Devotions--Sermons
Recent Devotions and Sermons From Our Pastors :
Below you will find sermons preached in the context of Sunday morning worship and also selections from "Bread for the Journey" a series of devotions distributed via e-mail to members and friends of Luther Memorial congregation.
Bread for the Journey, 5/5/10
Lately I have become aware of how important it is to be caring, respectful and attentive in conversation. When I talk to teachers about the situation at the middle/high school, I hear undercurrents of dissatisfaction. When I listen to NPR radio I hear that the housing market is taking baby steps forward, but not recovering fast enough for those who can’t pay their mortgage. High school students and other graduates find it challenging to obtain jobs in which they can gain experience and make a daily living. There seems to be a surge in targeted hate groups which leads to reactions of fear and anxiety. Folks seem ready to be rude. Today I was talking to a clerk at the hospital about our bill. As soon as I used “bill” and “payment” in the same sentence, I could almost see her tense up for the barrage that would follow. In another situation, I am on the Miller family list-serv, where recently the snarky comments have ruled. I have been known to use sarcastic quips that sting like a bee. Having been on the receiving end, I can see how it hurts and I have withdrawn from the “conversation” to rethink my strategy.
How did society get to this place? Rude people have always existed, but it seems that it is now the accepted even expected norm. It has been suggested that in our mutli-tasking, technically driven society where e-mails, texts, cell phones are the predominate forms of communication we have forgotten how to be considerate. In an effort to be good time managers, we cut to the chase by dismissing basic civility. This is carried over into our exchanges from the library to the registrar’s office. I’m not suggesting that we go back to arcane formalities, but consider the greatest commandment found in Matthew 22:36-40.
“Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?” He said to him, “’You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind’. This is the greatest and first commandment, and the second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”
If we follow Christ’s mandate to love God and our neighbors, rudeness and incivilities are out the window. And I’m pretty sure that being rude and tearing down a person isn’t providing help and support!
In the end, we can only change our own behaviors. In church, in society, and in the world that is greatly challenged to health and wholeness may we seriously consider how every minute act or series of words shows how we love God and our neighbors.
JCS
Does God Draw Lines? Acts 11:1-18, 5/2/10
"Let That Be Your Last Battlefield." If you're a Trekkie, one of that tribe devoted to Star Trek, you recognize that phrase as the title of a famous episode. But since I suspect there aren't too many Trekkies here this morning, let me tell you what happened in that story:
Captain Kirk and the crew of the Enterprise pick up a disabled shuttlecraft on their sensors. When they beam the pilot on board, they meet Lokai a man from the planet Cheron. The most distinctive thing about Lokai is that his skin is half black and half white, with the two halves being split perfectly down the center of his face and body.
It soon becomes clear why Lokai was in space; he is being pursued as a revolutionary and criminal by Bele [Beal], a policeman of sorts, from Cheron. When Bele arrives on board the Enterprise, he bitterly berates Lokai as typical of his inferior breed. That confuses Spock and Kirk because to them he looks exactly like Lokai. Bele is incredulous, "Isn't it obvious? Lokai is white on the right side. All his people are white on the right side." Bele is white on the left.
After several twists and turns the episode ends when Lokai and Bele return to Cheron and discover that their planet has become lifeless in their absence, the result of a massive civil war. Undeterred the two men beam down to Cheron's surface to continue hating and fighting one another on the dead planet.
When it originally aired in1969, "Let That Be Your Last Battlefield" was hailed as a scathing commentary on the racial tension which was tearing the country apart. I mention the episode this morning because it illustrates a reality which we would rather forget: There is something deep within each of us which wants to draws lines, something which wants to regard some other person or group as less worthy of respect than our group. We always think the difference between us and them is terribly critical. We tell ourselves they are dangerously ignorant, stupid, irrational, selfish, naïve, lazy, liberal, conservative, immoral, self-righteous—you name it. That's what gives us permission to hate. We seldom consider the possibility that an outside observer might find our distinctions as arbitrary and inconsequential as the difference between Lokai and Bele.
Today's lesson from Acts takes us back to the early days of the church and reminds us that from the beginning it has been a great struggle to expand the love of Christ to include all people. There have always been some who want to exclude "those people" from the community of Christ because of their race, politics, lifestyle, or theology. It was only with great effort that the Church let go of its prejudices and expanded the reach of the gospel to long despised groups.
Our lesson picks up the story of Peter's mission to Cornelius the Centurion after it has been completed. Word has filtered back to the congregation in Jerusalem that Peter, who is supposed to be the chief apostle, the role model for the church, has been seen eating with some filthy Gentiles—literally, men and women who have no regard for the traditions and purity rituals which distinguish the Jews from the Romans. Reading between the lines it looks like Peter has been called on the carpet for being so slack and setting a poor example. Today's lesson is his defense.
Peter tells them about a vision he had and the invitation which came shortly thereafter. Dozing on a rooftop, he saw a great sheet let down from heaven filled with all sorts of animals that a good Jew would not eat on a dare because they were prohibited by rules of ritual cleanliness. Then a strange thing happens, God who gave the rules in the first place, tells him to ignore them. "Peter, kill and eat." Peter is reluctant, "No, Lord I don't do unclean." Then in one of the most radical reversals you will find anywhere in Scripture, God erases the hard line between Jew and Gentile, "If I made it, don't you dare call it unclean." Almost immediately upon awakening Peter gets an invitation to preach at the home of a Roman centurion.
Peter was not always the fastest computer on the network, but even he could see the connection between his vision and this invitation. He goes to the Roman's house and amazingly Cornelius and his whole household respond to the gospel message. The Holy Spirit comes to these converts, and Peter says, "What could I do, if God chose to pour out blessing upon them, who was I to tell them they couldn't be baptized and be part of the community?"
Peter's critics must have found him compelling because they were silenced—and thus was won a critical battle in the early church. Henceforth, the gospel would be proclaimed for all people, not just "our kind."
Interesting piece of church history pastor, but so what? What difference does it make to us; that battle has already been won... As a matter of fact it hasn't. The struggle to expand the gospel's welcome to all persons is ongoing; we just change who we want to exclude. Let me offer a few observations on the challenge we face in deciding how to draw a line between the church and a world which often rejects the way of Christ.
The first thing we need to understand is that the Conservatives, then and now, have a point. Sitting here 2000 years after the fact, in the safety of an at least nominally Christian culture, it is easy to dismiss the concerns of the religious conservatives who challenged Peter. We too quickly see them as legalistic prigs who mindlessly followed outdated rules. But the rules of ritual purity were less about hygiene than identity. Every day the Jewish community faced extinction. The rituals were reminders of who they were, that they were called to be a distinctive voice. Honoring the rules was a shorthand reminder that they were supposed to be different from the culture which was constantly trying to assimilate them. To those culturally besieged Jews, Peter's relaxation of the rules seemed like a real danger. A compromise here, a compromise there—and suddenly they were no longer God's distinctive presence in a sea of paganism.
In our day, some worry that the church has lost its way and has sold out it principles and Scriptures. Conservatives at their best remind us that the Church can never be just part of the culture, that we have noble and distinctive tradition which we too quickly dismiss at our own peril. It is terribly easy for us to adapt innovation and new interpretations just because they are popular in the larger society. The temptation to make a few compromises here and there is almost irresistible. So we tone down the offense of the gospel where we can. We ignore the parts of the Bible which pinch our lifestyle and our prejudices. In the name of rejecting legalism we cease to stand for anything in particular. But slowly we may realize we have lost our souls.
Conservatives call us to conserve—to hold on to and value—a tradition which has nurtured and guided generations before us. When we lightly dismiss that call to faithfulness we court the possibility that we will gain short term popularity at the cost of becoming merely an echo for the loudest voice in the public square.
That being said (that we can easily lose our identity by refusing to distinguish the values of the Christian community from those of the larger culture) it is equally clear from the New Testament witness that God is constantly pushing the boundaries, constantly daring the community to expand its vision of who is acceptable. The book of Acts chronicles how the gospel progressively expanded its reach to include more and more people. It begins in Jerusalem, but then the invitation goes out to Samaria, then to a devout Ethiopian Jew, then to Saul the passionate Jewish leader—and in today's lesson it reaches the Gentiles. At each step a barrier is crossed, a line erased. The trajectory is clear. The burden of proof is on those who want to exclude others from the grace of God, who want to put conditions on the God's mercy, who want to deny the church's fellowship to anyone who confesses Christ as Lord.
Here let me say something very clearly. This is about much more than the place of gays in the church. With all the high profile controversy our denomination has had over its votes on sexuality you might think I am preaching a backdoor defense of those decisions. Of course there are implications in tthe text for that discussion. But the issue is much bigger than that because we can always find a way to exclude someone else. Some want to exclude gays from the community. But unfortunately you can find others who want nothing to do with Republicans, or liberals, or fundamentalists, or passionate ecologists, or soldiers. The list goes on and on. We can always find an excuse to draw a line which says someone else is unfit to be called a Christian; the question is whether the line represents God's desire or just our fears.
There are no easy answers. The community of Christ always wrestles with the tension of maintaining its distinctive identity in a secular sea, bearing witness to a way that is seldom popular, while at the same time expanding its reach to all persons. That is why we desperately need both conservers and visionaries within every community, both those who value the treasures of the past and those who push the boundaries and dare new things in Christ's name. If we are unable or just unwilling to regard those with whom we disagree as brothers and sisters in Christ, we cease to be the church and become just an interest group with a religious veneer.
But as our lesson reminds us, the problem is not new. Peter and the church at Jerusalem faced the same question, "Where do we draw the line?" With fear and trepidation they finally said, "The spirit of Jesus is where we draw it; anyone who seeks to follow Jesus and live his way of love and compassion is welcome."
Friends there will always be places where we disagree passionately on matters of politics or theology. Equally sincere folks see healthcare reform as long over due or as a colossal power grab by the Nanny state. Some regard immigration reform as extending hope to the newest seekers of the American dream; others see it as spear aimed at the heart of our national security. We will even disagree on how to read Scripture.
But can we agree that all that is needful to be in this community is seeking to grow into the image of Christ? Can we agree that all who name Jesus as Lord are our brothers and sisters? Can we agree that, however we understand the mechanics of ministry, our goal is to honor the command Jesus gave to his disciples, "A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another as I have loved you."
Let the living out of those words be our driving passion. And, unlike Lokai and Bele who devoted themselves to maintaing their bitterness to the very end, may our last battlefield bethe struggle to push back prejudice and transcend all that divides us from one another. AMEN
Beyond Getting the Kid Done, Mark 1:4-11, 1/11/09
"We just thought it was time to get the kid done." That response, which sounded more like the justification for spaying a cat than a reason for seeking the sacrament for your child, was my first clue that the couple in my office had not thought deeply about the purpose of baptism. They had a vague sense that babies are often baptized, but no idea why. Their ignorance was particularly obvious, but it was by no means unique. Over the years I have had several extended e-mail exchanges with campus ministry alumni who, for a variety of reasons, have ended up in congregations which do not practice infant baptism. Why, they ask, do Lutherans and others baptize persons before they make a decision for Christ? If you are not quite clear about why we baptize as we do, you are not alone. So today, as we celebrate the Baptism of our Lord in the church year, I want us to spend a few minutes thinking about baptism—where it came from, what it is, and why we do it the way we do.
I suspect that one of the reasons there is confusion about baptism is that the word and the ritual have a long history and multiple meanings. The verb, "baptizo", literally means to wash or dip or immerse. You can sacramentally baptizo a baby, but you can also baptizo the supper dishes. Baptism is a not a uniquely Christian idea or act, the ritual had a meaning long before the church adopted the practice.
As Jesus made his way to the river Jordan ritual washing had at least two meanings in Judaism. Judaism, along with many other religions, used water in ritual purification. Washing was a symbolic way of removing whatever uncleanliness had placed one outside the community and thus it marked a new beginning. Baptism was a sign of repentance and one's desire to live in accordance with God's way. The psalmist reflects this idea when he writes, "purge me with hyssop and I shall be clean, wash me and I shall be whiter than snow."
It is precisely this idea of cleansing, repentance, restoration, and a new start that John the Baptizer embodies. He does not so much call people to a new identity as he calls them to remember what it means to be a faithful child of the Jewish covenant. He understands baptism as a decision again to walk in accordance with the Law's call to faithfulness and justice.
A second common meaning of baptism in Judaism concerned the incorporation of proselytes into the community. By the first century it appears that converts often underwent a ritual washing as a sign of their new identity. So purification and initiation: two basic uses of baptism.
The point of this little lesson in liturgical history is to show you where some Christians get their idea of baptism. Those who practice only adult or "believer" baptism are drawing on this stream of worship practice. For them baptism is first and foremost a public proclamation by the person being baptized, a witness that sin has been removed, a new path chosen, and that the baptized has opted for a new identity. The focus is on repentance and the choice made by the one baptized. That is not the emphasis that Lutherans and others have chosen, but I think it is important to acknowledge that those who see baptism that way have plenty of biblical precedent. More to the point, this stream of thought emphasizes that discipleship is supposed to have some very concrete implications for how one lives, that being baptized is supposed to mean a serious reorientation of life and a daily commitment to live in a distinct way. Even if we do not choose adult baptism as the norm, we dare not lose the idea that Christian identity changes behavior.
One of the challenges of those who want to practice only believer baptism is that it is very hard to make the baptism of Jesus fit the pattern. Did Jesus come to John repenting and needing to turn from past sin? No, and certainly Jesus was not a convert, seeking entry into Judaism or John's inner circle. Baptism clearly meant something different for Jesus than it did for the others John baptized, but what? There is no single answer; a number of things happened that day at the Jordan.
Through his baptism Jesus set the tone for his public ministry; he identified with all those people who had come out to hear John preach. Did he need to repent and find a new direction? Of course not, but all those confused, struggling folks around him did—and Jesus sought to break down the barriers between himself and them by an act of humble submission. By accepting baptism he communicated a willingness to share their struggle.
It's a bit like what happens when our LSM students volunteer in my wife's kindergarten class. Every week the kids sing songs designed to teach them colors, numbers, and basic movement. Do the students need to learn those things? Most of them don't...but they join in robustly because by doing so they create a relationship which allows other good things to happen. By singing a silly song they communicate that they care for the kids. In the same way Jesus, unconcerned about his image, joins in so that he can reach out to those he will soon teach.
But Jesus' baptism is more than that. In Mark's gospel in particular it is clear that the most important thing which happens at Jesus baptism is that he receives clear assurance of his identity as beloved and chosen by God. In Matthew's version of the story the heavenly voice is addressed to the people, as though God were offering them a testimony to Jesus' specialness. But in Mark the voice addresses Jesus, "You are my beloved son, with you I am well pleased."
It will not be long before Jesus has ample reason to doubt his calling. He will be embroiled in disputes with religious and political elites, surrounded by clueless disciples, followed by those who only want to see a miracle, and finally cruelly rejected for speaking a word which calls for hard changes. But in this moment God assures him that come what may he is loved and chosen.
And that is absolutely critical because Jesus' baptism is also a commissioning. We know very little about Jesus' life between his birth and his appearance on the riverbank; Jesus' baptism marks the beginning of his public ministry. All the preparation is over; now he begins to live and teach the distinctive vision which both inspires and enrages. In his baptism Jesus sets aside the quiet life of a carpenter and accepts the mission entrusted to him by God.
But perhaps you are wondering what this all has to do with you. I've talked about what baptism meant to the Jews, John the Baptizer, and Jesus, but that is just so much quaint religious history unless it matters to us. What does baptism mean to us? What are we trying to say when we take a child and pour water on its head?
As an introduction to an answer let me share a little of my own spiritual journey, a little bit about why I am a Lutheran Christian. I can not remember a time when I was not deeply immersed in the church. Growing up Baptist in SC I attended two worship services and two religious classes every Sunday until I was out of high school. I heard more sermons by the time I was 15 than most people hear in a lifetime. I went down the aisle when I was eight, made my profession of faith, and was baptized by my grandfather. I liked church and for the most part found it meaningful. There was only one problem. I was a fretful, introspective little guy and I worried that I really did not believe enough, live devoutly enough, or have enough faith.
I looked around and all my church friends seem to have it all together—no doubts, no questions. But I had lots of questions, chief of which was when do you make the cut, when have you believed enough to call yourself a real child of god and not just someone going through the motions. I was sincere when I walked down the aisle at age eight to give my life to Jesus, but at 18 I realized I had no idea what I was doing ten years earlier—and how would I feel at 28 and 38. If being a Christian depended on me being sincere enough, faithful enough, and smart enough to know what I was doing—I knew I was in big trouble. My spiritual life was an emotional roller coaster of highs and crushing doubts.
And that is why I value the way Lutherans and others normally baptize, because when we take a child to the font we make it crystal clear that the crucial thing is not how good or smart or sincere the one being baptized is, but how wonderfully gracious God is. In the Jordan Jesus received an identity, assurance of God's love, and a commissioning to ministry; at the font we give the same to everyone on whose head we splash the water.
When I have the chance to baptize a child I find myself thinking something like this, "Oh little one you have no idea what is in store for you. Your life is going to have some great times, but there are going to be days when you weep in despair. Today we are giving you a gift nobody can take away. Today God pronounces a judgment which nothing can nullify. Before you can even name your need God says you are precious and loved. Today this community embraces you, not because you are sincere or smart or beautiful or properly penitent but solely because you are precious to God. But little one, when we splash this water on your head it's not the end but the beginning of your life in Christ. You will spend a lifetime trying to grow into the identity we give you today—a lifetime of making mistakes, of arguing with God, of hanging onto your faith when the world beats you blue—and moments of unspeakable joy. But know this little one: God loves you no matter what and will never let you go."
For some baptism is a sign of having arrived at some plateau of faith, for Lutherans it is the beginning of the journey. For some it is a public proclamation of their sincerity for us it is the public sign of God's faithfulness. For some baptism marks repentance, for us it is the marking of us by God. I do not say others are wrong. I just say that my emotions are too changeable to make them the basis of my Christian confidence. In times of struggle it is good to say, "I have been baptized; I know I am loved by God."
In the midst of a particularly horrible day in the trenches of World War I, the young soldier sought out the chaplain. "Father, after all I've seen in this hell hole I can't believe in God." The chaplain looked on him with gentleness and replied, "Maybe someday you will, but for right now just know that God believes in you." May each of us, washed and marked at the font, remember that in our own times of struggle. AMEN
Reclaiming Revelation—All Saints Sunday, 11/2/08
For years our state had a bumper sticker proclaiming, "Virginia is for lovers." Based on how some use the last book in the Bible you could easily have one that says, "Revelation is for whack jobs." When the survivalists bunker down in Waco or some isolated compound in Idaho, they invariably see their violence as part of the great end times struggle, spouting verses from Revelation to justify bizarre actions. Those paranoid people who think the scan code on a box of broccoli is the "mark of the beast" take their script from a strained interpretation of John's apocalypse. And all those sweaty preachers on cable TV, thundering about America's coming confrontation with the whore of Babylon (which they variously identify with everything from Bill Gates to Iran), are using the Bible's last book as a holy Ouija board to predict the immediate future. With fans like that the poor book doesn't need critics.
But it has had some. Revelation was the last book to enter the New Testament canon, almost missing the cut. Martin Luther had little use for it. He opined that a Revelation should be more revealing and rendered his blunt verdict,
"I miss more than one thing in this book, and it makes me consider it to be neither apostolic nor prophetic...I can in no way detect that the Holy Spirit produced it... they are supposed to be blessed who keep what is written in this book; and yet no one knows what that is, to say nothing of keeping it.
Many find the book simply offensive. Filled with gory, bloody images which glorify violence, it seems to delight in the prospect of God's vicious vengeance on those who are not among the chosen. On its face that seems far from the spirit of Jesus, who lived nonviolently and prayed for his enemies at the hour of his death.
But perhaps most troubling of all is that those who most love Revelation seem to hate life. Looking to the prospect of eternal bliss on the heavenly shore they often give up on making the planet on which they live a better place. When they see the agony of a broken world they seem to think Revelation calls them to provoke Armageddon, so that the day of the Lord will come sooner rather than later. Such interpretation reduces Christian discipleship to something akin to working in a sewer: you grit your teeth, hold your nose, and wait until quitting time and a payday beyond the stench. For what its worth, I'm with Luther; Revelation has never been one of my favorites either.
And yet....and Revelation is in the Bible. This book gives us some of the most memorable and joyous language in our liturgy, "This is the feast of victory for our God, for the lamb who was slain has begun his reign." From Revelation we get the vivid image of heaven as paved with streets of gold and the confession that Christ is the alpha and the omega. In bereavement mourners cling to the book's promise of a time when God will wipe away all our tears. Despite its faults, in times of crisis generations of Christians have found consolation and courage in this book.
If we look carefully we realize that it is not the Revelation which is the problem; it's the boneheaded and fear-filled interpretations of the text. At its core Revelation is a bold assertion of hope in the midst of struggle and an admonition to hold firm when it appears that God is absent.
Too often we have reduced Christian faith to nothing more than religious fire insurance, as though following Jesus is only about getting your ticket punched for the holy Amtrack to Heavenly Acres. That is an escapist mistake which robs faith of any relevance to our daily lives. But future hope is an important part of Christian faith. The saints through the ages have lived and died sustained by the confidence that the difficult path of discipleship finally does bring us to God's perfect presence. It is just as much a distortion to make Christian faith nothing more than social justice and ethics as it is to reduce it to "pie in the sky bye and bye." So on this All Saints Sunday, as we remember those who have labored in the faith before us, let's pause to reclaim some of Revelation's message which has enlightened and sustained believers through the centuries.
One of the reasons people respond to Revelation is its brutal honesty about the nature of life and discipleship. Some hysterically claim martyrdom when their efforts to impose a narrow brand of Christianity on society are frustrated. But, in fact, it has been a very long time since Christians in our country experienced anything worth calling "persecution." For 99% of us the only thing that keeps us from worshipping each week is a preference for sleeping in an extra hour and then enjoying a leisurely breakfast with the Sunday paper at Starbucks. In our cozy world, it's easy to think that, except for a little inconvenience and a few bucks, there is no cost of discipleship. John knows better and his apocalypse is unflinching in its assessment.
In the little snippet of Revelation which is our second lesson there is great joy and celebration around the throne of God. But those rejoicing are those who "have come out of the great tribulation, who have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the lamb." There is metaphor here, to be sure, but it also refers to the persecution which the church was living daily. John wrote to a community whose members had seen the very real blood of their friends, siblings, parents, and children splattered because they dared to confess the way of Jesus. John had no illusions: The world does not welcome a Jesus who really wants to change injustice. The world reacts violently when a church stands up for the vulnerable. The empire, whether Rome or latter day power structures, does not take kindly to any challenges to its authority.
John gave voice to what his community was going through, candidly admitting that there are times when God seems far away and faith a fool's folly. He refused to sugarcoat the demands of discipleship; "Yes," he says, "following this Jesus may cost you dearly, you have to be prepared for that."
Oddly enough, that hard, but honest word has given strength to Christians through the centuries. In Roman prisons, during Reformation debates, on the streets of Selma and Birmingham, and in Central American congregations decimated by death squads, the saints have heard the words of Revelation and remembered that they are not the first or the last to be called to painful faithfulness. In reading this old story, the besieged have felt less alone.
Our call to faithfulness will not be so dramatic as facing lions in a Roman coliseum, but we should at least realize that truly serving Jesus means swimming against the stream. These are days when nativism and appeal to prejudice win elections, when economic anxiety makes it hard to be open-handed, when choosing commitment over instant sexual gratification is derided as quaint, when it is easy to fear the stranger in our midst. Taking Jesus seriously has always inspired strong opposition. We can expect no less. When we feel the pressure against us it is good to remember those who have stood firm through the centuries.
Yet Revelation does more than look to the past; it is most of all a confident glimpse of the future. By that I don't mean John's witness is a coded prophecy, an allegory which neatly matches up to this morning's headlines. Read the book yourself. John makes it perfectly clear that his book is a vision, a dream, a pulling back of the veil, or as our liturgy puts it, "a foretaste of the feast to come."
Some years ago I spent about six weeks of a sabbatical at Holden Village, a remote retreat center in the Cascade Mountains of Washington state. I did a lot of reading and thinking, but I also did a lot of walking. Virtually every day I hiked out of the village into the wilderness. By the end of my time at Holden I had ticked off just about every destination within a day's hike of the village. But there was one distant alpine lake I had not gotten to. Everyone told me it was perhaps the most beautiful and pristine place in the area, but it was high in the mountains. Even though it was early June, the word was that the end of the trail was covered in snow so deep that you could not hike it without snowshoes. But my time at Holden was almost over; I did not have time to wait for the summer melt. So I browbeat my friend Anne into heading out with me on the chance that we could get through.
What a magnificent day it was. The early hours went quickly as we walked along a creek in the valley. Then we turned up the mountain and sweat poured down my face. On we plodded until three things happened: the trail grew faint to the point of disappearing, the snow appeared and grew progressively deeper, and the sun began to inch toward the horizon. Standing in snow up to our thighs we had to make a decision. We were already tired and had a long hike back to beat sunset. We really did not want to be bear bait in the dark. How much longer could we go on?
Anne had already made her decision and was turning back when I saw a brief flash through the dark forest cover. I took ten more steps and realized that the faint flash had been the late afternoon sun glinting off the lake. We struggled the last 100 yards and were rewarded with magical moment on top of the world.
I shudder to think how close I came to missing that view. Every reasonable instinct told us to turn around, but one little glimpse of what lay ahead made the difference. One tiny sign that it might all be worth it put strength in our legs and joy in our hearts...You see where this is going.
The book Revelation is a glorious glimpse of where the holy hike of history is going: Beyond the pain, beyond the uphill climb, beyond the doubts that you can take one more step is beauty and serenity you can hardly imagine. In a word, the struggle to follow Jesus on the rugged path is worth it.
Cynics will say that John's vision is all wishful thinking or, more malevolently, that the whole gospel proclamation is a fairy tale the church has told adults to keep them placid and passive in the face of crushing injustice: "Just accept your wretched lot because God will make it up to you in the sweet hereafter." To its shame the church has sometimes been an unprotesting party to oppression of the poor, selling its benediction for power and influence.
Yet let's be clear. Neither Jesus nor John of Revelation suggests that we abandon our world just because we live in the confident hope that death and destruction are doomed. Just because we trust in the reality of heaven; it need not follow that we care nothing about our earth.
And the people who most persuade me that hope in the future does not have to mean contempt for the present are the folks we remember with special thanksgiving this day, the saints who have completed their earthly journey and rest with Christ. During the past few weeks I attended the funerals of two congregational members, Dorothy Wiss and Sylva Stoevner. A lot of things were said about them at those services, but this is what I most remember: Both lived in a deep and confident hope of the life beyond the grave, yet each was deeply involved in giving of herself as long as she had breath to do it. Hope in the resurrection did not cause them to abandon life in the here and now; quite the contrary, it seemed to energize them, to free them from self-pity and fear to enrich all those around them.
If you think for just a moment I am sure you will call to mind others who were for you a living testimony that hope in the future gives joyous power in the present. Christian faith is more than hope in life after death—but it is not less. So on this day, let us give thanks for the faithful saints who have endured all manner of suffering and struggle, and now hand on to us the witness of service and joy in Christ. May we, glimpsing the glint on the far off lake, keep ascending the trail of discipleship, filled with hope and thanksgiving for God's presence beside us every step of the way. AMEN
Golden Bull—Past and Present, Exodus 32, 10/12/08
Strictly speaking I suppose my first Bible was a little white New Testament someone gave my mother right after I was born, but the one I remember as my Bible was a Christmas gift from my grandmother when I was eight years old. It was a King James Version, with a black leatherette cover, red letters where Jesus was speaking, and a zipper. And it also had about eight color plates illustrating Bible stories. Since then I've pondered how someone decided which stories to feature—Why did David and Goliath, Noah and the Ark, Samson pulling down the Philistines' temple, and Daniel in the lion's den get a picture, when most of the New Testament missed the cut? But that's the way it was; I guess the editors thought those stories were the most visually exciting.
Today's Old Testament lesson, a relatively obscure story, also rated a picture in my Bible. There Moses was, looking a bit like God the father on the roof of the Sistine Chapel, angrily smashing the stone tablets of the law. In the background you could see the golden bull surrounded by frenzied dancers. One of my Sunday school teachers thought Moses was upset because they were dancing (this was a conservative Baptist church after all), but most folks agreed that the golden calf, not the dancing, was the real problem.
And to tell you the truth, the story never made a lot sense to me. The first 31 chapters of Exodus are all about how God delivers Israel from Egypt. God defeats Pharaoh's army, feeds the children of Israel in the wilderness, and leads them to Mt. Sinai. But then, just because Moses is gone for a few days, the people melt down their jewelry, make a statue, and start dancing. I figured you'd have to be dumber than a sack of slugs to trade the track record of YHWH for a literally homemade god. Even an eight year old could see this was idolatry, plain and simple, and that it was not going to come out well for Israel.
But this week as I revisited this story I realized that it's deeper than we might suspect at first glance. To be sure, there is little danger that we're going to replace bread and wine with a golden bull on our altar, but this story tells us something about the subtle nature and danger of idolatry. And for that reason it is worth our attention. Idols come in all shapes and sizes and this ancient story is as current as a text message on your cell.
Let's start by being clear about what we're discussing. As long as we think of idols as something from an Indiana Jones movie, stone relics of dead civilizations, it's hard to see how the topic has much relevance to us. But an idol is simply what we treat as our God; some look like statues, most don't. In his Large Catechism Luther lays it out clearly, "A god is that to which we look for all good and in which we find refuge in every time of need. To have a god is nothing else than to trust and believe him with our whole heart. As I have often said, the trust and faith of the heart alone make both God and idol."
So the issue is not whether we bow down before a carved figure; its what we trust at crunch time, what we look to for direction when we are confused, what we serve with our energy, time, and resources. Idolatry is simply giving our trust to anything less than God, and we tend to do that when we get scared.
Last week Lisa and Josh, a couple of LSM alums, were back in town for a visit, and they brought Lydia, their 10 month old baby. As we sat talking in a circle over in the campus center, we passed Lydia around and she was as mellow as could be, giggling and smiling without a care in the world. Just before heading down the road, Josh and Lisa decided to use the facilities and so they handed their bundle of smiles to me. Lydia was fine for a few seconds, but then you see her thoughts in the suddenly wide eyes, "Whoa! I am all by myself with this strange man and his cheesy mustache. I don't see Mom. I don't see Dad. I am on my own. Houston, we have a problem."
And it's just this anxious dynamic which we see in today's lesson. As long as Moses was around the people kept their fears at bay. Moses was a reminder of all that God had done, that through the tough times, God had been dependable. But then Moses went up on the mountain and they were afraid. Left at the bottom of the Mount Sinai they had to trust that the wild, untamed God who had led them through the Red Sea was still there. "But what if God isn't really with us for the long haul?" they asked, "What if we're on our own now?" And so they asked Aaron to give them a tangible sign of divine presence, something they could look at and hold in their trembling hands.
We can relate can't we? It's fairly easy to trust God when things are going well and each day feels like a fresh vindication that we are God's favored children. But when our retirement account goes into free fall we are likely to value stable annuities over the assurance of God's love. It's fine to confess trust in God in the safe confines of this nave, but when we feel besieged by terrorism we are likely to trust big guns and intrusive surveillance more than assurances that God will be with us come what may. We grasp for the symbols of obvious power and control to deny the sense of vlunerability. We do that even as we know deep in our gut that none of these things are going to make for true security, that these idols we create with our own hands are frail deities indeed.
Most scholars believe that the golden calf in our story more precisely refers to a young bull, which was a common symbol of power and virility in ancient fertility religions. How excruciatingly poetic then, that some of the television stories documenting the financial crisis this past week included a shot of "Charging Bull" the iconic statue which represents unbridled Wall Street optimism. The idol in which so many had trusted could not guarantee security after all.
Please don't think I am taking some perverse pleasure in the failures on Wall St; too many people are suffering for anyone to find such satisfaction. But there is a parable here, an important truth which we disregard at our peril: whether at the foot of Sinai or in lower Manhattan the bulls inevitably can't deliver. We grasp for something which seems unshaking and discover that life is just too uncertain to trust in anything less than God. Faithfulness is finally about letting go of idols and resting in God's care.
But notice, resting in God's care is not primarily trusting God to provide our desires; rather, it means making God's priorities our own. Our text says the people came to Aaron and said, "Make us gods who shall go before us." It's easy to miss the significance of those words. To this point it is YHWH who has gone before the people, God who has led the way and determined the direction. This is a god as free as the desert wind; God leads, the people follow. But now the people want a god they can domesticate, a god they can control, a god they can carry into battle like a secret weapon, a god they can trot out and attempt to use for their own benefit.
This is the fundamental difference between faithful devotion and idolatrous religion. One seeks the will of God, the other attempts to domesticate the language and reality of god for a lesser loyalty. Devotion follows wherever God leads, whether the way is easy and attractive or not. Idolatry charts a path and expects God to smooth it out. And what makes it so difficult is that sometimes it is hard to tell the difference. Nobody consciously sets out to serve the golden calf, but our fears and longings muddle our thinking until we may subtly betray our God. Notice, Israel did not simply reject God; they added an idol to what looked like their normal devotion to YHWH. It's easy for us to do the same. Let me give you an example.
"God—bless—America." That's a phrase we have heard a lot during this political season. Candidates use it; the words punctuate most major speeches like an "amen" at the end of a sermon. But let me ask you, when that phrase is spoken, how do most speakers intend it and how do you hear it? Is it a humble petition: "May God find this country worthy of favor and pour out blessing upon it that we may be a holy people and signs of God's mercy and care to all the world." Is it a statement: "God must surely bless this nation because we are especially virtuous and deserving of reward." Or is it dangerously close to a demand, "My country right or wrong, and I expect you, God, to bless it." I suggest to you that only the first meaning is worthy of a Christian and yet most of the time the words are used as a statement or demand of god, which is to say in a way which betrays an idolatrous attitude.
I love our country as much as anyone, but as Lincoln famously observed in the middle of the Civil War, the critical question is not whether God is on our side, but whether we are on God's side. The moment we attempt to treat God as the "stepin fetchit" servant and guarantor of our comfort and priorities, rather than saying to God, with the prophet Isaiah, "Here am I, send me," we are one step from dancing around the golden bull.
And that is why I've had us thinking about idolatry this morning, because it's such a seductive temptation in scary, disoriented days. When the world seems complex we long for simplicity. When the world seems dangerous we seek scapegoats. When the pie is shrinking we are not sure we can afford the luxury of compassion for the stranger. Most of all we are not sure we dare serve the god whose face we see in Jesus. That god bids us love our enemies, do good to those who persecute us, give generously to the poor, and seek first to do righteousness, trusting that all else which is truly needful will come. How much easier it is to retreat to our private bunkers and give devotion to the greatest idol of all, "Me first."
My friends we sit here less than a month from a very important election. In contrast to some preachers in the news last week, I am not going to give you a party or candidate endorsement from the pulpit (not that it make a great difference if I did). But I will urge you to ask what it means to serve the God of scripture as you vote. I will invite you to make the life and witness of Jesus Christ the center of your discernment. I will ask you to think about what golden bulls you are tempted to worship when you feel insecure.
Politics will not solve our deepest problems; to believe that it will is to substitute yet one more idol for God. But if we are serious about discipleship then our politics—just like our prayers, and marriage, and job, and friendships—will reflect our Lord's vision.
But more than that, we, the people of God, have a tremendous word of hope to offer our nation in these uncertain times. If we dare we can speak the same word Isaiah spoke in behalf of God to a very scared people during Israel's exile, "Do not fear, for I am with you, do not be afraid, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my victorious right hand."
That is the word which comes to us this day, that is the word we are called to speak to all who tremble when Wall St. quakes. That is what we offer the world instead of golden bull. AMEN