care?
Third, our physical plant is a great gift to the community. As most of you know, “anonymous” groups meet here almost every day. Other groups also use our facilities. Some time back, we had talked about becoming a disaster relief center. The tragedy in Moore, Oklahoma reminds us yet again how much such a facility might be needed. Parishes have responded to disasters like the one in Moore through immediate pastoral care, longer-term rebuilding efforts, and the gifts of prayer and financial support. Recently, our diocese began a relationship with the Lutheran Disaster Response of Ohio. Mary Woodward is now the Disaster Coordinator not only for the Lutheran Church (through Lutheran Social Services of Central Ohio) but also for our diocese as well. Our bishop has expressed the hope that we have at least one person in every congregation trained by Woodward to serve as a volunteer at the time of disaster. Who among you might be willing to pursue this possibility with me? During last summer’s derecho, could our building have been used by those who had lost power? Might it be available in a coming disaster?
We are not isolated dots. We are part of a web of faith. A lived faith is one that is truly part of a community, a community that supports its members and that together reaches out to the rest of the world. With God’s help, and with the prayers of the faithful, St. Peter’s can be such a community.
1. Based on “Ray of Hope,” Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit (Lima OH: CSS, 2006), 108-10.
2. http://abcnews.go.com/Health/CancerPreventionAndTreatment/experimental-drug-maverick-shot/story?id=13668311#.UaecB5z4ItA (accessed May 30, 2013).
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