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.

Tenth Sunday after Pentecost

Hosea 11:1-11


Last week, in the Gospel reading, Jesus told a story about the friend at midnight. You remember this one, it's the story where, when his neighbor came knocking, the friend finally got out of bed not out of love but because the other, basically, annoyed him into doing so. Despite the fact that it sometimes feels like this is the most effective means of prayer, this story was never meant as an allegory for how God relates to us.


Today's reading from Hosea could be said to set us straight in that kind of thinking. Amidst the prophecy, there is something important revealed about the Divine character. You see, says the Holy One, it is God I am and not a human being. I don't act the way you act. I don't react the way you react. I know you think that I do, but that's because you're limited by your experience as human beings. And, naturally, that's how you think I am—just like one of you. So, since you're sometimes so drained by the needs of others, since, at times, you don't want to get out of bed to answer the door, since there are moments when you are grumpy and irritable, naturally, you think that I am as well.


But, God says, I'm not like that. You don't drain me. You don't have to convince me to get out of bed and give you what you need. I'm not going to give you scorpions when you ask for eggs or stones for bread. Though, because I can't always explain what's going on, it can seem like that's exactly what I'm doing. Remember, though, that I'm not like that. I'm not like mortals.


And yet, by the mystery of the Incarnation, the One-who-made-all-things does know intimately what it is like to be mortal. In Christ, the immortal knew what it was to be few of days. During those thirty-odd years on earth, the one who is not bound by the limits of time and space knew the past as memory, the moment as fleeting, and tomorrow as uncertain. In that brief miracle when the Divine walked among us, the self-sustaining-one knew what it was to be drained, exhausted, and irritable.


This, in itself, is a miracle. But the even greater miracle is that the experience of humanity was not just a brief, fleeing moment—an experiment that met its close. No in that mystery called the Ascension, humanity became a part of God's continuing existence. And we are given the assurance that the Immortal did not just know what it means to be mortal, but remembers and continues that experience.


"God I am," Hosea's prophecy declares, "and not a human being." But, this doesn't mean that I don't understand what it means to be human.


Immortal Love, your ways are not our ways nor your thought ours. But I thank you that you understand my thoughts, moods, struggles and mortality.

Ninth Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 11:1-13


The "friend" in today's Gospel finally gets out of bed because of the impudence, the ignoring of convention, the shamelessness of the man at the door. This bit about impudence or shamelessness strikes me; perhaps because I'm engaged in a bit of it myself. Like a lot of people these days, I'm in the midst of looking for a job. This means that I'm contacting a lot of people I've known over the years and shamelessly asking if they know of any openings where they work. It's not my strong suit. Asking people via conversation and email, looking through my list of contacts over the years, and, of course, knocking and knocking on any door I can find feels as though I'm making a nuisance of myself. But that's the way to find a job. Sort of the same way that Jesus seems to be saying this is a means of prayer.


But sometimes, in both cases, it doesn't work, does it? Sometimes it feels like we ask and look and knock over and over again and no one ever comes to the door. No matter how many people mention your name to another, you still find yourself sitting at home waiting for the phone to ring. And no matter how persistent I may be in certain prayers, there are things to which God has yet to respond.


I have no idea why God sometimes seems to act like the friend who will not get out of bed. But I do know that Jesus was never trying to say that God responds only to repeated requests or formulaic prayers. This is, after all, what the disciples (and I) want—prayer that is effective and causes the Heavens to open up and rain down our heart's desire.


That isn't, however, what Jesus provides. In fact, he is less concerned with the how of prayer than the why behind it. We can see this evidenced in the images Jesus uses throughout this week's passage—friends, fathers and sons. Both point to relationships. And this, for me, is what today's reading is all about.


The people I've emailed and called over the past several weeks haven't been strangers, they were people I knew who, because of their relationship with me, are willing to help me, just as I would them. And over the years, I've maintained contact with them not because of what they can do for me but because I cared for them and wanted their life to remain in close contact with mine.


Prayer is not about saying the right things or keeping in touch with God in case you need something, it's a means of maintaining and growing our relationship with the Divine. It doesn't mean that we can't ask for things that we need, but we always must remember that this isn't the reason we have entered into conversation with the one who loves us more than any other.


My friend, I do not understand why no matter how long I ask, seek, and knock no answer seems to come. Help me to remember that prayer is more than request and receipt and give to all the desires of their heart.

Eighth Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 10:38-42


Martha usually gets a bad rap. Some people like to use her as an example of the modern busyness—rather than sit and hear the words of Jesus, she (like so many of us) is consumed with her work. Other, more spiritual times, you'll hear a preacher expound on the contemplative life of Mary as opposed to those Christians who think God can be heard just as well while we're washing the dishes, working outside, or, even, writing.


These interpretations have their place, I suppose. It's good to be reminded that we can be too busy. And it's good to recall the need to "be still." But to expound only on these two interpretations and to constantly malign poor, hard-working Martha causes us to miss something in Jesus' words.


But before getting to those words, let's note that Martha has a point. Having Jesus show up at the door meant there were probably more than a few extra mouths to feed. This probably threw the dinner plans all out of whack and Martha was rushing around trying to get it all together. And there's Mary: sitting around like one of the guys, oblivious to the fact that unless she plans to take a little trip into Jerusalem for some take-out, everyone's about to be real hungry.


Now, the way Martha went about dealing with this issue probably wasn't the best. "Oh Mary, dear, would you mind giving me a hand in the kitchen," probably would have gone a long way toward getting what she wanted. But instead of doing that she tells Jesus (dragging him into this domestic dispute) that perhaps while he's talking about that love-thy-neighbor stuff he ought to remind little sister there that her neighbor needs the carrots cut and ice put in the glasses.


Jesus, smart guy that he is, doesn't get caught up in this squabble. Instead, he says something completely off-topic and mysterious. In other words, he does what Jesus always does—comes from a completely different direction.


"Martha," he says, "you are anxious and you have many troubles. But one thing is necessary."


I can only guess that Martha had the same reaction as I did to this, which is to scratch my head and say "huh?" But as I've thought about it, I've come back again and again to those words. I too can be anxious and have many troubles. And, like Martha, I sometimes complain about something or someone but that's not the real issue. Half the time, I don't know what the real issue is. But, usually once someone has pointed out that I really shouldn't be fussing at them, I realize that this is not the thing I need. It's not help in the kitchen, someone to make up the bed, or anything that I'm complaining about that is necessary.


And that's when I start looking for what—which one thing—I do need.


God of peace, you search us and know us. Help us as we try and find the true need buried beneath the anxiety and trouble that fill us each day.

Seventh Sunday after Pentecost

Amos 7:7-17


Being a graduate of seminary but not working in a church makes for a lot of stalled conversations. People ask where I was before moving back to my home town and, when I tell them, inquire about what congregation I'm working with or where I am in a particular denomination's discernment process. Each time I bring things to a halt by saying that I'm not a pastor. At least, ministry is not my day job.


Amos had a similar conversation stopper in today's reading. This priest of Bethel who had authority over religious matters in that area told Amos to go and apply his trade elsewhere. "Go home and make a living as a prophet" is basically what Amaziah tells him. Amos, however, replies, "I'm not a prophet." By this he means he's not a professional one—a full-time, supported by the king, member of a guild of prophets. He's actually just a herdsman and a tender of trees down south. "That's", he tells Amaziah, "my day job."


Personally, I think Amos is an underused example of ministry. Too often we look to the people who gave up everything as paragons of what it means to follow God. The Disciples, for example, left their (somewhat) steady jobs and began to follow Jesus—a path that would take them into being full-time ministers. King David left shepherding of sheep far behind and, instead, shepherded an entire nation. Don't misunderstand me; there is nothing wrong with those who are called to give up their daily life and work to follow Christ. Those to whom the call comes to "go to a land I will show you" and respond by saying "Here I am" are brave indeed.


But equally brave are those like Amos. No, it doesn't appear he gave up the safety and security of his income to do what God called him to do. But we also don't get any inkling that he was in any way disobedient or somehow less of a prophet for doing so. In fact, if you read through the brief book of this prophet's words, you'll find that he's had a lot of impact on how we as Christians think and try to live.


All this is said to point out that serving God and ministering to the world doesn't always involve vows of poverty, long journeys into the unknown, or even the lack of steady income. Sometimes it means keeping your day job while evenings or weekends are given over to the work God is calling you to do. The ministry of those who are not ordained, who do not work directly for the local congregations or denominational offices are no less important than that of those who do.


In fact, sometimes those people can make an even greater impact in the daily lives of those beyond the walls of the church. Just think how many have read the words of Amos.


Loving God, help us to hear your call and be brave enough to give up and brave enough to keep the herds and trees we tend.

Sixth Sunday after Pentecost

2 Kings 5:1-14


If you travel long enough and drive far enough you'll see them—what I've always heard called tourist traps. Maybe it's a giant ball of yarn, a shoe house, or life-sized dinosaurs. And no matter what it is, the signs raise a certain level of expectation about what's to come And if we are lured by their promise to leave the familiar road and wander some longer-than-expected way, we will find…well, probably a bit of disappointment. That's probably similar to what Naaman must have felt when he came to Israel for healing.


Now Elisha was no roadside attraction. But the young Israelite girl's advertising was what sent this war hero off on a long journey away from his familiar surroundings. And, based on his experience and the girl's words, he had some expectations. "Look, I said to myself, he will come out. And he will stand and call on the name of the Holy One his God. And wave his hand toward the place. And take away the leprosy." Naaman thought for sure he'd get to see a little magic act out of this prophet and healer.


But what he gets is not what he expected. Elisha tells him to simply go wash in the Jordan. "What," Naaman thinks. The rivers at home are just as good as the rivers here. In fact, they're better. I could have stayed at home if all I wanted to do was bathe in a river to get well. Why'd I come all this way anyhow?


Occasionally (okay, a lot), I've felt like Naaman. I feel God has led me to some particular place—a new city, a new job, even just a change in my routine—that I believe will allow me to serve God and grow as a person. But when I get there I find things aren't as I expected. And I wonder why I couldn't have stayed where I was. Wasn't that city or job just as good as this one if not better? Maybe I should just go back home.


When travelling, it is often scary to go off the familiar road. To turn off and follow the direction to some roadside attraction is to trust that we can find our way to them without getting lost. And, to truly appreciate them, we have to give up on the expectations we've built up in our minds. Otherwise, as Naaman nearly did, we risk missing out on the wonder and surprise that awaits us.


I've lost count of the many times I've wanted to pack up and go home because the off-road God has led me upon doesn't lead to where I expected it to lead. And I've begun to wonder, if, like Naaman, I could put my expectations aside I might find some miracle in that giant ball of yarn.


God of the unexpected, help me to put my expectations aside and, instead, look for what you are doing in my life.