SERMON, August 24, 2008

Exodus 1.8-2.10; Matthew 16.13-20

Some time back at the close of an evening service I went about the church extinguishing candles, and discovered a woman lying asleep in the back pew. I very gently woke her up, by touching her lightly on the arm and telling her that the service was over and she would have to leave. She sat up, angry with me, and said, “You should treat me with respect.” I thought I had. She said, “Do you know who I am?” I said, “Yes,” because I had seen her around town and around the church. But I realized as the word came out of my mouth, that really, I had no idea who she was. I’d seen her, I could describe her looks, I’d had a couple of brief conversations with her, I knew only a few things about her. I even knew how some other people described her, who they thought she was. But, the truth is that I did not know who she was.

Who do people say that I am? Jesus asks his friends. This is an important question, isn’t it? Because our relationships with others often hinge on who they think we are. Their understandings of who we are, their judgments, their conclusions. We see this in that great story we heard this morning from Exodus. The Israelites who had been viewed as welcomed guests during the time of Joseph and the Pharaoh he worked for—are now viewed by the current Pharaoh as dangerous, aliens to be feared, and controlled. In fact, the Pharaoh decides to make slaves of them—use them as forced labor. He imagines a future when they might rise up to fight against the Egyptians do he tries to make sure they won’t multiply by having the Hebrew midwives kill the male babies. Kind of silly really. The things we do when we make our judgments. . .

The story is filled with irony. And so much of the action hinges on these judgments the powers that be make about who the Israelites are—and who of them is dangerous. The Pharaoh ignores the girl babies, ignores the women really—and they are the ones who do him in. These two midwives Shiprah and Puah go down in biblical history as perhaps the first examples of civil disobedience, we have. Midwives are all about assisting birth, saving lives—they are not about killing. So they lie to the Pharaoh and say they just keep getting to the birthing too late. Because of their refusal to go along with the edict of the ruling power, Moses is born. His mother hides him as long as she can, and then puts him in that little basket and sends him down the Nile—she hopes to life rather than death. When the daughter of the Pharaoh sees the baby she has compassion and rescues him. She knows full well that he is a Hebrew child—but her compassion cannot be contained within the bounds set by her own father. Then in a hilarious finale, through the suggestion of his sister, the Pharaoh’s daughter hires Moses’ own mother to nurse him. What a great story! I can’t help but smile every time I read it.

It’s a story about how beneath the radar so to speak—off the grid—God is at work in the actions, the courage, the wile, of those unnoticed by the powers that be. Somehow God’s grace is operating in the midst of oppression. Small acts to preserve life, to undermine the death-dealing ways of the Pharaoh make all the difference. Surprise! The least likely group of powerless people came together to change history. Two midwives, a mother, a sister, and a daughter—Hebrew and Egyptian. A conspiracy of the unnoticed, the unknown. Definitely not headline material, nonetheless: God’s creative energy at work in the world.

The story echoes with our Gospel story this morning. Just as the Pharoah’s choice to identify the Israelites as dangerous aliens, and the women as not worthy of attention was crucial in the unfolding of that story—so too the answer to Jesus’ questions were vital to the story of the early church community. “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” Jesus says referring to himself. Who do they say I am?

Interesting how the disciples answer with a list of dead people. Dead prophets. John the Baptist, only recently dead at Herod’s hand. Elijah, the wonder worker, miracle worker, the one who heard the still small voice, carried up to heaven on a chariot. Jeremiah, and other prophets. Clearly people see Jesus as a prophet. And that must mean they see in him the creative energy of God at work—energy that cannot be stopped by the powers that be. The job of the prophet is to speak or enact the truth of God and thus enable it to move in the world. By uttering the words of god the Hebrew prophets in a sense unleashed God’s words on the world—brought them to life. Whatever else people make of Jesus they see in him that same unstoppable creative power of God at work. In their own day. In their time. In their midst.

“Who do you say that I am?” Uh, oh. I was afraid that might be coming next. Where the rubber meets the road. So much easier to report what others think and say. I imagine a pregnant pause here in the text. . . a bit of silence. No one speaks. . . . Then Peter as is often case, blurts out “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God!” There it is. Spoken out loud. Again I imagine a silence. The words hang there perhaps.

The Messiah—which means the anointed one. The oiled one, the one on whom God’s favor and call rests. Kings were anointed—as a sign of their chosen-ness by God. And to be honest, in Jesus’ day and even in Matthew’s day there were differing opinions about the Messiah—whether he would be a king, a warrior, a prophet—whether he would free his people from the Romans, or what. No one could be sure.

So we can’t be sure what Peter had in mind when those words came out of his mouth. Although we can’t help thinking that the same creative energizing power of God “the living God” that we heard about in the story of the midwives is present in Jesus—and Peter knows it. And he identifies Jesus as the Messiah. The anointed one—one full of divinity. One identified in a way as we are at baptism when we are marked with oil and proclaimed as Christ’s own forever. That is who we are. Jesus was God’s own beloved son forever. In his deepest being that is who he is.

Jesus tells Peter that he is right, but that this truth has come to him, not from the judgments of the world, but from God. This recognition of who Jesus is—is not something apparently that any person strolling by making typical judgments about folks—about who is important and who isn’t, who is dangerous and to be avoided, and who isn’t, who is worthy of notice and who isn’t—this recognition probably wouldn’t come to a person operating according to those standards of judgment. Like the Pharaoh misjudging the Israelites and the women—those ways of thinking won’t lead you to know who Jesus is. It takes a leap of faith maybe, the gift of insight, the eyes to see beneath the surface of things, the heart to risk loving God in the small, in the surprising, in the upside-downness of life. That’s what it takes.

Jesus tells his friends not to tell anyone. Not to talk about who he is with others. I suspect that’s because even though Peter has said the words, has identified who Jesus is, he still doesn’t really have much of a clue what those words mean. He hasn’t yet learned what kind of a Messiah Jesus is. How the Son of the Living God will live, and die, and rise to new life, how he will be present God-with-us no matter what. He hasn’t much of a clue—in spite of the miracles and the teaching, and the journeying with, he still has a lot to learn, a lot to grow into.

It’s in that growing up and growing into the truth of who Jesus is that Peter will be formed and transformed, and live out his life of faith. The same is true for each of us—and for us a community. Most of us can answer the question of who others say Jesus is. A great teacher, a prophet, a moral example, perhaps—or maybe even someone not worth considering. Maybe that. None of those answers touches on the creative energizing grace of the Living God so tangible in the story from Exodus and in Jesus’ own life.

The central question for us is of course, who do you, who do we say that Jesus is. What kind of a Messiah is he to us, today, right now. In the lives we lead. In the country we live in. In the world we are a part of. How do we find the Messiah among us? Do we encounter the creative energy of the Living God at work in our lives? in our families? at our workplaces? Perhaps in surprising ways, perhaps in little ways, perhaps in the lives of people that don’t make the headlines. Perhaps in folks who quietly say no to oppression—to deathliness. People who take risks, entrusting themselves to the grace of the living God.

Often when I officiate at weddings of young couples I think about the adventure they commit themselves to as they take their vows. The adventure of getting to know who they are marrying, and who they are themselves. it’s all about relationship. It takes time and commitment. It takes attentiveness and openness. And, always, even after many years, there is mystery—some un-knownness.

The Messiah, the Son of the Living God, beckons and invites us to an adventure: to know him and the God who lives within him. Like Peter, we too are on the road. We are still learning who Jesus is—and who we are and are becoming as followers of his. This is our calling. To enter this relationship with the expectation that it will take us to surprising places; it will transform us. . . we too will live as channels of that creative living grace. AMEN.

SERMON, August 17, 2008

Isaiah 56:1, 6-8; Romans 11:1-2a, 29-32; Matthew 15:21-28

In this morning’s wonderful passage from Isaiah we hear of the radical inclusivity of God. How the people who themselves were the outcasts—exiled from their land, sent away to live under the thumb of their oppressors—these people will be gathered up and brought home. Shockingly they learn that the God who is gathering them together is also gathering up those who are outcasts in their own society—the eunuchs and the foreigners. God who gathers the outcasts of Israel will gather others to them besides.

Who among us here this morning has not felt like an outcast? Is there anyone here who has not at one time or another felt out of it? Not a good fit? Not part of the in-group? Not powerful? Not a member of the club? Even among the folks you’d judge from appearances to be totally comfortable in their belonging—in their status as members of the group—there are usually a surprising number of people who feel like they don’t fit. Who find themselves being judged and left outside in one way or another. Many people experience this even in their family of origin. More than a few people have told me they didn’t fit in their own family. Others of us have experienced rejection or ridicule as children. Outcast because of one thing or another—clothing, looks, address, relations, language, color of skin, national origin. Children can be incredibly good at making outcasts of one another.

There is a level at which the message of Isaiah about God the gatherer is very good news indeed for each one of us. God’s grace seemingly has no limit: you and I are included. When we turn to God, there is welcome.

Paul in this morning’s snippet from his Letter to the Romans deals with the same issue. He’s concerned with how it is that the gospel of Jesus, first offered to the Jews, is now being offered to the Gentiles. How can it be that God could be at work even in those who have rejected Jesus? He says that God has not rejected the Jews, but uses their rejection of Christ as the Messiah to extend the good news to outsiders. Again that gathering up of God. He reminds us that we shouldn’t presume to think too highly of ourselves either—for in the mystery of God’s mercy there is mercy enough for every one. Even those who persecute the faithful are beloved by God. God’s gift of love is irrevocable—steadfast and radically inclusive.

We’ve heard this good news before—and no doubt it comforts us greatly when we think about our own desire and longing to be part of God’s family. God’s love given will not be withdrawn—no matter what. But, the little story about Jesus and the Canaanite woman should give us pause. It’s a hard story with deep implications for us as followers of Christ. Accepting the radical inclusive grace of God for ourselves and our loved ones is easy, but accepting it for the ones we judge and reject is not so easy. Indeed. You can see how hard it is just by taking a quick look at the state of our Anglican communion these days. It’s not just the “conservatives” judging the “liberals” and wanting to put them out (us that would be), but “liberals” can be just as judgmental, drawing their own lines in the sand.

The picture we get of Jesus in the story of his encounter with the Canaanite woman is not very pretty. He’s in Gentile country, and this woman shouts at him, demanding mercy—a healing for her daughter. Matthew tells us she’s a Canaanite—the Canaanites as such didn’t even exist in Jesus’ day or Matthew’s day. They had been subjugated by the Israelites. When the Israelites entered the promised land their enemies were the Canaanites. Calling her a Canaanite woman takes us back to history and to the enmity between the two groups. Jesus ignores her. He doesn’t answer her at all. The disciples want to be rid of her. Not only is she a Canaanite, but she’s rude, and shameful really. As a woman she should have been represented socially by a man—not addressing Jesus on her own—much less shouting at him. The whole thing must have been distasteful to them. “Send her away,” they say.

Basically he tells her he wasn’t sent for the likes of her—his ministry is to his own people. She doesn’t leave, instead she kneels before him and echoes Peter’s request as he began to sink in the water, “Lord, help me.”

He rebuffs her again, inferring that she is a dog. A term used by his people to describe her people. Oh, a housedog, perhaps, a pet. Nonetheless there is not much to be gained by trying to soften this exchange. He’s rejecting her. She’s beyond the pale. Beyond the reach of his interest and concern. Not worthy to receive food meant for the children of the household—the Israelites.

But, she is dogged in her pursuit. You have to say that for her. “Even the dogs get the crumbs,” she says. I’m not asking for a lot. Just a few crumbs. That will be more than enough. The food on the master’s table, in her way of viewing it, is not limited. Its abundance is such that even a crumb can change a life.

And, here’s the moment of truth: Jesus sees her for who she is. His heart cracks open. His upbringing collapses. His unexamined prejudices dissolve. His deafness to her cries is overcome. His cultural default position is radically changed. Someone he ignored has become a real person. A person of faith. He celebrates that, “Woman, great is your faith!” No Canaanite before it now. “Woman, great is your faith!” “Let it be done for you as you wish.” Peter’s little faith. Her great faith. Hard to ignore.

I can’t help but think of that great Old Testament story when Abraham argued with God demanding that God be God. That God live up to the highest standards of godness. Remember that one. . . “God would you desist from punishing the community, if 50 good people were found there? 40? 30? 20? What about 10? And God came around.

Hearing how Jesus came around to a new understanding of God’s radical inclusive love can be unsettling. Some of us were raised to think of Jesus as all knowing and all wise from birth. But in this little story we get a picture of a very human Jesus, learning from this Canaanite woman. Learning about God and about his own mission.

The Bible has many stories of strangers, foreigners, people you wouldn’t expect having faith—entrusting their lives to God. Most often they challenge those on the inside. God’s inclusion of others is never easy. Paul wouldn’t have written his letters if it were. There seems to be something inside us that wants to draw limits, wants to keep someone outside, wants to know who we are by defining ourselves against some other—some outside other.

But God’s activity is about gathering—about reminding us that there is more than enough for all. And it isn’t about tolerance, and certainly not about indifference, and never about the “whatever” so prevalent in our culture. It’s about engaging one another, about letting ourselves be challenged, about listening, paying attention, about letting grace begin to soften our hearts, erode our fences, open us up. It’s about getting to know the one who is other. This is hard.

It’s hard because everyone of us, like Jesus, lives in a culture, a society, a family, and very one of us has inherited or developed prejudices that are largely unexamined. I learned something about this in my own life as an adult when I reflected back on my early upbringing in the deep South. It is hard indeed to break free from stereotypes and fears handed on from our grandparents and parents. It’s hard to escape from “the way things have always been.” And, of course, the South carries its unique history and reputation of racial discrimination. But it isn’t just the South’s reality. All of us bear burdens of race, class and other pretty much never discussed prejudices. Think of the realities in so many of our families that we don’t talk about out loud: mental illness, alcoholism, domestic abuse. We too have our outcasts. . . And, there is almost always a Canaanite woman coming toward us.

Not long ago a friend of mine, who is gay, told me that she has left the Episcopal Church and joined the Metropolitan Community Church where she lives. “I love the Episcopal Church. I was raised in it. I know the liturgy and the music and I love both. But I want to be part of a faith community that doesn’t just tolerate me, but celebrates me.”

Isn’t that something we all long for? In our heart of hearts? To worship God and know God’s love and to experience that love in a community that knows us and honestly celebrates who each of us is.Isn’t that the kind of community we are meant to become? Isn’t that what our meal—our holy communion—represents? “Woman, great is your faith!” “Man, great is your faith,” says Jesus. Hear those words addressed to you. Let them enter your heart. Let them move you and change you, and open you to that abundant radical inclusive love of God. Not just for you. . . but for all the outcasts of the world.

SERMON, August 10, 2008

Matthew 14:22-33

Have any of you been watching the Olympics? I’ve been thinking about them and about sports in our country. Watching some of the Olympics the other night I thought about a recent Giants game I went to—we took the ferry across the bay to the stadium and watched the Padres beat the Giants—a not uncommon occurrence. While I was there I thought about all the sports I have watched in my life—as a fan, and as a parent too. All those boys’ soccer games my sons played in. And the soccer games I watched growing up in Latin America. Then there was that one year when I actually served as coach of a boys high school soccer team. I was teaching English as a Second language and there was no regular coach at the school who would coach a soccer team—the emphasis then being on other sports. My students longed to play soccer and so I agreed to coach them. This was a joke on one level—I knew nothing about coaching. They coached themselves, but I was at every game to support them—and because they had a coach the team was official! They did very well too, I might add.

Watching sports and even coaching sports is very different than playing sports. When I stretch my memory back far enough I can remember when I played—basketball was my sport—and I loved playing. I loved the movement of my body, learning the skills, learning the game, working with teammates, the thrill of a great shot, the strategizing--all of it. This Olympics all eyes are on Michael Phelps the American swimming phenomenon—going after 8 gold medals—and actually thought to have a chance to get them. He’s got a body made for racing—his body shape and chemistry give him certain advantages most swimmers don’t have. And he’s been practicing, preparing for the Olympics all his life. Four years ago he won 5 or 6 gold medals, and now he’s back bigger, stronger, and more determined. I read an article in the NYT about him, and his extremely arduous training regime. The article ended with a very short interview between the reporter and the swimmer. Phelps really had very little to say about his swimming—other than “It’s what I do.” The watching of it, the talking about it are very very different from the doing. Very.

Our gospel lesson this morning is a familiar one. Jesus walking on water. Just after the feeding of the thousands the disciples are sent by him in their boat across the sea to the other side. And off they go while he goes up the mountain to pray. To have some much needed time alone with God. The wind comes up and the boat drifts further and further from the shore—buffeted. But apparently the men aren’t frightened until they see Jesus coming toward them on the water. They are terrified and think he’s a ghost.

There are so many ways to enter this story. It’s mysterious and multi-layered. Only a god can walk on water—water representing the forces of chaos barely contained in the creation and thought to be always possible of eruption . . . to walk on water is to show power over those forces. The drama of the scene has been portrayed in countless paintings. . . Jesus’ words, “Take heart (have courage) It is I.” harken back to God’s response to Moses’ question, “What’s your name?” “I am,” says Yahweh. Powerful stuff, and no wonder the men draw back in fear. I would.

In fact when I am honest I not only would, but I do. Draw back in surprise and fear at the approach of Jesus. Think of it. Think how it is for us, in the boat buffeted by the winds, tipsy on the chaos of our world. It’s overwhelming so often this world of ours. The sense that things are out of control. That the powers of chaos are taking over. The evidence is all around me: violence, wars, greed, lies and deception, the destruction of our world—our physical world—the broken fabric of our communities—the constant message that we are under attack by terrorists. I could go on and on. So could you. It’s hard when I’m focused on these realities to believe that Jesus could be present, could in fact be coming toward me on the waters of chaos. Could be urging me to have courage and not let my fears overwhelm me. There is much to fear in our world today, and we hear the message that we should live in fear from so many quarters. I’m so practiced at living in fear that I respond in fear even when the One who comes tells me to let go of fear! It’s ironic.

Peter represents those who aren’t really sure that this One who comes is Jesus. He offers a test: “If it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” What is he thinking? I wonder. Does his heart yearn to live as Jesus does—so one with his divine self that wind, water, storm, calm, are all of a piece, not to be feared. Or, does he long to be a star? to be one who “walks on water” as the saying has devolved into our own common usage? Or is he really vacillating in his understanding, in his acceptance of Jesus? We can only imagine.

Jesus responds with a simple, “Come.” And Peter does and we know by heart the rest of the story—how he walks on water toward Jesus until as Matthew tells us he ”noticed the strong wind,” and began to sink, crying out, “Lord, save me.” And, Jesus whose name means “he saves,” reaches out and catches him. “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” And they get into the boat and the wind ceases. Those in the boat worship Jesus as the Son of God.

It could be as so many have said that this story was told to remind us to keep our eyes on Jesus, trust in him, so that we can walk on water—do amazing things. It could be that Peter’s little faith can carry him only so far before he starts to drown. Or, it could be that Peter’s faith was little in that he wasn’t sure the One coming toward him in the storm was Jesus. It could be that.

I think many of us get stuck there. We look at the world in which we live—the global world, this nation of ours, our own community, even our own families—and if truth be known we aren’t entirely sure that Jesus is with us—walking toward us in the storm—walking on the water—God with us, still at work creating order out of chaos. We have little faith. We get stuck in the boat, often as spectators, caught in our fear and our little faithliness. My ears can get so stopped with fear that I don’t even hear the words, “Take heart. It is I; do not be afraid.” Have courage, I am with you, you need not let your fear control you.

It’s easy to get so overwhelmed by the discord in our world that we are immobilized. We watch sports, watch life, but never think to play our part—never imagine that we might have a part. Never imagine that we are not alone, no matter what things look like. What is more frightening, the world as it is? Or, the fact of God’s presence in that very world?

If God is with us in the storm then surely God offers me a different way to live. To open myself to God-with-us, means to open myself to that same divine relationship that so filled Jesus. Take heart! Open my heart to receive the one who comes. To begin to live more and more from that relationship, with those eyes, those understandings, that freedom . . .

I was struck this past week that in John Edward’s belated confession of his extra-marital relationship how he said in effect that during his campaign he began to feel that he was special. A special person endowed with special gifts and prerogatives—one who in common parlance perhaps could “walk on water.”

Nothing could be further from the meaning of this story. God with us is not about any one of us being specially endowed. God with us is about all of us being accompanied, held in loving arms, being invited to come into the chaos trusting not in our own skills or water wings, but in the presence of the one who calls us. Our daily work is perhaps first and foremost to attune our ears to recognize his call, and to focus our eyes to see him in the mist—to grow to know him so well that our little faith is strengthened and we go out to greet him, and begin to live in the assurance of his presence—no matter what. I suspect that none of us here is a Michael Phelps; nevertheless, we are called to life not as spectators, but to the fullness of life—of living. We are not alone. AMEN