Late last week, I stood in the sanctuary of Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta singing the civil rights anthem “We Shall Overcome.”
It was an emotional moment for many in our group of pastoral theologians from around the world, which had traveled together to the church where Martin Luther King Jr. had been pastor.
But some in the group, myself included, couldn’t lift up our voices because of a strong awareness of the racial and social oppressions that still plague the church and the nation.
It would have been easy to let our experiences silence each other or to let shame and judgment have their way. Instead, later that day, we had a frank and honest conversation about our feelings and experiences.
In the end, we didn’t pretend to have healed the hurts of the world or of ourselves. But we did listen to each other speak honestly, ask for forgiveness, and affirm our desires to understand each other’s perspectives. Later that night we sang and danced together to the beat of African drums, grinning and laughing and clapping our hands in rhythm.
That, it seems to me, was a proper use of Christian freedom: living by the Spirit, guided by the Spirit, submitting to each other as a servant people. God was at work among us!
We’ll talk more about Christian freedom on Sunday, when we gather for worship and to hear a sermon on Galatians 5:1, 13-25, in which the apostle Paul writes about living in the Spirit rather than the flesh.
Our other lessons will include 2 Kings 2:1-2, 6-14, in which Elisha experiences the Spirit of God, and Luke 9:51-62, in which Jesus asks the disciples to free themselves from the things of this world in order to follow God.
We’ll sing “I Sing the Mighty Power of God,” “Eternal God, Whose Power Upholds,” and a hymn of the congregation’s choice.
Until then, God’s shalom to you and the whole earth—-and I hope to see you Sunday!
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Sunday, June 13, 2004
Shameless
A sermon on Luke 7:36-8:3:
Imagine you’ve invited the pastor for an intimate barbecue on your back patio.
You’ve got smoked chicken, grilled sausages, a big bowl of guacamole, 10 pounds of corn chips, cold beer, coke for the kids, and huge slabs of bloody beef just waiting to be slapped on the grill.
You’re sitting around the table, telling jokes, sharing news of the day, when your neighbor walks up.
Your neighbor. You know the one—the woman whose husband never seems to be around, the one with low-cut blouses and short shorts, the one who spends her time in dubious Internet chat rooms.
Now, you’ve asked her not to let herself in through the back gate. You never invite her to your cookouts, and you’ve tried to tell her that if you want her company, you’ll ask her over. But she never seems to listen. Invited or not, here she is.
Here she is, standing behind the preacher, kneading his shoulders and rubbing sunscreen on his neck, pouring him a glass of iced tea and kissing his cheek.
She’s embarrassing you. You don’t want the pastor to think she’s a friend or something.
But he just sits there smiling, as if what she’s doing is OK with him. And suddenly you’re angry: You can’t believe a man of God is behaving this way.
And then he says, “Hey—I’ve got a riddle for you. Ready?”
II.
That’s just the situation Simon the Pharisee has found himself in. He’s invited this Jesus, the teacher everyone’s talking about, to dinner at his house; he’s put out quite a spread; and here comes this scandalous “woman of the city,” walking right through the courtyard and up to the table, kissing the guest of honor’s feet and rubbing scented oil on his callused toes. Worse yet, she starts to cry, and her tears carve shiny tracks across his dusty feet, and she dries them with her hair.
This woman’s making a scene at Simon’s banquet. Her shameless behavior dishonors him and his guests. Not only that: She is unclean, a prostitute, and by touching Jesus she’s made him unclean too. Simon—a Pharisee, a member of the most righteous sect of Judaism, the ones who always get things right, who know the law backward and forward—Simon can’t believe Jesus would tolerate her touch.
“If he were a prophet,” Simon thinks, “he’d of known who and what kind of woman this is who’s touching him—that she’s a sinner.”
In one phrase, he judges them both.
III.
Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I sure do recognize Simon. Once I caught myself acting just like him at a funeral—a funeral! Instead of comforting the sobbing woman next to me, instead of being in prayer for the dead man’s family, instead of listening carefully and prayerfully to scripture, I was busy judging:
But Jesus--Jesus asks a riddle.
IV.
Riddles were common entertainment at New Testament era banquets, and I imagine Simon might have thought—maybe with relief—that Jesus was trying to shift the party’s attention from the woman lavishing attention on his feet. So maybe he readied himself for a good joke. But the joke is on him.
“A certain creditor had two debtors,” Jesus says. “One owed 500 denarii, and the other 50. When they couldn’t pay, he canceled the debts for both of them. Now which of them will love him more?”
And Simon hesitates. Where is Jesus heading with this? “I suppose the one for whom he canceled the greater debt,” Simon says.
“You have judged rightly.” But before the guests can raise a toast to Simon for getting the answer right, Jesus goes for the jugular.
“Do you see this woman?” he asks. “I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has bathed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment.”
Our friend Simon forgot the basics of Middle Eastern hospitality. He’s been so busy judging Jesus and this woman—thinking of himself as the pious and righteous one at the table—that he hasn’t noticed his own shortcomings. And now he’s doubly exposed: by the shameful display of this nameless woman and by his own lack of hospitality, which is a major cultural faux pas.
“Her sins, which were many, have been forgiven,” Jesus says. “Hence she has shown great love. But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little.”
And he turns to the woman: “Your sins are forgiven. Your faith has restored you to wholeness; go in peace.”
And the story ends.
V.
So who is the hero of this story?
It’s easy to pick Jesus as the hero. After all, the point of the story is the different ways in which two religious men respond to a nameless, shameless prostitute, right? That is one way of making sense of this story.
But I wonder if maybe Luke intends the woman to be the hero here.
In the other canonical gospels--Matthew, Mark and John--this story is told just before Jesus dies, and it happens at the house of a leper, not a Pharisee. And the other gospels include several different characters--you remember Judas saying, “Why was this ointment not sold and the money given to the poor?” In those other gospels, the point of the story is that the woman is anointing Jesus to prepare him for his death.
But that’s not what Luke is up to here. He places the story earlier in the ministry of Jesus; the only other major characters are a Pharisee and a prostitute—the sinless and the sinful, in the popular mind of his time; and the point of the story isn’t death, or how to respond to a sinful woman, but the forgiveness we receive in Christ.
Might Luke be illustrating with this story how a forgiven sinner ought to respond to Jesus? If so, this nameless woman is the hero.
She knows how sinful she is. She knows how much grace Jesus can extend to her. And she responds with grateful and humble hospitality. Because she expects much, she receives much—and loves much.
But Simon . . . . Simon’s problem isn’t his conduct, but his attitude and his self understanding. He thinks of himself as pious and righteous—as any Pharisee would—and so he has no awareness of his need for forgiveness; he loves little because he expects so little of God’s love. And in doing so he excludes himself from grace.
Only the sinful prostitute receives the blessing: “Your sins are forgiven. Your faith has saved you. Go in peace.”
She loves much because she is forgiven much; she recognizes her need and therefore receives the grace so freely offered.
VI.
What if through this story Luke is saying that our capacity to love Jesus is related to our ability to recognize the depth of the actions, thoughts, self-understandings and attitudes that keep us separate from God?
What if Luke is saying that the way we show our love for Jesus is related to our ability to receive the forgiveness, grace and love he offers in such abundance?
Simon loved little because he could only receive little; he did not recognize the depth of his need.
The woman who knelt at Christ’s feet received much because she knew how much she needed and she was open to receiving it.
It’s been said that the brief version of the gospel can be found in the phrase: “Repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand.”
That’s what this scripture passage is calling us to—repentance, recognition of our wounded sinfulness and brokenness, acknowledgment of how much we need to be forgiven. It’s only when we recognize the depth of our need that we understand the depth of grace.
God is ready to forgive you, to accept you, to wash you clean and send you out into the world with a heart that’s calm and empty of the anxiety that churns there all too often.
Can you accept that? Can you humble yourself enough to accept that Jesus wants to turn to you and say, “Your sins are forgiven. Your faith has made you whole; go in peace”?
Or will you be like Simon, reclining at the table, sure of who you are, measuring others, and yourself against them, heart shut tight against the love that’s close enough to touch, the love that is a guest in your life this very moment? Can you accept the forgiveness of the Christ sitting across from you, holding out the bread of life, saying, “Take and eat. It’s broken for you”?
Friends, your wounds are healed; your sins are forgiven. You are saved in faith, restored to wholeness, made complete. Your ability to accept that, to live as if that is true, will shape the way you love yourself and those around you.
So repent—turn toward God, toward life, with a new mind, a higher mind, a mind that knows that anyone who is in Christ is a new creation: everything old has passed away; everything has become new.
Repent and believe the good news of the gospel: In Jesus Christ, we are forgiven. Alleluia! Amen.
Imagine you’ve invited the pastor for an intimate barbecue on your back patio.
You’ve got smoked chicken, grilled sausages, a big bowl of guacamole, 10 pounds of corn chips, cold beer, coke for the kids, and huge slabs of bloody beef just waiting to be slapped on the grill.
You’re sitting around the table, telling jokes, sharing news of the day, when your neighbor walks up.
Your neighbor. You know the one—the woman whose husband never seems to be around, the one with low-cut blouses and short shorts, the one who spends her time in dubious Internet chat rooms.
Now, you’ve asked her not to let herself in through the back gate. You never invite her to your cookouts, and you’ve tried to tell her that if you want her company, you’ll ask her over. But she never seems to listen. Invited or not, here she is.
Here she is, standing behind the preacher, kneading his shoulders and rubbing sunscreen on his neck, pouring him a glass of iced tea and kissing his cheek.
She’s embarrassing you. You don’t want the pastor to think she’s a friend or something.
But he just sits there smiling, as if what she’s doing is OK with him. And suddenly you’re angry: You can’t believe a man of God is behaving this way.
And then he says, “Hey—I’ve got a riddle for you. Ready?”
II.
That’s just the situation Simon the Pharisee has found himself in. He’s invited this Jesus, the teacher everyone’s talking about, to dinner at his house; he’s put out quite a spread; and here comes this scandalous “woman of the city,” walking right through the courtyard and up to the table, kissing the guest of honor’s feet and rubbing scented oil on his callused toes. Worse yet, she starts to cry, and her tears carve shiny tracks across his dusty feet, and she dries them with her hair.
This woman’s making a scene at Simon’s banquet. Her shameless behavior dishonors him and his guests. Not only that: She is unclean, a prostitute, and by touching Jesus she’s made him unclean too. Simon—a Pharisee, a member of the most righteous sect of Judaism, the ones who always get things right, who know the law backward and forward—Simon can’t believe Jesus would tolerate her touch.
“If he were a prophet,” Simon thinks, “he’d of known who and what kind of woman this is who’s touching him—that she’s a sinner.”
In one phrase, he judges them both.
III.
Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I sure do recognize Simon. Once I caught myself acting just like him at a funeral—a funeral! Instead of comforting the sobbing woman next to me, instead of being in prayer for the dead man’s family, instead of listening carefully and prayerfully to scripture, I was busy judging:
“They call this a worship space? There’s not even a cross. Looks more like a warehouse to me.”And my personal favorite:
“Man, I wish I could preach like that guy. He’s good. Makes that other pastor sound like Elmer Fudd.”
“I can’t believe she thought a flowered, scarlet dress was appropriate for a tragic funeral like this.”Now I’m confessing these thoughts to you not to ask forgiveness or to brag about what a sinner I am, but to say: If this nameless woman had shown up at my banquet, I would have acted just like Simon.
But Jesus--Jesus asks a riddle.
IV.
Riddles were common entertainment at New Testament era banquets, and I imagine Simon might have thought—maybe with relief—that Jesus was trying to shift the party’s attention from the woman lavishing attention on his feet. So maybe he readied himself for a good joke. But the joke is on him.
“A certain creditor had two debtors,” Jesus says. “One owed 500 denarii, and the other 50. When they couldn’t pay, he canceled the debts for both of them. Now which of them will love him more?”
And Simon hesitates. Where is Jesus heading with this? “I suppose the one for whom he canceled the greater debt,” Simon says.
“You have judged rightly.” But before the guests can raise a toast to Simon for getting the answer right, Jesus goes for the jugular.
“Do you see this woman?” he asks. “I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has bathed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment.”
Our friend Simon forgot the basics of Middle Eastern hospitality. He’s been so busy judging Jesus and this woman—thinking of himself as the pious and righteous one at the table—that he hasn’t noticed his own shortcomings. And now he’s doubly exposed: by the shameful display of this nameless woman and by his own lack of hospitality, which is a major cultural faux pas.
“Her sins, which were many, have been forgiven,” Jesus says. “Hence she has shown great love. But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little.”
And he turns to the woman: “Your sins are forgiven. Your faith has restored you to wholeness; go in peace.”
And the story ends.
V.
So who is the hero of this story?
It’s easy to pick Jesus as the hero. After all, the point of the story is the different ways in which two religious men respond to a nameless, shameless prostitute, right? That is one way of making sense of this story.
But I wonder if maybe Luke intends the woman to be the hero here.
In the other canonical gospels--Matthew, Mark and John--this story is told just before Jesus dies, and it happens at the house of a leper, not a Pharisee. And the other gospels include several different characters--you remember Judas saying, “Why was this ointment not sold and the money given to the poor?” In those other gospels, the point of the story is that the woman is anointing Jesus to prepare him for his death.
But that’s not what Luke is up to here. He places the story earlier in the ministry of Jesus; the only other major characters are a Pharisee and a prostitute—the sinless and the sinful, in the popular mind of his time; and the point of the story isn’t death, or how to respond to a sinful woman, but the forgiveness we receive in Christ.
Might Luke be illustrating with this story how a forgiven sinner ought to respond to Jesus? If so, this nameless woman is the hero.
She knows how sinful she is. She knows how much grace Jesus can extend to her. And she responds with grateful and humble hospitality. Because she expects much, she receives much—and loves much.
But Simon . . . . Simon’s problem isn’t his conduct, but his attitude and his self understanding. He thinks of himself as pious and righteous—as any Pharisee would—and so he has no awareness of his need for forgiveness; he loves little because he expects so little of God’s love. And in doing so he excludes himself from grace.
Only the sinful prostitute receives the blessing: “Your sins are forgiven. Your faith has saved you. Go in peace.”
She loves much because she is forgiven much; she recognizes her need and therefore receives the grace so freely offered.
VI.
What if through this story Luke is saying that our capacity to love Jesus is related to our ability to recognize the depth of the actions, thoughts, self-understandings and attitudes that keep us separate from God?
What if Luke is saying that the way we show our love for Jesus is related to our ability to receive the forgiveness, grace and love he offers in such abundance?
Simon loved little because he could only receive little; he did not recognize the depth of his need.
The woman who knelt at Christ’s feet received much because she knew how much she needed and she was open to receiving it.
It’s been said that the brief version of the gospel can be found in the phrase: “Repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand.”
That’s what this scripture passage is calling us to—repentance, recognition of our wounded sinfulness and brokenness, acknowledgment of how much we need to be forgiven. It’s only when we recognize the depth of our need that we understand the depth of grace.
God is ready to forgive you, to accept you, to wash you clean and send you out into the world with a heart that’s calm and empty of the anxiety that churns there all too often.
Can you accept that? Can you humble yourself enough to accept that Jesus wants to turn to you and say, “Your sins are forgiven. Your faith has made you whole; go in peace”?
Or will you be like Simon, reclining at the table, sure of who you are, measuring others, and yourself against them, heart shut tight against the love that’s close enough to touch, the love that is a guest in your life this very moment? Can you accept the forgiveness of the Christ sitting across from you, holding out the bread of life, saying, “Take and eat. It’s broken for you”?
Friends, your wounds are healed; your sins are forgiven. You are saved in faith, restored to wholeness, made complete. Your ability to accept that, to live as if that is true, will shape the way you love yourself and those around you.
So repent—turn toward God, toward life, with a new mind, a higher mind, a mind that knows that anyone who is in Christ is a new creation: everything old has passed away; everything has become new.
Repent and believe the good news of the gospel: In Jesus Christ, we are forgiven. Alleluia! Amen.
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
Subversive sayings
In a world that wants to reject creeds ("I'm spiritual, but not religious"), Luke Timothy Johnson sees Christian creeds as "subversive documents" that open possibilities rather than shutting down debate.
Johnson's point, I would argue, is precisely why Presbyterians include a creed in worship each Sunday and why a collection of creeds makes up the first part of our church constitution.
Johnson's point, I would argue, is precisely why Presbyterians include a creed in worship each Sunday and why a collection of creeds makes up the first part of our church constitution.
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