Genesis 45:1-28
Then Joseph could no longer control himself before all those who stood by him, and he cried out, “Send everyone away from me.” So no one stayed with him when Joseph made himself known to his brothers. And he wept so loudly that the Egyptians heard it, and the household of Pharaoh heard it. Joseph said to his brothers, “I am Joseph. Is my father still alive?” But his brothers could not answer him, so dismayed were they at his presence. Then Joseph said to his brothers, “Come closer to me.” And they came closer. He said, “I am your brother, Joseph, whom you sold into Egypt. And now do not be distressed, or angry with yourselves, because you sold me here; for God sent me before you to preserve life. For the famine has been in the land these two years; and there are five more years in which there will be neither plowing nor harvest. God sent me before you to preserve for you a remnant on earth, and to keep alive for you many survivors. So it was not you who sent me here, but God; he has made me a father to Pharaoh, and lord of all his house and ruler over all the land of Egypt. Hurry and go up to my father and say to him, ‘Thus says your son Joseph, God has made me lord of all Egypt; come down to me, do not delay. You shall settle in the land of Goshen, and you shall be near me, you and your children and your children’s children, as well as your flocks, your herds, and all that you have. I will provide for you there—since there are five more years of famine to come—so that you and your household, and all that you have, will not come to poverty.’ And now your eyes and the eyes of my brother Benjamin see that it is my own mouth that speaks to you. You must tell my father how greatly I am honored in Egypt, and all that you have seen. Hurry and bring my father down here.” Then he fell upon his brother Benjamin’s neck and wept, while Benjamin wept upon his neck. And he kissed all his brothers and wept upon them; and after that his brothers talked with him.
When I was four or five years old, we lived in a house that had a basement. The basement stairs descended into the middle of the space, and there was an open passageway between one side of the room and the other. We stored boxes, my dad’s tools and scraps of wood, and toys in the basement, so my older sister and I would play down there, especially in the summer time or on Saturdays when we had lots of time to do whatever we wanted. Lots of funny family stories were born down there, like the time my sister and I played hide and seek, just the 2 of us, and she told me where to hide. She found me every time! One time she told me to hide in an old laundry hamper that was oval-shaped and had a lid. Once we shoved me down inside it, I couldn’t get out. That was no fun. Another time we decided to play with a pile of 2 x 4s that were just waiting for mischief in the basement. She thought it would be fun to build a little “jail” underneath the stairway by standing the 2 x 4s up like prison bars and inviting me to be the first prisoner. Remember that I was only 4 or 5 years old, and my playmate was my older sibling, and I never suspected that she would do anything that would hurt me. And she wouldn’t have, and wouldn’t to this day, nor I to her. But it’s often the first story that comes to my mind when I think of the story of Joseph and his brothers.
It’s the archetype story of sibling rivalry. There were 12 of them, so to be sure there were moments when one or 2 or 6 of them would gang up on the others. Fights must have broken out constantly when they were young. And they had a variety of mothers—undoubtedly a reason the rivalry was even stronger than anything we could imagine in our own experiences. The two youngest, Joseph and Benjamin, were the sons of Rachel, the true love of their father Jacob. You may remember the torment Jacob went through with Laban, Rachel and Leah’s father, when Jacob first came to ask for Rachel’s hand. When she is finally able to conceive and have a child, she names him Joseph, and he instantly becomes his father’s favorite, followed closely behind by his younger brother to come, Benjamin. Remember the amazing technicolor dream coat? It was a gift for Joseph from his father, and the other brothers hated it and they hated him for it. So, they tried to get rid of him by tossing him aside into a hole and letting him be sold into slavery in Egypt. And the people who took him away happened to be the relatives of their long lost uncle, Ishmael—their grandfather Isaac’s brother whom grandmother Sarah had sent away with his mother when Sarah became worried that her son Isaac was growing too close to his brother, Ishmael. Jealousy won out in the end of that part of the story: Ishmael and his mother were sent away to have their own life story away from Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, and eventually Jacob and his family, including Joseph. And considering in the anthropology of the Bible they and we are all descendents of Cain and Abel, sibling rivalry has been a part of our story since the beginning. Jealousy over abilities and affections has always plagued us, even us—the children of the God of generous benevolence, who shows no partiality and loved us enough to send God’s own Son to live, die, and be resurrected for our sake; to save us from living with the consequences of practicing jealousy and revenge on each other.
Look at the world we share: countries invading one another for power and political and monetary gain, nations overlooking one another’s pain and suffering in order stabilize their own power and political and monetary gain. Look at crime in our city, in our neighborhood: for every reason from boredom to resentment, homes are being burglarized and families are living in fear everywhere we look. Look at the people of faith across the world: the family of humanity which God created for relationship with God and with one another has split and faction-ed off and now threatens one another over property, authority, and Biblical interpretation. Look at our personal relationships with friends, family, co-workers: the people who surround us and with whom we live life, and the people who seem to hurt us the most when jealousy and rivalry get wrapped up in how we treat each other. It is as if we have forgotten that we were created by a loving God to love and care for each other, to offer each other forgiveness and mercy.
It is no longer our natural way to forgive others who do wrong to us. Even when we pronounce forgiveness with our words, our actions and our hearts often continue to hold onto the feelings of resentment that go along with injustice and malice. We feel vindicated when we can continue to show our enemy as the one in the wrong, when we can humiliate and shame them for the wrong that has been done to us. Somehow, that makes our hurt feel validated, and we trick ourselves into believing that there is good reason for us to hold onto our feelings of anger and bitterness. But Joseph’s story teaches us that God’s intention for us, even in the midst of our own destructive and hurtful behavior toward one another, is for us to live in peace, to forgive one another, and to offer one another grace in the way God offers it to us when we turn away from God’s love. Joseph is a model for forgiving AND forgetting. Not only does he forgive his brothers, he rescues his family from starvation by offering them food and shelter when they are in most need. It is the reunion which eventually means more to him than his own vindication.
How can we learn to practice this kind of forgiveness and reconciliation? Where are there relationships or experiences in your life which have hurt you but to which you continue to hold, unable to forgive and forget? Can we be moved by the passion and beauty of this story to understand that compassion is far more important and fruitful than resentment?
I had the privilege of studying with Archbishop Desmond Tutu while I was a student at Candler. Week after week I got to spend walking through the life experience of a man whose ministry has been bringing the people of God together after generations of unjust separation. Month after month he listened to the confessions of people who committed tragic crimes against his people in South Africa, and then he offered them not revenge but reconciliation and their victims reparation and rehabilitation. When Archbishop Tutu and the Black South Africans had every emotional right to exact revenge on the perpetrators of Apartheid, instead they offered reconciliation. It wasn’t free; but it was merciful.
The world’s eyes are on Beijing, China, as we watch who is winning gold medals in the 29th Olympic Games. Most of the world did not know that Georgia and Russia would be in the midst of war today when the 2 countries entered the walk of nations on August 8th. And now the world is asked to take sides as these two former soviet nations now battle for power. And in the backdrop for this conflict are the wars we have waged in Afghanistan and Iraq, tensions between Israel and Palestine, the atrocities of Darfur in Sudan, and the crisis in Zimbabwe. Where are we today? How have we forgotten that we are brothers and sisters, no matter how far apart we are in distance, policy, and world outlook? What stands between us and reconciliation?
One of the great lessons we can learn from God’s servant Joseph and the restoration of his family is what to do when we have wronged each other. Their story is not one of prevention but one of reconciliation after a terrible crime of jealousy has been committed against a member of the family. Long after it seems that the family will be brought back together, Joseph’s brothers appear at his door asking for relief from starvation and sustenance for the family. They don’t even know who he is when they arrive. This is not their first encounter with Joseph in Egypt, but it is the moment when his identity is revealed to them. No one is prepared for the reunion; feelings are raw and something like an apology for throwing Joseph into a whole all those years ago just doesn’t seem to do. But without seeking revenge on his brothers, Joseph offers them mercy and forgives them for how they hurt him all those years ago. He’s living a different life now, and so are they, and now they need him to survive. Even though they turned their backs on him and left him for dead, he will not do the same to them.
Do you have relationships in your life that need this kind of healing? Are you struggling with a brother or sister, with a spouse or partner, with a child or parent, with a friend? Watch the actions of Joseph—the great emotions through which he works so that he can get to the place where he can offer forgiveness to his brothers and really mean it. Listen to the words he speaks to them and take note of the way they are treated in their greatest hour of need by one from whom they attempted to take life itself.
He forgives them. Without apology, he forgives them and sees that what has taken place was what needed to happen so that now when his family finds itself in need, he can provide. His father’s favorite son will now be the one to save the whole family. The years of fighting, of hurting each other, of saying and doing things that cannot be taken back, of leaving each other for dead—both physically and emotionally—are all put behind them as Joseph demonstrates to his brothers the love of God that truly does surpass all of our human understanding and reaches beyond the limits of revenge and retribution or payback. The love of God for us—for you and me and for the people who have hurt us, like the love of Joseph for his brothers—is limitless.
Can we practice that kind of love, that kind of forgiveness? Can we set as a goal the kind of reconciliation modeled for us in this story of faith? Can we accept apologies when they are offered and move forward with forgiveness? Can we find ways to set our relationships right when they become estranged?
Joseph said to his brothers, “And now do not be distressed, or angry with yourselves, because you sold me here; for God sent me before you to preserve life.” Brothers and sisters, let us be sent by God to preserve life, love, relationship, and forgiveness. Let us practice extraordinary, generous, and unexplainable grace with one another.
May it be. Amen.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Pentecost +13
I guess I could come up with snazzier titles for my sermons. Its just that sermon titles tend to be...
a. misleading sometimes, and
2. (for all you "Mad About You" fans) a little cheezy!
So, here you go: for the 13th Sunday after Pentecost...
Romans 10:5-15
Moses writes concerning the righteousness that comes from the law, that “the person who does these things will live by them.” But the righteousness that comes from faith says, “Do not say in your heart, ‘Who will ascend into heaven?’” (that is, to bring Christ down) “or ‘Who will descend into the abyss?’” (that is, to bring Christ up from the dead). But what does it say? “The word is near you, on your lips and in your heart” (that is, the word of faith that we proclaim); because if you confess with your lips that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For one believes with the heart and so is justified, and one confesses with the mouth and so is saved. The scripture says, “No one who believes in him will be put to shame.”
For there is no distinction between Jew and Greek; the same Lord is Lord of all and is generous to all who call on him. For, “Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.” But how are they to call on one in whom they have not believed? And how are they to believe in one of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone to proclaim him? And how are they to proclaim him unless they are sent? As it is written, “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!”
I believe the church has become ashamed of the message we have to proclaim. Would you agree?
Think for just a minute about the first time you ever came to a Christian church, or the first time anyone ever told you the story of Jesus—of his life, death, and resurrection. Or remember the first time someone invited you to go to church and you went and had a good experience. Or, if you spent some time away from the church and then decided to come back and give it another try, what did that first time back feel like?
You see, I believe that we are gathered here today to proclaim in some way, whether it be in great praise and thanksgiving, great fear and trembling, or great doubt and trepidation, to acknowledge that Jesus is, indeed, the Son of the living God, and that the Holy Spirit has compelled us to come here to pray, hear the Word of God, and give God thanks and praise for life. But what happens when we leave here?
When Paul writes to the Romans, he writes to a group of people whom he does not already know. He did not establish a church in Rome. In fact, he never made it there. All the recipients of his letter may have known about Paul was the reputation that preceded him: a zealous Jew turned zealous Christian. As strongly as he persecuted followers of Jesus he now persuaded Gentiles to become followers of Jesus. People probably knew that he preached with great commitment and fervor for Christ—the same Christ whom he publically called a contradiction to the faith of his birth and the Law of his God and his people. Once, he believed only one people could have access to or relationship with God. Now he preached that anyone and everyone could have both, and not even through the practice of the Law exclusively but now through the practice of the heart: the belief that God had reached out to us in sending Christ into the world and acted in ultimate selflessness and love for us by raising Christ from the dead. Belief in that and the statement of that belief was Paul’s new message. And he was no longer presiding over the persecution of people in order to get them to surrender to his long-held beliefs. He, instead, had surrendered himself to his own long-held practices in favor of the new thing God was doing in his life through his encounter with the risen Christ.
Now its true that many of us do not have such a dramatic experience of faith as Paul had. Not many of us encounter Jesus in a great flash of light across the sky while journeying in the desert. Some of us do have deeply personal encounters with Jesus in many life situations, but not many of us respond the way that Paul did to his converting encounter with Christ. And we are not all called to proclamation the way Paul was. In this economy, it would be difficult to give up the livelihood many of us are lucky to have and go to places we had never been and where we had little or no acquaintance to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ.
And yet, the relationship with God, that assurance of God’s presence with us and love for us, that hope that God will provide safety and harbor for us against all things that seem negative and threatening—that is as real for you and me as it ever has been for anyone, especially today when there are so many reasons why we could all be somewhere else today, right now, and we have all chosen to be here. That presence, that knowing of God in our hearts, that belief that Jesus really is who he says he is—it has us here now, week after week, to pray, to connect with God. And Paul’s message for us today, God’s Word to hear this morning is hooray for us for making room in our lives for this when so many others don’t…now: what comes next? How do we go out and share this with the world who needs to know that there is belonging in the love of God, that God loved us enough to send Christ into the world for life, death, and then resurrection so that we could see, experience, and believe the love of God which passes all understanding?
Paul knew that in Rome there were folks who needed to hear the gospel. There were people there who had heard about Jesus but did not truly know him. And to truly know him is to truly know that he is the Son of God who came to us, loved us, healed us, taught us, initiated us into God’s ultimate reign which—although supported by the Law God had given was not subject to it—and returned to prepare heaven and earth for God’s presence with and for us. People in Rome, people in Corinth needed to hear that. He found a way to use who he was, the gifts for commitment and strength and perseverance he had been given to share that message. People in Atlanta, in your workplace, in your family, among your friends need to hear and know that message. And so today, allow yourself to be confronted with the call that is issued to us in this passage: “how are they to call on one in whom they have not believed? And how are they to believe in one of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone to proclaim him? And how are they to proclaim him unless they are sent?” It is hard for us to know how we as individual Christians are sent to proclaim the message that Jesus is Lord. Perhaps it is because we are not sure what that means for us individually. Perhaps it is troublesome language in our time and context. Perhaps we fall into the belief that only those called to preach are given the necessary tools or gifts to proclaim Jesus to others.
But Paul calls us all to proclamation. What are the ways that we, as individual Christians, whether or not we are called to preach, proclaim the Word of God that Christ has come for us all? The final verse of this passage says that the feet of the messenger of the Word are beautiful—that the calling to proclaim the Word of God in Christ is a task of great beauty, great importance, and great responsibility. How shall we accept this task and accomplish it?
"Preach the gospel. And if necessary, use words." The words of St. Francis of Assisi have been quoted and used for hundreds of years to help people understand the work of proclaiming the gospel. I myself have seen and experienced far more sermons that I remember than those I have heard. ‘Why is she saying that about her own profession?’ you may be wondering. But how many preachers do you know who stand in pulpits every Sunday morning with stoles around their necks? And how many do you know who work in banks, in advertising, in public schools, as lifeguards or museum curators, as social workers and professional musicians? When do you have the opportunity to preach? To proclaim the gospel you have come to know to be true and in which you have the utmost faith? When do you have the chance to let your life show that you believe in Jesus as the loving Son of God who loves the whole world more than we could ever imagine possible and who longs for all of us to connect or reconnect with God and God’s love? When does your life and witness make someone else want to hear more or want to believe? Do your Monday through Saturday decisions, actions, and words demonstrate your Sunday faith?
It is a tall order: the commandment to share the gospel message we have come to know with the world around us. And it is especially hard now when the church has so much for which to be ashamed. As Paul says to the Romans, “The word is near you, on your lips and in your heart.” And not only is it in you, but the task of sharing it is work that is, in the words of the prophet Isaiah, beautiful upon the mountains. This is not a calling of which we should be afraid or ashamed but to which we should be drawn. Are we? Are you?
What would it take in your life for the gospel, the story of Jesus and God’s love for the world lived out in him to be the most beautiful, important, and satisfying work you could ever practice? What would you need to put aside?
Friends, the calling is now. The church needs you more than it needs me out there proclaiming the love of God. The church is not just law, but it is love and grace, and our “Rome” out there needs to hear and see in us the proclamation of that love and grace. In kind words when you feel like using selfish ones, in thinking about and working for the good of the whole sometimes in spite of or in place of your own good, in reaching out to people you don’t want to be around, in making relationship with people who think and feel differently than you about just about everything, in making space for people who don’t seem to belong anywhere else, and in all things letting God be shown through your life—when we do this “they” will hear, believe, and come to proclaim in their own worlds.
And we will be that much closer to helping God’s reign over all things really come true: justice rolling down like waters, righteousness like and ever-flowing stream, and all the things we see going wrong today finally becoming right. We can help. We can do it. As far as it depends on us, the church doesn’t have to be ashamed anymore.
Now that is something to which I can say, “May it be!” “Amen!”
a. misleading sometimes, and
2. (for all you "Mad About You" fans) a little cheezy!
So, here you go: for the 13th Sunday after Pentecost...
Romans 10:5-15
Moses writes concerning the righteousness that comes from the law, that “the person who does these things will live by them.” But the righteousness that comes from faith says, “Do not say in your heart, ‘Who will ascend into heaven?’” (that is, to bring Christ down) “or ‘Who will descend into the abyss?’” (that is, to bring Christ up from the dead). But what does it say? “The word is near you, on your lips and in your heart” (that is, the word of faith that we proclaim); because if you confess with your lips that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For one believes with the heart and so is justified, and one confesses with the mouth and so is saved. The scripture says, “No one who believes in him will be put to shame.”
For there is no distinction between Jew and Greek; the same Lord is Lord of all and is generous to all who call on him. For, “Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.” But how are they to call on one in whom they have not believed? And how are they to believe in one of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone to proclaim him? And how are they to proclaim him unless they are sent? As it is written, “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!”
I believe the church has become ashamed of the message we have to proclaim. Would you agree?
Think for just a minute about the first time you ever came to a Christian church, or the first time anyone ever told you the story of Jesus—of his life, death, and resurrection. Or remember the first time someone invited you to go to church and you went and had a good experience. Or, if you spent some time away from the church and then decided to come back and give it another try, what did that first time back feel like?
You see, I believe that we are gathered here today to proclaim in some way, whether it be in great praise and thanksgiving, great fear and trembling, or great doubt and trepidation, to acknowledge that Jesus is, indeed, the Son of the living God, and that the Holy Spirit has compelled us to come here to pray, hear the Word of God, and give God thanks and praise for life. But what happens when we leave here?
When Paul writes to the Romans, he writes to a group of people whom he does not already know. He did not establish a church in Rome. In fact, he never made it there. All the recipients of his letter may have known about Paul was the reputation that preceded him: a zealous Jew turned zealous Christian. As strongly as he persecuted followers of Jesus he now persuaded Gentiles to become followers of Jesus. People probably knew that he preached with great commitment and fervor for Christ—the same Christ whom he publically called a contradiction to the faith of his birth and the Law of his God and his people. Once, he believed only one people could have access to or relationship with God. Now he preached that anyone and everyone could have both, and not even through the practice of the Law exclusively but now through the practice of the heart: the belief that God had reached out to us in sending Christ into the world and acted in ultimate selflessness and love for us by raising Christ from the dead. Belief in that and the statement of that belief was Paul’s new message. And he was no longer presiding over the persecution of people in order to get them to surrender to his long-held beliefs. He, instead, had surrendered himself to his own long-held practices in favor of the new thing God was doing in his life through his encounter with the risen Christ.
Now its true that many of us do not have such a dramatic experience of faith as Paul had. Not many of us encounter Jesus in a great flash of light across the sky while journeying in the desert. Some of us do have deeply personal encounters with Jesus in many life situations, but not many of us respond the way that Paul did to his converting encounter with Christ. And we are not all called to proclamation the way Paul was. In this economy, it would be difficult to give up the livelihood many of us are lucky to have and go to places we had never been and where we had little or no acquaintance to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ.
And yet, the relationship with God, that assurance of God’s presence with us and love for us, that hope that God will provide safety and harbor for us against all things that seem negative and threatening—that is as real for you and me as it ever has been for anyone, especially today when there are so many reasons why we could all be somewhere else today, right now, and we have all chosen to be here. That presence, that knowing of God in our hearts, that belief that Jesus really is who he says he is—it has us here now, week after week, to pray, to connect with God. And Paul’s message for us today, God’s Word to hear this morning is hooray for us for making room in our lives for this when so many others don’t…now: what comes next? How do we go out and share this with the world who needs to know that there is belonging in the love of God, that God loved us enough to send Christ into the world for life, death, and then resurrection so that we could see, experience, and believe the love of God which passes all understanding?
Paul knew that in Rome there were folks who needed to hear the gospel. There were people there who had heard about Jesus but did not truly know him. And to truly know him is to truly know that he is the Son of God who came to us, loved us, healed us, taught us, initiated us into God’s ultimate reign which—although supported by the Law God had given was not subject to it—and returned to prepare heaven and earth for God’s presence with and for us. People in Rome, people in Corinth needed to hear that. He found a way to use who he was, the gifts for commitment and strength and perseverance he had been given to share that message. People in Atlanta, in your workplace, in your family, among your friends need to hear and know that message. And so today, allow yourself to be confronted with the call that is issued to us in this passage: “how are they to call on one in whom they have not believed? And how are they to believe in one of whom they have never heard? And how are they to hear without someone to proclaim him? And how are they to proclaim him unless they are sent?” It is hard for us to know how we as individual Christians are sent to proclaim the message that Jesus is Lord. Perhaps it is because we are not sure what that means for us individually. Perhaps it is troublesome language in our time and context. Perhaps we fall into the belief that only those called to preach are given the necessary tools or gifts to proclaim Jesus to others.
But Paul calls us all to proclamation. What are the ways that we, as individual Christians, whether or not we are called to preach, proclaim the Word of God that Christ has come for us all? The final verse of this passage says that the feet of the messenger of the Word are beautiful—that the calling to proclaim the Word of God in Christ is a task of great beauty, great importance, and great responsibility. How shall we accept this task and accomplish it?
"Preach the gospel. And if necessary, use words." The words of St. Francis of Assisi have been quoted and used for hundreds of years to help people understand the work of proclaiming the gospel. I myself have seen and experienced far more sermons that I remember than those I have heard. ‘Why is she saying that about her own profession?’ you may be wondering. But how many preachers do you know who stand in pulpits every Sunday morning with stoles around their necks? And how many do you know who work in banks, in advertising, in public schools, as lifeguards or museum curators, as social workers and professional musicians? When do you have the opportunity to preach? To proclaim the gospel you have come to know to be true and in which you have the utmost faith? When do you have the chance to let your life show that you believe in Jesus as the loving Son of God who loves the whole world more than we could ever imagine possible and who longs for all of us to connect or reconnect with God and God’s love? When does your life and witness make someone else want to hear more or want to believe? Do your Monday through Saturday decisions, actions, and words demonstrate your Sunday faith?
It is a tall order: the commandment to share the gospel message we have come to know with the world around us. And it is especially hard now when the church has so much for which to be ashamed. As Paul says to the Romans, “The word is near you, on your lips and in your heart.” And not only is it in you, but the task of sharing it is work that is, in the words of the prophet Isaiah, beautiful upon the mountains. This is not a calling of which we should be afraid or ashamed but to which we should be drawn. Are we? Are you?
What would it take in your life for the gospel, the story of Jesus and God’s love for the world lived out in him to be the most beautiful, important, and satisfying work you could ever practice? What would you need to put aside?
Friends, the calling is now. The church needs you more than it needs me out there proclaiming the love of God. The church is not just law, but it is love and grace, and our “Rome” out there needs to hear and see in us the proclamation of that love and grace. In kind words when you feel like using selfish ones, in thinking about and working for the good of the whole sometimes in spite of or in place of your own good, in reaching out to people you don’t want to be around, in making relationship with people who think and feel differently than you about just about everything, in making space for people who don’t seem to belong anywhere else, and in all things letting God be shown through your life—when we do this “they” will hear, believe, and come to proclaim in their own worlds.
And we will be that much closer to helping God’s reign over all things really come true: justice rolling down like waters, righteousness like and ever-flowing stream, and all the things we see going wrong today finally becoming right. We can help. We can do it. As far as it depends on us, the church doesn’t have to be ashamed anymore.
Now that is something to which I can say, “May it be!” “Amen!”
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Pentecost + 12
Matthew 14:13-21
Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick. When it was evening, the disciples came to him and said, “This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves.” Jesus said to them, “They need not go away; you give them something to eat.” They replied, “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” And he said, “Bring them here to me.” Then he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. And all ate and were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children.
Table stories are among the most entertaining and meaningful stories we tell. Think about the times you have been at your family’s table—your family of origin, your immediate family, your urban family—and remember the things you have shared and learned, talked over and talked out. There is something magical about food and proximity that brings us into communion with one another around a meal table that not many other things do.
When I was in high school, the monthly Family Night Suppers our church in Madison, Georgia, hosted were just wonderful. The kitchen counter was filled with all kinds of homemade dishes: meats, vegetables, breads, salads of all kinds, and my personal favorite: macaroni and cheese. One night, a friend and I surveyed the table before the supper was to begin and were delighted to discover more dishes of homemade macaroni and cheese than we could count. So, we decided this would be a special night; we would pile our plates high (like everyone else would do!) but only with macaroni and cheese. There would be no vegetables, no meat, not even any bread to fill our tummies that night. Just the most delicious combination of cheese, pasta, and cream that God ever made come to life on this earth. And the best part was that those suppers brought the community together for nourishment. Each member of the community brought something to share. Each person ate from the fruits of the labor and generosity of someone else. And there was always enough to go around a few times with plenty leftover for shut ins and the hungry. I thought of those suppers as monthly miracles of sharing, and boy did they keep me nourished and satisfied. I won’t even mention the desert table which required an entire wall of the fellowship hall all for itself.
We gather around other tables at other times in the life of the community of faith. We gather around conference tables to settle the business of keeping an organization up and running. We sit around classroom tables to discuss faith and ask questions. We read the Bible together and learn from each other’s experience and perspective. We gather regularly around this table here to receive grace for the journey in bread and juice. These occasions bring us together in laughter, in tears, in joy, in sorrow, in anger sometimes, and forgiveness in others.
Once, when I was a young teenager in Commerce, Georgia, I was kneeling at the rail in the front of the church to receive Holy Communion with other youth. In our midst was a younger kid—probably about 3rd grade or so. This was a small town, First Church, so we were all dressed in our “Sunday best”, dresses, heels, slacks, and jackets. The little boy at the rail with us had on a little elementary-sized suit, complete with a jacket and tie. We were the most dignified looking group of teenagers you could imagine. In this congregation we used individual serving cups instead of a chalice to serve the grape juice, and when the tray came around, you chose your own, drank it in a sip or two, and left it on the rail when you returned to your seat. When the dressed up 3rd grader got his cup out of the tray, he didn’t immediately turn his head back and drink it. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a plastic drinking straw, stuck it in the cup, slurped out the sips of juice, shook it a couple of times to rid it of excess juice that didn’t make it to his mouth, and put it right back in his pocket. I could hardly keep the giggles from escaping and was SO relieved when it was time to get up and go back to my seat.
Another time, when I was in seminary at Emory, I attended a Friday morning Communion service. It was simple and small, with scripture reading, prayers of the people, some contemplative music, and the celebration of the holy meal. I was living with a lot of stress at the time as students are wont to do. I had a time consuming job, more reading and studying to do than could possibly have been done in the course of 14 weeks, and so many questions in my mind and heart about where exactly God was leading me in ministry beyond that point. As I sat in the chapel that morning and heard the familiar words of the prayer that, by this time, I had learned by heart after weekly celebration of the sacrament, I realized only after it had begun that tears were streaming down my face. It was the familiar grace and belonging that I felt in that moment that seemed to rescue me from the dark place into which I had spiraling when I walked in the door.
When Jesus encountered the crowd that day, he had just received word of the beheading of his beloved partner in ministry John the Baptist. Wanting to be alone for some time to grieve and pray, he left the others and went off by himself. But the crowds followed him, desperate for something they just knew he had that they wanted. What it turned out that they needed after he had healed them was simply to be fed. There were lots of them, and the disciples were understandably nervous about a hungry mob of people surrounding them on the side of the sea. They had not prepared a fellowship supper with every kind of macaroni and cheese you could imagine and a dessert table as long as the eye could see. There weren’t urns of sweet tea and cups filled with ice waiting to be served. There wasn’t even a tray of wafers and tiny cups of juice prepared to be shared among the crowd. All there was to be consumed was some bread and fish, and likely not enough to feed a crowd of thousands of people.
Feelings were undoubtedly stirred up. Would there be enough? Would my family get anything to eat? Would my children have to go hungry? Would fighting break out as a result of a food shortage? With whom would I have to share?
It is this story that introduces us to the 4-fold action of Christ at the Eucharist, the holy meal, which calls each of us to a table of plenty, often out of personal circumstances of scarcity. Among the doubt and fear the disciples must have been feeling, Jesus took what was offered; blessed it; broke it so that it would feed everyone; and shared it with all who were gathered.
The first action is to take. In our passage Jesus took the five loaves and two fish that were offered to him from the disciples—all they had to feed the massive crowd. In our communion liturgy, we acknowledge that on the night in which he gave himself up for us, he took break and the cup as they were prepared for use in the meal he would share with them. There he began to proclaim to them the very words of institution of both the supper they would share and that we share today, as well as the giving of himself for them and for us. God takes the talents we have, the gifts we have been given, the times in which we live, the situations in which we find ourselves either accidentally or on purpose, and finds ways to use them ultimately for the salvation of the world. What do you have to give that God can use? Perhaps you have a gift for music and could help enhance the worship service each week or on occasion. Maybe you have administrative abilities that could help us continue to thrive as an organization of people whose purpose is Christian worship and service. Perhaps you are called to serve in mission projects—locally, internationally, or both—and could help us continue to rediscover our calling and commitment to helping others. No matter what you bring to the table, God will take it and use it for good.
In the story today we see Jesus immediately bless the food he has taken from the disciples. He offers prayer for it—thanking God for it and how it will be used among them. So it is in blessing and thanksgiving that we gather today around the Lord’s table, remembering the miracle of abundance promised to us in Jesus’ feeding of the thousands as told in our gospel for today and in his mysterious presence in this meal we share together. We, too, give thanks at table together: for the opportunity to worship, for brothers and sisters who love us and hold us accountable, for the experience of the Holy Spirit that inspires and drives us forward in reaching out to others, and for the journey of faith, no matter how long or frustrating or full of joy it can be.
We even give thanks for the times in life when we have experienced brokenness. It is Christ’s third action and one that we may often misunderstand. I know that just as mine has your heart has been broken from time to time: by a loved one, by dashed expectations, by your own pride or the damage someone else’s pride has done to you, or even by the people and institution called the church. How often we hurt one another within the Body of Christ! But it is often in this brokenness that we eventually find wholeness and healing, the wholeness and healing we needed all along but could not see until there was an urgent situation before us—a time of great hunger as in the story from Matthew, or a time of great pain and suffering as in the story of our Lord’s trial and crucifixion. But from those experiences or brokenness, ultimate hope and promise springs forth. The hungry are fed, what was dead is raised to new life, and darkness is overcome by light.
But being broken is not the end. Finally, we share. We are shared, and we share. The good news is that we don’t have to live in a state of brokenness. There is healing for us; there is sustenance for our needs at the hand of Christ. When Jesus feed the thousands by the sea, he took a small gift, gave thanks for and blessed it, broke it, and had enough to feed the crowd with twelve baskets full of leftovers. In our prayers at the table, after having taken the bread and cup, blessed and given thanks for them, and breaking the bread, he shares bread and cup with the others, commanding them, and now us, to continue to share bread, drink, and life in his name.
We can learn something about communal living and sharing from this story. When we are willing to put something of ourselves forward for someone else, Christ takes what we give and blesses it, sometimes helping us to see that in our brokenness can be found pieces that fit the needs of others, and then calls us to give what we have found away. Then we are an outward-facing fellowship, sustained on the inside by the gifts of the body. So come to the table, friends, and take part in our communal table story, confessing those things that separate us from God and one another, giving of ourselves what is needed to fully realize the reign of God, receiving the blessing of Christ and giving thanks, recognizing our brokenness, and sharing the love of God with those who are hungry for it.
Amen.
Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns. When he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick. When it was evening, the disciples came to him and said, “This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves.” Jesus said to them, “They need not go away; you give them something to eat.” They replied, “We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” And he said, “Bring them here to me.” Then he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. And all ate and were filled; and they took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full. And those who ate were about five thousand men, besides women and children.
Table stories are among the most entertaining and meaningful stories we tell. Think about the times you have been at your family’s table—your family of origin, your immediate family, your urban family—and remember the things you have shared and learned, talked over and talked out. There is something magical about food and proximity that brings us into communion with one another around a meal table that not many other things do.
When I was in high school, the monthly Family Night Suppers our church in Madison, Georgia, hosted were just wonderful. The kitchen counter was filled with all kinds of homemade dishes: meats, vegetables, breads, salads of all kinds, and my personal favorite: macaroni and cheese. One night, a friend and I surveyed the table before the supper was to begin and were delighted to discover more dishes of homemade macaroni and cheese than we could count. So, we decided this would be a special night; we would pile our plates high (like everyone else would do!) but only with macaroni and cheese. There would be no vegetables, no meat, not even any bread to fill our tummies that night. Just the most delicious combination of cheese, pasta, and cream that God ever made come to life on this earth. And the best part was that those suppers brought the community together for nourishment. Each member of the community brought something to share. Each person ate from the fruits of the labor and generosity of someone else. And there was always enough to go around a few times with plenty leftover for shut ins and the hungry. I thought of those suppers as monthly miracles of sharing, and boy did they keep me nourished and satisfied. I won’t even mention the desert table which required an entire wall of the fellowship hall all for itself.
We gather around other tables at other times in the life of the community of faith. We gather around conference tables to settle the business of keeping an organization up and running. We sit around classroom tables to discuss faith and ask questions. We read the Bible together and learn from each other’s experience and perspective. We gather regularly around this table here to receive grace for the journey in bread and juice. These occasions bring us together in laughter, in tears, in joy, in sorrow, in anger sometimes, and forgiveness in others.
Once, when I was a young teenager in Commerce, Georgia, I was kneeling at the rail in the front of the church to receive Holy Communion with other youth. In our midst was a younger kid—probably about 3rd grade or so. This was a small town, First Church, so we were all dressed in our “Sunday best”, dresses, heels, slacks, and jackets. The little boy at the rail with us had on a little elementary-sized suit, complete with a jacket and tie. We were the most dignified looking group of teenagers you could imagine. In this congregation we used individual serving cups instead of a chalice to serve the grape juice, and when the tray came around, you chose your own, drank it in a sip or two, and left it on the rail when you returned to your seat. When the dressed up 3rd grader got his cup out of the tray, he didn’t immediately turn his head back and drink it. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a plastic drinking straw, stuck it in the cup, slurped out the sips of juice, shook it a couple of times to rid it of excess juice that didn’t make it to his mouth, and put it right back in his pocket. I could hardly keep the giggles from escaping and was SO relieved when it was time to get up and go back to my seat.
Another time, when I was in seminary at Emory, I attended a Friday morning Communion service. It was simple and small, with scripture reading, prayers of the people, some contemplative music, and the celebration of the holy meal. I was living with a lot of stress at the time as students are wont to do. I had a time consuming job, more reading and studying to do than could possibly have been done in the course of 14 weeks, and so many questions in my mind and heart about where exactly God was leading me in ministry beyond that point. As I sat in the chapel that morning and heard the familiar words of the prayer that, by this time, I had learned by heart after weekly celebration of the sacrament, I realized only after it had begun that tears were streaming down my face. It was the familiar grace and belonging that I felt in that moment that seemed to rescue me from the dark place into which I had spiraling when I walked in the door.
When Jesus encountered the crowd that day, he had just received word of the beheading of his beloved partner in ministry John the Baptist. Wanting to be alone for some time to grieve and pray, he left the others and went off by himself. But the crowds followed him, desperate for something they just knew he had that they wanted. What it turned out that they needed after he had healed them was simply to be fed. There were lots of them, and the disciples were understandably nervous about a hungry mob of people surrounding them on the side of the sea. They had not prepared a fellowship supper with every kind of macaroni and cheese you could imagine and a dessert table as long as the eye could see. There weren’t urns of sweet tea and cups filled with ice waiting to be served. There wasn’t even a tray of wafers and tiny cups of juice prepared to be shared among the crowd. All there was to be consumed was some bread and fish, and likely not enough to feed a crowd of thousands of people.
Feelings were undoubtedly stirred up. Would there be enough? Would my family get anything to eat? Would my children have to go hungry? Would fighting break out as a result of a food shortage? With whom would I have to share?
It is this story that introduces us to the 4-fold action of Christ at the Eucharist, the holy meal, which calls each of us to a table of plenty, often out of personal circumstances of scarcity. Among the doubt and fear the disciples must have been feeling, Jesus took what was offered; blessed it; broke it so that it would feed everyone; and shared it with all who were gathered.
The first action is to take. In our passage Jesus took the five loaves and two fish that were offered to him from the disciples—all they had to feed the massive crowd. In our communion liturgy, we acknowledge that on the night in which he gave himself up for us, he took break and the cup as they were prepared for use in the meal he would share with them. There he began to proclaim to them the very words of institution of both the supper they would share and that we share today, as well as the giving of himself for them and for us. God takes the talents we have, the gifts we have been given, the times in which we live, the situations in which we find ourselves either accidentally or on purpose, and finds ways to use them ultimately for the salvation of the world. What do you have to give that God can use? Perhaps you have a gift for music and could help enhance the worship service each week or on occasion. Maybe you have administrative abilities that could help us continue to thrive as an organization of people whose purpose is Christian worship and service. Perhaps you are called to serve in mission projects—locally, internationally, or both—and could help us continue to rediscover our calling and commitment to helping others. No matter what you bring to the table, God will take it and use it for good.
In the story today we see Jesus immediately bless the food he has taken from the disciples. He offers prayer for it—thanking God for it and how it will be used among them. So it is in blessing and thanksgiving that we gather today around the Lord’s table, remembering the miracle of abundance promised to us in Jesus’ feeding of the thousands as told in our gospel for today and in his mysterious presence in this meal we share together. We, too, give thanks at table together: for the opportunity to worship, for brothers and sisters who love us and hold us accountable, for the experience of the Holy Spirit that inspires and drives us forward in reaching out to others, and for the journey of faith, no matter how long or frustrating or full of joy it can be.
We even give thanks for the times in life when we have experienced brokenness. It is Christ’s third action and one that we may often misunderstand. I know that just as mine has your heart has been broken from time to time: by a loved one, by dashed expectations, by your own pride or the damage someone else’s pride has done to you, or even by the people and institution called the church. How often we hurt one another within the Body of Christ! But it is often in this brokenness that we eventually find wholeness and healing, the wholeness and healing we needed all along but could not see until there was an urgent situation before us—a time of great hunger as in the story from Matthew, or a time of great pain and suffering as in the story of our Lord’s trial and crucifixion. But from those experiences or brokenness, ultimate hope and promise springs forth. The hungry are fed, what was dead is raised to new life, and darkness is overcome by light.
But being broken is not the end. Finally, we share. We are shared, and we share. The good news is that we don’t have to live in a state of brokenness. There is healing for us; there is sustenance for our needs at the hand of Christ. When Jesus feed the thousands by the sea, he took a small gift, gave thanks for and blessed it, broke it, and had enough to feed the crowd with twelve baskets full of leftovers. In our prayers at the table, after having taken the bread and cup, blessed and given thanks for them, and breaking the bread, he shares bread and cup with the others, commanding them, and now us, to continue to share bread, drink, and life in his name.
We can learn something about communal living and sharing from this story. When we are willing to put something of ourselves forward for someone else, Christ takes what we give and blesses it, sometimes helping us to see that in our brokenness can be found pieces that fit the needs of others, and then calls us to give what we have found away. Then we are an outward-facing fellowship, sustained on the inside by the gifts of the body. So come to the table, friends, and take part in our communal table story, confessing those things that separate us from God and one another, giving of ourselves what is needed to fully realize the reign of God, receiving the blessing of Christ and giving thanks, recognizing our brokenness, and sharing the love of God with those who are hungry for it.
Amen.
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