Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 14:1, 7-14


As far back as I can remember I've taken Jesus' statements about how to pick a seat at the banquet literally. Early on, I suppose, it made sense from a standpoint of humility. Don't try and be more important than you are. Don't sit next to the birthday boy or girl unless you were invited to do so. Yet even as I got older I held onto this nugget of wisdom because it seemed pragmatic, which fit my nature. It hurts to be told you're sitting in the wrong seat, at least when you're being bumped back a row or two. Therefore, don't do it. Wait to be invited to sit in the front row.


But I've always known that Jesus' words have a loophole, an open door to false humility. This bit of advice provided me with a way to feel good about myself while seeming so quiet and uninterested in status. Because, while being demoted from the high seat is humiliating, getting promoted from the cheap seats is cause for awe. And to do so when it seems everyone except you knows that you belong in those seats up front…well, that makes you seem even more humble.


I've thought about these verses in this way for years. In all this time I've never once looked beyond the simple meaning of this teaching. For all these years, I've always thought that it was about me. At least, I did until this week.


Following this teaching about choosing a chair, Jesus offers up a suggestion on the guest list. Instead of inviting people who will (and can) do something for you in return, why not invite people who won't be able to repay you. Why not send an invitation to people who, no matter how many times you put them at the head of the table, will never be able to do the same for you, at least not at any table worth talking about.


This statement about who to include on the guest list, I believe, points beyond what I've often taken as the meaning of the preceding verses. It shows that this secret means of making myself look good and Christian that I've winked at is not just slimy but completely misses the point. It means that what Jesus is talking about has absolutely nothing to do with me.


They do not have any way to repay you, Jesus says. Luke defines they as the lame, poor, blind and so on, which are a part of they. But we cannot get bogged down there. They are anyone who can't do a thing for us. They are anyone whom we will garner no fanfare or favors or prestige for exalting if we lift them up. They are the subject of this speech, not me.


Jesus, I've come to realize, isn't at all interested in what seat I sit in when I'm the guest. His concern is where I seat others, especially when no one on earth cares where they sit.


God, help me to remember that it isn't about me.

Thirteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Jeremiah 1:4-10, Luke 13:10-17


This week, we encounter the call story of the prophet Jeremiah. In one of those long, detailed conversations with the Divine that only the prophets of old seemed to have. God tells our young prophet-to-be that "Before I formed you in the belly, I knew you. Before you came forth from a womb, I consecrated you…." It's beautiful imagery and a powerful statement. And, if you're like me, someone has quoted a phrase like this to you in the difficult times of life.


"How's that," someone will say, "life seems to be a collection of missteps and mistakes? Why it's like God told Jeremiah, I knew you in the womb and had a plan for you even then."


"You say that you don't understand why bad luck seems to befall you at every turn?" someone else will respond. "All things work together for good, that's what Paul said."


Most of the time, I hope, those delivering this quoted comfort really are trying to help. They're trying to offer up some measure of understanding in a world that often doesn't make a whole lot of sense. But sometimes words like these are thrown up before suffering as a sort of defense of our own understanding of God and how God works in the world. Just think of the Pharisees and their scripture quoting in today's Gospel. "Hey," they said, "you're not supposed to do that. We, of course, saw that woman….but…but…but we couldn't help her. Not today. It's the Sabbath. God doesn't like us doing things like that today."


As easy as it can be to pick on the Pharisees for offering this woman dogma instead of comfort, I know that I often do the same. Sometimes it's easier to tell someone how the universe works—at least according to my theological understanding—than to struggle with the reality of their situation and the conflict it brings. In such times, at best, I leave another alone in their suffering. At worst, I make an already distant God seem farther away.


Even though the words we read in Jeremiah were meant for him, this doesn't mean we cannot take comfort in them. The God who knew the prophet when he was still in the womb also knew us before we were born. And we can find hope in the idea that our Redeemer is working behind the scenes in this hurting world.


But we must always be careful not to throw scripture up as a shield and attempt to hide ourselves from the difficulties raised by the world around us. Just as the Pharisees seemed to put words above people when their understanding of the Divine and how God works in the world was challenged, we too have to be careful to never offer the Jeremiah 1:2 band-aid to cover over someone's disturbing wound when all they really need is for us to allow our own hurts to show. And for us to bleed with them.


Comforter, help me to know when to bandage the wounds of those around me and when to bleed with them until healing comes.

Twelfth Sunday after Pentecost

Psalm 80, Luke 12:49-56


My wife and I love the movie Moonstruck. Just the other night we sat outside as the sun was setting and a red sky gave way to darkness trading lines from the movie (not an uncommon occurrence for us). One of my favorites comes after two of the characters attend the opera, and Ronny tells Loretta that "Love don't make things nice."


That quote (from a movie that is older than I realize) sums up what makes today's Gospel reading disturbing, at least, to me. It sums up my own misconceptions about not just love but the One-who-is-love and what happens when that Presence heeds the prayer like that of today's Psalm.


"Did you believe," Jesus says, "that I came to give peace on the earth?" No, not even close. "I came to cast fire upon the earth." He then goes on to say that instead of unity he has come bearing division. Not exactly one of Jesus' happier sayings. But it is a very real one.


Think about the old romantic comedies. From Cary Grant's mild-mannered paleontologist in Bringing Up Baby to Howard Bannister and his rocks in What's Up Doc, love never brought peace. Same goes for Loretta in Moonstruck, love did not usher in a pastoral period of life where all was flowers and trees. In fact, time and again, it seemed that the world had caught flame and was slowly consuming that idyllic scene.


Love, as I quoted at the outset, does not make things nice. So if God is love and Jesus is the embodiment of that love, why would we ever think that Presence would bring anything else than fire and division? Love can have that effect on our world.


It is in light of this that I've begun to rethink Psalm 80. For a long time, I cheered at the words from this Psalm. Yes, indeed, listen Holy One. Awaken your power and draw near. That's what we need. Come down here and shake things up for all those bad people.


As I said, I used to get all excited reciting these words. But now…I'm wondering if that's what I really want. Do I really want the power of the love-that-created-the-stars to awaken? Do I really want the "impression of the reality of God" (as the author of Hebrew's calls Jesus) to draw near again? The world was turned upside down then. What might happen this time? What comfortable convictions will be shattered? What, if anything, will ever be the same again?


What, dare I ask, will be changed in me?


I come not to bring peace but to cast fire, Jesus says. I come with the fire that consumes and clears away the unnecessary brush. I come with the fire that burns, marking you forever in the encounter.


I come with love, and it will not make things nice. But it just may make you more like me.


God of love, come again into my world, upset the tables, and drive out what keeps me from expressing the fierce love you give me.

Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost

Genesis 15:1-6; Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16


It wasn't my idea to leave, you remember that don't you? Dad's business wasn't booming, but we were doing well. I didn't love the work, but it was a good job. Heck, in those times, it was a job. And, if things had continued on as they were, we would have stayed there.


This isn't to say that you were wrong or to lay any kind of blame at your feet, you understand. I know that this was my choice. I had every opportunity to say no. You certainly didn't make me leave, and I doubt that you would have even if I'd refused. The choice to pack up and travel so far away was mine (well ours since this affected her as much as me).


But it hasn't been easy. It hasn't been easy waiting, I mean. This experience has been beyond my imagination. I've seen parts of the world I'd never dreamt of seeing. I've even led battles. Not bad for an old man, I must say. Yet, the waiting….


I realize that I don't have to stay. You won't keep me here. And over the past few nights, you should know, we've been talking about packing up and going back home. I have enough, I think, to buy back the business. If not, I'm still known back there. I can get a job, at least until I'm too old to work. And we can have a house again. I'm growing tired of living like a nomad.


What I need to know is that you haven't forgotten about us. I don't think you have, but, I don't know, some days I have doubts. I wonder if I made some mistake along the way and you got angry enough that you didn't want to talk to me anymore. Maybe I took a wrong turn and you're waiting for me to correct that so I can get back on track and things can happen again.


You see, I'm afraid. I'm afraid that I did all this for nothing. I'm afraid that the voice I heard wasn't actually yours but my own desire for something more in life. This fear inside me has been growing for some time and there are days—too many days—when I've begun to think that I've made the biggest mistake of my life.


And…what's that? Yes I see them. There are so many of them out here, far away from the cities. I can barely pick out the familiar patterns among the usually invisible ones. The sky seems filled with them tonight. Look….there, a falling star.


Was that you? If I hadn't been looking I would never have seen it. It was so faint, even in the darkness. But I couldn't help feeling, as it burned for that split second, that it was you saying hello.


Maybe it is only me reading too much into it. But, I don't know, I've begun to think…we may stay. What's waiting just a little longer?


God of the real—seen or not-seen—remind us, from time-to-time, as we wait upon you that you cannot forget us and will not abandon us.