I Will Give You Rest

Leviticus 25:1-7

The Lord spoke to Moses on Mount Sinai, saying: ² Speak to the people of Israel and say to them: When you enter the land that I am giving you, the land shall observe a sabbath for the Lord. ³ Six years you shall sow your field, and six years you shall prune your vineyard, and gather in their yield; ⁴ but in the seventh year there shall be a sabbath of complete rest for the land, a sabbath for the Lord: you shall not sow your field or prune your vineyard. ⁵ You shall not reap the after growth of your harvest or gather the grapes of your unpruned vine: it shall be a year of complete rest for the land. ⁶ You may eat what the land yields during its sabbath—you, your male and female slaves, your hired and your bound laborers who live with you; ⁷ for your livestock also, and for the wild animals in your land all its yield shall be for food.

Matthew 11:28-30

²⁸ “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. ²⁹ Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. ³⁰ For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

In his poem “Sabbaths,” American novelist and poet Wendell Berry writes these beautiful words:

                        Whatever is forseen in joy

                        Must be lived out from day to day.

                        Vision held open in the dark

                        By our ten thousand days of work.

                        Harvest will fill the barn; for that

                        The hand must ache, the face must sweat.

                        And yet no leaf or grain is filled

                        By the work of ours; the field is tilled

                        And left to grace. That we may reap,

                        Great work is done while we’re asleep.

                        When we work well, a Sabbath mood

                        Rests on our day, and finds it good.

The field is tilled, tilled and made ready, tilled so that we might step away and let God take over for the plants and crops to bloom. The field is tilled and we have worked well, and there is a new mood. A mood of rest. A mood of comfort. A mood of grace. And it is called and found good, called good by God. Wendell’s words reflect the words given to us by the writer of Leviticus—words of work and labor, words of rest and grace and Sabbath, words spoken by the Lord to Moses for the people: “For six years you shall sow your field, and for six years you shall prune  your vineyard and gather in the yield; but in the seventh year there shall be a complete Sabbath for the land, a Sabbath for the Lord. You shall not reap or gather or prune. It shall be a complete year of rest for the land.” Work, work hard, God says, on the land that I have given you. Sow and reap. Prune and gather. Work for six years. But in the seventh year, you shall rest. There will be a break, for the land, for you, for everyone to rest in me. You have worked well. We have worked well, God says, and just as I rested on the seventh creation day, you shall rest in the seventh harvest year. A Sabbath mood will be created, and it will be good.

I love the term “Sabbath mood,” and I think we should use it more in churches and universities. Sabbatical leaves, moods, are usually given in the church after six to seven years of service, nine in my case (don’t get me wrong—you tried to give me sabbatical grace earlier, but two other ministers discerned that God was calling them to something new, causing me to delay a bit). Over the past several months, you all were so kind by gracing me with a sabbatical mood, a few months to rest and travel, think and discern, to travel for several weeks and stay still for others, a time to be renewed. You all gave me a leave from the fields I had been planting in partnership with all of you, a time to stay still and reflect and live off the yield from the planting. And although Leviticus suggests a year, three months is probably just enough time—ministers, after all, are doers by nature. It is a bit too hard to rest and renew and stay still for too terribly long!

And what I know now is that God has been at work all through this—although I had thought about sabbatical just as Lisa left and another as Frank retired, that God had created and sustained my sabbatical time for such a time as this. The past two years of my life have been an absolute whirlwind. When God called Lisa to a new place two years ago now, we all lost a minister and friend. I lost that, along with another female colleague in ministry, along with a family who invited this single girl into their own, a confidante. I also knew then what most of you didn’t know, that Frank would be announcing his much-deserved retirement only a few months later. That was a heavy burden to have, not at all his fault, but the reality of the situation. My beloved Aunt Linda was dying after years of chronic pain and debilitation. I was also in the midst of co-directing a conference for 1000 incredible college students. Hard and lovely work. And my aunt lost her battle just a few days before the conference started. It was hard leaving my family to go to Montreat the morning after the funeral, but lovely to be in a place I relish with people I love.

And, as most of you know, as soon as I got back from co-directing the conference, Frank retired 3 weeks later. It was incredible to be the interim head of staff in this place—all of you were so incredible and gracious; I learned so much about myself, and, with your help, I discovered so many new gifts I had for ministry. At the same time, I happened to meet a guy, a sweet, gentle, and kind man for whom I fell deeply and quickly, someone I thought I could spend my life with. It was a lovely time—me discovering new gifts here and really living into my ministry; the guy and I getting to know each other and reveling in being together. At age 40, I felt better than I ever had, on top of the world, more confident and strong and happy than I had ever been.

What I didn’t know then that I know now after sabbatical reflection is that it would be more difficult than I thought to step back into the associate pastor role once our transitional pastor got here. It had to happen that way, but I had no way to anticipate what a whirlwind of change that would be. Once God’s Spirit works through you to help you discover new gifts and new energy, it is hard to go back, hard to revert, hard to not preach and plan worship every week, hard not to do pastoral care with folks of all ages, just hard. What I also didn’t know then that I know now about my new romantic relationship was that his prior divorce was more hurtful and harmful to my boyfriend than either of us could imagine, and we spent the next year dealing with the implications of it, taking breaks, getting back together, trying to figure life out separately and together. I put every single bit of my heart and soul into the relationship, hoping for it, praying to God that it would finally happen, yearning—and it was deeply painful when it couldn’t work. I was hurt in ways I never could have imagined going into the relationship, something that was so hopeful and exciting in the beginning, something that ended up hurting me worse than I had ever been hurt before.

I spent last year in a whirlwind over so many things—missing Frank and Lisa terribly, feeling like I let our students down because I was weary but not really knowing what to do about it, physically hurting and in the worst pain of my life from a shoulder injury, trying to deal with change each day here, and confused, brokenhearted, and lost about my personal relationship. I walked away from him on my 41^st birthday, May 1^st. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. I guess it’s just harder, different, in your 40s, to lose the love you truly believed you had finally found. Everything was so hard, and my heart and soul felt so heavy, so burdened. Finally, as most of you know, I woke up in an ambulance on my last day of work before sabbatical on May 14^th. The seizure was caused by stress, by a lack of sleep, but not eating well, by weariness and sheer exhaustion. I’ve never been so scared by anything in my life. I think my body and my brain just finally colluded and said, “Enough, Rachel. Enough.”

“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” Come to me, Jesus says, when you are exhausted and weary, come to me when you are carrying burdens weighing heavily on your heart. Come to me. In Leviticus, we are invited by God to rest a while from our work, to live off of what has been sown, to just be; in Matthew, we are invited by God’s Son to come and rest in him, to let him carry our burdens for a while, to just be. And that’s what sabbatical season was for me—what it should be for all of us—a time just to be. A time to accept God’s invitation of renewal and rest. My sabbatical season, my Sabbath mood of renewal and rest, could not have come at a better time.

And I did the best I could! As soon as the cat and brain scans and the MRI came back clear after the seizure, I headed across the pond with my best friend. London was amazing in so many ways—we stood in the crowds at the changing of the guard; we looked for Mr. Darcy in Jane Austen land; we marveled in incredible architecture and rode to the top of the London Eye; rode a double decker bus and played in a red phone booth; geeked out as we stood at Poet’s Corner in Westminster Abbey (the perfect place for the English major and seminary graduate in me to come together); we rested in the Queen’s beautiful gardens as schoolchildren played; we saw “Antony and Cleopatra” at Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre. From London, I went to New York with my nephew, where it was such a joy to watch a 17-year-old kid experience a huge city for the first time, watching such diverse and interesting people, marveling at how fast everything moved, being overwhelmed by the 9/11 Memorial, the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island; laughing and singing at the musical “Jersey Boys,” both of us moved by the beauty of the famous Gothic Riverside Church. We had such a great time. I was able to spend time at the Chautauqua Institute in a very different part of New York, a gorgeous, little quirky part of the earth where I listened to folks talk about the expansion of the American West—the people there, the influence of Mormonism and Scientology, how the West grew because of religious folks. All of these trips were renewal for me as I saw new places and met wonderful people, ate delicious food and saw different parts of the earth.

And then there was rest. You can’t get much more restful than spending two weeks at the beach, walking through the sand in the morning and watching dolphins roll through the water; sitting on the porch at night, reading, drinking wine, and waiting for the sun to set. My week at Montreat was cool and lovely as always, worshiping with 1200 teenagers and adults, sleeping and reading a lot.

During all of these weeks away, I tried to observe that Sabbath mood for myself, sleeping late when I could and taking naps when I felt like it, observing a much different daily schedule from my working one, reading a lot (some books about Jesus and faith, some the exact opposite), spending time with my friends and family, taking time to stop in new places as I traveled, knowing that I didn’t have to be anywhere at any specific time or hour. Heck, one of my Sunday mornings was even literally spent traipsing through a field of gorgeous sunflowers. Can’t get much more of a Sabbath mood than that!

But in the midst of all of that, I also spent a lot of time thinking, discerning, watching, wondering, reflecting about my life over these past many months. I spent a lot of time wondering what is going to come next in the next season my life, much of which I can control, much of which I cannot.

I’m not telling you my story today hoping for your pity or asking for your help, because I’m working that out. And I promise I won’t share like this very often because I think that can be dangerous for pastors. I’m sharing because this is the only way I know how to respond honestly to all of you. You all have been the face of Christ for me in granting me this sabbatical time, sending me off and guiding me through it with prayer, with words of love, with hugs and kind words, with lots of work you did in my absence. It struck me each time I saw one of you throughout the summer, forgetting that I hadn’t seen you since the seizure, reminded of that as you asked me how I felt, if I knew why the seizure happened, telling me that you prayed so much for me. What a kind gift.

You all have so kindly asked me, “Are you rested and renewed? Are you ready to go?” The most honest way I know how to answer your questions is, “In some ways yes, in others no.” It was such a joy to travel to new places and revel in friends and family, lovely to eat what I wanted and drink what I wanted and take time just to be without any kind of schedule or calendar in front of me. It was refreshing not to have my Presbyterian planning calendar in front of me, getting away from a schedule filled with committee meetings and Bible studies to plan, lunches to attend and people to meet. It was incredible to observe the Sabbath mood of rest in so many ways. I rested as I tried to wrap my head around the seizure, truly coming to understand the power that stress can have on a body and a mind. It truly is amazing to discover how much a season of rest can lower your stress level! And, in the end, I was ready to come back, ready to fill my planning calendar with those meetings and planning times, ready to plant and sow again, so ready to see all of you.

But I also come back knowing there are still a lot of questions, still a lot to deal with. Things will continue to change here in the upcoming months as God calls a new pastor to be with us—this means more change, change in things that happen every day, change that comes with having to discover someone new, the way they do things, their hopes and expectations for me and our staff and our congregation. It will be lovely, but also hard, a whirlwind n many ways. And I come back knowing that I am still grieving over folks who have left my life in different ways, grieving deeply over a lost relationship. As so many of us know, grief is a strange animal, popping up at different times in different ways, some of which we never expect. I wish that my grief had been dissolved over that sabbatical time, but I know that it is still there—and I know that I will just have to deal with it when it comes, however it comes.

But I know, more than ever before, that all of these things are best dealt with in community, the community of a congregation, the community of people who were created by God and belong together in Christ. I am profoundly thankful that you are my community, that we all belong to one another in Christ. I was reminded Thursday how powerful our community is as I left spent time talking with several members at the church, with Catherine at the hospital as she sat with her mom, with several students in my office that afternoon. My throat was hoarse from talking and laughing, and it was lovely. It was community. And because you are my community, I pray for all of you as I always have, pray that you will be able to establish a sabbatical mood of your own, a sabbatical space in all of your lives, a space for rest a renewal, a space in which you can ask big questions and deal with the things for which you grieve, a space for play and discernment and honesty. I hope we can all find this place, a space where we can find rest for our souls, a space where we can rest in the God who created us all. Thanks be to God.

The Nicodemus In All of Us

John 3:1-21

Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. ²He came to Jesus^* by night and said to him, ‘Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.’ ³Jesus answered him, ‘Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.’^{* 4}Nicodemus said to him, ‘How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?’ ⁵Jesus answered, ‘Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. ⁶What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit.^{* 7}Do not be astonished that I said to you, “You^* must be born from above.”^{* 8}The wind^* blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.’ ⁹Nicodemus said to him, ‘How can these things be?’ ¹⁰Jesus answered him, ‘Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things? 11 ‘Very truly, I tell you, we speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you^* do not receive our testimony. ¹²If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? ¹³No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man.^{* 14}And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, ¹⁵that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. 16 ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.17 ‘Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him. ¹⁸Those who believe in him are not condemned; but those who do not believe are condemned already, because they have not believed in the name of the only Son of God. ¹⁹And this is the judgement, that the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil. ²⁰For all who do evil hate the light and do not come to the light, so that their deeds may not be exposed. ²¹But those who do what is true come to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that their deeds have been done in God.’

The Nicodemus In All of Us

It all happened in the shadows, in the darkest time of the night. There was a man named Nicodemus, a Pharisee, a Jewish leader who made sure everyone strictly followed the rules of the Jewish law, made sure everyone followed them to a t. He was a member of the Sanhedrin, the highest council of the Jewish leaders, the Supreme Council who made sure people followed the laws, the council with the power to make arrests and persecute people. Nicodemus was the one who was supposed to find the people who were a threat to the establishment, find them and make sure they were taken down so that they couldn’t be a threat, couldn’t cause a stir, couldn’t cause anyone to think outside the law. And, as we all know so well, Jesus was a threat to that establishment with his new law, new orders to the kingdom.

Nicodemus, as one of the highest priests in the land, wasn’t supposed to be associating with Jesus or his lot. He was the one, after all, with the right answers to all the religious questions. But he was curious. He, like everyone else, had heard the stories about this man named Jesus, heard about the healings and the lessons, heard about his followers and friends. Despite his best efforts not to be, Nicodemus became curious about this Jesus. And so he came to him at night, in the deepest darkest part of it so that no one would see him, came to ask and listen, came to learn. It was certainly a dangerous venture, one that could’ve cost Nicodemus his livelihood, perhaps even his life. But he still came, came in the darkness curious about the light, came ultimately to be transformed into a new life in Christ.

The first exchange was fascinating, with Nicodemus challenging Jesus with questions, and Jesus answering them in his own way designed to make Nicodemus think, to challenge him. Nicodemus said it pretty bluntly, calling correctly calling Jesus “teacher” from the very beginning: “Rabbi, we know you are a teacher from God; no one can do these signs apart from the presence of God.” Instead of saying, “You’re right, Nicodemus,” Jesus instead reminded him that no one could see the kingdom of God without being born from above, born from heaven, born from God. Nicodemus kept his questions going, still standing in the darkness the whole time, not knowing how to come to the light, not knowing how to turn his life upside down to follow Christ.

And Christ answered him, “Very truly I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and the Spirit.” Christ’s response was beautiful as he spoke about God in the world, God who wants to give us life and celebrate with us, God who wants us to come into the light of life instead of living in the darkness, God who is a God of salvation instead of condemnation. Christ’s response was also challenging as he told Nicodemus that being reborn meant being baptized not just by the water that welcomes into the kingdom, but also by the spirit, the spirit who enables and inspires and works through us as we are called to do some pretty hard work in the world. Christ’s message to Nicodemus meant that Nicodemus would not just have to believe, but also go and work in the world—to give up his prestige and wealth and power, to give up his family and his presumptions, to give up all of the material goods he had fought so hard to gain. It meant that he would have to give them away to the poor, the needy, the helpless—and yes, even to the sinful ones upon whose backs he had gained his power and prestige. Christ’s message meant that he would have to turn his world upside down, to come out of the shadows into the light.

Sadly, the text doesn’t give us Nicodemus’ response, but I can imagine the text would tell us if Nicodemus decided to change right then, to leave his life and follow Christ right then, to come out of the darkness. But he didn’t—at least not then, anyway. Perhaps he simply didn’t understand what Christ was telling him. Perhaps he thought he had too much to lose and nothing to gain. Perhaps he didn’t want to give up his job that provided so much wealth and prestige and power. Perhaps he didn’t want to leave his family as Christ demanded of his disciples. Perhaps he wasn’t ready to give up the things that made him comfortable. Perhaps he found it easier to live in the black and white world of condemnation than the very grey world of listening to people’s stories, histories, and experiences. Perhaps the life and the way of Christ challenged him way too much. And Nicodemus slipped quietly back into the shadows of the night, the shadows that hid him away from the world, away from the light of Christ.

Have you ever stopped to think that there just might be a little bit of Nicodemus in every single one of us? Nicodemus was curious about Jesus, wanted to know who he was, curious about all that he had done. He wanted to be a follower, to believe in this man who had come to bring light in the darkness, and we are very much the same way. But Nicodemus came in the night to ask the questions. He had too much to lose, to much power to give up, to much prestige to mess with if he were to truly come out of the dark and follow. And aren’t we the same way?

We have heard the stories, read the gospel, celebrated the resurrection of Christ and the love of God. But don’t we ultimately have too much to give up to truly be followers? We are all Americans, and just by that very blessing, we have much to lose if we truly follow simply because we have so much more than most everyone else in the world. We have power. We have prestige. We have wealth. And what would it truly look like to take Jesus’ message to heart—to give one coat away when we have 2, to leave our families and friends behind to follow, to visit the hungry and naked and sick in prison, to give what we have to make sure each person’s most basic needs for health care and shelter and food are met? What would it look like for us to truly welcome each child as Jesus did, children of different skin colors and religious preferences and nationalities? What would it look like to truly not stand in judgment for once, to realize that each person indeed is a sinner like we are, but most importantly, to look in their eyes to see and treat and love them as a child of God? What would it look like to give up our power and standing in the community to become truly humble, to become one of the least and the last? What would it look like to put down our weapons just as Jesus commanded in the garden—our weapons of words and insults and presumptions, our weapons of fists and guns and bombs—to put them down and truly turn the other cheek? What would it look like for us to model Christ as people who don’t condemn so easily without a second thought?

Simply put, our lives would be turned upside down. We, like Nicodemus, would have to come out of the shadows of the darkness to live new lives as people of the light, as people of Christ. We would have to give up everything we have—everything that we think truly matters, to really gain the truth, to gain everything, to gain the love offered to us by God through Christ. Let’s all admit it. We do have a little bit of Nicodemus in all of us.

Nicodemus went back to his home that night, his home that was probably big and warm and way more than sufficient, because he wasn’t ready to truly come out of the darkness to Christ. But luckily, for his sake and for ours, he wasn’t done with Christ. He may not have been completely ready to come out of the darkness of his world, but he didn’t shut himself off to the possibility. I can imagine that he went on a journey of his own where he prayed a lot, tossed and turned when he should’ve been sleeping, struggled with anxiety, unable to shut his brain down thinking of his encounter with the Lord, yearning for the hope, for the new life, that would come with proclaiming Christ.

You see, there is a bit of Nicodemus in all of us. Nicodemus spent some time in the wilderness, and so are we. Just as he spent some time on a journey of reflection and prayer and wondering, we are doing the same right now during these 40 days of Lent—during this journeying time, we are called to realize the darkness of our world, to spend our time praying and fasting, to spend some nights losing sleep thinking about the heaviness of our lives and the heaviness of the cross, to spend a little time in anxiety as we examine ourselves and our lives, to spend some time thinking about how we are truly baptized by the water that cleanses our brokenness and the Spirit that enables and inspires us to work in the world. We are called to spend some time yearning for the hope that will come in a few weeks when we celebrate and come out of the darkness of the tomb into the light of resurrection and recreation. During our Lenten journey, we are called to ultimately think about the fact that God gives a Son for us because of such great, unfathomable, unexplainable, unconditional love.

There is a bit of Nicodemus’ story in all of us, but luckily—for him and for all of us—thanks be to God, the story of Nicodemus does not end on that night when he first encounters Christ in the shadows of darkness. Listen to more of John’s gospel, from the day of crucifixion:

³⁸After these things, Joseph of Arimathea, who was a disciple of Jesus, though a secret one because of his fear of the Jews, asked Pilate to let him take away the body of Jesus. Pilate gave him permission; so he came and removed his body. ³⁹Nicodemus, who had at first come to Jesus by night, also came, bringing a mixture of myrrh and aloes, weighing about a hundred pounds. ⁴⁰They took the body of Jesus and wrapped it with the spices in linen cloths, according to the burial custom of the Jews. ⁴¹Now there was a garden in the place where he was crucified, and in the garden there was a new tomb in which no one had ever been laid. ⁴²And so, because it was the Jewish day of Preparation, and the tomb was nearby, they laid Jesus there.

Nicodemus, who at first had come by night, was there in the day. He was there in the day not just watching everything that had happened, but there in the day, preparing Christ’s body, anointing it and wrapping it up, making it ready for burial. Nicodemus was there in the middle of the day, toiling for everyone to see, risking his life and his livelihood, giving up his life in order to celebrate all the love that Christ had shown to him. He had truly come out of the shadows, come out of the darkness, ready to give up his own life—EVERYTHING—to tell proclaim the love, the life of Christ. Nicodemus went on a journey of his own. Are we ready to do the same?

Angry?

²¹“You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, ‘You shall not murder’; and ‘whoever murders shall be liable to judgment.’ ²²But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment; and if you insult a brother or sister, you will be liable to the council; and if you say, ‘You fool,’ you will be liable to the hell of fire. ²³So when you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother or sister has something against you, ²⁴leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother or sister, and then come and offer your gift. ²⁵Come to terms quickly with your accuser while you are on the way to court with him, or your accuser may hand you over to the judge, and the judge to the guard, and you will be thrown into prison. ²⁶Truly I tell you, you will never get out until you have paid the last penny. ²⁷“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’ ²⁸But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart. ²⁹If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away; it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to be thrown into hell. ³⁰And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away; it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to go into hell. ³¹“It was also said, ‘Whoever divorces his wife, let him give her a certificate of divorce.’ ³²But I say to you that anyone who divorces his wife, except on the ground of unchastity, causes her to commit adultery; and whoever marries a divorced woman commits adultery.³³“Again, you have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, ‘You shall not swear falsely, but carry out the vows you have made to the Lord.’ ³⁴But I say to you, Do not swear at all, either by heaven, for it is the throne of God, ³⁵or by the earth, for it is his footstool, or by Jerusalem, for it is the city of the great King. ³⁶And do not swear by your head, for you cannot make one hair white or black. ³⁷Let your word be ‘Yes, Yes’ or ‘No, No’; anything more than this comes from the evil one.

Matthew 5:21-37

“Angry?”

It seems odd to me, that after our lectionary passage from last week, ours this week is about grievance and anger, about sin, about the ways we hurt each other, about the brokenness of humanity in the world. If you weren’t with us in worship last week, or even if you were and need a little reminder, we heard these lovely words of challenge, words of hope, words from Jesus in his sermon on the mount: “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to God in heaven.”

I’m not sure about you, but these words from Christ sound so much more like they’re meant for the end of a sermon, like they’re meant as a charge for the benediction. They’re beautiful and challenging words, hopeful words that prompt us to act in the world—the “go from this place and love and serve in the world” words. But Jesus, wise as he is, doesn’t end his great sermon there—instead he talks about the humanity of the world, the brokenness and sin of the world—anger, divorce, adultery, vengeance. Kind of makes your head spin to go from being the salt of the earth and keeping our lamps out for everyone to see to hearing about the ways we hurt each other and keep each other from being whole. But Jesus knows so much about us, before we can ever know it for ourselves. He challenges us to be salt and light in the world, but he knows the reality—that he is sending us into a world where people are hurtful to each other, where relationships are imperfect, where brokenness is evident everywhere we turn. And even as he charges us, he knows that we ourselves are participants in that world.

Jesus helps us with reality here. There is a lot to deal with in our lectionary passage from Matthew today, almost too much to think about and process at once. For a couple of reasons, I really want to focus on the first part of the passage today—1. While I think adultery and divorce are very serious and real problems in our world today, very much part of our brokenness, very much the result of our anger, I think we could take time on each of these topics in its own sermon. 2. I think we need to think about the brokenness that comes with anger—about its pervasiveness in our world today, about how much worse anger seems to have gotten in our world, about how angry we get and our seeming inability to be able to deal with it.

What is the deal with our anger? Why is it that we are so angry these days? We live in a world where two men, both wanting to take some Sabbath time to watch a movie, get angry at each other because one is texting during the previews. The other man gets angry at him for texting, begins to yell at him, and the one who has been texting throws popcorn at him. While it’s not the most mature response, the other man takes out a gun and shoots him. Kills him. Takes him away from his wife and family, from the world. All of this over a stupid text message. We live in a world where people anonymously attack others on social media or in the comments section of articles online, using their words as weapons and never giving a second thought to it. Don’t know if you’ve ever stopped to read the sections comments of an article, but don’t do it. Just don’t. We live in a world where our very own elected representatives insult each other, some even cussing each other out instead of reaching across the aisle to compromise, either forgetting or worse, not caring that our children are watching them and learning from their modeling. We live in a world where fans of football teams belittle 18-year-old kids when they choose to go and play for their hated rival. We live in a world where young adults, instead of seeking help for their depression and anger, take out assault weapons and mow down classrooms of innocent 5 and 6 year olds, as well as the teachers protecting them. We live in a world where anger is pervasive and compassion and empathy have been lost. We live in a world where so many folks cannot find productive, helpful ways to turn their anger into compassion for others, into reconciliation, into solutions that are peaceful. We live in a world where we have either forgotten how to see others as children of God—just as we are—and love them as such.

Why are we so angry? I googled that very question this week, and there were thousands of responses, which itself says a great deal. Most had deep psychological reasons and responses, but an article from Psychology Today sums it up pretty simply and pretty well: “We are a nation where many of our citizens are overworked, exhausted, financially strapped, alienated, and disconnected. We clock in day in and day out, and very often are left feeling unappreciated and uninspired. Of course we would be upset, agitated, and angry.” Makes sense to me—overworked and underpaid, worried about how to pay our bills, disconnected from each other even when we think there is so much that connects us. It’s so amazing how disconnected we are, especially in our technological world, especially when we think we are more connected than ever. There is so, so much that disconnects us that we have lost the inability to talk with each other and find constructive ways to get rid of our anger. The article goes on to ask: “Does this justify hatred, threats, and malice? Of course not.”

We do live in a world filled with anger, fueled by anger, and Jesus helps us to find constructive ways to deal with it:

You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, “You shall not murder” and “whoever murders shall be liable to judgment. But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment; and if you insult a brother or sister, you will be liable to the council; and if you say, “You fool,” you will be liable to the hell of fire. So when you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother or sister, and then come and offer your gift.”

Jesus has called us, as his followers, to be the light of the world, but he knows that we aren’t perfect. Jesus knows we are sinful people, that we often tear down instead of build up, that we do so much through our anger to harm our relationships. He knows, although we are created for mutual support, we are so prone to the break our relationships with each other and the world. He knows we are people in constant need of reconciliation.

I think it’s vital to point something out here: Jesus doesn’t tell us not to be angry; he knows we get angry, and he knows anger is a valid and important human emotion. Anger is part of the reality of our sinfulness, and because of that, Jesus doesn’t tell us not to be angry. Instead, he gives us constructive, healthy ways to deal with our anger. When we are angry, Jesus tells us to seek reconciliation with that person, to seek forgiveness and love. And then he calls us to come and give at the altar, and to leave our anger there with everything else that we have to offer. Jesus calls us to give everything back to God, to offer our highs and our lows, our gifts and our grievances, our celebrations and concerns—to ask for forgiveness at the altar, and to be forgiven.

Because we have been called as followers and charged to carry our light into the world, Jesus calls us constantly to be in reconciliation with each other. In our loss of empathy and compassion, in our world that seems to be so fueled with anger, Jesus tell us we must be reconciled, to be reconciled before we are ever able to bring our offerings. But how do we do that—how do we seek to be reconciled? For we who call ourselves Christians, we are called to recognize and celebrate that anger and forgiveness go hand in hand. One of my favorite books is called Practicing our Faith, a book of essays about the Christian practices of hospitality, keeping Sabbath, saying yes and no, testimony, discernment—and forgiveness—among them. In his essay on forgiveness, Gregory Jones recognizes that anger is part of life, but tells us that anger and forgiveness must go hand in hand. While anger is a natural emotion, if we don’t deal with it in positive ways, it will keep us down and stew in our soles. In the face of anger, forgiveness is what brings us back to wholeness.

He tells how to practice the art of forgiveness: 1. We become willing to speak truthfully and patiently about the conflicts that have arisen, even if there isn’t agreement about what happened; 2. We acknowledge both the existence of anger and bitterness and a desire to overcome them; 3. We summon up a concern for the well-being of the other as a child of God; 4. We recognize our own complicity in conflict, remember that we have been forgiven in the past, and take steps of repentance; 5. We make a commitment to struggle to change whatever caused and continues to perpetuate our conflicts; 6. We confess our yearning for the possibility of reconciliation.

Sounds pretty easy, right? This is hard stuff, especially when we are stubborn and hurt and embarrassed and sad. But we have to do this, even if it takes repeating the steps over and over again just to get them right. When there is anger, we must bring it to the altar of forgiveness. We must forgive, forgive ourselves to get rid of what weighs us down, forgive to bring about reconciliation with others and wholeness in our own lives, and forgive—most importantly—because we have so often been forgiven by our Lord. Jesus reminds us we truly can’t offer ourselves to our loving God, the God who created us, without first offering, practicing, and asking for reconciliation. Then, and only then, can we come to the altar and truly offer ourselves.

You know, when I first read this passage, I got a little sad it was our lectionary text for this beautiful baptism day. Seriously—who wants to hear a sermon about the reality of anger in our world at the same time we celebrate this beloved child of God? But the more I thought about it, the more lovely and challenging it became for me. In the sacrament today, we have celebrated together as we have thanked God for the waters that wash us clean and welcome us into community. We have given praise for this beautiful child whom God has called beloved. And, yes, we have promised—every single one of us—to help raise him in the faith, to tell him stories about Christ, to pick him up when he falls, to surround him with the love of God. We have made a covenant with God, but can we truly keep our end of the covenant as long as we are angry? As long as we hold grudges? As long as we refuse to ask for forgiveness or offer it ourselves? Can we keep this covenant if we are angry and not shining our lights of Christ for everyone to see? God has made promises to us and is constantly faithful to the covenant—can we say the same? The waters have washed Robert clean, and have done the same for every single one of us. God has made promises, has claimed Robert as beloved and done the same for every single one of us. Perhaps it’s time for us to keep up our end of the deal and live as children of light, as the salt of the earth, as people of reconciliation. Thanks be to God.