Text: 1 Corinthians 1:1-17

Over the past few weeks there has been a certain question that I’ve heard over and over again in different places.  The first time I heard it, it was asked in response to Howard Camping’s prediction that the rapture would occur on May 21st.  At the time I happened to be making plans with a friend of mine, and after writing all of the details on my calendar, I remarked, “This is assuming that the rapture doesn’t occur on May 21st.”  We didn’t take the rapture into account when we made our plans, of course.  My friend’s reply was telling.  He rolled his eyes and said, “I’m so tired of hearing about that guy.  What Bible is he reading anyway?”  It was a rhetorical question, meant to dismiss Camping’s prediction as the result of sheer ignorance.  What Bible is he reading?

The second time I heard the question was shortly after our presbytery voted on Amendment 10-A, which changed the ordination standards currently written in the Book of Order.  The language of the amendment elicited strong reactions from both sides, and there was considerable debate regarding what the passage of the amendment would mean for us as a denomination.

Some applauded its broadening of the requirements for ordination to focus not just on sexual sins but “to submit to the Lordship of Jesus Christ in all aspects of life.”  Others called passionately for the amendment to be voted down because it removes the current language requiring candidates to exhibit “fidelity in the covenant of marriage between and man and a woman or chastity in singleness”.  The day after the Presbytery of Charlotte voted on the amendment, I was reading through newspapers and articles on the internet surrounding that vote, and in the comments section of the Charlotte Observer’s article on our vote, someone had asked a question that caught my eye.  It simply read, “What Bible are they reading?”  Once again, the question was rhetorical, and it was meant to dismiss the affirmative vote on Amendment 10-A as the result of sheer ignorance.  What Bible are they reading?

I’m not sure why that question has stuck with me like it has.  I think that on a personal level, I’m interested in what it means to ask it.  It seems to uncover a tendency we all have to view those who interpret the Bible differently than we do as ignorant, or just plain wrong.  People on both sides of just about any debate do this.  What Bible are they reading? It seems to suggest that the truth is right there in black and white, and all you have to do is read it for yourself.  The reality, however, is that things are rarely that simple.  It’s been said that if you put three Presbyterians in a room together, you’ll end up with four different opinions.  It seems that not only is math not our strong suit, but neither is agreement with each other!  This is especially true whenever we begin talking about “hot button” issues.  Passions run deep on both sides.  The conflict is often bitter and uncivil.  The culture warriors are entrenched in their beliefs, unwilling to give any ground whatsoever, lest their side be perceived as “losing”.

But you know, that’s nothing new.  We aren’t really doing anything that hasn’t been done before.  The issues may be different from generation to generation, but the pattern of conflict is the same.  I’ve been ordained for almost six years now, and it very much seems to me that we are fighting the same battles over and over and over again, and they aren’t necessarily even the battles we should be fighting.  I can only imagine what older ministers must feel.  Those who have been in the ministry much longer than I have probably just accept it as an endless cycle of conflict after conflict.  That seems disheartening to me if that’s true.  But I’m not there, yet.  I’m still young enough and naive enough to hope and believe that we are capable of much better.

It may seem absurd to say that, especially considering that the picture of the early church that we get in scripture is oftentimes darkened by conflict and disharmony.  Read Paul’s letters to the churches he started in Rome, and Galatia, and Thessalonica, and – this morning – Corinth, and then look around at what’s going on in the church today.  It doesn’t seem like things have changed very much in two-thousand years, have they?  You would think that after two-thousand years we would have learned how this thing works, right?

If you read through 1 and 2 Corinthians in your Bible, you’ll see that the church in Corinth was doing some of the same things that we are doing today.  You’ll also see that quite frankly, that church was frustrating Paul to no end.  He had started that church just a few years earlier, calling all kinds of people from vastly different backgrounds to gather together and do incredible things like worship together, and pray together, and eat together.  He had assembled a rag-tag bunch of former Jews, former Pagans, and everything in between.  He had organized something completely different: a church, built on the idea that vastly different people are called together to be a family according to God’s love, and their purpose and mission in the world was to show that love, which was so clear in the life and death of Jesus, to each other and to their neighbors.  In just a few short years, it seemed that they had forgotten everything that Paul had taught them.  They divided into factions, and pretty soon they were saying very nasty things to each other.  Things like, “You’re not a real Christian at all!  You may think you are, but you’re not!  We are!  What Bible are you reading, anyway?”  Each group was claiming exclusivity over the other – that “they” had the truth – and the others did not. That they were right on a particular matter, and the others were wrong. That they were the “true believers” – and the others were “not real Christians.”  Those early Christians began what is perhaps our most enduring tradition: fighting with each other.  So, Paul decided to write them a letter.  The letter he wrote began encouragingly enough, but after the greetings and salutations, he gets down to business:

I appeal to you that there be no divisions among you.
It has been reported to me that there are quarrels among you.
Some of you are saying “I belong to Paul,” or “I’m with Peter”
and some are sure that they alone are on the side of Christ.
Is Christ divided?

Now if you fast forward about two thousand years you’ll see that we’re still at it.  Those on the left claim allegiance to the Covenant Network or More Light Presbyterians.  Those on the right claim allegiance to the Presbyterian Coalition or the Presbyterian Layman.  Plenty of people on both sides of any issue claim to solely be on the side of Christ, and anyone who holds different opinions are opponents of Jesus Christ the Lord himself.  And above the fray, Paul’s own rhetorical question hangs like a forgotten sign: Is Christ divided? And nothing drove Paul into a frenzy like hearing of a divided church.

In C.S. Lewis’ The Screwtape Letters there’s a devious senior devil named Screwtape, who at one point tries to console his nephew, a devil named Wormwood.  Wormwood is grieving because a human he was desperately hoping to torment has recently converted to Christianity.  Screwtape’s advice to his nephew is simple: “I think I warned you before that if your patient can’t keep out of the Church, he ought at least to be violently attached to some party within it.”  Screwtape knew the truth about human beings, and he knew the things that could most easily get in the way of the gospel for Christians.  It turns out that division, discord, arguing over things…  these are the things that hinder the work of Christ.  These are the things that tear down the church.

Paul, of course, didn’t want to see the churches he started torn down.  So he reminds them that they are called to be different!  When all the world jumps at the chance to argue over something and divide, and separate, and form opposing factions, the church is supposed to be something completely different.  Now I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you should be in agreement and that there should be no divisions among you, but that you should be united in the same mind and the same purpose. Paul knew better than to expect people of such differing backgrounds and viewpoints to agree on everything.  He isn’t telling them to have it out until everyone is forced to share the same opinion.  Frequently in his letters, he will tell Christians to “be of one mind”, and by that he means to live together not according to our own opinions and agendas, but according to the One who calls Christians together in the first place!  That’s not to say that we will be able to join hands around the campfire and sing Kum Ba Yah. But it is to say that the way we are to relate to each other is primarily out of love.  It is to say that there is no excuse for dismissing the views of other faithful Christians simply because they differ from our own.  It is to say that we are to be something completely different from what we see in the world.  The Christian Church was created to be a family of people from varied backgrounds, called together by the gracious love of Christ, to love the Lord our God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength, and to love our neighbors as we love ourselves.  As long as we call ourselves a “church” we are proclaiming to be that kind of family.  Sometimes we get it right.  Sometimes it is resoundingly clear that the love which draws us together and binds us to each other as brothers and sisters in Christ is abundantly stronger than any of our disagreements or divisions.  Sometimes we fall flat on our faces, and in the midst of our dissension we miss an opportunity to glorify Christ.

Recently, even as I was hearing questions like, “What Bible are they reading?” I’ve seen us get it right.  After our most recent meeting of the Presbytery of Charlotte, the one in which we debated Amendment 10-A, the debate was civil.  It was for the most part respectful.  And it was faithful – on both sides.  One of the elders who represented his church at the meeting also happens to be a columnist for the Charlotte Observer.  In his editorial following our meeting, he called the meeting “different”.  He wrote: “It was a passionate and polite debate – perhaps because of something [we] want [our] community to know: that good, smart, faithful people on both sides are struggling and sorting through the debate…  It was a different conversation. It’s not that hard to have, if [the people on both sides] are humble enough to understand that they might not be right.”  One of the pastors at the meeting was quoted at the end of the article, saying, “I think everybody is trying to be faithful.  I think the trick is to be loving.”

The trick is also to set aside our differences, and put our hearts, and our minds, and our hands together to do the work that Christ has called us to do:

To feed the hungry, to nurture the children, to honor and respect the elderly, to welcome the outcast and the stranger, to visit the sick, to comfort the dying, and to get together with people who have little in common and may not even know one another or like one another, for that matter, to sit with them, and confess our flaws together, to bread bread and share the cup together, to proclaim our faith and our hope together—for the world and for each other.

There are many in the world today who would call that strange or different.  But those of us who follow Christ – we just call that “church”.

And we thank God for it.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

This sermon was written by Rev. Lee A. Koontz, and delivered on May 29th, 2011.

Text: John 20:19-31

Note: My commentary on this reading can be found here.

They had locked themselves in a room, behind closed doors.  Nothing was getting in.  Nothing was getting out.  This is how the disciples responded to Jesus’ death, which was probably the most frightening experience of their lives.  Their leader, who was supposed to be the Messiah, had been arrested, beaten, and crucified among criminals until he died upon the cross for all to see.  Crucifixion was a shrewd way to put someone to death, and the point to hanging someone on the cross wasn’t just to kill the person, but to do so in a way that would intimidate the masses.  It was meant to send a signal, loud and clear: threaten the state, and this is what you get.  The primary purpose of crucifixion wasn’t to put someone to death.  It was to engender fear in the hearts of the public.  Without a doubt, the disciples got the message.

The moment Jesus was arrested, they fled.  They once were disciples of Jesus, bound together by a common leader and a common mission, and though they never completely understood what that mission was, it didn’t really matter.  It was Jesus who called them together, Jesus who bound them together, Jesus who taught them, ate with them, walked mile after mile with them, together.  But now that Jesus was gone, the only common thing among them was fear.  They were afraid that the ones who did that to Jesus could do it to them as well.

Needless to say, this was not a great way for the church to get started, and indeed it was antithetical to what Jesus taught, preached, and practiced.  A wise and learned prophet once taught his followers, “Fear is the path to the Dark Side.  Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.”  That the prophet was Yoda from Star Wars makes no real difference.  He was right, and the disciples were on their way down the path from fear to anger, anger to hate, and hate to suffering just in the confines of their sealed and locked room.  In that room, they were no community.  They were no fellowship.  They were no family or brotherhood.  They had lost every dimension of community except their shared sense of fear, which is no basis for community, especially a community of faith.

It is at that moment, the height of fear and terror that Jesus intrudes into their lives once more.  Once more he calls them together, binds them together with a common purpose, and sends them out beyond the locked doors into a world of need.  The birthday of the church wasn’t Pentecost according to John’s gospel.  It was this moment, when Jesus breathed on them, saying, “Receive the Holy Spirit”.  This is the moment that his followers are turned from disciples (ones who are taught) into apostles (ones who are sent).  And as we imagine Jesus standing there in front of them, countering their fear with words of peace and showing them the wounds in his hands and feet, we can also imagine that the disciples themselves were transformed.  They were empowered by the Holy Spirit and commissioned to go out into the world bearing the good news of peace and forgiveness to all people.  At first, behind their locked doors, they were a bit like the unhatched chick in a Shel Silverstein poem who declares:

The hens they all cackle, the roosters all beg,
But I will not hatch, I will not hatch.
For I hear all the talk of pollution and war
As the people all shout and the airplane roar,
So I’m staying in here where it’s safe and it’s warm,
And I WILL NOT HATCH! (Where the Sidewalk Ends, p. 127)

But hatch they had to.  Jesus made sure of that.  No more closed and locked doors.  People had to come in.  Good news had to get out.  A church had to be born.

Last week I was having a discussion with a pastor friend of mine about the “Mainstream Protestant Decline”, the yearly loss of denominational membership not only in the Presbyterian Church (USA), but in all Protestant denominations (and some non-Protestant as well).  As most pastors tend to do, we were self-diagnosing the problems of our denomination and thinking aloud about the potential causes for the membership decline.  He said something that stuck with me, and I think there’s truth in it.  “We’re not losing members because of moral values, controversial theological statements, or disagreements over controversial issues,” he said.  “We’re losing members because we’ve got the greatest news the world will ever hear, and we’re afraid to tell it.”  I think he was right.  The truth of the world in which we live is that there are plenty of things to be afraid of.  Consider that in the last week alone we’ve heard news stories about pirates off the coast of Somalia, violence spilling over the Mexican border into our country, a North Korean test-launch of a long-range missile, the abduction and murder of children, more lost jobs, on and on and on.  In our denomination, the Presbyterian Church (USA) there are concerns over changes to the Book of Order, there are concerns over not changing the Book of Order, there is fear and regret over budget cuts and layoffs in the PCUSA’s national office, and so on.  In our own church we each have our own list of fears and anxieties and concerns related to employment, and health, or the loss of a loved one.  There is much to be afraid of.

The temptation for the church during fearful times such as these is to stay behind closed doors.  The tendency for any organization, when threatened, is to focus only inward, on self-preservation and self-security.  Our primary purpose changes.  It is not longer sharing the good news of God’s peace, forgiveness, and love, but rather survival on our own terms.  When that happens, we may as well shut and lock the doors.  Nothing gets in.  Nothing gets out.  The church dies.

About ten years ago, Auburn Theological Seminary published a study entitled, “Missing Connections: Public Perceptions of Religious Leadership.”  It’s main discovery was that in the four American cities studied the public community – that is, the community surrounding the church – had little to no awareness of any contribution or engagement by the city’s churches.  Let me say that again.  In each of the four cities studied, the community had little to no awareness of any contribution or engagement by the churches. The survey data showed that no one in these communities had the churches or church leaders on their “must-call” list concerning matters of importance in the civic domain.  The clear implication of this study is that many churches are still living on the other side of Easter, staying safely and securely behind closed doors.

Our scripture reading from the gospel of John this morning fires an arrow straight into the heart of our fear-driven, inward focusing tendencies.  The Greek word describing the doors of the room where the disciples were is translated “shut” or “locked” in most English translations, but the word itself has a dual meaning.  It can also mean “to close off” or “to withhold compassion from others”.  It can also mean “to obstruct the entrance into the kingdom of heaven”.  I wonder which meaning John had when he wrote his gospel.  I’d bet that he chose that word deliberately, and had all three meanings in mind.  Closed doors equals closed hearts equals closed kingdom.  It is into the closed-ness of the disciples’ house that Jesus came, seemingly right through the closed and locked doors.  He immediately addressed their fear, saying “Peace be with you.”  He immediately addressed their inward focus, saying, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”  And then he, with a little help from Thomas, offered an antidote for fear-centered, inward-focused living.  He shows his wounds and says, “Do not doubt, but believe.”  When Jesus says “believe” he isn’t talking about a list of theological tenets.  He’s talking about trusting God, and following him, even when we’re struggling in the midst of a fearful world.  Faith is the antidote for fear, and faith is not a list of all the things that you believe.  Faith is trust in God.

Do we really have faith?  Do we trust that God forgives our fearful world?  Do we trust God enough to open the doors and let the rabble in?  Do we trust God enough to open the doors and tell the world the best news it’s ever heard?  Most importantly, do we trust that our Lord and our God is Lord of the church budget, the book of order, the session meeting, and the worship service, and no presbytery vote or General Assembly or decision we make (whether faithful or misguided) can change that?  Do we trust that God alone is Lord of life, and death, and nothing in all creation can separate us from the love of God?  Do we trust that God alone is Lord of the battlefield and the homeland?  God alone is Lord of Iraq and Afghanistan, Somalia’s Coast and Mexico’s borders, Wall Street and Main Street, Washington, D.C. and Little Washington, N.C., and nothing – no election or president or congress or senate or special interest group is going to change that?  Do we trust that God is a God of peace, and forgiveness, and love, and He is stronger than our fear, and terror, and insecurity?  It’s the best news the world will ever hear.  Will we be afraid to tell it?  Will we be content with shutting and locking the doors?  Or will we trust God enough to follow Jesus out into the world as his apostles, his “sent ones”?

Pastor and Theologian N.T. Wright said, “What Easter does is open windows of the mind and heart to see what really, after all, might be possible in God’s world”.  (Surprised by Hope, p. 69)  What is possible in God’s world?  What is possible in God’s Presbyterian Church (USA)?  What is possible for us here in this place?  Today on this April Sunday in the echo of Easter good news, we gather and live in the hope that even after a congregational history as long as ours, God is bringing us to life even now.  It is Jesus who has called us together.  It is Jesus who gives us our common purpose.  It is Jesus who teaches us, walks with us, invites us to sit at one table, and sends us out into the world.  No more shut and locked doors.  People have to come in.  Good news has to get out.  A church has to be born.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

* * * * *

This sermon was written by Rev. Lee A. Koontz and delivered on April 19, 2009.

Tonight we will observe Ash Wednesday with the imposition of Ashes.  Ashes have always been a sign of repentance, and examples of this can be found frequently in scripture.  You may remember from our Sunday morning worship a few weeks ago that the sinful Ninevites responded to Jonah’s call to repent by putting on sackcloth and sitting in ashes.  And some people become self-conscious about a little mark on their forehead!  Can you imagine what you would look like after sitting in ashes?

Scripture also tells us that Job, after having endured his trials and tribulations, repents before God with dust and ashes.  And that’s nothing compared to Jeremiah, who calls for Israel’s repentance by putting on sackcloth and rolling in ashes.  Finally, Jesus reproaches certain cities for their lack of repentance, and their unwillingness to put on ashes and turn to God.  Since the days of the early church, Christians have adopted this practice as a mark of penitence.

Ashes are burned.  They are spent.  They are black and grey, charred and useless.  Ashes are universal – all things, when put into a fire with enough heat, will turn to ashes.  Ashes remind us that all things are temporary in our world, including us.  Next to taxes, it’s said that the only other certainty in life is that we will all, one day, become ashes…  dust…  our lives will be spent.

In the book of Genesis, God tells Adam, “Dust you are, and to dust you will return.”  There’s no mixed message there.  All human beings are given life, but in the same moment that we take our first breath, we get closer and closer to our last.  “Remember… you are dust.  And to dust you will return.”  That’s humbling news, isn’t it?

There’s an episode of The Simpsons in which Homer is told by his doctor that he has only a few days to live.  He is understandably frightened, but very soon after this dire pronouncement, he shows remarkable fortitude.  Homer makes a list of all the things that he would like to do before he dies, and the list is full of things like ride in a blimp and tell off his boss.  But the list also contains items like making amends with the neighbor who he’s always borrowing things from but never returning.  Homer also realizes that not only has he not been a model neighbor, but also not the best father to his children.  So, he spends quality time with his son, and listens to his daughter play the saxophone one last time instead of telling her to stop with all that racket.  This all might seem very trivial, especially since The Simpsons is nothing more than a cartoon.  But I think there’s truth to the notion that when we come face to face with the temporary nature of life and the certainty of death, we immediately wonder if we’ve used this gift of life as God intended.  We think of our sinfulness, and we know immediately that we have work to do before we die.

So, how would you live if you knew that your days were numbered?  Would you be more kind?  More loving?  Would you treat your friends differently?  Your enemies?  Would you make more time for family?  Would you say, “I’m sorry” to the people that you’ve hurt?  Would you be more mindful of suffering in the world?  Would you want to share a little bit more of what you have with those who have nothing?  What would you do?  How would you live?  What kinds of things would be on your list?

Death, sinfulness, repentance… these are the things that these ashes symbolize for us.  Ash Wednesday reminds us first that we are dust, and to dust we will return.  Life is fleeting.  Time is short.

And the ashes remind us that we are fallen, and we can’t get up on our own.  We need God’s help.  We need God’s forgiveness and God’s grace.  We need God’s love.

And that, brothers and sisters, is the hope that is smeared in ash on our foreheads, that God’s love has reached through our sinfulness, through the grim shadow of death, to the dust and the ashes of human life.  We may be dust, but dust that we are, we are loved.  As Paul writes, we are accounted dead…  and yet terrifically alive.  We have nothing, and yet by God’s love we have it all.  Nothing in this world, even death, can separate you from God’s love in Jesus Christ.  That is the secret scratched in ashes and imposed upon our foreheads.  Nothing can separate you from God’s love.

* * * * *

This Sermon was written by Lee A. Koontz and preached on March 1, 2006.

Some amazing things can happen at the top of a mountain.  I can recall standing at the top of Longs Peak in Colorado, looking out over the beauty and splendor of the Rockies from 14,259 feet in the air.  My friends and I began hiking at two in the morning, and reached the summit a little over seven hours later.  During our seven hours of hiking and climbing, we witnessed breathtaking views, such as the blanket of stars that covered the night sky, and the crest of the sun rising over the Rocky Mountains.  From the summit we beheld mountains and plains, rivers and fields.  It’s said that on a clear day you can see Kansas from the top of Longs Peak.  The whole experience for me was vivid and memorable, and as a twenty year-old college student I was completely captivated by the sheer wonder of seeing God’s creation from the top of a mountain.

The sense of wonder lasted only until we started our way back down.  A few minutes after beginning the descent I threw up from the exertion.  I suddenly realized my knees hurt, and I had painful scrapes on my hands and bruises on my arms.  By the time we got back to the trail head, my feet were killing me and I was absolutely exhausted.  I took one last wistful look back in the direction of the peak, remembering what I had seen there, and then simply drove home to go to bed.  I had to work the next day, and as you might imagine, the transition between mountaintop and day job was a difficult one.

Many Christians have compared the Christian life to mountain climbing, and I think it’s a pretty good analogy.  In our lives of faith, we have peaks and valleys, moments of intense challenge and invigorating triumph along with moments of pain and exhaustion.  There are moments of overwhelming beauty, but also times when we just want to throw up.  The moments that affect us the most, I think, are those mountaintop experiences, those vivid and memorable times when the beauty, splendor, and mystery of God break into our everyday lives and for a brief moment take our breath away.  Sometimes this happens in an encounter with nature, but we also find ourselves deeply affected by moments of compassion, moments of sacrifice, moments of love.  Sometime in your life, I would bet that you’ve had a mountaintop experience, a moment in which you felt close to God, one of those genuinely formative experiences that shapes who you are and what you believe for years to come.

With that in mind, I’m going to ask you to do something a bit out of the ordinary.  Take a minute to think about your mountaintop experiences.  Close your eyes and recall a moment when you felt closest to God, a moment when you were awestruck by God’s presence.  Remember how you felt at that moment, and try to recall every single detail about where you were, who was with you, and how you felt as the event unfolded.  In the next few moments of silence, try to relive that experience as best you can.

[Moment of silence]

Now open your eyes.  Like all things, our mountaintop experiences must come to an end, and the transition back into the real world can be a difficult one.  Don’t you wonder what Peter, James, and John were thinking as they walked down the mountain with Jesus?  They had just witnessed the single most amazing thing they had ever seen.  He was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white, and suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah talking with him. Needless to say, this was not the kind of thing that you simply walk away from as if nothing had happened!  Peter, in an attempt to postpone their descent from the mountain, suggests that they stay up there a while longer.  Let’s build some buildings! he says, One for Jesus, and one for Moses, and one for Elijah.  Let’s stay here a while!  Let’s build our lives around this moment! It was for Peter, both literally and figuratively, one of those mountaintop experiences.  It’s no wonder he didn’t want to come down.

Recently I saw a report on CNN describing the emotional letdown (and in some cases a deeper depression) that a number of moviegoers experience after seeing the movie Avatar. It seems that many of them, especially those who saw the movie in 3D, were taken with the sheer beauty of the world James Cameron has created and found themselves wishing that the Avatar world of fantasy were real.  Thought the movie is some three hours long, I can imagine moviegoers remaining in their seats as the closing credits rolled, not quite ready to make the transition from the beauty and brilliance of Avatar to the chaotic and cluttered world in which we all live.  Yet, if you’ve been to a movie theatre before, you know that it always happens: the screen goes black and the house lights come on, jarring us back into the real world.  We notice disgustedly that our shoes are sticking to the floor and someone has spilled popcorn in the seats.  With one last wistful glance at a dark movie screen we put on our jackets and head for the exits.  Is it so strange for us to want to linger in a more beautiful world for just a little bit longer?  Can we blame Peter, James, and John for wanting the same thing?  The transition from one world to another is a rude awakening to be sure, and it’s something akin to the disappointment the three disciples felt after their mountaintop experience was over.  It is good for us to be here.  Let’s just bask in the glory of this place.  Let’s build our lives around this moment.

The Christian life is full of mountaintop experiences.  They are the times when we find healing, or an energizing worship service.  It’s tempting to want our religious journey to be made only of mountaintop experiences.  Then we might bypass the chaos, the challenge, and the struggle.  In our mountaintop moments, something inside us cries out, It is good for us to be here.  Let’s just bask in the glory of this place.  Let’s build our lives around this moment.  There’s a well-known Hallmark-style proverb that tells us, “life is not measured by the number of breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.”  This may be true to some degree, but it’s also true that life – especially the Christian one – continually calls us down from those breath-taking moments, down from the mountaintop, and out into the world.  We are called to descend from our moments of profound glory, celebration, and joy, into the valleys of this world where life is messy, and challenging, and inhospitable.

I don’t think it’s by accident that Matthew, Mark, and Luke, the three gospel-writers who mention the Transfiguration infuse the story with foreshadowing of Jesus’ death.  In Luke’s gospel, for instance, we are told that Moses and Elijah are speaking to Jesus about “his departure, which he was about to accomplish in Jerusalem.”  “Departure” here is another word for “death”.  In this reading from Matthew, Jesus orders the disciples not to say anything “until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.”  We’re meant to understand that the distance between the mountaintop and the cross is not so great that Jesus’ disciples should lose sight of either one.  In our mountaintop moments we are to recognize the sacrifices that we are called to make, just as Jesus did.  In our moments of despair we are to remember God’s sovereignty and reign over all things.  The mountaintop cannot be separated from the cross.

Matthew, Mark, and Luke also follow the Transfiguration immediately with the story of a boy who is desperately ill.  Here in Luke’s gospel we find a distraught father begging Jesus to look at my son, which reminds us of God’s own words on the mountaintop: This is my son!  Listen to Him! Taken together, these two exhortations call us to direct our attention both upward and outward – upward in praise, outward in service.  Here the mountaintop experience of God’s glory is indelibly connected with the chaos and clamor of a shrieking, convulsing demon.  It’s a reminder that while the Christian life is full of moments of mountaintop splendor, we are ultimately called to enter the valleys of illness, sorrow, despair, and oppression, that we might minister to those who live there, and set them free.  It is significant here that in one of the few instances in which God speaks aloud in the gospels, God directs the followers of Jesus to listen. This not only entails silencing our own desires and intentions, but additionally striving to do and be as God intends, not as we ourselves intend.  Listening is a necessary prelude to following and doing.

So, along with Peter, James, and John, we follow Jesus, and we listen.  We listen as he encounters shrieking demons, worthless outcasts, and unclean sinners.  We hear him say things like, “Whoever welcomes this child welcomes me.”  We listen as he tells the stories of an outcast who stops by the roadside to help a stranger, and a father who runs down the road and throws open his arms to welcome his insolent son home.  We listen as he tells us to love our enemies and neighbors alike, just as we love ourselves.  And we listen as he asks God to forgive those who nailed him to the cross.

On any given Sunday, many of us are surrounded by visions of God’s glory.  We worship in resplendent sanctuaries adorned with breathtaking stained glass windows and shining brass candlesticks.  We glorify God in the highest, singing hymns of resounding triumph and praise.  These aren’t necessarily bad things, but they could potentially result in a separation between the visually pleasing world of glory and the extremely challenging and chaotic world of service.  The danger is that we might get lost on the mountaintop, and forget our way down.

We do tend to get lost up there, I think.  There are times when the distance between Sunday and Monday seems to be about a million miles, and the path from the mountaintop to the dark valley is very difficult to find.  Yet, we follow a Savior who leads us down and out: down from the mountaintop, out of the clouds, and into the valley to meet those who are in need.

Thomas Merton once described a moment in which he realized that the ordinary people milling around in the streets around his home weren’t just ordinary people – they were beautiful and unique.  He wrote: “I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all these people, that they were mine and I theirs—it was like waking from a dream of separateness to take my place as a member of the human race.  I had the immense joy of being a member of the race in which God himself became incarnate.  If only everybody could realize this. But it cannot be explained—there is no way of telling these people that they are all walking round shining like the sun.” (Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander)

That, I think, is the real moment of transfiguration.  It’s the moment in which all those people around us, wherever we may be, become beautiful, and precious, and lovely in our sight.  If we follow Jesus long enough through the valleys of this world, those around us will become transfigured.  Peter, James, and John, though they just wanted to stay at the top of the mountain, would one day be the ones touching the demon-possessed child and welcoming the outcasts and forgiving the sinners.  The real transfiguration happens not on the top of a mountain, but down in the valleys, out in the painful places of the world.  Let us pray this morning that as Jesus goes on ahead of us, we would have the vision, the courage, and the faith to follow him wherever he leads us.  Then we might see the glory – and the greatness – of God.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? Therefore do not worry, saying, “What will we eat?” or “What will we drink?” or “What will we wear?” For it is the Gentiles who strive for all these things; and indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.

So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.

Let me start this morning with the gospel according to Veggie Tales.

We know Veggie Tales, don’t we?  It’s the children’s television show featuring a host of anthropomorphic fruits and vegetables.  It also features a variety of Christian themes and ideas, so perhaps it’s not so surprising that I found the gospel there.

The episode I have in mind begins with Madame Blueberry, who is quite upset and extremely anxious because everyone around her has better stuff than she does.  She embarks on a quest of sorts to find happiness, which eventually leads her to a gigantic megastore called Stuff-Mart. Salesmen from Stuff-Mart greet her with a peppy jingle that says, “Happiness waits at the Stuff-Mart!  All you need is lots… more… stuff!”  Following the wisdom of the advertising jingle, Madame Blueberry goes on a shopping spree of epic proportions, loading cart after cart with more and more stuff.  As she’s piling yet more stuff onto her mountains of merchandise a helpful salesman meets her and says, “Madame, I think you’re going to like our next aisle…  Toaster ovens!”  Upon hearing this something is jarred loose in Madame Blueberry’s mind and she seems to wake up a little bit, and return to her senses.  “But…  I don’t… need…  a toaster oven,” she replies.  The salesman says, “Well, technically speaking, no one actually needs a toaster oven.  But… you know you want one.”  I think about Madame Blueberry when I read this morning’s text from Matthew’s gospel.

I think about infomercials, too.  They are full of stuff, and it’s usually stuff that you’d never even dream that you need or want.  But then they show that lady on the sofa, and she’s struggling with that tiny blanket, and she’s twisting it and pulling it and wrestling with it to try to cover her whole self with it but it’s not working, and she looks so profoundly upset and angry – she’s suffering, and then…  lo and behold she’s wearing a Snuggie.  You know, it’s the blanket with sleeves.  And she looks so warm and comfortable and happy, and…  wouldn’t you like to be that way, too?  Now technically speaking, nobody actually needs a Snuggie.  But don’t you want one?  And if you keep watching your television you’ll see more and more stuff: frying pans, and giant cupcakes, and food choppers, and stuff upon stuff upon stuff… and where does it end?  We are fundamentally a culture of consumers.

Now we believe that Jesus says something about this.  We believe that Jesus’ sermon on the mount is no less relevant today than the day he preached it.  When Jesus preaches about “stuff” like food and drink and clothing, he is speaking to us.  However, Jesus clearly wasn’t thinking of toaster ovens and sleeved blankets while he was preaching, and he was speaking to a crowd of people who lived their lives very, very differently than we do today.  The people to whom Jesus originally preached his sermon on the mount were predominantly poor.  We know this because he begins the sermon with words of comfort such as, “Blessed are the poor, or the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  Blessed are the meek, those who have nothing, for they will inherit the earth.  Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.”

Jesus was speaking to people who were poor, and meek, and hungry.  The “stuff” he mentions is comprised of the necessities of life: food, drink, clothing.  Those were the things that were first and foremost in the minds of those who listened to him preach.  And so at first glance, it seems as though the text we read this morning is saying something like, “Don’t worry; be happy!”  There’s a bit of that in this text, and I’ve heard a sermon or two on this text that takes that message and runs with it.  “Therefore I tell you not to worry about everyday life – whether you have enough food or drink, or enough clothing to wear.  Isn’t life more than food?  And your body more than clothing?”  Those are incredibly comforting words to someone living in poverty.  Jesus is saying that God values you and will take care of you, just as God cares for and provides for the birds of the air and the lilies of the field.  God will take care of you.  It’s a comforting message.

But as I was reading this text and preparing to preach on it, it occurred to me that Jesus’ words might mean something a bit different for us twenty-first century Christians living in our culture of stuff.  You see, we generally have plenty of stuff.  We have food, and drink, and clothing, and much, much more.  For us, stuff is not comprised of the essentials, the things we need.  Our stuff is made up of things we want.  Generally speaking, we live in the midst of abundance, and so for us this comforting text has some teeth.  And it’s those first couple of verses that seem to bite.

“No one can serve two masters,” Jesus said.  “for you will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to the one and despise the other.  You cannot serve God and wealth.”  That word that is translated “wealth” in our reading is an Aramaic word, mammon. Some English versions of the Bible don’t even bother to translate it.  They read, “You cannot serve God and mammon.  Mammon does mean “wealth”, but it’s wealth in the sense of accumulated property.  In other words, stuff.

Now the interesting thing about the word mammon is that it comes from the same root as the word amen. The two even sound similar as a result.  Inherent in that word is a tension between wealth and worship. On one side is the mammon, the stuff of life, the wealth, and the property, and the things that we want and accumulate.  And on the other side is the amen, the worship of God the Creator and Redeemer in Jesus Christ, a worship that is defined not by what we accumulate, but by what we give away.  It’s tempting to try to live right there in the middle, seeing if we can hold onto our stuff while at the same time reaching over toward worship.  God knows I’ve tried to do that.  I ask a fellow minister this week, “How am I supposed to preach on a text in which Jesus says, ‘You can’t serve God and wealth’ when it seems like I’ve spent the better part of my life trying to prove him wrong?”  I’m owning up to my toaster oven moments and my Snuggie moments here.  And I think that place in the middle between wealth and worship is where we all live.  We are called as Christians to put our complete faith and trust in God so that we can freely give, but at the same time our insecurities, and our fears, and our anxieties drive us to accumulate more stuff.      

In his book The Forgotten Ways, missionary and sociologist Alan Hirsch says:

“I have come to believe that the major threat to the viability of our faith is that of consumerism. This is a far more heinous and insidious threat to the gospel [than anything else], because in so many ways it infects each and every one of us…  If the role of religion is to offer a sense of identity, purpose, meaning, and community, then it can be said that consumerism fills all these criteria… An advertising executive recently confessed to me that… much of what goes by the name advertising is an explicit offer of a sense of identity, meaning, purpose and community.” (p. 107)

That is to say, that in our day and age there’s the very real possibility that all of our stuff will get in the way of our relationship to God.  Our mammon becomes a poor substitute for our amen. That is really what Jesus is saying to us today.

It’s not that Jesus is against stuff.  He’s not.  It’s okay if you’ve purchased a toaster oven or ordered a Snuggie.  That’s not the point.  The point is that our stuff becomes dangerous to our faith, when we look to our stuff for identity, and meaning, and purpose instead of looking to God.  The truth is that only God can give us those things.  Jesus would have those of us living in our twenty-first century culture of consumerism let go of all the stuff that we hold onto, and instead reach a little more faithfully over to a life of worship.  If we, like the birds of the air and the lilies of the field, come to see life as a gift from God, a bountiful outpouring of God’s providence, then we will be free to loosen our grip on our wealth, our stuff, and be more generous to others.

Somewhat surprisingly, this is where we connect with that crowd of people who originally heard Jesus’ sermon on the mount.  I read an article in the news this week that said 72% of the world’s poor do not live in what we would call poor countries.  Three quarters of the world’s poor live in middle-income countries, or wealthy countries like ours.  What this means is that for the overwhelming majority of those living in poverty, the answer to their prayers is not far away.  Jesus said to poor people just like them, “You are blessed, and you will be comforted,” and at the same time, with the same words,  Jesus says to us, “Bless them.  Comfort them.  Let go.”  Part of what we are doing by participating in “Love Week” this week is learning to let go.  We’ve been challenged to “let go” of at least one hour, and spend it in service to others.  The hope is that “Love Week” will be the beginning of regular habits through which we give away our time, our efforts, and our resources more freely.  But in order to do that, we have to let go.  And letting go can be quite a struggle.

Marjories Holmes, author of a book called Two from Galilee, wrote a prayer that I think sums up our struggle to let go.  It reads:

Help me not to put too much stock in possessions, Lord. I want things, sure. But life seems to be a continual round of wanting things — from the first toys we fight over as children to our thrilled unwrapping of wedding presents to those we buy in our old age. Our concern is not primarily love and friends and pride in what we can do, but things.

Sometimes I’m ashamed of how much I want mere possessions — things for my husband and the house and the children. Yes, and things for myself, too. And this hunger is enhanced every time I turn on the television or walk through a shopping mall. My senses are tormented by the dazzling world of things.

Lord, cool these fires of wanting. Help me to realize how futile is this passion for possessions. Because — and this is what strips my values to the bone — one of my best friends died today in the very midst of her possessions. She was in the beautiful home she and her husband worked so hard to achieve, the home that was finally furnished the way she wanted it with the best of everything. She was surrounded by the Oriental rugs she was so proud of, the formal French sofas, the painting, the china and glass, the handsome silver service…She had been snatched away while silently, almost cruelly, THEY remain. Lord, I grieve for my friend. My heart hurts that she had so little time to enjoy the things that she had earned and that meant so much to her. But let me learn something from this loss; that possessions are meant to enhance life, not to become the main focus of living. Help me remember that we come into the world with nothing and we leave with nothing.

Don’t let me put too much stock in mere possessions.

I think that’s well said.  I might add a prayer that we not put too much stock in our time and the schedules that we keep, or in our financial resources and bank accounts.  I pray that prayer for myself.  I pray it for all of you as well.  Let us learn to let go of the mammon, so that we and others might hold fast to the amen.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

‘You have heard that it was said, “You shall love your neighbour and hate your enemy.” But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax-collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers and sisters what more are you doing than others?  Do not even the Gentiles do the same? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.

This scripture reading is troubling because in it, Jesus addresses a sin of which we are all guilty.  He continues the pattern of mentioning a well-known law from the Hebrew Scriptures (our Old Testament) and then surpassing the meaning of the law with his own teaching in order to show how human beings really ought to try to live.  The law that serves as his foundation here in this morning’s reading is traditionally known as “the law of the tooth”.

The law of the tooth was meant to serve as a restraint to keep retaliation and violence from escalating.  If someone takes your eye, then you take one of theirs – no more.  If someone knocks out your tooth, then you’re entitled to knock out one of theirs.  In other words the punishment should fit the crime, “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”  Jesus’ own teaching, however, surpasses the law of the tooth.  “I say to you, do not resist an evildoer.”  He gives three “real life” examples of what this would look like.

First, if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also.  In the world of Jesus, to be struck on the right cheek would mean either being hit with the backside of someone’s right hand (which was an insult and would suggest that you are inferior), or being hit with the palm of someone’s left hand (which according to Jewish custom is the ‘unclean’ hand).  Either one of these would have been an incredibly humiliating insult, not to mention an act of violence.  Still, Jesus teaches to turn the other cheek.  Invite your attacker to do it again.

Second, if someone is taking you to court for everything you’re worth, wanting even the shirt off your back, give them your cloak as well.  In Jesus’ day most people only wore those two garments, so giving your shirt and your cloak would mean that you are left naked and possibly ashamed.

Finally, if someone comes along and forces you to go one mile, go ahead and go a second mile.  Roman soldiers at the time were allowed to force civilians to carry their military gear for up to one mile according to Roman law.  Needless to say, many civilians who were made to do this were not very happy about it, and afterwards sought revenge against the soldier who made them carry their gear.  Instead of getting angry about it and plotting revenge, Jesus says to go even another mile.

These are really very astonishing things that Jesus is suggesting.  To those people who lived in that world and were listening to Jesus, particularly his disciples, it would have been a difficult and even confusing thing to hear.  You see, when they spoke of their long-expected Messiah, they claimed that he would be a great military leader, maybe a mighty war general who would not only liberate and deliver them, but also punish the enemies who oppressed them and held them captive.  This is what they expected of their Messiah.  Incidentally, you can see a glimpse of this expectation in some of the Psalms.  Psalm 139, for instance, reads:

O that you would kill the wicked, O God,
and that the bloodthirsty would depart from me—
those who speak of you maliciously,
and lift themselves up against you for evil!
Do I not hate those who hate you, O Lord?
And do I not loathe those who rise up against you?
I hate them with perfect hatred;
I count them my enemies.

God was to come along and punish the enemies and deliver the faithful to freedom.  To people around Jesus who expected this, his teachings of non-retaliation and non-violence would have sounded all wrong.  This was not the type of Messiah that they were expecting!  However, it may have been that their expectations were built on a fundamental misunderstanding of who God is.

Tom Wright tells the story of a father who had to go away from his young family for a few days on business.  He was anxious about how things would go in his absence, so he had a word with his oldest son, who was nine at the time.  “When I’m away,” he said, “I want you to think what I would normally do around the house, and you do it for me.”  The father had in mind, of course, things like keeping the house clean, washing the dishes, taking out the trash, and helping the mother out with anything she needed done.  When the father returned from his trip, he asked his wife what the son had done.  “Well,” she said, “it was very strange.  Right after breakfast he made himself another cup of coffee, went into the living room, turned the music up, and read the newspaper for half an hour.  After that he scolded his sister for not picking up her toys.”  It seems the son fundamentally misunderstood who his father was.

There are undoubtedly times when we misunderstand who our Father is, and we misunderstand what God has asked us to do.  We make the mistake of thinking that God relates to the world the way that we relate to each other, punishing evildoers and hating those who do wrong things.  This is a very easy mistake to make, as we live in a world culture dominated by the exercise of power.  The events of the last week alone should be enough to illustrate this.  Strength and power in our world are shown by launching missiles, by announcing threats, by firing rockets across the border, by dropping bombs on enemy targets.  Strength is often shown through the exercise of force, just as it was in the days of Jesus.

“You have heard it said that you shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.” Yes, Jesus…  We’ve heard it.  We see it almost every day.  What would you have us do?  “I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous.”

I wonder what it would be like if the world suddenly started following Jesus’ teachings.  Personally, I long and pray for the day when all forms of violence would cease, and yet at the same time I recognize that we live in a world in which retaliation seems at times to be necessary.  I pray for the time when Jesus’ teachings can be the world’s rule rather than the exception.  Who knows when or if that day will come?

In the meantime we as honest and faithful followers of Christ are called to do what we can to live our lives according to a different set of rules.  We can proclaim that God alone is sovereign, Lord of all creation, and all that goes on here on earth.  We can remember that God’s justice is tempered by God’s love for all people.  We can live our lives based on who God is, announcing the good news:  For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him may not perish, but may have eternal life. We can pray for the strength to love others because God loves them, even if they are called our enemies and mean to hurt or kill us.

I once read a parable about a holy man who was practicing his morning meditation under a tree whose roots stretched out over the riverbank.  During his meditation he noticed that the river was rising, and a scorpion caught in the roots was about to drown. He crawled out on the roots and reached down to free the scorpion, but every time he did so, the scorpion struck back at him, trying to sting him.  A man passing by stopped and said to the holy man, “Don’t you know that’s a scorpion, and it’s in the nature of a scorpion to want to sting?”  The holy man replied, “That may well be, but it is my nature to save, and I will not let the scorpion’s desire to hurt change my desire to help.”  Remember, brothers and sisters, that it is in our Lord’s nature to save.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

This sermon was written by Rev. Lee A. Koontz

Text: Luke 12:13-21

Last year, an article entitled “We Don’t Need Another Superhero” appeared in the Wall Street Journal, and in it media critic James Bowman noted the flood of superhero movies that have been released since September 11, 2001. (The Wall Street Journal, August 11, 2006.)  In the six years following that horrible day there were nearly thirty movies about superheroes in our theaters, with more in the works.  There have been three Superman movies, three X-Men movies, as well as Batman Begins, The Fantastic Four, The Hulk, and others – the list goes on and on.  Most people would agree that it’s no accident that this flood of superhero movies has occurred during a time when insecurity defines our culture.  Life doesn’t seem quite as secure as it once did.  There was a time when we didn’t have to worry about terrorist attacks or factions of people who make it their mission to kill Americans.

Just last week my family and I were on vacation in Maryland.  On our way up there we noticed electronic signs on the Washington, D.C. beltway urging people to report any suspicious activities.  Those signs are relatively recent additions to the Washington landscape.  The news is full of updates on the strength of Al Qaeda or the increasing power of the Taliban.  And of course, there are other reminders of our insecurity as well.  Daily the headlines offer us reminders of how quickly life can go from normalcy to tragedy.  And certainly if the last few weeks of life in our own congregation have taught us anything, it’s that death is very much a part of life.  That’s something that we all face.  It’s part of being human.  A very natural response to all this is the intense desire to feel secure again.

Maybe that’s why superheroes have been so popular in the last several years.  We gain some comfort and hope seeing the story of someone who is larger than life, super-sized, able to rise above the insecurities of this world and somehow make life secure again.  The creation of Superman is a fascinating example of this.  Superman was created by Jerry Siegel during a time in his life of intense helplessness.  His father had been shot and killed and the police never found the murderer.  Siegel never talked much about his father’s death.  What he did was create in his mind a bullet-proof father who could not be killed, and would go about the world restraining evil and defeating death.  If he could not bring justice to his father, he would create a world in which justice was secured by an invulnerable, super-sized hero.  Superman arose out of the almost universal desire to have security and protection in the face of insecurity and death.  Don’t we all have that desire to be secure in this world of insecurity?

Theologian Reinhold Niebuhr went so far as to say that human nature was paradoxical.  On the one hand, we are immersed in nature and subject to all of its perils, including death.  But on the other hand, human beings have the ability to transcend nature and ponder not only our finitude and the reality of death but also how we might respond to it. (Reinhold Niebuhr, The Nature and Destiny of Man (New York 1941), p. 182.)  We are bound by our limited human nature, our finitude, but at the same time we are free to respond to the perils of life on earth in any way we choose.  That, I believe, is what Jesus’ parable of the rich fool is really about.  It’s about how to respond to insecurity, finitude, and death.

At first glance the parable of the rich fool seems to be a simple parable about greed.  Jesus is interrupted by a man who wants help in acquiring half of his family’s inheritance.  Presumably this man has an older brother who is due to receive the entire family inheritance (that’s the way things worked back then), and we can assume that the older brother has just gotten the inheritance because the father of these two sons has just died.  The younger son’s desire to have half of the inheritance isn’t just greed for the sake of having more stuff – it’s a response to the reality of death.  This man’s father has just died.  He’s the younger son and stands to get nothing.  Suddenly, his life has become insecure.  In response to this, he is attempting to make security for himself through obtaining possessions.

Now I know that may seem like reading a lot into the text, but consider the parable itself.  There’s a wealthy landowner whose crops produce abundantly, so abundantly in fact that he doesn’t have room to store it all.  In that day and age famine could hit without warning and set in for years, putting everyone’s lives at risk.  So this landowner does a very prudent thing – he super-sizes his barns so that he can store his bumper crop and thereby secure his future against the threat of famine.  If we’re honest with ourselves, we will admit that’s probably what any of us would do.  We would invest in our future and try to secure our lives for as long as we can.  But just when the landowner has done this, his time is up.  “This very night,” God says, “your life is being demanded of you.  And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?”  His attempt to secure his own future is ruined by the very thing that he hopes to avoid by storing up all his grain – death.  It’s a sad story less about greed and more about how to live when life becomes insecure.

This is a universal human situation.  When life is insecure, we seek security.  Sometimes our desire for security is so strong that it leads us to relentlessly search for the one thing that will make life secure again.  We may find ourselves storing up possessions, barricading ourselves with ‘stuff’.  We may place our hopes for security or happiness upon one person or thing that we keep at the center of our lives.  As long as we have that one person or have that one thing, we may feel secure and happy for a time.  But ultimately that will fail and we will find ourselves searching for something else that will fill the void and quench our desire to be secure.

Do you remember that scene in the movie, “Jaws” when they catch and kill a huge shark, then cut it open to see what it’s eaten?  Out of the stomach comes a bunch of half-eaten fish, an old tire, some bones, a piece of a boat, a clock, and a license plate.  Great white sharks are known for being voracious and very indiscriminant eaters, sort of like us when we relentlessly search for one life solution after another.  We are hungry people looking for wholeness and security.  We try to fashion these things out of our possessions but that doesn’t work; we’re still hungry.  We try to find fulfillment in work or faulty relationships, in this product or that drug, in super-sized versions of things we don’t need.  But we don’t find it.  We consume and possess things indiscriminately, relentlessly grabbing for this and that, hoping to insulate ourselves from our limitations, our insecurities, and our fears.  We try to be content with that which never satisfies.  And so we are left yearning for more.

That is the literal meaning of the Greek word that Jesus uses and we translate as “greed”.  It means yearning for more.  A better English word for it might be avarice, the insatiable desire for more.  Luke, by situating the parable of the rich fool right in the middle of Jesus’ predictions of his own death and the plots to kill him, connects this universal human desire for more with universal human insecurity and fear of death.  Luke knows that living in an age of insecurity increases certain temptations, namely the desire to regain our security even if it means fashioning it ourselves.  He also knows that such a response is doomed to fail us, and it just might be at odds with the good news of the gospel.

Leading up to the year 2000 and this new millennium, some Christians were focusing solely on insecurity.  They expected a catastrophe, the coming of the Antichrist, and on the advice of their pastors they stocked their Y2K shelters with rice and beans, portable generators and ammunition.  Never mind that this fear was totally contrary to the gospel, which promises that God looks after the sparrows and the lilies of the field and yes, even more so we human beings.  Never mind that hoarding food supplies and guarding them with guns was totally at odds with the gospel.  If that time was notable for anything, it was that in some places, Christians themselves had become anti-Christians. (The Christian Century, July 27, 2004, p. 20.)

Jesus, immediately after the parable of the rich fool, says,“Do not worry about your life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear.  For life is more than food, and the body more than clothing.  Can any of you by worrying about these things add a single hour to your life?  If then you are not able to do so small a thing as that, why do you worry about the rest?  Do not keep striving for what you are to eat and what you are to drink, and do not keep worrying.  For it is the nations of the world that strive after all these things, and your Father knows that you need them. Instead, strive for his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well.  Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.  Sell your possessions, and give to the poor.  Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys.”

Jesus speaks these words even as he approaches Jerusalem, the place where prophets go to die.  Jesus speaks these words even as the scribes and Pharisees plot to kill him.  How could he say those things knowing that death for him was right around the corner?

Jesus knew, more so than we ever will, that God alone is Lord of both our lives and our deaths.  He knew that true security, true fulfillment, true life can only be found through trust in God.  Of course, following Jesus and trusting in God doesn’t mean that you won’t die.  It also doesn’t mean that you won’t come face to face with some super-sized problems during your time in this world.  What it does mean is that even when life is insecure and the threat of death is all too real, we can nevertheless affirm that the God who created and redeems the world is the God who was, is, and always will be.  Even those things that threaten our security and our lives are situated in the dominion of our faithful God.  This is the super-sized good news of the gospel: We belong not to ourselves, but to God…  who is infinite, all-powerful, larger than life and larger than death.  To God, who is gracious.  Loving.  Secure.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

This sermon was written by Rev. Lee A. Koontz.  All rights reserved.

So, as Jesus tells us, a man was traveling this road alone and sure enough, the thieves got him and left him “half dead” on the side of the road.  A priest and a Levite, both of whom were holy men, walk right by the dying victim.  They sound evil, but it’s not as if the priest and the Levite were simply bad people.  They had legitimate reasons for acting as they did.  Any contact with blood or a dead body would have rendered them unclean according to their purity laws.  No one who was “unclean” could enter the holy places of the temple.  So, walking over and touching this dying or dead man, even just to see if he was alive, was out of the question.  It would have disqualified them from their religious duties.

Believe it or not, we’re not so different from them.  Several years ago a group of researchers conducted an experiment in which seminary students were each told that they had been selected to help record a talk about the Good Samaritan.  The problem was that the recording was to be done in a building all the way across campus, and because of a tight schedule they would have to hurry to get there.  On the path to the other building the researchers had planted an actor playing a sick homeless man slumped in an alley, coughing and suffering.  The excited students each hurried across campus for their important assignment, and as it turned out, almost none of them turned out to actually be Good Samaritans.  Almost all of them hurried past the suffering man.  One student even stepped over the man’s body as he rushed across campus to teach about the parable of the Good Samaritan! (Darley, J. M., and Batson, C.D., “From Jerusalem to Jericho: A study of Situational and Dispositional Variables in Helping Behavior”. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 1973, 27, 100-108.)

The seminary students, of course, were not bad people.  They were just human.  Like the priest and the Levite, they simply had other priorities that kept them from acting with compassion.  Knowing the right thing to do and actually doing the right thing are two completely different things.  For instance we all value compassion.  Very few of us, however, actually act compassionately to those in need when given the chance.

That’s what sets the Good Samaritan apart.  He had plenty of reasons to do as the priest and Levite did, passing by on the other side of the road.  He was traveling the ‘Bloody Way’ and needed to get to his destination as soon as he could.  The dying man could have been a trap used to lure him into an ambush by thieves.  Any number of things could have gotten in the way of his compassion…  but for some reason, they didn’t.  He did the unthinkable.  He stopped, putting himself at risk.  He touched the man and bandaged his wounds, rendering himself unclean.  He put him on his own horse, slowing his journey on the treacherous road.  He took him to an inn and cared for him, devoting more of his precious travel time.  He paid the innkeeper to take care of him indefinitely, likely costing him a fortune.  Remarkably, none of these things got in the way of his compassion.

I’m reminded of an astonishing incident that happened this past winter in New York City.  A construction worker named Wesley Autrey was standing on a subway platform with his two young daughters, waiting on a train.  Suddenly another man on the platform suffered a seizure and fell down onto the subway tracks just as a rapidly approaching train neared the platform.  With no thought for himself, Autrey jumped down onto the tracks to rescue the man by dragging him out of the way of the train.  But he immediately realized that the train was coming too fast and there wasn’t time to pull the man off the tracks.  So Autrey pressed the man into the low place between the rails and spread his own body over him to protect him as the train arrived. The train cleared Autrey by mere inches, and actually left grease marks on his cap.

Immediately, Wesley Autrey became a national hero.  People were astonished by his bravery and his selflessness.  He had no real reason to help this stranger.  He didn’t know the man.  He had two young daughters.  What he did was a severe risk to his own life.  But a human being was in desperate need and, moved with compassion, Autrey did what he could to save him.  He was dubbed “The Subway Superman” and the headline in one newspaper described Autrey in biblical terms.  It read, “Good Samaritan Saves Man on Subway Tracks.” (Newsday, January 2, 2007.)

The actions of Good Samaritans are so remarkable because they are so far beyond what most of us would do.  Like the priest and the Levite and the seminary student guinea pigs, each of us would probably find ourselves passing by on the other side of the road, or staring down in horror at the man who fell on the tracks.  It is simply not in our nature to forget ourselves and risk everything for a stranger. We can’t simply decide to move ourselves to compassion.  Something has to move us.

That, I think, is what Jesus’ parable is really all about.  Jesus isn’t simply telling the lawyer to go imitate good works.  If Jesus merely wants us to go out and do as the Good Samaritan did, then we’re in trouble.  Almost certainly, none of us can do it.  None of us can simply decide to move ourselves to that level of compassion and selflessness.  Though we may know the right thing to do in any given situation, there’s no guarantee that we would actually do it.  Being a Good Samaritan takes more than a change of mind.  It takes a change of heart.

I wonder what brought about that change of heart in the Good Samaritan.  I wonder what changed Wesley Autrey into a man who would risk his life for a stranger.  I wonder what changes any of us from priests and Levites into Good Samaritans.  Considering Jesus’ parable, the answer might lie in the victim who is attacked and left for dead.  Does he seem familiar to you?  We know that he’s come from a very high place to a very low place.  He’s risking suffering and death to get there, and he’s eventually stripped, beaten, and left dying.  His suffering is even ignored by the religious leaders of the day.  There’s something vaguely Christ-like about him.

If you think about it, he is the Christ-figure of the story.  For ages Christians have seen Christ in the compassionate self-sacrifice of the Good Samaritan, but shouldn’t we see Christ in the one suffering as well?  Jesus did teach that whatsoever we do to the least of these, we do to Jesus himself.  Are we not called to recognize the face of Christ in the poor, the needy, the outcast, and the lowly?  We may not be able to force ourselves to act with compassion, but we can at the very least open ourselves up to the possibility that Christ is in every lowly, needy, or suffering person we meet.  We can seek to put ourselves in contact with more and more people who are living in need.  We can be friends to those in low places.  This has been the calling of the Church from the very beginning.

In the days of ancient Rome, unwanted children were frequently abandoned somewhere in the wilderness, exposed to the elements so that they would die quickly.  This happened primarily with female children, who were not as valuable to the family as male children.  One of the earliest ministries of the church was to find these children, to nurse them back to health, and to raise them as their own.  When the plagues spread through Europe the church ministered to those who were dying from the diseases.  Even though people in the church died from catching those diseases, they would still care for those who were sick.  In the Middle Ages hospitals arose primarily from Christian churches.  Orphanages and schools for women were built around the world as Protestant missionaries met needy people in countries they visited.  Again and again churches had compassion on the weak, the needy, the outcast, and the lowly.

Where do these kinds of things come from?  I don’t think they come from just trying to imitate the works of the Good Samaritan.  They come from something deeper.  They come from God.  God’s compassion for us makes us compassionate.  God’s love for us makes us more loving to others.  Compassion is not simply something we can imitate.  Compassion awakens within us when we see the face of Christ himself in those who suffer.  We have compassion because our hearts have been changed by good news:  God came down to us.  God lived among us and shared our pain and our suffering.  God loves us, not by remaining far off in high places, but by being a friend to those in low places.

Can we go and do likewise?

* * * * *

This sermon was written by Rev. Lee A. Koontz.

Text: Luke 9:57-62

Many of you will recall a worship service in which I quoted a pastor who said, “The Word of God should comfort us when we are troubled, and trouble us when we are comfortable.”  All of us experience times when we read scripture and think, “Gee, I thought this was supposed to be the good news!”  There are plenty of times that scripture seems like not-so-good news, and you may already have realized that our scripture reading from the Gospel of Luke this morning is one of those troubling passages.  I don’t know about you, but whenever I hear Jesus tell that poor man that he can’t even go bury his father before joining him, I think it sounds a bit harsh.  I find myself pleading on the man’s behalf, saying, “Come on, Jesus, give the guy a break!”  What’s wrong with wanting to go bury your father before meeting up with Jesus somewhere down the road?  Likewise, the first person that comes up to Jesus seems very enthusiastic about following him.  You would think that Jesus would be happy to have some more company on his way to Jerusalem, but instead he says, “Wait a minute!  You should know that following me is no picnic!  Foxes have holes, and birds have nests, but I don’t have any place to lay my head.”  Lastly, there is the man who wants to follow Jesus, but also wants to go say goodbye to his family first.  Jesus finds this unacceptable, essentially telling the man that it is now or never.  Once you decide to follow Jesus, there is no looking back.

It’s been said that Jesus wouldn’t last two weeks as the pastor of a church.  If that’s true, then this scripture reading must be a very good example of why Jesus would be out on the street instead of living in the manse.  His words to these three would-be disciples are less than welcoming.  Instead of greeting them he warns them.  Instead of welcoming them into the number of disciples who follow him, he seems content to turn them away.  Instead of promising security and happiness, he promises uncertainty, and the opportunity to persevere.  This isn’t exactly a model that would be called ‘successful’ in today’s growth-oriented churches.

In so many churches today, there is such a great emphasis on increasing membership, and that’s not a bad thing.  We want to share the love of Christ with as many people as possible through the church.  Sometimes, however, this is accomplished by presenting a version of Christian faith that is sterile and non-invasive.  It is a faith that fits nicely into our schedules.  It doesn’t threaten us or challenge our daily obligations.  It doesn’t intrude where it isn’t wanted.  It comes in easily-managed bite-sized pieces that are secure and comfortable.  As we all know, people are more likely to go where they are comfortable (or, in churches that serve breakfast, where there are eggs and bacon).  It seems in many cases that if you want to increase membership in a church, you do the exact opposite of what Jesus does to these three potential disciples.

One pastor once wrote in an article:  “I often visit newcomers in town and find them to be church shopping. They want to know what they can get out of church.  Churches are one more consumer commodity. Worship services are not a place for us to serve God and neighbor but a place where people expect to purchase the best: Inspiring worship, good music, moving sermons, quality child care. As if we buy God and not vice versa.”

Why are we here this morning?  What is it that brought us to church in the first place?  Are we here to be inspired by the music?  Are we here to hear a good sermon?  Are we here to be entertained?  Are we here for the child care, or the breakfast, or something else?  Why are we here?  In light of our troubling scripture this morning, we might answer that we are all here to follow Christ, just like those three would-be disciples.  “Jesus!” we say, “We will follow you wherever you go!”  However, as our reading shows, following Christ is easier said than done.  It would be easier just to come here for the eggs and bacon.

Jesus says, “You want to be a disciple?  Let me tell you what that means.  It won’t be comfortable.  It won’t be easy.  Security is not guaranteed.  Foxes have holes and birds have nests, but if you follow me, we very well may not have any place to stay.”

Jesus says, “You want to be a disciple?  Let me tell you what that means.  If you follow me, you will do what I say to do, not what society says is proper.”  The man who wants to go bury his father is concerned with fulfilling the obligations of the societal law.  At the time, it was the obligation of the family to bury anyone who dies.  In this instance, the law gets in the way of his following Jesus.  Jesus certainly wouldn’t think there is anything wrong with the man burying his father.  The trouble is that his obligation to this law gets in the way of his following Christ.  True discipleship isn’t convenient, nor does it operate according to the convention of society’s laws.

Jesus says, “You want to be a disciple?  Let me tell you what that means.  Discipleship does not come on your terms.  It comes on my terms.”  The third would-be disciple wants to follow Jesus, but he insists on his own terms.  He wants to follow, but on the condition that he be allowed to say goodbye to his family.  Once again, Jesus wouldn’t think there is anything wrong with saying goodbye to one’s family, but in this case it gets in the way of following Christ.  Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German pastor who opposed Hitler and was put to death at the concentration camp in Flossenburg, Germany, wrote:

“The trouble about this third would-be disciple is that at the very moment he expresses his willingness to follow, he ceases to want to follow at all.  By making his offer on his own terms, he alters the whole position, for discipleship can tolerate no conditions which might come between Jesus and our obedience to him.”  Jesus never told us that we should choose between him and the devil…  that would be too easy!  Instead, Jesus says that we must choose between him and those we love.  If the ones you love get in the way of following Christ, choose Christ instead.

Have we really come here this morning to choose Christ?  Do we truly come here to be disciples, or do things get in the way?  Are we really going to walk with Jesus step by step towards Jerusalem?  Or do we want faith on our own terms?  Are we here to be completely claimed by God, and follow where the Lord leads us?  Or are we here to buy God, and insist upon our own way?

The reverend Fred Craddock, in an address to other ministers, spoke about discipleship in our ‘instant’ society. “To give my life for Christ appears glorious,” he said. “To pour myself out for others. . . to pay the ultimate price of martyrdom — I’ll do it. I’m ready, Lord, to go out in a blaze of glory. We think giving our all to the Lord is like taking $l,000 bill and laying it on the table– ‘Here’s my life, Lord. I’m giving it all.’ But the reality for most of us is that he sends us to the bank and has us cash in the $l,000 for quarters. We go through life putting out 25 cents here and 50 cents there. Listen to the neighbor kid’s troubles instead of saying, ‘Get lost.’ Go to a committee meeting. Give a cup of water to a shaky old man in a nursing home. Usually giving our life to Christ isn’t glorious. It’s done in all those little acts of love, 25 cents at a time. It would be easy to go out in a flash of glory; it’s harder to live the Christian life little by little over the long haul.” (Leadership, Fall 1984)

It’s harder to live Christian life little by little over the long haul, but that is precisely the kind of Christian life that following Christ will mean.  Jesus does not want disciples who think discipleship is like throwing down a one-thousand dollar bill in a blaze of glory.  To them he says, “You better know what you are getting yourself into.  Foxes have holes, and birds have nests, but life with me won’t be so luxurious.”

Jesus does not want disciples who insist on their own way.  That isn’t discipleship; it is self-righteousness.  Jesus wants disciples who will follow where he leads, spending twenty-five cents here and fifty cents there in service to others.  Jesus wants to set us free from our self-sufficiency.  He wants to set us free from all the things that get in the way of following him.  He wants to set us free from our insistence on our own way, and instead follow him on his way.  At first glance, it might appear that Jesus is turning away disciples right and left with harsh words, but in reality he is telling them how they can be free.

That is what keeps this passage from being so troubling and terrifying that we close our Bibles and never open them again.  In this passage we hear the good news:  It is the call of Christ: Come, and follow me!  Don’t let anything get in your way!

Maybe Jesus knows what he is doing after all.  Maybe what draws us here together time and time again is not entertainment, or good sermons, or inspiring music, or even eggs and bacon.  Maybe we are here because following Jesus gives us the promise of a new life of freedom.  Little by little – twenty-five cents here, fifty cents there – we can cultivate a life of faithful service over the long haul, and be part of something much bigger than ourselves.  Maybe we are here to be set free from everything that would stand in the way of following Jesus, and living a life of discipleship.  We may recall here the words of the apostle Paul:  “For freedom Christ has set us free.  You were called to freedom, brothers and sisters, only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence, but through love become slaves to one-another.”

Eugene Peterson, author of a translation of the Bible known as The Message also wrote a book on discipleship called, A Long Obedience in the Same Direction.  In it, he writes that in Christian life, we all live a transition from oppression, to freedom, to a new servitude.  By following Christ we use our freedom most appropriately, by living under the lordship of a merciful God, and by giving ourselves completely in God’s service.  Peterson writes, “I have never yet heard a servant Christian complain about the oppressiveness of his servitude.  I have never yet heard a servant Christian rail against the restrictions of her service.  A servant Christian is the freest person on earth.”

Now that is good news!

May God bless Christian disciples all over the world with the freedom of service.

Thanks be to God.

* * * * *

This sermon was written by Rev. Lee A. Koontz.

Text: Acts 2:1-21

From the “Inspiration in the Inbox” department: Earlier this week I received an email from a church member.  It was entitled “The Safest Place” and it read:

How to stay safe in the world today:

1. Avoid riding in automobiles because they are responsible for 20% of all fatal accidents.

2. Do not stay home because 17% of all accidents occur in the home.

3. Avoid walking on streets or sidewalks because 14% of all accidents occur to pedestrians.

4. Avoid traveling by air, rail, or water because 16% of all accidents involve these forms of transportation.

5. Of the remaining 33%, 32% of all deaths occur in hospitals.  So above all else, avoid hospitals.

But…

You will be pleased to learn that only .001% of all deaths occur in worship services at church, and these are usually related to previous physical disorders.  Therefore, logic tells us that the safest place for you to be at any given moment is at church!

Isn’t it nice that there are statistics proving that church is a safe place?  After all, church should be a safe and secure place for Christian believers.  I think about all the visitors who find a place in these pews Sunday after Sunday, looking for a new church home.  In a very real way this place, this sanctuary, should be just that – a place of peace and comfort, acceptance and welcome.  Visitors should feel safe to visit and join this church.  I also think about our homeless neighbors who join us every Wednesday during the fall and winter months.  In talking to them, I’ve discovered that many of them have been to this church before and recognize it the minute they step into the Fellowship Hall for dinner.  One of them once told me, “I’ve been to this church before, and when I saw that we were coming back here tonight I was so excited.”  I was glad to hear that.  Our church should be a safe and secure place for those who have little to no safety or security.

Anne Lamott in here wonderful book Traveling Mercies tells the story of a little girl who got lost in her home town and couldn’t find her way home.  Apparently a helpful police officer saw the girl, and after asking her some questions let her get into the front seat of his patrol car so he could drive her around.  His hope was that she would eventually recognize a familiar landmark.  After a few minutes, the little girl suddenly sat straight up in the seat and said to the officer, “There’s my church.  You can let me out here.”  Shouldn’t church be like that?  Shouldn’t this or any church be a safe place for lost children and lost adults alike?

We Presbyterians have historically been quite good at safety and security in church.  We like to do things “decently and in order”.  We like non-threatening, comfortable worship services and friendly, safe people sharing the pews with us.  We excel at this, and so through most of the church year, we become accustomed to safe and secure Sunday mornings at church with no surprises.

But then comes Pentecost.

It all began with the breath of God, God’s Spirit, when it roared through that place where the disciples were gathered.  It shook the walls and rattled the doors.  It blew over tables and chairs, and made casual observers dive for cover.  Suddenly tongues of fire appeared on the head of each disciple.  Quite literally, they were on fire!  This sounds like something straight out of a science fiction movie, doesn’t it?  Some people have called Pentecost “the divine disturbance”.  I think that’s putting it lightly.  A disturbance is when a gnat flits around your head while you’re trying to read.  A disturbance is when a faucet drip… drip… drip…  in the bathroom keeps you awake.  Pentecost was not a mere disturbance.  It was all-out explosion of God’s holy power.  It was not decent.  It was not orderly.  And it was anything but safe.

That’s just how it is with God’s Holy Spirit.  You see, scripture tells us that God’s Spirit hovered over the watery void, the formless nothingness, and at the moment of creation brought order out of chaos.  You only have to read the first three verses of your Bible to see that.  God’s Spirit is well known for turning chaos into order.  But, there are plenty of other instances in the Bible and throughout history when God’s Spirit does just the opposite.  God turns order into complete chaos.  That’s the part of God’s presence that we decent and orderly folk don’t do so well with.  We’d much rather have a God who behaves, a God who does predictable and non-threatening things, a God who simply comforts us when we are afflicted.  When God suddenly turns around and afflicts us when we are comfortable, well, then we’ve got a problem.

I think for that reason God’s Holy Spirit is fairly misunderstood.  We have a pretty good idea what we mean when we speak of God as Father, and an even better idea of what we mean when we speak of God as the Son, Jesus Christ, but we have little to no idea what the Holy Spirit does.  Several months ago I got a good laugh out of reading an article I found on a satirical news website.  The headline read, “Holy Spirit Gets Laid Off”.  The article went like this:  “Calling the Holy Trinity ‘overstaffed and over budget,’ God announced plans Monday to downsize the group by slowly phasing out the Holy Ghost. ‘Given the poor economic climate and the unclear nature of the Holy Ghost’s duties, I felt this was a sensible and necessary decision,’ God said. ‘The Holy Ghost will be given fewer and fewer responsibilities until His formal resignation from Trinity duty following Easter services this year. Thereafter, the Father and the Son shall be referred to as the Holy Duo.’”  I laughed because I think many Christians wouldn’t mind seeing the Holy Spirit take a little break for a while, especially when that Holy Spirit is responsible for bursting through the windows and doors with a violent wind and tongues of fire.

Though we might rather God’s Spirit not do things like that to us, Pentecost is our yearly reminder that God’s Holy Spirit breaks into the comfort, the security, and the complacency of our lives and turns the whole joint upside down with chaotic power.  We may find ourselves wondering how the same Holy Spirit that brought order out of chaos in the Genesis creation narrative can also bring chaos out of order in the story of Pentecost.  I think the answer is pretty clear once we stop assuming that order is better for us than chaos is.  The Holy Spirit seems unconcerned with either the order or the chaos as ends in themselves, as scripture describes it.  What the Holy Spirit does is bring about a new creation.  Sometimes, as we see in the creation narrative, that means creating new order out of old chaos.  However, there are just as many instances in which God’s Holy Spirit creates a new chaos out of an old order.  It’s called renewal.  It’s called rebirth.  It’s called new life.

It’s interesting to me that Luke, who wrote both the gospel of Luke and the book of Acts, uses the word “power” here.  In the gospel, he describes Jesus telling the disciples to “stay here in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high” (Luke 24:49).  Again in Acts, Jesus says “you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you” (Acts 1:8).  And here, in our New Testament reading for this morning, we hear that the disciples begin speaking in different languages, proclaiming God’s deeds of power.  To know what Luke means by “power” we can’t just go to a dictionary, as the definition would be too general.  Too know what Luke means by using that word we have to look at the other places he uses it.  As it turns out, Luke uses the word five times in the first two chapters of his gospel alone, and in each instance, power is connected with pregnancy and birth.  For instance, Mary is told by the angel Gabriel, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you and the power of the Most High will overshadow you” (Luke 1:35).  The power of God’s Holy Spirit is one of creation, conception, and new life.  Those in scripture who have an encounter with God’s Holy Spirit can do nothing but yield to it.  They are blown by God’s Holy wind wherever God wants them to be.  The windblown journey is the Christian life.  You don’t make demands of it.  You don’t try to establish safety and security in it.  You just go where it takes you.

How often do we really pray for God’s Holy Spirit to create something new in us?  I think more often than not, when we pray, we ask God for things that merely help maintain our safety and our security.  But Jesus called his disciples to far more than safety and security.  In fact, he told them precisely that they would not be safe.  They would not be secure.  He sent them out into the world to turn it upside down, to welcome the last as if they were the first, to treat the smallest like they were the biggest, to join the poorest as if they were the richest.  How often do we pray for God to do the same thing with us?

Christian author Shane Claiborne wrote about one of his college professors who told the class, “All around you, people will be tiptoeing through life, just to arrive at death safely.  But dear children, do not tiptoe.  Run, hop, skip, or dance, just don’t tiptoe.” (The Irresistible Revolution: Living as an Ordinary Radical, p. 225.)

Brother and sisters, Pentecost reminds us that the church should never just be a safe and secure place, by which we merely tiptoe through the Christian life to arrive safely at death.  Pray for God to create something new with you, to use you to turn the world upside-down.  Go visit the Urban Ministry Center, or the Correctional Center, or one of our area’s many hospitals, and look into the eyes of the people that Jesus called “the least of these”.  Trust God’s Holy Spirit to carry you into the lives of people in need.  William Sloane Coffin once said that “God is always beckoning us toward horizons we aren’t sure we want to reach!” (Credo, p. 146.) On Pentecost, that is particularly clear.  God’s Pentecost wind is liable to surprise you at any moment.  I can’t promise that you’ll be safe.  I can’t guarantee that you’ll feel secure.  But I can promise you – because God promises it to each of us – that you will feel God’s power, that you will experience new life, and that God will create something brand new through you, in you, around you.  That’s what church really is.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

* * * * *

This sermon was written by Rev. Lee A. Koontz