Now this is the commandment—the statutes and the ordinances—that the Lord your God charged me to teach you to observe in the land that you are about to cross into and occupy, so that you and your children and your children’s children may fear the Lord your God all the days of your life, and keep all his decrees and his commandments that I am commanding you, so that your days may be long. Hear therefore, O Israel, and observe them diligently, so that it may go well with you, and so that you may multiply greatly in a land flowing with milk and honey, as the Lord, the God of your ancestors, has promised you.
Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord alone. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might. Keep these words that I am commanding you today in your heart. Recite them to your children and talk about them when you are at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise. Bind them as a sign on your hand, fix them as an emblem on your forehead, and write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates. Deuteronomy 6:1-9 (NRSV)
Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted. And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” Matthew 28:16-20 (NRSV)
Grace and peace to you from the Holy Trinity: Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer. Amen.
It’s good to go on vacation, but it's always really good to get home, isn’t it? At least that’s how I felt last week. If you didn’t know, I was in Italy for two weeks with friends and family. The first week we spent in a little hilltop village in central Italy. The second week was with a friend in Rome.
I love history and, as usual, I was blown away by some of the history I learned. This little hilltop town is one of the seven hill towns in central Italy that were settled by the Etruscans in the 6th, 7th, and 8th centuries before Christ. It’s believed that Orvieto - this little village where we spent a week - was founded by this group of people and developed into the central meeting place for leaders of all of the seven hill towns. It’s also believed that it was these Etruscans who eventually founded Rome. And it was, as they say, those “Roman barbarians” who eventually conquered and eliminated the Etruscans and their rich culture.
Fascinating. It’s in learning history, I think, that we learn more about ourselves and where our own stories fit into that long, flowing river of history.
I had another experience that also connected me to another story - the story of the church and of the people of the early church. I was able to tour the Catacombs of San Sebastian. If you know your Roman history, you may know that, as people died, they were buried in tombs along the roads leading out of the city. Eventually, they ran out of space, so they began to bury their dead in unused rock quarries on the outskirts of the city. Over time, as the early church grew, Christians, too, needed a place to bury their dead because, according to their beliefs, cremation was not allowed. So, they, too, began to bury their dead in the caves and passageways carved out below ground.
After fire broke out in Rome in 64 AD, rumors began that the Roman emperor Nero had set the fire deliberately to clear land for a palace for himself. Nero shifted blame to the Christians, who were already widely disliked because they didn’t participate in the religious festivals of the empire that were considered essential to civic life. The church and its leaders began to be persecuted. So, the church went underground. In the catacombs I visited, archaeologists have discovered an early chapel underground. It is believed that it was in that very place where the bodies of Peter and Paul, martyred, were originally enshrined.
So, why is any of this important for us here today? For me, and I hope for you, too, it is a reminder for us that we - as followers of Christ - come from a long history of believers. Of people who were so dedicated to worshiping God and living as disciples that they even did it underground. In the midst of persecution. Because they believed that what they believed was true. That their faith was based on genuine truth.
Over these past few weeks, we’ve been immersed in the Creed. In the three Articles of the Creed, thinking about the three persons of the Godhead. The Three in One. What we hear in the shema from the Deuteronomy text that God, our God, is One. Yet, three. As I said in Week 1 of our series, each time we speak the Creed, we step into that long, steady river. A great two thousand year story of believers, missionaries, and martyrs. People who under interrogation, refused to bow down to the gods of the empire. Who stood their ground and declared, “I believe in God the Father almighty…” And who were executed for saying so.
When we do the same - when we say “I believe in God” - we become part of something bigger than ourselves. Something that is in us individually, but that is also outside of ourselves and bigger than any one of us. Because, if we think salvation is about “me and Jesus” - about “me and my eternal reward” - we miss the point. If we come to the Lord’s table and we raise our voices in song, thinking this is a nice religious activity, we miss the point. As James Howell writes, it is “[o]ut of our isolation” that “we are called together to share the one thing that matters, the broken body and the shed blood of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. We find our place in Christ’s family. We sing, each voice distinct, but yet immersed in the great chorus of the angels and saints, no soloists allowed, an ever-burgeoning cascade of differing voices coalescing into a sunning, beautiful harmony of praise.”
All this when we say the words, “I believe.”
But, it’s easy to get distracted, isn’t it? We see it in the opening lines of our Matthew text. The eleven disciples, after the resurrection, went to the mountain in Galilee where Jesus directed them to go. Notice in verse 17 that, when they saw Jesus, they worshiped him. But, then, the text goes on to read, “...but some doubted.” Doubt is mixed with worship - similar to the “fear and joy” that the women experienced at the empty tomb. There’s some ambivalence. Some doubt. Some hesitation. In fact, the Greek word translated as “doubted” is distazo. It’s the same word that is used to express Peter’s reaction as he began to walk on water. He looked at Jesus and then felt the wind and he became distazo. He became conflicted, which is better translation for this word than doubt. Conflicted.
In Matthew, the disciples’ faith is not a certainty beyond being conflicted. It is a faith that lives between trust and despair. Between certainty and faith. Notice that, in the text, Jesus doesn’t overcome their conflictedness. Instead, he allows them to remain in it. And turns to them with his word.
Isn’t that how Jesus responds to us? As we go about our daily lives, we, too, become conflicted. Distracted from God, from who God calls us to be, we lose sight of God and of our promise to believe in this God. But, then, we gather here. And, in Jesus’ words and in his body and blood we are once again reminded of our Easter faith. Of Jesus, who joined us in our suffering, took it on himself, and who, in his resurrection, God exalted and installed as the Lord of our universe. A universe turned upside down by the resurrection. And, once more, we are centered. Remembering whose we are. Where we come from. And we continue on the journey that countless others have been led on. Centuries of believers. Unknown disciples. Followers of this God in whom we say we believe.
Something else on vacation that I easily fell into the pattern of was that of an afternoon siesta. In Orvieto, in particular, the shopkeepers close their shops around 2 p.m. Everyone goes to cool homes during the heat of the day to eat and to rest. During this period, after a short nap, I would often read one of my favorite murder mysteries. Just for fun. Over the two week period, I read five crime mysteries!
What’s interesting about these stories is the way that the events unfold. Often, it seems like the various details make little sense. Someone has mud on their boots. A wine glass is broken on the floor. A towel is missing from the bathroom. These random, often trivial, facts seem inconsequential to the story. But, then, someone - a detective - steps into the circle of suspects and begins to piece the story together. Explaining what happened. Why the mud is important. Or the broken glass is a critical clue. Or what difference a missing towel makes. It is only at the end that all of the various little details - the seemingly insignificant clues - become important. Only at the end that the whole story makes sense.
I think this is what our Christian life of discipleship is like. We follow, doing our best to not be conflicted. Gathering here weekly with each other, to be fed with the Word, and to be refreshed for the journey - this sprawling, meandering journey of discipleship, the details of which often make little sense in the moment.
Aristotle said that the mark of a good story is that, as you are following it, you have no idea how it will end. But, that, when it does end, you realize that it had to turn out that way. Easter is like the narrator tipping us off on the end of the story. We stand together in this circle and Jesus steps in and explains it all. And it is then, and only then, that everything begins to make sense.
But, it’s different from the end of my murder mysteries. In those, the dead remain dead. The widow goes home alone. The convict ends up in jail. In the Gospel, the dead live. The widowed are reunited. The jails are emptied. And we recognize that it had to turn out that way.
As we read our lives of discipleship backward - if we read the last chapter of our Christian lives first - we discover a journey that has been guided to its end. An end that is destined by the secret hand of the author. By this God in whom we say, “I believe.”
I invite you to believe in this God. To be part of the church, of those who believe in the resurrection. To be part of those who trust, not in themselves, but in God - the Three in One. To believe in the last chapter of our Christian life. And to be with all those before and after us who have trusted and will trust in God’s great, glorious future surprise. Amen.
Preached July 7, 2019, at Grace & Glory Lutheran Church, Goshen, KY.
Pentecost 4
Readings: 1 Timothy 3:14-4:11; Deuteronomy 6:1-9; Matthew 28:16-20.
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Sunday, July 7, 2019
Sunday, May 28, 2017
Not the Same Anymore: The Liminal Places
So when they had come together, they asked him, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” He replied, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority. But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” When he had said this, as they were watching, he was lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight. While he was going and they were gazing up toward heaven, suddenly two men in white robes stood by them. They said, “Men of Galilee, why do you stand looking up toward heaven? This Jesus, who has been taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven.”
Then they returned to Jerusalem from the mount called Olivet, which is near Jerusalem, a sabbath day’s journey away. When they had entered the city, they went to the room upstairs where they were staying, Peter, and John, and James, and Andrew, Philip and Thomas, Bartholomew and Matthew, James son of Alphaeus, and Simon the Zealot, and Judas son of James. All these were constantly devoting themselves to prayer, together with certain women, including Mary the mother of Jesus, as well as his brothers. Acts 1:6-14 (NRSV)
Grace and peace to you from our risen Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, Amen.
Over these weeks of Easter, I’ve spent each Sunday preaching on our readings from the book of Acts--which we often call the second half of Luke’s Gospel. I’ve spent a lot of time talking about the activity of the early church and, particularly, of God’s activity in the early church as narrated in Acts. It is activity that shows us just how intrusive God is. After the incarnated, crucified, and resurrected Jesus ascends to heaven, returning to sit at the right hand of God and to retain the same power and authority as the Father--it is after all of this has happened, that we have seen how, over and over, God continues to intrude into the world and to disrupt it by spreading the Good News.
We have also seen how the people we’ve met in Acts have found themselves challenged by simply trying to keep pace with God. That sometimes--often--it is only in hindsight that the early Christians can even begin to make sense of the work God is doing. That only by looking backwards can they begin to see God at work building God’s kingdom on earth.
We saw, as we walked with the church, in its early days, that everything was held in common. No want, no need, no one considered an “other.” We also saw, as we continued that journey with the early church, that things began to fall apart. That, particularly, things seemed to come crumbling down with the stoning of Stephen, the first Christian martyr. The first of many.
We’ve travelled far with the early church. With our intrusive God. With the disruptive Gospel. But today, we are moving backwards in time. We are stepping back in time to the point before the ascension. Back to the days after Jesus’ resurrection.
As our Acts story begins today, Jesus has been with the disciples for forty days since he rose from the dead. In the verses that precede our text, we read ithat, after his suffering, Jesus presented himself alive to the disciples by many convincing proofs and appeared to them during that 40-day period, speaking to them about the coming kingdom of God and directing them to remain in Jerusalem until they would be showered with the Holy Spirit.
It is here that our story today begins. And it just continues to amuse (and, yes, frustrate) me that, even after all the disciples have witnessed, after all of the things that Jesus has taught them, after everything they have been through, they still just don’t quite get it. After all of it, they still ask, “Is it now, Lord? Now will you restore the kingdom to Israel?” Still looking for that all-powerful Messiah to restore Israel and to restore their earthly power. They just don’t get it.
Jesus’ response is simply that it is not their place to know. That it is God, and not them, who is the one here with power and authority. That it is God who is the one who sets the times or periods of history, not them. Not as much as they would like to.
Then, shortly after saying this, Jesus is gone from them. Ascended up into heaven. Leaving them, seemingly, alone. And on their own.
This past week, I think most of you know that I was attending a conference in San Antonio, Texas. It was a Festival of Homiletics. (Homiletics is just a fancy word for preaching.) The festival consisted of five glorious days of preaching! (I can see how excited that makes all of you!) Five days spent with nearly 2,000 preachers from across the U.S. and Canada, listening to about 3 sermons and 2 lectures each day from some of the biggest and best preachers across the United States. For me, at least, it really was glorious.
Yet, one of the oddest lectures I listened to was that presented by Jennifer Lord, who is a professor of preaching and liturgical studies at the Austin Presbyterian Seminary. The title of her lecture was “Way In and a Way Out: Preaching and Liminality in a Culture of Change.” Sound scintillating? Yeah, I didn’t think so either. But, since I was already in that particular venue and since it was hot outside and the other venue was about 10 blocks away, I decided to stay.
It was a pretty theoretical lecture. It felt a little over my head and, to be honest, I couldn’t really get the relevance of the topic she was presenting to preaching. So, after about 30 minutes of listening to her lecture on liminality and liminal places, I left. And I moved to the other venue to catch the second half of another, more dynamic, speaker.
Since then, though, the concept of liminality has popped up in several places--in readings and in a couple of programs I’ve watched over the past few days. In fact, it has kind of been in my face. Have you ever had something like that happen--when you dismiss a possibility and it just keeps coming back, again and again?
So, I decided to do a little more research on liminality. I found out that the concept of liminality was first developed in the early 20th century. It was first used in anthropology in the area of ritual studies. More recently, usage of the term has been expanded to include political and cultural places.
Liminality, or liminal places, are those places in-between, places of transition. They are places in which those involved are standing at the threshold of something new. That place where there’s no going back, but you can’t go forward, at least not yet. Liminal places are those places where the old places begin to be dissolved and transformed into something new.
Many of us experience such liminal places in our lives. When something dramatic happens to in one’s life to change things, but the transition to a new place takes time. Such as the time in between the loss of a loved one and the new life that eventually comes forth. Or the time in between the diagnosis of a serious illness and the eventual result--either positive or negative--of such a diagnosis.
The disciples were in such a liminal place. Jesus had ascended and left them. But not before he directed them to remain in Jerusalem until his promise of the pouring out of the Holy Spirit upon them would be fulfilled. There was no going back. And, yet, there was no going forward. The women and men who had dedicated months and years of their lives were in transition, waiting for God’s next move. Waiting for God to intrude. And, as they waited together at this point of liminality, they devoted themselves to prayer.
I wonder if we would do the same. How often is it that we like to believe that we understand the grand pattern of history. That we are in control. That we know how God is at work in our world, how God is moving God’s kingdom forward.
When we play this game, it is a dangerous one. It is nothing other than self-serving. There are no end of empires, theologies, churches or governments who claim that history is on their side. It is way too common in our own political discourse here in the United States, as we flip back and forth between the hope in some kind of messianic leader who will save our country or our panic from some kind of perceived armageddon.
Claiming to know the pattern of history, to know how God is moving the world forward throughout history, doesn’t reflect faith in God, but faith in oneself and solely in one’s wholly inadequate knowledge of the pattern of history.
In Jesus’ parting words, there are absolutely no hints about the course of history--whether for the disciples or for us. Yet, the disciples, in their liminal place, in their place of transition, knowing they can never return to where they were, yet, not yet fully knowing the way forward, are driven back to a familiar place, to simply pray, to be together, and to wait. To wait for their intrusive God to break in and to move forward. And, then to hold on as the Spirit would push them forward out of their liminal space into new experiences, into new places, into new lives.
We, too, here at Grace and Glory are in our own liminal place. Trying to figure out where we go next, to understand what God intends for us, or how God intends to take us there. Just what it is God has in store for Grace and Glory Lutheran Church.
So, just like the early disciples, we wait and pray. We pray for the Holy Spirit and we wait for God to push us forward into those new places, into those new experiences, and into the new lives where we will never be the same anymore.
It will happen. Just as it happened for the disciples, it will happen for us. In God’s time. Not ours. And that is simply enough.
May God grant it in God’s time. Amen.
Preached May 28, 2017, at Grace & Glory Lutheran Church, Goshen, KY.
Seventh Sunday of Easter
Readings: Acts 1:6-14; Psalm 68:1-10, 32-35; 1 Peter 4:12-14, 5:6-11; John 17:1-11
Then they returned to Jerusalem from the mount called Olivet, which is near Jerusalem, a sabbath day’s journey away. When they had entered the city, they went to the room upstairs where they were staying, Peter, and John, and James, and Andrew, Philip and Thomas, Bartholomew and Matthew, James son of Alphaeus, and Simon the Zealot, and Judas son of James. All these were constantly devoting themselves to prayer, together with certain women, including Mary the mother of Jesus, as well as his brothers. Acts 1:6-14 (NRSV)
Grace and peace to you from our risen Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, Amen.
Over these weeks of Easter, I’ve spent each Sunday preaching on our readings from the book of Acts--which we often call the second half of Luke’s Gospel. I’ve spent a lot of time talking about the activity of the early church and, particularly, of God’s activity in the early church as narrated in Acts. It is activity that shows us just how intrusive God is. After the incarnated, crucified, and resurrected Jesus ascends to heaven, returning to sit at the right hand of God and to retain the same power and authority as the Father--it is after all of this has happened, that we have seen how, over and over, God continues to intrude into the world and to disrupt it by spreading the Good News.
We have also seen how the people we’ve met in Acts have found themselves challenged by simply trying to keep pace with God. That sometimes--often--it is only in hindsight that the early Christians can even begin to make sense of the work God is doing. That only by looking backwards can they begin to see God at work building God’s kingdom on earth.
We saw, as we walked with the church, in its early days, that everything was held in common. No want, no need, no one considered an “other.” We also saw, as we continued that journey with the early church, that things began to fall apart. That, particularly, things seemed to come crumbling down with the stoning of Stephen, the first Christian martyr. The first of many.
We’ve travelled far with the early church. With our intrusive God. With the disruptive Gospel. But today, we are moving backwards in time. We are stepping back in time to the point before the ascension. Back to the days after Jesus’ resurrection.
As our Acts story begins today, Jesus has been with the disciples for forty days since he rose from the dead. In the verses that precede our text, we read ithat, after his suffering, Jesus presented himself alive to the disciples by many convincing proofs and appeared to them during that 40-day period, speaking to them about the coming kingdom of God and directing them to remain in Jerusalem until they would be showered with the Holy Spirit.
It is here that our story today begins. And it just continues to amuse (and, yes, frustrate) me that, even after all the disciples have witnessed, after all of the things that Jesus has taught them, after everything they have been through, they still just don’t quite get it. After all of it, they still ask, “Is it now, Lord? Now will you restore the kingdom to Israel?” Still looking for that all-powerful Messiah to restore Israel and to restore their earthly power. They just don’t get it.
Jesus’ response is simply that it is not their place to know. That it is God, and not them, who is the one here with power and authority. That it is God who is the one who sets the times or periods of history, not them. Not as much as they would like to.
Then, shortly after saying this, Jesus is gone from them. Ascended up into heaven. Leaving them, seemingly, alone. And on their own.
This past week, I think most of you know that I was attending a conference in San Antonio, Texas. It was a Festival of Homiletics. (Homiletics is just a fancy word for preaching.) The festival consisted of five glorious days of preaching! (I can see how excited that makes all of you!) Five days spent with nearly 2,000 preachers from across the U.S. and Canada, listening to about 3 sermons and 2 lectures each day from some of the biggest and best preachers across the United States. For me, at least, it really was glorious.
Yet, one of the oddest lectures I listened to was that presented by Jennifer Lord, who is a professor of preaching and liturgical studies at the Austin Presbyterian Seminary. The title of her lecture was “Way In and a Way Out: Preaching and Liminality in a Culture of Change.” Sound scintillating? Yeah, I didn’t think so either. But, since I was already in that particular venue and since it was hot outside and the other venue was about 10 blocks away, I decided to stay.
It was a pretty theoretical lecture. It felt a little over my head and, to be honest, I couldn’t really get the relevance of the topic she was presenting to preaching. So, after about 30 minutes of listening to her lecture on liminality and liminal places, I left. And I moved to the other venue to catch the second half of another, more dynamic, speaker.
Since then, though, the concept of liminality has popped up in several places--in readings and in a couple of programs I’ve watched over the past few days. In fact, it has kind of been in my face. Have you ever had something like that happen--when you dismiss a possibility and it just keeps coming back, again and again?
So, I decided to do a little more research on liminality. I found out that the concept of liminality was first developed in the early 20th century. It was first used in anthropology in the area of ritual studies. More recently, usage of the term has been expanded to include political and cultural places.
Liminality, or liminal places, are those places in-between, places of transition. They are places in which those involved are standing at the threshold of something new. That place where there’s no going back, but you can’t go forward, at least not yet. Liminal places are those places where the old places begin to be dissolved and transformed into something new.
Many of us experience such liminal places in our lives. When something dramatic happens to in one’s life to change things, but the transition to a new place takes time. Such as the time in between the loss of a loved one and the new life that eventually comes forth. Or the time in between the diagnosis of a serious illness and the eventual result--either positive or negative--of such a diagnosis.
The disciples were in such a liminal place. Jesus had ascended and left them. But not before he directed them to remain in Jerusalem until his promise of the pouring out of the Holy Spirit upon them would be fulfilled. There was no going back. And, yet, there was no going forward. The women and men who had dedicated months and years of their lives were in transition, waiting for God’s next move. Waiting for God to intrude. And, as they waited together at this point of liminality, they devoted themselves to prayer.
I wonder if we would do the same. How often is it that we like to believe that we understand the grand pattern of history. That we are in control. That we know how God is at work in our world, how God is moving God’s kingdom forward.
When we play this game, it is a dangerous one. It is nothing other than self-serving. There are no end of empires, theologies, churches or governments who claim that history is on their side. It is way too common in our own political discourse here in the United States, as we flip back and forth between the hope in some kind of messianic leader who will save our country or our panic from some kind of perceived armageddon.
Claiming to know the pattern of history, to know how God is moving the world forward throughout history, doesn’t reflect faith in God, but faith in oneself and solely in one’s wholly inadequate knowledge of the pattern of history.
In Jesus’ parting words, there are absolutely no hints about the course of history--whether for the disciples or for us. Yet, the disciples, in their liminal place, in their place of transition, knowing they can never return to where they were, yet, not yet fully knowing the way forward, are driven back to a familiar place, to simply pray, to be together, and to wait. To wait for their intrusive God to break in and to move forward. And, then to hold on as the Spirit would push them forward out of their liminal space into new experiences, into new places, into new lives.
We, too, here at Grace and Glory are in our own liminal place. Trying to figure out where we go next, to understand what God intends for us, or how God intends to take us there. Just what it is God has in store for Grace and Glory Lutheran Church.
So, just like the early disciples, we wait and pray. We pray for the Holy Spirit and we wait for God to push us forward into those new places, into those new experiences, and into the new lives where we will never be the same anymore.
It will happen. Just as it happened for the disciples, it will happen for us. In God’s time. Not ours. And that is simply enough.
May God grant it in God’s time. Amen.
Preached May 28, 2017, at Grace & Glory Lutheran Church, Goshen, KY.
Seventh Sunday of Easter
Readings: Acts 1:6-14; Psalm 68:1-10, 32-35; 1 Peter 4:12-14, 5:6-11; John 17:1-11
Sunday, May 7, 2017
Not the Same Anymore: What Salvation Looks Like
They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers.
Awe came upon everyone, because many wonders and signs were being done by the apostles. All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need. Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the goodwill of all the people. And day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved. Acts 2:42-47 (NRSV)
As I’ve lived in various places around the western U.S., I’ve often discovered that each place has a history, each area has its own unique history. I’ve lived now in Kentucky for three months. What I’ve discovered here is that this place, more than many of the other places I’ve lived, has a much richer and deeper history.
Perhaps some of this is because of its physical location, bounded by the Appalachian Mountains on the east, which provided access for early settlers, who were seeking more land and adventure as they moved west from the original 13 colonies. Perhaps it’s because of the rich native American history, a history that precedes that of the early settlers and that includes tribes so familiar to any student of history--the Cherokee, the Chickasaw, and the Shawnee, to name just a few. Perhaps it’s because of the Ohio River, sometimes considered the western extension of the Mason-Dixon line--the border that separated slave states from free states. This river that was called the River Jordan by those traveling the Underground Railroad from slavery to The Promised Land.
And, then, there is the Kentucky Derby. Over these past couple of weeks, I am learning about the breadth and depth of this great race, this “Run for the Roses.” This “Fastest Two Minutes in Sports.” This first leg of the Triple Crown. This grandparent of horse races that has been run consecutively every year since 1875.
So, in honor of the Derby this week and of the history of this amazing place, I started reading a book titled The Sport of Kings, written by C.E. Morgan, an author who is a graduate of Berea College and a native Kentuckian. It’s one of those huge Southern Gothic novels, like Gone With the Wind.
It weaves together characters from three family lines, three lineages. One that includes the son of one of the oldest and wealthiest families in Kentucky. One that includes the great, great, great grandson of a runaway slave who gained freedom by crossing the Ohio River. And one that includes Hellsmouth, a thoroughbred racing horse that comes from a long line of winning thoroughbreds. And, although, this book on it’s surface is about horse racing, it is about much more than that. It is mostly about race.
Throughout the novel, the author’s premise is that our genes don’t control our destinies, but that what is more decisive is the sheer unstoppable momentum of history. She believes that we can and we must refuse to perpetuate the sins of our parents. But she is also a realist, recognizing how nearly impossible this is, how hard it is to unbind ourselves from our own histories. From histories that keep us apart from each other.
Why is it so hard to separate ourselves from our own histories? Why is it nearly impossible to break down the walls, the barriers, that so often keep people apart? It seems that more and more frequently we are so divided from each other. Whether it is because of race. Or class. Or political persuasion. Or gender. Or sexual identity. Or whatever it is, doesn’t it just feel as though we are so divided? That our own histories are wrapped around us, keeping us bound and isolated. Keeping us apart from each other.
Perhaps that’s why, when we read our Acts text today, it seems so unrealistic. This idea of holding everything in common. It seems so fanciful. I mean, really. Could you see this happening in our world today? Could you?
Clearly in this early community, people were divided by class. Some had money and possessions. Others didn’t. And, yet, our text reads, “All who believed were together and had all things in common: they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need.”
This, my friends, is exactly what happens when God breaks in. When God intrudes and disrupts with the Good News. With the promise that we talked about last Sunday. With the promise of salvation.
Because, this is what salvation looks like. It is a picture of life. Of the abundant life that is promised to us in Christ’s words in our Gospel, “I came that they (that you and I) may have life, and have it abundantly.”
What is in that picture of abundant life?
In our world, abundant life is so often equated with wealth. With wealth and prosperity. With a big home in the suburbs and maybe a timeshare in Florida or a cabin somewhere up north. With a boat. With possessions. With stuff. With access to experience, like tickets to the Kentucky Derby. This is what, to the world, abundance looks like.
The world’s idea of abundance divides. The haves and the have nots. The rich and the poor. Those with housing, those without. Those with food, those who are hungry. Those with health care, those with none.
This is not God’s picture of abundant life, of salvation. For God, abundant life is life that is lived out in the church, where the Word of God is made manifest. It isn’t about gaining prosperity or wealth. It is about people’s needs being met. It is about worship. About fellowship and belonging. About safety and security. About the breaking of bread. And prayers. And signs and miracles.
This is what salvation looks like. Life. Abundance. Unity. Commitment. Commonality. The same as that of the early church. Holding fast. And dedicating ourselves, like the early church, to the teachings of the apostles. To studying God’s Word, in Sunday school, in Bible study, here in worship, at home in our regular devotion.
And to the breaking of bread. That ritual observance of the Lord’s Supper, the communal meal. The Eucharistic feast--an abundant feast portrayed so richly in our psalm today. Did you hear the language? A feast in which the psalmist’s cup overflows. A feast that happens even in the presence of the enemy. A feast for everyone. For every kid who has been picked on. For every person escorted to the door after being laid off. For every person every abandoned by a spouse. Or by a parent. For anyone ever shamed for being poor. For being undocumented. For every outcast from society. It is for you and for all people. A place of honor at God’s feast. No more separation. No more shame.
This is the model of the early church. This is the model for us today. And, interestingly, in the book I’m reading, it is ultimately the only model of how to slip the bonds of history: not by having no family at all, but by deciding that your family includes everyone. That the only lineage, the only family line that matters is the one that is common to us all. The line that has been created by God, broken by sin, yet redeemed by Christ and for which the Spirit seeks to work full restoration.
This is God’s vision of abundant life. It is idealistic. It is fanciful. And, yet, it is for us. And it is for all people. It is God’s vision for what salvation looks like.
I hope and pray that it is our vision, too.
Amen.
Preached May 7, 2017, at Grace & Glory Lutheran Church, Goshen, KY.
Fourth Sunday of Easter
Readings: Acts 2:42-47; Psalm 23; 1 Peter 2:19-25; John 10:1-10
Awe came upon everyone, because many wonders and signs were being done by the apostles. All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need. Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the goodwill of all the people. And day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved. Acts 2:42-47 (NRSV)
As I’ve lived in various places around the western U.S., I’ve often discovered that each place has a history, each area has its own unique history. I’ve lived now in Kentucky for three months. What I’ve discovered here is that this place, more than many of the other places I’ve lived, has a much richer and deeper history.
Perhaps some of this is because of its physical location, bounded by the Appalachian Mountains on the east, which provided access for early settlers, who were seeking more land and adventure as they moved west from the original 13 colonies. Perhaps it’s because of the rich native American history, a history that precedes that of the early settlers and that includes tribes so familiar to any student of history--the Cherokee, the Chickasaw, and the Shawnee, to name just a few. Perhaps it’s because of the Ohio River, sometimes considered the western extension of the Mason-Dixon line--the border that separated slave states from free states. This river that was called the River Jordan by those traveling the Underground Railroad from slavery to The Promised Land.
And, then, there is the Kentucky Derby. Over these past couple of weeks, I am learning about the breadth and depth of this great race, this “Run for the Roses.” This “Fastest Two Minutes in Sports.” This first leg of the Triple Crown. This grandparent of horse races that has been run consecutively every year since 1875.
So, in honor of the Derby this week and of the history of this amazing place, I started reading a book titled The Sport of Kings, written by C.E. Morgan, an author who is a graduate of Berea College and a native Kentuckian. It’s one of those huge Southern Gothic novels, like Gone With the Wind.
It weaves together characters from three family lines, three lineages. One that includes the son of one of the oldest and wealthiest families in Kentucky. One that includes the great, great, great grandson of a runaway slave who gained freedom by crossing the Ohio River. And one that includes Hellsmouth, a thoroughbred racing horse that comes from a long line of winning thoroughbreds. And, although, this book on it’s surface is about horse racing, it is about much more than that. It is mostly about race.
Throughout the novel, the author’s premise is that our genes don’t control our destinies, but that what is more decisive is the sheer unstoppable momentum of history. She believes that we can and we must refuse to perpetuate the sins of our parents. But she is also a realist, recognizing how nearly impossible this is, how hard it is to unbind ourselves from our own histories. From histories that keep us apart from each other.
Why is it so hard to separate ourselves from our own histories? Why is it nearly impossible to break down the walls, the barriers, that so often keep people apart? It seems that more and more frequently we are so divided from each other. Whether it is because of race. Or class. Or political persuasion. Or gender. Or sexual identity. Or whatever it is, doesn’t it just feel as though we are so divided? That our own histories are wrapped around us, keeping us bound and isolated. Keeping us apart from each other.
Perhaps that’s why, when we read our Acts text today, it seems so unrealistic. This idea of holding everything in common. It seems so fanciful. I mean, really. Could you see this happening in our world today? Could you?
Clearly in this early community, people were divided by class. Some had money and possessions. Others didn’t. And, yet, our text reads, “All who believed were together and had all things in common: they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need.”
This, my friends, is exactly what happens when God breaks in. When God intrudes and disrupts with the Good News. With the promise that we talked about last Sunday. With the promise of salvation.
Because, this is what salvation looks like. It is a picture of life. Of the abundant life that is promised to us in Christ’s words in our Gospel, “I came that they (that you and I) may have life, and have it abundantly.”
What is in that picture of abundant life?
In our world, abundant life is so often equated with wealth. With wealth and prosperity. With a big home in the suburbs and maybe a timeshare in Florida or a cabin somewhere up north. With a boat. With possessions. With stuff. With access to experience, like tickets to the Kentucky Derby. This is what, to the world, abundance looks like.
The world’s idea of abundance divides. The haves and the have nots. The rich and the poor. Those with housing, those without. Those with food, those who are hungry. Those with health care, those with none.
This is not God’s picture of abundant life, of salvation. For God, abundant life is life that is lived out in the church, where the Word of God is made manifest. It isn’t about gaining prosperity or wealth. It is about people’s needs being met. It is about worship. About fellowship and belonging. About safety and security. About the breaking of bread. And prayers. And signs and miracles.
This is what salvation looks like. Life. Abundance. Unity. Commitment. Commonality. The same as that of the early church. Holding fast. And dedicating ourselves, like the early church, to the teachings of the apostles. To studying God’s Word, in Sunday school, in Bible study, here in worship, at home in our regular devotion.
And to the breaking of bread. That ritual observance of the Lord’s Supper, the communal meal. The Eucharistic feast--an abundant feast portrayed so richly in our psalm today. Did you hear the language? A feast in which the psalmist’s cup overflows. A feast that happens even in the presence of the enemy. A feast for everyone. For every kid who has been picked on. For every person escorted to the door after being laid off. For every person every abandoned by a spouse. Or by a parent. For anyone ever shamed for being poor. For being undocumented. For every outcast from society. It is for you and for all people. A place of honor at God’s feast. No more separation. No more shame.
This is the model of the early church. This is the model for us today. And, interestingly, in the book I’m reading, it is ultimately the only model of how to slip the bonds of history: not by having no family at all, but by deciding that your family includes everyone. That the only lineage, the only family line that matters is the one that is common to us all. The line that has been created by God, broken by sin, yet redeemed by Christ and for which the Spirit seeks to work full restoration.
This is God’s vision of abundant life. It is idealistic. It is fanciful. And, yet, it is for us. And it is for all people. It is God’s vision for what salvation looks like.
I hope and pray that it is our vision, too.
Amen.
Preached May 7, 2017, at Grace & Glory Lutheran Church, Goshen, KY.
Fourth Sunday of Easter
Readings: Acts 2:42-47; Psalm 23; 1 Peter 2:19-25; John 10:1-10
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)