Preparing the Way

Luke 3:1-20

3 In the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar—when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, Herod tetrarch of Galilee, his brother Philip tetrarch of Iturea and Traconitis, and Lysanias tetrarch of Abilene— 2 during the high-priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. 3 He went into all the country around the Jordan, preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. 4 As it is written in the book of the words of Isaiah the prophet:

“A voice of one calling in the wilderness,

‘Prepare the way for the Lord,

make straight paths for him.

5 Every valley shall be filled in,

every mountain and hill made low.

The crooked roads shall become straight,

the rough ways smooth.

6 And all people will see God’s salvation.’”

7 John said to the crowds coming out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath? 8 Produce fruit in keeping with repentance. And do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our father.’ For I tell you that out of these stones God can raise up children for Abraham. 9 The ax is already at the root of the trees, and every tree that does not produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire.”10 “What should we do then?” the crowd asked.11 John answered, “Anyone who has two shirts should share with the one who has none, and anyone who has food should do the same.”12 Even tax collectors came to be baptized. “Teacher,” they asked, “what should we do?”13 “Don’t collect any more than you are required to,” he told them.14 Then some soldiers asked him, “And what should we do?”He replied, “Don’t extort money and don’t accuse people falsely—be content with your pay.”15 The people were waiting expectantly and were all wondering in their hearts if John might possibly be the Messiah. 16 John answered them all, “I baptize you with[b] water. But one who is more powerful than I will come, the straps of whose sandals I am not worthy to untie. He will baptize you with[c] the Holy Spirit and fire. 17 His winnowing fork is in his hand to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his barn, but he will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire.” 18 And with many other words John exhorted the people and proclaimed the good news to them.19 But when John rebuked Herod the tetrarch because of his marriage to Herodias, his brother’s wife, and all the other evil things he had done, 20 Herod added this to them all: He locked John up in prison.

“Preparing the Way”

This week’s gospel reading in our Advent journey brings us to the story of John the son on Zechariah, the cousin of Christ, the one who baptized before Christ, the one who promised that Christ was coming to follow. Luke brings us a unique description of how John appeared, not using the words found in other parts of the gospel of his clothes made from camel’s hair, his meals of locusts and honey. Instead, Luke describes John’s political and social context, describing the governors and rulers of his time, naming Herod as one of the leaders. Herod was a notoriously brutal ruler, taxing people to their last dollar, sending his sons and flunkies to threaten the lives of the folks in the community, causing people to live in uncertainty and sadness and fear—fear of their ruler, fear of each other, fear of the world, fear of the unknown. This fear caused the people to sin themselves—to hoard what they had, closing off their homes and their lives, not sharing with others, not welcoming and loving them as sisters and brothers in love.

It was dark and fearful and scary time, a time when rulers used their people, a time when the people reacted themselves in dark ways. Knowing that he would be seen as a threat to the rulers of the day, John appeared anyway, hanging out with the folks who were scared, giving them hope for the future, preaching to them about the right way to live, baptizing them—asking them to repent for their sins, while also giving them hope for the future. During this Advent time, we tend to focus mainly on John’s hopeful words, echoed from the prophet Isaiah, about the one who will soon follow after him, the one who is to come:

The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.

We focus mainly on these words because we are Advent people, preparing ourselves to welcome Christ, getting ready to welcome into our lives once again as our Savior. The people gathered around John as he preached, clamoring for some good news, yearning for a word of hope. And what hopeful words they heard—in a world of deep darkness and fear and sadness, John reminds all of us, those gathered that day so long ago, those sitting here today, that, with Christ, every deep valley will be filled, that the crooked sins and sinners of the world will be made straight, that every one of us will see the salvation of God. That is the hope of this Advent time, the hope of our Advent journey together—that Christ will be coming to make the world right again, to make us feel whole again, to bring us peace in a time that seems so dark.

It is right that we should focus on this message of preparation, this promise of hope for which John prepares us, but we also need to notice and celebrate that his message doesn’t end there. In his message of preparation, John reminded everyone gathered there that day that they were sinful and broken people, that they couldn’t simply blame the darkness on the world on their rulers, that they were just as responsible for the sadness and fear and chaos that seems to reign in their lives. He reminded them that the one who is coming to save the world is not simply coming to save the rulers from darkness and chaos, but coming to save them from it, too: “You brood of vipers,” he yelled at them, “who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance…every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.”

To the crowds, he said, “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.”

To the tax collectors, “Collect no more that the amount prescribed for you.”

To the soldiers, “Do not extort money from anyone.”

To the ones asking if he were the Messiah, “…the one who is more powerful than I is coming.”

For John, the preparation for the coming of Christ meant then and means today that hope must be mixed with repentance. It meant that baptism was not simply a sign of the entrance into community, but a true cleansing of sin. For John, the preparation for the coming of Christ meant that they must truly examine the chaos and disappointment and sin that pervade their own lives. It meant that they must examine the fear that kept them from loving and accepting each other.

I wonder what John would have to say to us today, to our world today. I have a sinking feeling that his yell of “You brood of vipers” would be just as loud and just as convicting. I don’t know about you, but I feel like we’re a world right now that is enveloped in chaos, a world run by selfishness and suspicion, a world overcome with fear and brokenness and sin. I feel like we are a people who judge each other without first getting to know each other, a people who hurl insults at each other over social media because then we don’t have to look into each other’s eyes and see that they, too are a child of God. I feel that we are a people who are living lives of fear, closing our doors to strangers and neighbors alike, closing ourselves off, ignoring Christ’s command to welcome and love. We are living in a time when, sadly, it doesn’t shock us to turn on our tvs to see what’s happening around the world--that concert goers in Paris have been ambushed and murdered and teenaged school children in Africa have been kidnapped to be raped and sold. It no longer surprises us to see in our country that worshipers have been gunned down in a Bible study, to see that folks in California attending a Christmas party have been murdered, to see that 5 and 6 year olds have been slaughtered in their classroom. Thank God is still saddens us, but in so many ways, we have become numb to it.

We are living in a world where chaos and fear and sin run our lives and overtake our souls. Sure, we can blame it on our rulers and our governments like those gathered around John that day wanted to do, but doesn’t the blame fall at our own feet? Aren’t we, ourselves, living as a brood of vipers? Aren’t we the ones who refuse to stand up and say, “I’m tired of this chaos?” Aren’t we the ones who refuse to stand up and say, “God created every single one of us as God’s children—and called us to live as brothers and sisters together?” Aren’t we the ones who create bigger and more dangerous and more deadly weapons instead of creating new roads to peace? Aren’t we the ones who judge based on religion or preference or skin color or belief instead of listening the stories of people’s lives? Aren’t we the ones who close the doors and borders of our homes and our lives, instead of extending a welcome? Aren’t we the ones who choose to live in fear instead of hope?

Our Advent journey together is a paradox—during this Advent time, John calls us to both live in the hope of the one who is coming, AND to examine the sin and brokenness in our lives that we have caused. And he calls us to do something about it—to repent. The Greek word used for “repent” in this text is “metanoia,” which means to reorient oneself, to change one’s mind, literally to turn around. John calls us to turn our lives around, turning the world around in the process, while hoping at the same time for Christ to come into our lives and help us and celebrate the newness.

If all of this feels hard for you, it should. It sure feels hard for me to literally turn my life around when I am scared about the chaos of our world, scared of the hatred and hostility, scared for my own life when I never know what’s coming from minute to minute, day to day. I won’t stand here and pretend that any of this is easy. As I sat in front of the tv in our student center this Wednesday watching the brutal, horrific news that seems to hit us each day, news that 14 people were killed in a center where folks with developmental disabilities are offered help, I wept, feeling scared for our world, feeling hatred for someone who would take so many lives without thinking twice about it, and I wondered when it would inevitably happen again. I sat there wondering if there was any hope left in our world. I went in my office and reached for something that I have turned to in other times of chaos, a poem called “A Christmas Peace,” written by the fabulous Maya Angelou for a lighting of the White House Christmas tree. I’ll read her words, hoping that they offer you the hope they offered me:

Thunder rumbles in the mountain passes, and lightning rattles the eaves of our houses. Floodwaters await in our avenues.

Snow falls upon snow, falls upon snow to avalanche, over unprotected villages. The sky slips low and gray and threatening.

We question ourselves. What have we done to so affront nature? We interrogate and worry God. Are you there? Are you there, really? Does the covenant you make with us still hold?

Into this climate of fear and apprehension, Christmas enters, streaming lights of joy, ringing bells of hope and singing carols of forgiveness high up in the bright air. The world is encouraged to come away from rancor, come the way of friendship.

It is the Glad Season. Thunder ebbs to silence and lightning sleeps quietly in the corner. Floodwaters recede into memory. Snow becomes a yielding cushion to aid us as we make our way to higher ground.

Hope is born again in the faces of children. It rides on the shoulders of our aged as they walk into their sunsets. Hope spreads around the earth, brightening all things-EVEN HATE-which crouches breeding in our dark corridors.

In our joy, we think we hear a whisper. At first it is too soft. Then only half heard. We listen carefully as it gathers strength. We hear a sweetness. The world is Peace. It is loud now. Louder than the explosion of bombs.

We tremble at the sound. We are thrilled by its presence. It is what we have hungered for. Not just the absence of war. But true Peace. A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies. Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.

We clap hands and welcome the Prince of Christmas. We beckon this good season to wait awhile with us. We, Baptist and Buddhist, Methodist and Muslim, say come. Peace. Come and fill us and our world with your majesty. We, the Jew and the Jainist, the Catholic and the Confucian, implore you to stay awhile with us so we may learn by your shimmering light how to look beyond complexion and see community.

It is Christmas time, a halting of hate time. On this platform of peace, we can create a language to translate ourselves to ourselves and to each other.

At this Holy Instant, we celebrate the [coming] of Jesus Christ into the great religions of the world. We jubilate the precious advent of trust. We shout with glorious tongues the coming of hope. All the earth’s tribes loosen their voices to celebrate the promise of Peace.

We, Angels and Mortals, Believers and nonbelievers, look heavenward and speak the word aloud. Peace. We look at our world and speak the world aloud. Peace, We look at each other, then into ourselves, and we say without shyness or apology or hesitation: Peace, my brother. Peace, my sister. Peace, my soul.

We speak the word aloud. Peace. Let it be so. Thanks be to God.

Esther's Story

While they were still talking with him, the king’s eunuchs arrived and hurried Haman off to the banquet that Esther had prepared. So the king and Haman went into the feast with Queen Esther. On the second day, as they were drinking wine, the king again said to Esther, “What is your petition, Queen Esther? It shall be granted you. And what is your request? Even to the half of my kingdom, it shall be fulfilled.” Then Queen Esther answered, “If I have won your favor, O king, and if it pleases the king, let my life be given me—that is my petition—that is my request. For we have been sold, I and my people, to be destroyed, to be killed, to be annihilated. If we had been sold merely as slaves, men and women, I would have held my peace; but no enemy can compensate for this damage to the king.” Then King Ahasuerus said to Queen Esther, “Who is he, and where is he, who has presumed to do this?” Esther said, “A foe and enemy, this wicked Haman!” Then Haman was terrified before the king and the queen.

Mordecai recorded these things, and sent letters to all the Jews who were in all the provinces of King Ahasuerus, both near and far, enjoining them that they should keep the fourteenth day of the month Adar and also the fifteenth day of the same month, year by year, as the days on which the Jews gained relief from their enemies, and as the month that had been turned for them from sorrow into gladness and from mourning into a holiday; that they should make them days of feasting and gladness, days for sending gifts of food to one another and presents to the poor.

Esther 7:1-6; 9:20-22

“Esther’s Story”

Our Old Testament lectionary text brings us to one of the smaller, lesser known stories in our Bible, the story of a King and his queens, the story of advisor who plots genocide against the Jews out his jealousy, the story of a guardian who will do anything to make sure his niece survives in the world, the story of that niece who wins the king’s heart, and most importantly, his respect—and saves her people. It is a story that begins with a feast and ends by pointing us to a bigger feast, the Jewish festival known as Purim. If you’re not familiar with the book of Esther, it begins with a banquet thrown by King Ahasuerus—all the men are drinking, and the King dumbly commands his queen, Vashti, to come in and parade herself in front of all them. Feeling merely like an object, I can imagine, Queen Vashti says no and quickly finds herself banished from the court. When the king decides to look for a new queen, his nobles suggest doing an empire-wide search for a new queen, a virgin to be sure. Many women are brought in to be a harem, and Esther is part of the group. She arrives with her guardian Mordecai, suggesting that she has no parents, suggesting she is probably a teenager who has to be guarded. Esther quickly wins the king’s favor and rises to the top as she is made the queen. Shortly thereafter, Mordecai uncovers a plot to assassinate the king, and probably Esther as well; he tells Esther, who tells the king and further wins his favor.

But the king, not the brightest bulb in the bunch, appoints a man named Haman to a high position in his court—the power quickly goes to Haman’s head as he demands everyone to bow down to him. Mordecai refuses, and Haman plots his revenge by vowing genocide, vowing to kill all of Mordecai’s Jewish people. Mordecai again uncovers the plot, asking Esther to risk her life and step in to save her people.

This is where our lectionary text begins this morning--chapter 7, the climax of the story. The King is again throwing a lavish banquet for his court, one expected to go on for days. Esther is smart, and knows that she could be put to death for coming in front of the king without first being summoned, but she decides she has to take the chance anyway. She knows that she shouldn’t confront the King in front of his whole court; she knows he could easily be swayed by his advisors who would be offended that she entered the court without an invitation, so she invites the king and Haman into her own chambers for a private feast. When the king asks Esther what her petition, her request to him, is, she simply says, “If I have won your favor, O King, and if it pleases the king, let my life be given me, and the lives of my people…For we have been sold, I and my people, to be destroyed, to be killed, and to be annihilated.” And when the king asks her who has planned this genocide for her people, Esther looks at Haman and says, “A foe and enemy, this wicked Haman!” Haman is hung, and the Jewish people, Esther and Mordecai’s people, are saved. A generation saved from extinction, all because of the boldness and hope of a teenaged girl.

This story is small, but it’s important to us for several reasons. Even thought it’s a short story, it has so much to tell us about life together in faith community. It has to be an impossible choice for Esther to make—either to stay quiet and not share the plot with the king, resulting in a whole generation of Jews being killed, or to go to the king without being summoned, risking her own life. An impossible choice for anyone to make, to be sure, but Esther decides that she must make the choice to sacrifice herself, to sacrifice her life to save so many others. In making this choice, Esther reminds us that we are called to look out for each other, to take responsibility for our community, that we are sometimes even called to give up our own lives for the sake of others, hoping for the new life that could come as a result. And I love that she makes this choice while maintaining a spirit of humility, hopefulness, and grace. Esther could walk right into the king’s court, right there in front of everyone, making demands of the king in front of his most trusted advisors, interrupting a raucous banquet, embarrassing him as a result. But she doesn’t. She simply sets a place for him and Haman at her table, inviting them into the quiet, helping them escape the expectations and judgments of those around them. Esther makes a difference and saves a whole generation, does all of this by using her intelligence and displaying a deep humility. Maybe we, perhaps even our politicians, have something to learn from this—perhaps that intelligence and humility, instead of ego and judgment, are the way to really create peace and stability in the world.

Another important thing that comes out of Esther’s story is the feast of Purim, a celebration in all of the king’s provinces, a celebration of salvation and life. After the Jews are saved by Esther’s petitions to the king, Mordecai sends a letter to all of the people, asking them to always remember these anniversary days when their lives were saved, to celebrate “as the days on which the Jews gained relief from their enemies, and as the month that had been turned for them from sorrow into gladness and from mourning into a holiday; that they should make them days of feasting and gladness, days for sending gifts of food to one another and presents to the poor.” As a celebration of their salvation from death, the Jews celebrate life through this Purim feast together, ensuring there is enough food for everyone, turning mourning into rejoicing, giving gifts of life to the poor around them.

I love how Dr. Kathleen O’Connor, a retired Old Testament professor from Columbia Theological Seminary, depicts this celebration:

The celebration of Purim is iconic, emblematic of the Jews’ life as God’s people…They feast at table, they give gifts of food to one another, and they bring in the poor among them…God’s presence is suggested by the liturgical feast, where good is shared, community strengthened, and the poor invited to the table. For Christians, the feast of Purim calls to mind Eucharistic feasts and, in the context of Esther, serves as strong warning against social systems that benefit the powerful and harm others.

Kathleen describes this feast perfectly; she reminds us that this Purim feast for the Jews foreshadows the feast of the Eucharist for us Christians. She reminds us that the feast at the Lord’s table should be a powerful celebration of life, of community, of sharing—a reminder that we, as Christians, are always called to look out for the least and lost among us, called to invite and give and share and welcome and love.

Finally, I think this story is so important to all of us, and so special to me, because it focuses on a young woman who could easily become part of the world instead of trying to save it. Esther is very young, innocent to the world and nervous and in awe of everything happening around her, and she has to be scared to death to come in front of the king to save her people. She could very easily make the choice to stay quiet, to do nothing, to preserve her own life by sacrificing others, but she doesn’t. The world has told her that she should simply be a nameless face in the king’s harem, told her that she has nothing to give, especially at her young age, but she doesn’t listen. She speaks up, she urges the king to save her people, and she celebrates as the world is changed for the better around her. Does that remind you of another young girl in our Biblical story? It sure reminds of me a girl who could very easily say no to what is asked of her, but chooses instead to say yes, yes to life, yes to giving birth to a child who will be born to change and save the world. These two young women could choose to hide away, but choose to say yes instead—and it’s amazing to see the celebration of life that comes as a result. I love that these young women are the age of so many of you in this room, teenagers and college students, alike. It’s simply amazing what all of you younger folks in this room, women and men alike, might be called to do in this world.

It would be irresponsible of me to share Esther’s story with you today, without pointing to another young woman in the world who is doing great things—irresponsible because it’s tempting for us to think that nothing like Esther’s story could happen in our crazy world today, tempting to think that our crazy world doesn’t have any heroes left—especially younger ones.

Have you ever heard of a young woman named Malala? Malala Yousafzai is a 17-year-old young woman who grew up in Pakistan. The Taliban made their way to her village, eventually kicking all of the girls out of their schools, insisting that women had no right to an education. When Malala was kicked out, she decided to speak up, to speak out against the violence and prejudice and judgment in her world. She came to find out that the Taliban had threatened her life on of their websites, and these violent men tried to carry that threat out—they shot her at the age of 14, trying to end her life, trying to keep her from speaking out for the life and success of the other young girls in her community.

I absolutely fell in love with Malala when she was interviewed by my favorite news person—Jon Stewart. When asked about her fear of what the Taliban could do to her before she was shot, Malala said, “I asked myself, ‘If the Taliban come, what would you do, Malala?’ Then I replied to myself, ‘I would just take a shoe and hit him.’ But then I said, ‘If you hit a Talib with your shoe, there would be no difference between you and the Talib.’ You must not treat others with cruelty and harshness. You must fight this with peace and education. Then I would tell [the Talib], ‘That’s what I want to tell you.’”

And she did tell the Taliban about peace and education. After her recovery from almost being murdered, she didn’t fight back with weapons, with hateful words, with meanness—she fought back with humility, with love, by creating community, by continuing to speak out about the importance of education. That was pretty obvious when she delayed her press conference for winning the Nobel Peace Prize—because she had to finish her chemistry class. The Marys and Malalas and the Esthers in our lives have so much to teach us about the importance of education, the value of what a force humility and hope and intelligence can be when brought together. Indeed he Marys and Malalas and Esthers have so much to teach us about what happens when we listen to the intuition God places in our hearts, about what happens when we take care of our community instead of only being focused on ourselves. Pretty amazing what the young ones in our midst can teach us, isn’t it? Thanks be to God.

What Defiles Us

Now when the Pharisees and some of the scribes who had come from Jerusalem gathered around him, they noticed that some of his disciples were eating with defiled hands, that is, without washing them. (For the Pharisees, and all the Jews, do not eat unless they thoroughly wash their hands, thus observing the tradition of the elders; and they do not eat anything from the market unless they wash it; and there are also many other traditions that they observe, the washing of cups, pots, and bronze kettles). So the Pharisees and the scribes asked him, “Why do your disciples not live according to the tradition of the elders, but eat with defiled hands?” He said to them, “Isaiah prophesied rightly about hypocrites, as it is written, ‘This people honors me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me; in vain do they worship me, teaching human precepts as doctrines.’ You abandon the commandment of God and hold to human tradition.” Then he called the crowd again and said to them, “Listen to me, all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things the come out are what defile.”

Mark 7:1-8; 14-15

"What Defiles Us"

“This people honors me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me…you abandon the commandment of God and hold to human tradition…there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile.” Some pretty tough and harsh words, some pretty telling words from Jesus to the Pharisees here. You know, the Pharisees often get a bad rap—they get blamed, discounted for being self-righteous, rigid, and unyielding, for being unfaithful. They cling to the laws of the temple, wanting everyone to be clean before they can worship, calling out folks when they disobey the laws they think keep them from God. I don’t think they are unfaithful, but just the opposite—they are incredibly faithful folks, leaders who have spent much time studying, leaders who know the law backwards and forwards, leaders who want folks to spend their time worshiping God in the best way possible. I don’t think they’re unfaithful, but I do sometimes think their religious fervor for God shields them from seeing the bigger point—that God has created each one of us, that we are all called to worship God no matter who we are or what is happening in our lives, no matter whether we have time to stop and wash our hands first. Because of their fervor, they miss the idea that their words and actions can sometimes be so harsh that they keep wanderers and non-believers and people who have been hurt by the church from seeing God through each one of them. Their words and actions turn people away from God instead of welcoming them to God, and Jesus rightly calls them out on it. It is not what goes into us that defiles and keeps us from God, but instead what comes out—our harsh words and horrible actions towards each other, our judgments about our neighbors. Indeed, what comes out of us is what defiles.

If you’ve been paying attention to the news in our country this week, you’ve seen much that defiles, much that hurts, much that keeps us from God. You’ve seen defilement through internet and body shaming—an intelligent, beautiful weather reporter in Philadelphia, a woman who is healthy and 38 weeks pregnant with twin girls (and somehow still on air when I would be in bed)—called fat, called a sausage in a casing, told online that her pregnant abdomen sticking out is disgusting. Horrible. Internet shaming. Body shaming. It is what defiles us.

If you’ve been paying attention, you’ve seen a fraternity at Old Dominion University suspended for signs hung on its house at freshman orientation: “Freshman daughter drop off. Hope your baby girl is ready for a good time. Go ahead and drop mom off, too.” Horrible. Blatant misogyny and sexism in a university where parents hope their 18 year old daughters will be held safe from harm. It is what defiles us.

And even if you weren’t watching the news this week, you still know about the tragedy in Virginia. A 24 year old reporter shot to death on air while her 27 year old cameraman dropped his camera as he also died from the gun. Both in love, both happy, both remembered in pictures with great big smiles on their faces. A gunman who was disturbed. A gunman who was able to buy 2 handguns at the same time. A gunman who was too angry to seek healthy help, angry enough to attach a Go Pro to himself and record the whole thing as it played out. Anger, and the inability to find healthy ways to deal with it. Violence. Weapons strong enough to kill someone in one shot. It is what defiles us.

I don’t confess to know whether the gunman was a Christian, or the folks who said and say horrible, shaming things to others on the internet, or the guys in the fraternity who actually thought it was ok to say sexist things to their classmates.  I don’t know anything about their faith journeys, but my hunch is that some of them proclaim themselves to be followers of Christ. I don’t know. But what I do know is that there is so much out there to defile, so many ways in which we, ourselves, defile our world and each other. And I also know that we, who call ourselves Christians in Christ’s name, need to do something about it.

We are angry—there is so much anger out there right now that we can’t handle it. We no longer know how to listen in love, or to disagree in love. We say horrible sexist, racist, homophobic, unwelcoming, senseless, unloving things to each other without even thinking about the person on the other end of our vitriol. We say these things without ever giving a second thought to how they defile. And, sadly, the church is the often the entity on the front lines, holding signs up, screaming at people, banning folks from Christ’s table, telling them they are unclaimed and unloved. It’s pretty clear that we who are Christians need to change that. It’s pretty clear that we have more work to do in undefiling the world—in proclaiming a loving, welcoming, caring, reconciling Christ to the world, in proclaiming a saving Christ to the world.

Friends, younger folks are leaving the church in droves for many reasons, chief among them because they see the church, US, as folks who talk and say nice, fancy words about Christ, about his love and grace and forgiveness, but do nothing to mirror his actions through our own. As many friends as I have in the church, I have many others who won’t darken the doors of a sanctuary because they have been left behind, hurt, crushed by condemning words said, by judgmental things done to them by folks who call themselves followers of Christ. This is how we defile. This has to change.

It’s no accident that there are so many stories about tables and food and parties and dinners in our Biblical story. It’s no accident that the table, Christ’s table, sits before us every time we worship together. Food is part of our story together, part of Christ’s story with us. As we look at the table every time we worship, we are reminded that the invitation to the table is always given to us by Christ. We are reminded, every time we gather together, that Christ gave his life for us and was resurrected for us to offer grace and forgiveness and new life for us all. This table is a sacrament for us—the word sacrament comes from the Latin, “sacramentum,” meaning that we are consecrated through this sacrament, meaning that we are hallowed, that we are made holy through what is celebrated and remembered at this table. And because we are consecrated, because we are made holy through Christ’s grace and forgiveness, we are called and commanded to show that holiness in the world, even through, even in spit of everything that defiles it.

I’ve spent the last week reading a book called Searching for Sunday by Rachel Held Evans. Rachel grew up in Alabama and Tennessee, spending her teenage years in the town where the Scopes monkey (evolution) trial was held. She describes her church as very evangelical, very legalistic and rigid, known more for what it was against than what it was for. I can imagine the Pharisees might’ve loved a church like that. Although she was very dedicated to her church (and they to her), and although her faith is a vital part of her soul, she eventually left the church because of its fight against women’s ordination and gay rights.  She is still working through her faith journey, thinking and writing and blogging about faith. Although she often shares her frustrations about the church and the ways its members can defile, she also shares the joy of the table:

This is the purpose of the sacraments, of the church—to help us see, to point to the bread and wine, the orchids and the food pantries, the post-funeral potlucks and the post-communion dance parties (maybe she’s not talking about Presbyterians per se), and say: pay attention, this stuff matters; these things are holy…At its best, the church administers the sacraments by feeding, healing, forgiving, comforting, and welcoming home the people God loves. At its worst, the church withholds the sacraments in an attempt to lock God in a theology, a list of rules, a doctrinal statement, a building. But our God is in the business of transforming ordinary things into holy things, scraps of food into feasts and empty purification vessels into fountains of fine wine. This God knows his way around the world, so there’s no need to fear, no need to withhold, no need to stake a claim. There’s always enough—just taste and see. There’s always and ever enough.

I love her words here. Our God is indeed in the business of transforming ordinary things into holy things, of transforming us into holy things. And because God is in the business of transforming us, we are called to go out and be God’s people in the world. Instead of defiling our neighbors and our world, we are created and forgiven and made holy so that may transform them. There’s always and ever enough. Thanks be to God.

Jesus and Atticus

When evening came, his disciples went down to the sea, got into a boat, and started across the sea to Capernaum. It was now dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them. The sea became rough because a strong wind was blowing. When they had rowed about three or four miles, they saw Jesus walking on the sea and coming near the boat, and they were terrified. But he said to them, “It is I; do not be afraid.” Then they wanted to take him into the boat, and immediately the boat reached the land toward which they were going.

John 6:16-21

Atticus stood up and walked to the end of the porch. When he completed his examination of the wisteria vine he strolled back to me. "First of all," he said, "if you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you'll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."

This line, this scene, is given to us in one of the most famous novels of all time. “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” Atticus Finch, the tall, handsome (at least in the movie version), gentle lawyer and father of Scout and Jem, says this in To Kill A Mockingbird. The book, told from Scout’s point of view as a child who worships the ground her father walks on, tells the story of Atticus, a hero, a lawyer who believes in the whole value of the justice system, a hero who defends Tom Robinson, a black man in Alabama in the early 1900s, a man who is innocent of the crime of which he is accused, but a man who will be convicted of it anyway. Scout tells us of a father who will go against popular belief to defend what he thinks is right, a man who is willing to sacrifice his livelihood and his life for the sake of the law, for the sake of humanity.

If you’re anything like me, Atticus Finch has always been one of your heroes, the hero who does what he thinks his right, no matter what anyone around him says, no matter how much they threaten livelihood, threaten life. For me, and I’m sure for many of you, Atticus has been a hero who we believed could walk on water. I have grown up loving this book, looking up to this father, so much so that I named my girl dog Scout, so much so that I smiled with glee with from the news that a new Harper Lee book, a prequel, would be released after so many years. There is not much better in the world than reading her words. And I have to admit it—these words in particular from To Kill A Mockingbird, about climbing into someone else’s skin and walking around in it for a while, have always seemed pretty biblical to me.

I was so excited when the first chapter of the new book, Go Set A Watchman, was released a bit early—I read it as soon as I could sit down in a quiet place to soak every single image and word of Harper Lee’s newly found writing in, and I loved it. But the next day, as I checked twitter, the words jumped out at me, scared me as any nightmare would: “Atticus Finch is a racist. Atticus Finch is a racist.” If you loved To Kill A Mockingbird, prepare to be disappointed if not disgusted by Go Set A Watchman. WHAT??? Not possible. No way, I thought, that this staunch defender of justice, the man who defended an innocent black man knowing he would still be convicted, could even be a bit racist. No way that this man, who talked about walking around in someone else’s skin could really be judging people because of the color of that skin. I thought to myself, “This is way too much to handle. Not sure if I can read this and imagine of my heroes to be less than I always thought he was.” But as I settled down a bit, I realized that I owed it to Harper Lee, the woman who had created such divine words, the woman who had painted such incredible imagery, the woman who wrote my favorite story, to read her book without judgment, to go into it with eyes wide open.

So I did. And I loved it. And I hated it. Helpful, right? I loved hearing more about Scout and Jem and Dill’s childhood—the scene where the three of them go to the Presbyterian/Baptist/Methodist revival (I bet that was fascinating), and then come home to play revival and baptize each other in the pool, leading Dill’s Aunt Rachel to yank him out and slap him across the head, is worth the cost of the book alone. I loved seeing Scout as a woman, a woman who defied the social beliefs of her day that women here age were worthless if they weren’t married and mothers by the ripe old age of 26. Scout’s spirit as a 6 year old did not disappoint in the first book, nor did it as a 26 year old in this one. There is nothing better than Harper Lee’s use of Southern imagery and charm, the way she crafts her words around the thoughts of a girl who can steal your heart. Yes, I loved it.

And I hated it. I hated that Atticus did indeed attend a meeting of the earliest version of the KKK, the White Citizen’s Council. I hated that he let a horribly racist man drone on and on about how he hated black people—I needed Atticus and his stately self to step in and put that awful man in his place with one, gentle, sweeping statement. I hated that Calpurnia, the family’s maid, was deeply separated from the children she helped to co-parent because she had been put down so often. I hated that Scout finally had to confront her father—AND I MEAN CONFRONT—about how he had raised her to seek justice for all, but that he didn’t ultimately rail for that justice himself when the time drew near to do so.

There were times, as I read the book, when I hated and loved what was happening at the same time. I hated that Harper Lee made me realize that Atticus did not walk on water like I thought, that he was ultimately a man formed by his environment and upbringing--a man who could break free from his environment enough to protect the integrity of the law and seek justice for a black man in Alabama in the early 1900s, but one who could not ultimately break free to seek freedom for all of those with dark skin. I hated that, but I loved that he realized his own limitations and prejudices and that he could not ultimately rise over them—so he raised Scout in a way that she could see that freedom for all in the future. I loved it and I hated it, that although he couldn’t break free of his brokenness, he raised her to see things differently and to do what she could to change the world. And as much as I hated it, I also loved how this book made me see once again that none of us actually walks on water as much as we would love to do so, that each of us is formed by our environment and upbringing—for good and bad—and that each of us is broken and sinful in our nature.

I’ve been thinking so much about this since I preached the lectionary text from the 6^th chapter of John last month. I had just finished reading Go Set A Watchman, and my thoughts about Atticus, my literary hero, had been shattered, changed, transformed. And then along came this text as I was trying to wrap my head around all I had read.

The first part of chapter 6 tells us that Jesus had just performed an incredible miracle by feeding thousands of hungry people with only five barley loaves of bread and two fish, and they were all beginning to disperse as night was falling. Today’s text tells us the disciples had seen all that had happened, and they walked down to the shore, probably still in disbelief from it all. They all gotten into the boat and sailed into seas that were rough from a strong wind. They weren’t anywhere close to shore, 3 or 4 miles out, but they saw someone walking to them. Jesus was walking on the water toward them. Naturally, the disciples were scared, but Jesus gently said to them, “It is I; do not be afraid.” And somehow the boat drew towards land. As if the disciples and the people gathered that day hadn’t already seen enough evidence that this man was special as he fed all of them, here was something more. All of it together was evidence of his divinity—we have already heard in other Gospels that Peter himself had tried to walk on water and failed, but here was Jesus—walking on the water for 3 miles or more, walking towards all of them as they sat in disbelief and wonder.

This miracle story of Jesus walking on the water was what I needed to hear to help me process Go Set A Watchman, that Atticus was just as broken as I, just as broken as us all—that he was indeed a product of his upbringing, his environment, his beliefs, and yes, his deep prejudices. I needed this story to help me realize that Atticus, just like Peter in the Gospels, just like the rest of us if we had tried, could never have walked on water. That’s Jesus’s deal. That’s his job. That’s his miracle—his miracle for every single one of us who are just as broken as the ones sitting next to us, just as broken as our literary or real-life heroes.

The fact that the miracle of the feeding of 5,000 folks precedes this story shouldn’t escape our minds here—Jesus didn’t stop to ask a single one of the folks gathered on the hillside that day if they were sinners. He didn’t tell them to list their prejudices or ask how judgmental they were towards others. He didn’t get them to think about how broken they truly were inside. Jesus didn’t ask for confession. He simply fed them. He fed every single one of them and he displayed his divinity once again by walking on water when so many others had tried and failed. My hunch is that folks just like Atticus Finch were fed that day—folks who could say beautiful things and encourage their children and fight for justice for all one day, folks who could then turn around to belittle and demean and judge others for no other reason than the color of their skin the next day.

When the sun rose the day after Jesus walked to the disciples on the water, Jesus encouraged everyone there—no matter how much they doubted and questioned, no matter how broken they were—to go out and share what they had seen, to go out and work. In the 27^th verse of chapter 6, Jesus again answered the disciples’ questions by saying, “Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you.” No matter who you are, go out and work for the food that lasts, the food that endures, Jesus reminded us. No matter that you are a sinner, go out and share and love he said. No matter that you are are broken and prone to judgment, go out and climb in someone else’s skin and walk around in it for a while. Share God’s love, and yours, with them. Thanks be to God.

We Are Fed

After this Jesus went to the other side of the Sea of Galilee, also called the Sea of Tiberias. A large crowd kept following him, because they saw the signs that he was doing for the sick. Jesus went up the mountain and sat down there with his disciples. Now the Passover, the festival of the Jews, was near. When he looked up and saw a large crowd coming toward him, Jesus said to Philip, “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?” He said this to test him, for he himself knew what he was going to do. Philip answered him, “Six months’ wages would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little. One of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, said to him, “There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish. But what are they among so many people?” Jesus said, “Make the people sit down.” Now there was a great deal of grass in the place; so they sat down, about five thousand in all. Then Jesus took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated; so also the fish, as much as they wanted. When they were satisfied, he told his disciples, “Gather up the fragments left over, so that nothing may be lost.” So they gathered them up, and from the fragments of the five barley loaves, left by those who had eaten, they filled twelve baskets. When the people saw the sign that he had done, they began to say, “This is indeed the prophet who is to come into the world.” When Jesus realized that they were about to come and take him by force to make him king, he withdrew again to the mountain by himself.

John 6:1-15

“We Are Fed”

My mom and I had lunch together at a wonderful bakery this week after the funeral of a family friend. As we were waiting for our food to arrive, I began to realize that we had both spent the time waiting for our food staring at the multiple bakery cases; sadly, I have to admit I think we may have been drooling while staring. There were so many desserts—strawberry and caramel cakes, cinnamon and chocolate rugelah, breads braided and buttered and twisted into pretty shapes, sugar cookies decorated with minions, petit fours and cupcakes decorated for baby and wedding showers. Yes, I know we were drooling. There is something about bakeries and the smells coming out of them that makes me drool every time. I love to bake, so much so that when my parents asked me what I wanted for my 40^th birthday, I asked for a kitchen aid stand mixer. I love to mix cinnamon and sugar, love whipping a little cream up, love melting butter and making frosting. Although I have to admit that my love of baking shows on my body and prompted my gym membership, I really love to bake because I love to share it with others. I love food and everything that comes along with it—the recipes, the sharing, the eating together around tables, the smiles that sharing food brings to friend’s faces during times of celebration and times of confusion, in times of lostness and times of grief.

I love to think about meals I’ve shared with others—family night suppers and covered dish dinners, pizza nights with our students, about how my family always gathered together in the kitchen where the food was made, in the smallest room of our house growing up, instead of in the bigger rooms. There is something about being together with loved ones, even being with strangers, and sharing the experience of a meal together. One of the meals I will always remember is a meal I had in Paris—I was with two of my dearest friends in one of the most wonderful cities of the world. As we walked by beautiful chapel of Saint Chappelle, we came across an outdoor café. We sat for several hours, simply sharing cheese and crackers and delicious soup as we sipped wine and laughed and observed the scenery surrounding us. I remember that meal for so many reasons—for its simplicity and beauty, for its easiness that led to relaxation, for the beautiful people with whom I shared it, for the background music and noises that surrounded us, and certainly for the gelato we shared on the way home. And, yes, I’m sorry if I’ve made your stomachs growl a little earlier than usual today!

My hunch is that we can all think of times like this when we savored every bite and every moment of a meal. We can all remember times when food has been ample and delicious, when it has brought family and friends and strangers together in fellowship around a blanket or a table. That is one of the many reasons I love our story from John’s gospel today—because of the simplicity of the meal in the way it is shared, because of the fellowship it brings to its guests, because of the story it tells about our Christ.

Food, and most importantly, the way meals are shared with us, is a common thread woven throughout our Biblical story, from the first food eaten in the garden to the manna given to the Israelites in the wilderness; from the lavish feasts thrown for the kings in our story to the ones who are lost looking for food; from the first miracle at the wedding feast in Cana to the party thrown for a prodigal son returned home, from the feast made out of five loaves of bread and two fish to the final meal offered by Christ to his disciples; from the breakfast shared after his resurrection to the fact that Christ’s body is broken and his blood is shed in communion for us all.

Yes, the stories of food and the meals we share are woven throughout our Biblical witness—and this particular story of the feeding of the 5,000, is a wonderful part of our story together, a crucial part of it. It is the only miracle story shared with us in all 4 Gospels, which should tell us something about its importance. On the surface, many of the details of this narrative are simple. The neat number of 5,000, the little boy who has the barley loaves and the fish, that the numbers of them both add up to the number of creation days, the pastoral, green setting of the mountainside.

But there is something extraordinary in the simplicity, something extraordinary in this miracle. Our text tells us that 5,000 are fed, but that normally only includes the men gathered—that number is probably three times more when women and children are included. 5 loaves of bread and 2 fish for countless numbers of people. A little boy has gathered the food, a little boy who has been seen as less than human, only valuable for what he can gather, as children are seen in Biblical times. A little boy brings all of that food, and Christ calls him out, acknowledging him for the miracle he has helped to begin. What is gathered is shared, shared so much that the text tells us they all had all they wanted, shared so much that those gathered are full, full enough to even have fragments and leftovers to share.

There are so many things to love about this text, but I think I love this little, crucial, necessary one the most: Jesus says to the disciples, “Gather up the fragments left over, so that nothing may be lost.” Jesus knows that there are even more folks with whom to share, and 12 baskets full of fragments are gathered to share with those who are in need. On this miraculous day, Jesus has fed all of those gathered, foreshadowing his death and resurrection, foreshadowing the promised banquet we will all share with him in heaven. But he doesn’t just stop with the feeding—he orders the disciples to gather what is left, reminding them that there is always enough to be gathered and shared, telling them that there will always be enough for everyone in need, calling them to share. And he is telling us the same thing. No matter how many are gathered, there will always be enough to share—and it is up to us to gather it and share it.

I shared the story of that lovely meal in Paris with all of you because it has always been one of my favorite times, a lovely experience. But there have been other meals that were more than that—meals that transformed and changed me. When our students and I spent a week in Haiti, I tried to be constantly aware of the food around us and the way it was shared—the snacks we took with us on the plane to share with those around us, the meals cooked for us as we sat around tables, the rice and beans we fed to children who were mentally and physically disabled, the day we were each given a kid for whom to buy pizza and burgers and hot dogs and fries. We take these foods for granted every day, but I will never forget the look in their eyes as they ate these things that were special delicacies for them. All of these times were transformational, but what I keenly recognized was that there was nothing leftover. Uneaten rice and beans were scooped off of plates and saved for another meal on another day. We were always asked to take only what we needed, not just what we thought we wanted. Even the wrappers from cookies and chips, something we Americans always throw away, were saved to be recycled into jewelry to be sold so the profits could be given to those in need. Simply put, trash cans were small (partly because of the poor sanitation system in the country, party because not much is thrown away). There was no room for much to be thrown away—leading the way for more to be given to those in need. Even in the poorest country in the Western hemisphere, more were fed than we ever could have dreamed of, more than enough to go around.

“Gather up the fragments left over,” Jesus says, “so that nothing may be lost.” Christ gave this miracle to those countless numbers of folks gathered on the hillside that day. And he shares it with us. It is up to the disciples and us who call ourselves followers to lose nothing, to make sure we are all fed. My favorite writer, Barbara Brown Taylor, puts it this way:

Go look at your loaves. How many do you have? Any answer will do. Now follow the leader. Take what you have—whatever you have—take it into your hands and hold it lightly, very lightly. Then bless it—thank God for what you have and make it holy by giving it away for love. Then break it—sorry, but you have to tear it up to share it, there is no way to keep it all in one nice piece. And finally, give it—to whoever is standing in front of you, beside you—spread it around, and never mind that there does not seem to be enough for everyone. It is not up to you to feed the whole crowd, to solve the whole problem, or to fix the whole world. It is up to you just to share what you have got, to feed whatever big or little hunger that happens to be standing right in front of you. The rest will come. Because God is God, the rest will come. For now, for your part, how many loaves have you?

How many loaves have you? How many fragments have we? What do we have to give, since we have been given so much, since we have been fed our daily bread? Thanks to be God.