SERMON OCTOBER 15, 2006

Amos 5:6-7, 10-15; Hebrews 4:12-16; Mark 10:17-31 I think it was Kierkegaard who remarked that Jesus has many admirers, but few followers. And no wonder. After Amos blasts the comfortable people of his day and us with the sad truth of our sins—our pushing aside the needy at the gate, and the author of the Letter to the Hebrews reminds us that the word of God is piercing and active, sharper than any 2 edged sword, here comes Jesus looking with love at the rich man—or so the text tells us--and telling him he should sell all he has, give the money to the poor, and then come follow me.” “Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Now that’s the question isn’t it? The question you and I are asking in some measure or we wouldn’t be here this morning at all. We’d be home reading the paper, or still sleeping in, or we’d be at a soccer game, or doing the laundry, or who knows what? What must I do to live in good relationship with God and with my neighbor? What must I do to be –not just an admirer—but a follower of Christ? And, if truth be known many of us if not most of us here this morning—don’t need to hear Amos’ ranting. We don’t need to hear it and we don’t want to hear it because we already have some inkling that what he’s saying is the truth. He’s describing some of our reality when he speaks of our evil time. And its not that you or I have been taking bribes or physically pushing aside the poor at the gate—although in truth, there have been mornings when more than one of us has stepped over the body of a poor person lying at our gate here at the Church of the Incarnation. It’s not that we are most rich or most powerful. Some of us have never been wealthy, never had much to let go of to give to the poor. Many of us are just trying to pay our bills, take care of our families, and make good on our pledge. That’s the truth. But in today’s world we also know you and I that we are among the richest people on the planet. My income and the income of most of you who have income is in the top 1-4% of all incomes earned by the billions of people in the world. And, you and I use up and inordinate amount of the natural resources of the world to maintain this lifestyle we enjoy. We know these facts. We know them. And we know that the gap between the wealthiest nations and the poorest nations is getting worse not better—and in our own country the gap between the richest and the poor is the highest of any of the so-called first world countries—highest in the world really with the exception of Brasil. You probably knew that before you came here this morning. If you are like me you know all these facts and they are unsettling. I know that my comfort is built on the hard work and hard lives of people who live in distant countries working for a pittance—many of them in terrible working conditions. I can’t figure out how to buy clothes, electronics, or almost anything these days that isn’t made in China. And when I do I wonder about who made that shirt and what they got paid and what conditions they live under. I think of these folks as the poor at the gate. They join the other poor at the gate who live right here in Santa Rosa. You and I are related to them. Maybe some Christians don’t see any connection between following Christ and these realities of our own evil time. But anyone who is here this morning and has heard these lessons, or anyone who has really read much of the gospels knows that just isn’t the case. The Bible, I’ve heard, has something to say about money and riches more than almost any other ethical issue –and you may be shocked to know that Scripture says much much more about money than it does about sex for example. That’s a pity… when you consider how most of us seem to talk about sexual practice so much and how we avoid talking about money and possessions. Our wealth is something worth thinking about—worth struggling about—worth bringing to God. Wealth to a large extent tends to order our relationships—wealth and class together, which in many ways are so deeply intertwined. Jesus I think here is talking about relationship. He’s telling the rich man to release his grip on his wealth and sell all his possessions and give them to the poor. He’s maybe telling him that by doing so he’ll grow closer to the precious fragility of life and to those who live there day in and day out. Then, he will be able to come and follow Jesus. . . Maybe that’s what he meant…. He’s telling him he will know the fullness of life when he lets go of everything his culture has told him is the fullness of life. I have to confess to you that I’m not sure I trust Jesus on this one. And this is no joke. I read somewhere that if you want to find out if you really believe the rich man should give away all his possessions ask yourself how you’d react if he were one of your children. Let’s just imagine for example, that Francis had been your son? (Francis of Assisi I mean) You are a hardworking and successful merchant—taking good care of your family. So, once when you are away on a business trip, Francis takes your hard-earned cloth out of the warehouse where you’d stored it for sale and he sells it to raise money for some lamebrain effort to rebuild a falling-down chapel over there in Graton I think it is. What if things get to a place where you decide to bring the issue up to your community. So you all gather in the downtown plaza -- all the city fathers and perhaps a few city mothers, and even the Bishop –and there you are and Francis walks down the middle of this group stark naked with his fine clothing (which you’d paid for) in a pile in his hands, and the money he earned from selling your cloth in a little bag on the top of the pile—and while everyone gasped out loud he hands you the clothes and the money and tells you that he’d called you Father for all his life, but now he was giving his life to his Father in heaven. What would you think? What feelings of loss would lie under your anger and embarrassment? What concerns? Would you worry about his safety? His comfort? His health? What about his retirement plan? And to bring it to a more contemporary times. What if you were the mother of Teresa? Mother Teresa. And one day she comes to you and tells you, “I’m selling all my possessions and going to India to pick up the dying by the roadsides and care for them. This will be my life.” What if your child said that to you? What would be your reaction? Your fears? Concerns? Would you trust that this radical act would actually bring her closer to God? Would that make up for the loss of material security? Would you tell her that you are glad someone is picking up the dying along the roads of India but you didn’t want it to be her. Would you ask her to consider the Peace Corps—only a two year commitment. What would that mean—your reaction? Can you trust Jesus’ words for your own child? I’m not sure that you and I really believe we can find the fullness of life by releasing our material possessions. Funny isn’t it? Since of course at the end of our lives we will all do just that. We will do exactly that. Finally perhaps we will explore what Jesus had in mind. A little late though to live into its truth in our bodies. I don’t have the answers. I keep working at the answers for myself and thinking about the answers for us. But I do know three things. Jesus is serious. His words about selling possessions and giving the money to the poor need to be taken seriously if we want to be his followers. His words about leaving lands, and houses and family to follow him are ways of telling us what is most important. Our relationship with God and with others. We are called as Christ’s friends were to let go of the things that separate us from one another and God. This is not about charity. It is not about sending a check off some where. Maybe it’s about talking together about what’s enough. Maybe it is about taking stock, it is about talking to one another—sharing our struggles and our doubts—it’s about wondering together how we can begin to choose life in the midst of the tangled webs of death that are real. It’s about praying together and supporting one another as we make our choices to ungrasp our hands. Jesus loves us. He loves the ones who leave and the ones who are left. He calls us both—Francis and his father. Both of us to leave and to let go. Jesus has called us because he loves us. He looks at us with love—every moment of every day. He loves us and then he calls us. And, finally, of course, the greatest of the goodest news: we don’t have to do it. Grind our teeth and do it. We don’t earn the kingdom—the fullness of life—by divesting ourselves of all our possessions with gritted teeth. We don’t earn the kingdom by clutching at our goods either. We don’t earn it at all. Letting go and opening the gates to our relationship with the poor—to the knowledge of our own poverty—is a spiritual practice that is essential. And for you and me in this time and place that may well be about our material possessions. But God’s grace is what’s at work. Not our doing. Our longing for relationship with him—our longing for meaningful life—here right now—our coming together here to be fed—to acknowledge that our doing is not enough—all of these are honored by the One who came among us in love. Transformation is not easy—never painless. But: no transformation is impossible for God. None. Not mine, not yours. None.

SERMON 9.24.06

A few weeks ago Eric, my oldest son, and Sawyer, one of my granddaughters, and I went to visit my other son and his family in Chico. While we were there we visited a Farm Animal Sanctuary. It was an amazing place—in the middle of farm country in the foothills of northern California. It provides a safe place and care for farm animals who have in one way or another been rescued from industrialized farming and slaughter houses. Sheep, cows, pigs, chickens, and turkeys… As you can imagine part of the walking around tour provided by the Sanctuary is devoted to telling the story of how it is for the animals NOT in the sanctuary—those who are raised for meat. Sawyer, my granddaughter is six. And some of the literature at this place was almost more than an adult could bear to look at. And that’s a fact. We’re not talking family farm here or Native Americans hunting deer. So my son, thinking about all this, went to the tour guide and asked if we could have a tour lite—kind of like a latte—if you know what I mean. We wanted to see the benefits of the sanctuary without dwelling on the horrors of why it exists. Those seemed to be too much and inappropriate to ask a child to live into. And so we got the Lite Tour—and I thought about that when I read today’s Gospel lesson. For it is not Lite. Quite the contrary. This gospel lesson is a scandal. Think about it. It starts with Jesus telling his friends that he will be killed and in three days rise again. This is a private discussion—just between him and his disciples—no crowds, no Pharisees or scribes—no rich young man. Jesus and his friends and he tells them he will be betrayed and killed and rise again. Betrayal and murder—not a pretty picture—whatever the “rise again” might mean. And God knows his friends didn’t seem to have a clue about any of it. And like you and me I venture to say, when they hear these words that lead them down paths they do not want to go they change the subject. They do not ask for clarification. They do not respond at all. They talk amongst themselves not about death, but about something else, anything really—they talk about who is the greatest among them. It is as though they had not heard Jesus at all. Not at all. You know this kind of conversation. We know about this. You and I. We know about how to avoid the ugliness that might lie ahead. So, let us not make light (lite) of these disciples and their argument about the greatest. Let’s not ridicule them. Let’s not comfort ourselves thinking we’d never go down that path. A mother tells her son she is is dying. He talks to her about his business ventures and how well they are doing. A child asks the question, “Where is Uncle Harry? Why isn’t he here this Thanksgiving?” “Why don’t you run along now, go outside and play. We’ll call you when dinner is ready.” The rejection that Jesus faces—from both this friends and the powers that be—stand in such stark contrast to the welcoming of the child. We move from betrayal and killing to a child. It’s a scandal this lesson. Who would bring a child into this mix? The betrayal and killing are of the kind that no adult wants to talk about. They are of a kind that soldiers returning from war do not speak of—except in monotones to fellow soldiers—the horror of it lasts a lifetime. There is no way to put words to it really—not in normal society—whatever that is. Who would bring a child into this? Rejection at the front end—welcoming at the backside. This is Jesus. What are we to make of this? You and I? How could it be that Jesus calls us to welcome a child—the least, the most powerless, the least able to pay us back for our hospitality, the most likely to forget us the minute someone more interesting comes along? What might this mean that we are invited to welcome the child? We are told in welcoming this child we are welcoming God? A child and Jesus. God’s ways are clearly not ours. I mean that’s one thing we can say—can’t we? Our diocesan transition committee has been planning for our new bishop’s ordination in Sacramento next weekend. 20 Bishops from around the country are expected. That’s a lot of bishops. And we’ve spent a lot of time figuring out hw to meet them, greet them, transport them, party them, and honor them. But when someone asked me if we were providing child care I had to admit that we aren’t. And there are a thousand good reasons why not. But the fact remains. This is who we are. This is symbolic of the issue for us. We welcome the ones we perceive to have power. We have forgotten the little ones. God would have it otherwise. James’ irritating little letter continually reminds me of this. The wisdom that comes from above—from God—is not like the wisdom we usually grasp after. You and I –we’re conflicted—right? We’re like those that James describes who get into trouble because their desires are so many and so much in conflict with each other that they run after one thing and another and forget about God. When I get what I want, what will I have? That’s a good question to ponder. When I get what I want, what will I have? So many of my desires—are just mine. Purely about me. James reminds me that desires ordered by the divine always involve others. They are not defined by a heart turned in on itself. No. True wisdom is not just about spouting wise saying and looking holy—or holier than thou. It’s about living into relationship with God and with others. If you want to know how much wisdom you currently have—look to the quality of your relationships. That’s James for you. And I suspect that’s God for you. And, those relationships may involve pigs and children and chickens as well as your husband and wife or your neighbor or your Uncle Harry—wherever he is! How would we organize an ordination of a bishop and make our priority welcoming the children, or young adults, or the homeless or others who are powerless or not usually here—the beneath our radar folk--? How would we organize our business lives to let the least powerful in? Make decisions? How can we open our arms and ourselves to those we are least likely to let ourselves notice? What are we talking about here? This is crazy. The world doesn’t work this way. Which may be the point. God’s ways are not our ways. Somehow Jesus betrayed, and on the cross, and resurrected is the key. How this man—the serenity and spaciousness of his life*—a life not driven by fear of death—how that life could walk into rejection, into the jaws of ignominious death—death so horrific you wouldn’t want to talk about it—not among adults and never with children present. How that death and resurrection act could give us the promise and hope that our own lives are not bound up in fear of death. How that freedom could set us free to enter any place—the farm sanctuary lite, the realities of industrialized farming—the deathliness of our world, wherever: Iraq, Lebanon, Washington, DC, the streets of Santa Rosa, Darfur, the poverty of Oakland and the realities of our immigrants living in the canyons, the child left behind, the empty streets of New Orleans, the pain of marriages breaking apart, of parents and spouses with Alzheimers, the angst of the spiritually rootless. I could go on and on. There is no place we dare not tread. No truth too hard to enter. No darkness too dark. No innocence too precious. No child too vulnerable that we cannot welcome them. To do so is to open ourselves to God. God’s very self. Don’t think this comes in a flash or a moment of insight. It takes some getting used to. There is fear that the promise might not be true. It involves change. It is a slow process this process of attaining wisdom-- of being brought up into being human. This conversion into the truth that you and I were not meant to live as beings bent toward death. Our destiny is to live into the fullness of life. And we do that by drawing near. Like those disciples—God love them—who in spite of their fear, their doubts, and ignorance. In spite of Jesus chastising and challenging them in the most outrageous ways—in spite of all that they kept coming back. Think of it. They kept journeying on. Kept putting themselves in the place where they could be transformed and healed and made new. Draw near to God, God will draw near to you, says James. Here we do the same this morning. God’s ways are not our ways. We long to be transformed and made new. To be set free from the fear of death. We long to learn to live as God calls us. So, somehow we stay put --trusting that wisdom from on high that comes from the lowliest of places. Oink. Oink. ** This phrase and the discussion of the ideas of Rene Girard in “Violence Undone” an interview with James Alison, Christian Century, Sept. 5, 2006.