The Mayberry Preacher

Rebel With A Cause

Matthew 5: 17-20
Steve Lindsley
October 30, 2011

The image is emblazoned in many of our minds.  There he stood, leaning against the wall, black leather jacket thrown over his shoulder.  His hair slicked back in a DA, half-burned cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.  He wore a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and of course the blue jeans.  And the look on his face was unforgettable – sort of a “You can’t mess with me” look.

He was James Dean, and in his twenty-four years of life he cast an indelible impression.  Just like his movie, “Rebel Without A Cause,” he came to symbolize a generation.  He did the kinds of things and defied authority in a way that resonates with something inside us, whether we admit it or not.  He was a rebel’s rebel.

James Dean was the classic rebel.  But in no way was he the first.

There was another who came many years before him. There he stood, his skin tanned and roughened by the desert sun and wind.  His hair unkempt and blowing in the breeze.  He wore a single garment that covered his body, and on his feet he sported well-worn sandals.  Sometime he even went around barefoot.  His friends were the outcasts, the lowly, the sinners of his time – fisherman, tax collectors, a prostitute.  

If the definition of a rebel is indeed, as Webster puts it, someone who “exhibits defiance and resistance to an established authority,” then Jesus surely fit the bill.  But with Jesus, we get a different kind of rebel.  Unlike Mr. Dean, Jesus was a rebel WITH a cause.  His nonconformity to the status quo wasn’t because it was “cool” – it was because it’s what he came to do: to fulfill God’s vision for the world and offer his own life to reconcile ours to God.

And when we read Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount in the gospel of Matthew, especially the verses today, we get a feel for this “rebellious Jesus.” From the very beginning of his message that day on the mountainside, Jesus makes it clear that things were not going to be the same anymore.  Change was coming.  At the same, time, though, Jesus goes to great lengths to emphasize that he was not undoing the faith of his forbearers.  Thus the verse we all know well:

Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets;
I have come not to abolish but to fulfill.

 Or, as The Message translation puts it:

I’m not here to demolish but to complete.
I am going to put it all together, pull it all together in a vast panorama.

You know, I kind of like that sense of putting things back together again – remaking what once was made; re-creating that which had already been created.  I like it because it’s not something “new” as much as it’s re-newed.  All the pieces, broken into little pieces, now put back together again.

It was a plate that I had shattered, I remember it vividly.  It sat on one of the shelves in my grandmother’s living room in her home.  I was so little, but even at my tender age I knew – this plate was something special in that special house.  It had some significance attached to it beyond my understanding.  And now I had broken it by accident.  They had always told me not to run through there like that.

I stared down at that shattered plate in the seconds before a curious grown-up entered the room upon hearing the noise.  I stared down at it, wishing and wanting so much for it to be like it was before.  

I don’t remember if I got into a whole lot of trouble, but what I do remember are the steady hands of my grandfather as he lovingly and painstakingly put the pieces back together again. The glue dried overnight, and by the next morning it was back on display.  You could barely see the tiny cracks unless you got up close to look for them. 

I think about that plate when I hear Jesus tell us that he’s “going to put it all together again.”  That’s what Jesus does, doesn’t he?  That’s what the gospels tell us over and over again.  Jesus, taking the brokenness of the world and bringing it much-needed healing.  Jesus, taking the sad state of affairs around us and giving them order and meaning.  That’s what he told the people on the mountain that day that he had come there to do.  And he knew, probably better than anyone, how big of a job it would really be.  Only a rebel with a cause would be up for the task.

One of my favorite movie scenes of all time comes from a little-known flick called “Grand Canyon.”  At the beginning, which is set in Los Angeles, we meet Kevin Kline’s character, an immigration lawyer, driving home alone one evening after a Lakers game.  In trying to take a short-cut home, he winds up getting lost in one of the more dangerous parts of east L.A.  Then his car breaks down.  As he rolls off to the side of the road, he calls for a tow truck on his cell phone. 

While he’s waiting, a large white Mercedes slowly drives by, stops, puts it in reverse and pulls up behind him.  Five young men hop out and walk to either side of his car.  They motion for him to roll the window down.  You can see the fear on his face as he anticipates what’s happening.  They tell him to get out of his car as one of them shows a gun.  Things are about to take a turn for the worst when, from over the crest of the hill, comes the tow truck; its headlights casting a glow over the horizon as if it’s from heaven itself.  The truck pulls in front of the car and a large man named Simon, played by Danny Glover, hops out and, despite the present danger, begins to set the car on the truck.

The five teens stare incredulously at Simon – he knows the rules, and yet he’s blatantly intruded on their turf.  Simon knows how things work here, so when he finishes he asks to speak to the one in charge, who he knows is carrying the gun.  He pulls the young man aside and asks him to let him do his job and tow this man and his car to safety.  The young man scoffs at his suggestion, tells him he’s crazy.

Simon then looks him straight in the eye and, on the streets of East L.A., turns philosophical.  And he says,

You know, the world ain’t supposed to work like this.  Maybe you don’t know that, but this ain’t the way it’s supposed to be.  I’m supposed to be able to do my job without you asking if I can.  That dude is supposed to be able to wait with his car without you ripping him off.  Everything’s supposed to be different than what it is.

I’m telling you, if it wasn’t Danny Glover saying those words on a movie set made out to look like East L.A., it could’ve easily come from Jesus!  I love it when movies surprise us like this.  This ain’t the way it’s supposed to be.  Everything is supposed to be different than what it is.  This world was originally created as good, but something changed.  We changed.  As one of my seminary professors always used to say, “Every day, each one of us living out that little drama in the Garden of Eden.”  “Sin” is what some have taken to calling it – not the individual missteps we make, but the larger scope.  “Sin” with a capital “S.”  The broken plate – not what it should be.  Sin is how we’ve wound up with a world where folks are mugged while waiting for a tow truck, where children go hungry every night, where people are abused every second of the day, and where folks have to fight each day against depression or the craving of addictions.  Danny Glover hit the nail on the head: This ain’t the way it’s are supposed to be.

And that’s what brings us back to the rebel Jesus.

Because only a rebel of the highest caliber could dare to take on the ills of our world and try to make them right.  Only a rebel with a cause – the greatest of causes – could ever hope to bridge the gap that Sin had created.  And that’s why Jesus had to, at times, be that rebel. Remember when Jesus lashed out in anger at the moneychangers in the temple, turning over tables?  Remember how he challenged the religious authorities, telling parable after parable that not only answered their questions but revealed their hypocrisy?  Remember how he valued women in a society that looked down on them, or how he surrounded himself with outcasts and sinners?  Remember some of his more controversial statements, the ones you typically don’t hear preached on Sunday morning: I did not come with peace but with a sword. These kinds of things unsettle us – and that’s the whole point. 

But you know something?  None of these things – none of them – could hold a candle to his most rebellious act, so radical it would’ve made old James Dean blush.  Out of all the things Jesus said and did, nothing was more radical than simply being human.  Think about it.  In Jesus we find the perfect marriage of two persons: on the one hand Jesus of Nazareth, a normal human being in his early 30’s, trained as a carpenter by his father; and on the other hand Jesus Christ, the Chosen One, sent by God to set things right with the world.  In Jesus we have both Human and Divine, woven together into one.  Can there be anything more radical than that?!?  Can there be anything more shocking than God, in all of God’s holiness and majesty, stooping to the lowest level to this little planet of ours, and allowing God’s self to become human and live among us? 

Just consider for a moment the way Jesus came into this world and the way he left it.  Jesus, Son of God, born as a tiny baby in a dirty manger, lying in coarse hay in the company of a few country shepherds and barnyard animals.  Thirty-three years later, Jesus, Savior of the world, suffering inexplicable pain while enduring a death reserved for the worst of criminals, hanging on a cross, until his lungs literally gave out.  Can you see the irony – Jesus at his most human, most vulnerable, most weak moments; simultaneously and completely fulfilling God’s divine plan.

My friends, Jesus, the rebel with a cause, came to us for many reasons.  He came to set things right, to fulfill and not abolish.  He came to glue the shattered pieces of our world back together again.  He came to save us from the Sin that would otherwise tear us away from the body of Christ. And the only way he could do all those things, really do them, was to become human like us.  To walk in our shoes, not as an illusion or representation, but flesh and bone like you and me.

It really was the only way.  And it was the most rebel-like thing he ever did.  And thanks to be God for that.  Thanks be to God!  AMEN.

YOU DON'T NEED A SIX-HOUR SERMON

Nehemiah 7:73b-8:12
Steve Lindsley
October 23, 2011

It can best be described as a preacher’s dream!  11:00 on a Sunday morning.  And the sanctuary is packed and folks are still pouring in; so many that the ushers have to grab extra chairs and line them in the aisles and the hallway in back.  The place is filled to capacity.  But more than that: it’s filled with energetic people of all ages who are elated to be there.  They’ve been anticipating Sunday worship all week long.

The service begins with a rousing Call to Worship, and everyone joins in the first hymn with great fervor.  And then the highlight of the service - the reading of scripture!  A hush falls over the gathering as the people wait in anticipation to hear the Word of God.  Then the sermon follows.  Now in many churches this is where the minister talks for 15 minutes, 20 max, and does his or her best to just keep the congregation awake.  But not in this church!  The preacher expounds on the reading, and God’s spirit brings understanding and meaning to the whole congregation.  Folks become more spirit-filled with every word.  And even an occasional “Amen!” is uttered! 

And no one seems to notice or care when the sermon goes on for six hours, well into afternoon tee times and football games.  As a matter of fact, the more the preacher preaches, the more the people want it to keep going!  When the service finally ends around suppertime, everyone leaves, filled with God’s spirit and ready to face the week ahead.  And, of course, ready for next week’s service!

Okay, so perhaps it’s a bit of a stretch to call this a “preacher’s dream.”  I mean, the excited and spirit-filled congregation part is great, but I’m not up for preparing a six hour sermon.  As you probably aren’t up for listening to one!   Besides, this is all just a pipe dream, isn’t it?  Something like this would never actually happen, right?

Imagine my surprise when I stumbled across our scripture reading this past week; a few obscure verses from the book of Nehemiah.  It’s not often that Nehemiah gets quoted in religious conversations. We don’t typically see Nehemiah verses emblazoned on end zone signs during football games.  And yet, this is where our day-long worship service takes place.

Flash back to the Hebrews’ exile in Babylon.  On the surface it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been – they held good jobs there and made a good life for themselves.  But underneath the surface lurked the pain of what they had lost – their homeland, their beloved city Jerusalem, their temple.  They longed to return to the land God had given them before.  Which is exactly what happened when the Persians came to power and allowed the conquered nations to return to their native soil.  God’s people were going home!

That excitement and enthusiasm was totally deflated, though, when they returned.  Nothing but piles of rock and dashed hopes.  Perhaps this felt like a greater loss: it had been the memories of their proud city that sustained them in captivity.  And now, finally home, that city was no more.But God’s people, led by Nehemiah the governor, and Ezra the Priest, worked hard to rebuild Jerusalem.  First, the temple – so the people could worship God.  Next the city walls, to protect against intruders.  With those two done, the nation Israel was on its way to renewal.  History’s cruel past had been replaced with God’s future promise. 

So maybe, then, we can understand their enthusiasm for this glorious service of worship and for Ezra’s sermon.  Even though that sermon, we are told, lasted (and this is a quote) “from early morning until midday.”  Now you can calculate that however you want, but that sounds pretty much like a six hour sermon to me!  We Presbyterians get antsy when the minister pushes worship past the one-hour mark.  How do you think we’d handle something like this?

Don’t worry, I’m not going to try and find out!  But what I’m curious about, and I hope you are too, is what in the world Ezra could’ve possibly said that would’ve captured their attention and enthusiasm for all that time. I mean, seriously, right?  What in the world did he tell them for six hours that had them hanging on every word?

Our inclination is to surmise that this must’ve been a brand new message; something they never heard before.  But see, that wasn’t the case.  In fact, the scripture he used – the Book of Law of Moses, as the NRSV calls it – had been with them for centuries.  They’d heard it countless times.  And yet there was something different about it now.  It was as if the spirit and exuberance of Ezra’s message took those old familiar words and fashioned them into something new, something to assure the Hebrews that Yahweh was their God then and now. 

Perhaps this is what’s meant by the expression, “Hearing it again for the first time.”  And that’s what makes the Bible so amazing.  The “words” of God stay the same, fixed in the black and white of our Bible’s pages.  But the “Word” it proclaims, the message, speaks directly to our lives; lives that are constantly changing.  The Hebrews returned to their home on foot and camel back; today we cruise around in cars and can fly to the other side of the world in a day.  But the Gospel is as relevant now as it was 4000 years ago; as it will be 4000 years from now.

So here’s the question: how do we, the people of God right now, how do we “hear it again for the first time?”  Is it six-hour sermons?  I mean, that’d only be another five hours and fifty minutes!  Thankfully, for you and me both, I don’t think it’s the length of the sermon that matters.  What I think is more important is the “who” of the sermon.  You know, I’ve always felt that sermons are really three-way conversations: between the preacher, the congregation, and God.  Which is a big relief for us minister-types, because that means a “good sermon” isn’t just about what’s said from the pulpit, but very much about what’s experienced in the pews and what’s spoken in all our hearts by the God who brings us together.  So maybe that “sermon-as-a-three-way-conversation” thing plays some part in us “hearing it again for the first time.”

But it’s also about what we do after that conversation. The need to find different, creative ways of living out the timeless Gospel message.  Someone once said this:

If it is our real concern to pass on a knowledge of the Christian faith that goes beyond a meager minimum, we will refuse to make a “sacred cow” of any inherited method and tap all the expertise of the day in order that we might know more of our God.

What he’s saying, I think, is that we can’t afford to let old habits keep us from realizing today’s potential.  Notice I said habits and not traditions.  We need traditions!  We need to respect and hold in high regard the traditions of the church that have defined us for over 150 years.  What we don’t need is to let our past hold us back from what God may be trying to do with our present.  In other words, the church needs to sing the same tune to a new and more relevant rhythm.

The wonderful thing about our church is that, in some ways, we’re already doing this.  You have heard Lee Daniels, our Mission Ministry Team moderator, use the phrase “mission partners.”  He’s speaking about every one of you – the members and friends of this church – and the ways you live out your faith in this community.  Helping build a Habitat For Humanity House.  Serving food at Friends Feeding Friends.  Helping a second-grade kid learn to read.  In the months ahead, you’re going to hear about “mission partner alerts;” and you can answer the call to take that timeless message of the gospel and put flesh and bone on it today. 

Here’s another way we’re hearing it again for the first time: our new Stewardship ministry that Bruce talked about this morning, and Pete last week.  And it’s kind of funny, actually, because there’s nothing really “new” about the different way we’re doing Stewardship this year.  Lots of churches are in the habit of making their focus less on supporting an institution and more about simply giving to God.  I want to join with the Discipleship Ministry Team in asking each and every one of you to be present here in worship on November 13^th for Consecration Sunday, and make your reservation for the celebration lunch afterwards, because I’m convinced there will be great reason for us to celebrate that day!

Because if there’s one thing Ezra made clear in his six-hour sermon, if there’s one thing we in this church do well, it is this: we do things well together.  For the Hebrew people, and for us, there is no such thing as “individualized worship” or “individualized fellowship.”  It’s an oxymoron of the highest level.  We must always find ways, as congregations of God’s people, to not only hear God’s word, but know that we hear it together.      

This is rarely easy, because the society we live in places a lot of emphasis on the individual.  You know the expression, “There is no ‘I’ in “Team’”?   I once heard someone counter, “Well, there’s a ‘Me’ in there, and I’m it!”  That may be the way some things operate in our world, but it can’t be the way we do things in the church.  It can’t!  We have to grow in community with one another.  We laugh together.  We mourn together.  We celebrate together.  We struggle together.  And we rejoice in the unchanging Word of God heard in the midst of changing circumstances – together.  

Many summers ago, when I was at summer camp, I remember very vividly one of our evening devotions.  I remember it because it took place in the midst of tumultuous times for our cabin of ten 12-year old boys.  We weren’t getting along very well, and the tension was starting to get the best of us.  And so in our devotion that night, one of our counselors took out a single Popsicle stick and asked one of us to break it in half – which he easily did.  Then he reached behind him and pulled out ten Popsicle sticks; and he bound them together with a rubber band, and asked another boy to try.  He couldn’t break them.  We passed those ten sticks around the circle and none of us could. 

You probably know where this is going.  Our counselor told us that those popsicle sticks represented our cabin – ten sticks for ten boys.  Standing alone we would break easily.  But together, and bound by a common purpose, we formed a group that could take on pretty much anything.  Nothing could tear us down.  The bottom line is that we were much better off together than trying to get by on our own.

You know, I thought for a bit about going out and buying a hundred or so popsicles so we could do the same thing here today, but I was pretty sure my family wouldn’t be able to eat them all in time for Sunday morning worship.  Now my boys might say that I’ve underestimated their popsicle-eating skills, and they may be right.

But let me tell you one thing I haven’t underestimated: I haven’t underestimated the fact that we in this church are a formidable and powerful group when we are together, bound together tightly by the unchanging gospel of Jesus Christ.  I’ve seen this now for nearly nine years.  And together, we can take on anything that comes our way – and not only survive it, but flourish through it. 

So, yeah, we don’t need six-hour sermons.  All we need is an unquenchable desire to hear God’s word, hear it as if it’s the very first time, and then let it change our lives together from the inside out.  Because that’s the kind of God-with-us moment that is worthy of our celebration.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.

YES, THERE IS A KINGDOM!

Luke 23: 33-43
Steve Lindsley
October 16, 2011

It’s not often that I get to research art for a sermon – my desk is usually covered with all kinds of Bible translations and commentaries during the week.  But it’s hard not to get visual with the scripture today – the crucifixion and the three crosses, and all the people who make up one of the more poignant and heart-wrenching scenes of the gospels.

So I did a little poking around and found a fantastic piece of work by the famous Dutch painter Rembrandt.  It’s called “The Three Crosses,” and you may have noticed that it’s on the cover of today’s bulletin:

What drew me to this picture was the overwhelming detail of it. There’s this “harshness” that jumps out at you – achieved in part by the medium Rembrandt used to make it.  This is not a painting, as he was inclined to, but something called “drypoint,” where furrows are scratched directly into a copper plate with a stylus.  When the plate is inked, the rough edges of the gouges retain a large amount of the ink.[1]  There’s a heavy, haunting quality to drypoint that seems to fit this particular scene well.

There’s one other thing to note about this picture; a trademark of Rembrandt’s.  Art scholars have noted that in many of his paintings, especially where there’s a crowd, the artist would insert himself somewhere into the picture.  If you look at the bottom right, almost hidden in the shadows, you’ll see him there.  Unlike everyone else, you can’t see his face.[2]  He’s looking away.  It’s as if he can’t bear to see what’s happening.

Just as Rembrandt goes out of his way to create a very descriptive portrayal of this sad day, the writer of Luke’s gospel carefully chooses every word and sentence in his narrative.  Because he also has a specific message to convey.  And if we had been there that day, much the same way Rembrandt imagined himself there, we would’ve sensed a very specific message Luke wanted to communicate:

We would’ve seen a barren landscape outside the city of Jerusalem, known in Aramaic as Golgotha, but in Luke’s gospel referred to by its colloquial name: “The Skull.”  Right off the bat the stage is set: no good can come out of anyplace called “The Skull.”

We’d watch as soldiers, Rome’s henchmen and mass executioners, divvied up Jesus’ last earthly possessions by casting lots for them – a child’s game of chance.

We’d see the crowd of people gathered there to witness the deaths – the same crowd, Luke tells us, who mere days before had stood at the gates welcoming Jesus in with palm branches and shouting “Hosanna in the highest!”  But now they are scared silent. They are absolutely complicit in this execution.

We’d watch the religious leaders, who had viewed Jesus as a thorn in their collective side, now mocking and taunting him, making fun of him in their moment of victory.  There was a sign hanging above Jesus: “King of the Jews,” it read.  It’s not clear who put it there: the soldiers to mock him further, or the religious leaders to make a point. Either way, it was not a compliment.

We’d see the soldiers offering Jesus “sour wine” – an almost vinegar-like substance that hardened-soldiers would typically drink to take the edge off.  And we’d note that the wine mentioned in Luke’s gospel is missing something found in Mark’s gospel.  There it says, “wine mixed with myrrh.”  Myrrh was an ancient anesthetic; it took the edge off the pain.  But it’s not in the wine that Luke’s soldiers offer.  And so as Luke tells it, there is no relief for Jesus; not even in sour wine.

We’d hear the rants of one of the two criminals crucified at his side: Some messiah you are – save yourself! Save us!  And who can blame him? He is in the last hour of his life, he’s in absolute agony, and the scene that is playing out before him has been a hate-fest against this Jesus.  So why not join in?

Luke is crystal clear with the picture he wants us to see: the grim choreography of Roman crucifixion, and the heightened level of hostility and malice directed at this 33-year old carpenter.  Everyone is getting in on the act!

Well, almost everyone. See, there’s this other criminal Luke throws in there, crucified on Jesus’ other side.  And he’s not silent like the crowd.  He doesn’t hurl insults at Jesus with the soldiers and religious leaders.  He doesn’t even echo the other criminal’s pain.  Instead, in stark contrast to everything else going on, he actually defends Jesus; a man he never met.  And he says with perhaps his very last breath: Jesus, remember me when you enter your kingdom.

You know what this is like?  This is like the time I was leading one of the Children’s Messages in my former church, and we talked about how Jesus cured the man’s blindness.  The kids and I had this great back-and-forth about how God heals all our blindnesses so we can see God clearly, and the kids are engaged and offering up their own stories about God’s healing, and it’s all great and going wonderfully…. until then this one kid raises his hand and shares proudly that he, in fact, had Cheerios that morning for breakfast.  And while I’m very pleased he enjoyed a nutritious start to his day, it had absolutely nothing to do with what we were talking about.  It didn’t fit!

That’s what the end of Luke’s passage feels like to me – it doesn’t fit.  Luke is going to great lengths to describe for us this downright dismal scene, and this guy starts talking about Jesus’ kingdom.  I wonder if the crowd or soldiers or religious leaders heard what he said – they must’ve thought he was delusional, so near death!

So here’s the question I’m pretty sure Luke wanted us to ask ourselves in this passage: what did that second criminal see that day that no one else did?  How in the world could he have looked upon that scene, a scene much like Rembrandt’s, and see anything remotely “kingdom-like?”

Now we can, of course, concoct a nice-sounding answer that wraps things up all nice and neat.  We can say that this man simply had faith and believed in Jesus.  We can say he had a “bedside conversion” of sorts.  We can explain this little anomaly away fairly easily if we wanted to.

But I’m pretty certain Luke doesn’t want us to do that – not with all the trouble he’s gone to to set this up.  I wonder if there’s something else he wants us to see – something beneath the surface but, in another sense, is right there in front of our faces, clear as a bell, like Rembrandt’s drypoint.

I mean, did you notice, for instance, that Luke doesn’t identify either criminal – no names or nationality, or what put them on their crosses in the first place?  Nothing.  We talked about this absence at our bimonthly gathering of esteemed theologians and coffee drinkers at Pages this past Wednesday.  And I agreed with the conclusion the Bible study came to – that Luke sets things up here so we don’t have any biases for or against either criminal’s identity.  So we, the readers and listeners, can see ourselves in them.

Which is really interesting, and frankly, kind of unsettling!  Because if that’s the case, then I gotta admit, sometimes I feel more like that first guy.  I look around this world, and in my weaker moments all the bad seems to trump the good.  You know that feeling?  Pain and suffering, loss, injustice.  Things just not being right.  And sometimes, like that first criminal, my cynicism gets the best of me.  And I just want to know why.  I want to know why God doesn’t just make everything right. Aren’t you the Messiah?  I want God to swoop down and save the world. I want God to save me.

And I have no idea what that other guy is talking about.  He is an enigma to me.  How can he possibly survey the same scene before me and, with his last few breaths, express something else entirely?  How can he dare to claim that God’s kingdom is at hand and then ask to be remembered when that kingdom comes?  Because “kingdom” was a pretty loaded term back in Jesus time.  It was impossible to say “kingdom” and not think of “king.”  And the king was the guy who put me and the others on the cross; certainly not one hanging on it.

I just don’t get him.  Which is why I like the way one commentator put it:

The thief asks Jesus to be remembered in his kingdom.  Surveying the scene, we find not the slightest shred of evidence that such a kingdom exists, ever has existed, or ever will exist.  The thief asks nonetheless.  Somehow he found the lens that permits him to recognize salvation that intrudes into the absolutely hopeless moment where no one is saved from suffering and death – which is also exactly the moment when salvation breaks through.[3]

The absolutely hopeless moment….when salvation breaks through.  That’s what he saw!  God’s supposed absence, revealing God’s overwhelming presence.  A world coming unraveled at the seams, revealing the dawn of a new kind of kingdom.  All the hate and malice and anger, transformed into Grace and Hope and Love.  The absolutely hopeless moment….when salvation breaks through. 

Not that we should ever wish hard times on anyone, much less ourselves, but have you ever experienced this?  Have you ever been in a bad place – maybe you’ve lost someone close, or there’s one too many life transitions going on at the same time, or you’ve fallen further than you first estimated.  Everything around you, you see with dark and dingy lenses.  And then suddenly, unexpectedly, you see something quite different.  You see – and feel – a sharp jolt of joy.  A little taste of the kingdom.  And it’s weird, because it’s not like you’ve suddenly forgotten the struggles.  They’re still there.  It’s just that you’re very much aware that something else is there too.  Or someone else.

I don’t know.  It just seems that Luke, with a little assist from Rembrandt, is trying to make a point – that we as followers of Christ need to do our best to be more like the second guy than the first one.  To put on those different lenses and see God’s kingdom around us, even in a world that doesn’t always look kingdom-like.  It sounds kind of funny to say, but we in the church need to be a congregation full of second criminals! 

Because, as one commentator describes it:

The Kingdom church does not only talk about love, justice and peace, but becomes a society marked by a Gospel love, a Gospel justice, a Gospel peace.  It’s a people who eat together, love one another, and who see the needs in the world around them and do something about those needs.[4]

You know, I think it’s interesting in the Rembrandt piece that there’s a light shining from above, and it seems to illuminate one criminal over the other.  It’s totally a guess on my part, but I like to think it’s the second guy.  And he’s looking up – perhaps looking up to the God who is fast constructing a new kingdom, even in the midst of a great pain that engulfs everyone, even on earth’s darkest day.

That same light still shines on you and on me.  And it reminds us of the God who loves us fiercely, and the kingdom in which we are always a part of, and in which we will always, always be remembered.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.

---

[1]http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&cd=15&ved=0CH8QFjAO&url=http%3A%2F%2Fkemperartmuseum.wustl.edu%2Ffiles%2Fspotlight10.08.pdf&ei=sRGTTueaLobX0QG61-lA&usg=AFQjCNEohHr89zTd1CgXQEYAcnhHs_-Beg&sig2=W_c_d1iy36Bo6o6pQZ3cqA, visited on 10.10.2011.

[2]http://www.homileticsonline.com/subscriber/illustrations_for_installment.asp?installment_id=3092, visited on 10.10.2011.

[3] Feasting On The Word, Year C Vol. 4, pg. 337.

[4] Scot McKnight, "What Does Kingdom Mean, Anyway?" Relevant Magazine, Issue 51" May/June 2011' pg. 40.

THERE'S ALWAYS TROUBLE IN THE VINEYARD

Isaiah 5: 1-7; Matthew 21: 33-46
Steve Lindsley
October 9, 2011

You ever had a lousy landlord?  I had one my second year in seminary. Two other guys and I rented a house just a block away from campus.  The location was great, the house size was perfect, and it came furnished.  As it turned out, however, the landlord, who had just moved out of the house himself, had apparently left more behind than just furniture and appliances.  The place was absolutely infested with fleas.  I’m sure they were from his dog.  Walking around that house was like walking in the middle of a flea war zone with your legs suffering the greatest casualties.  We set off a few flea bombs, but they barely made a dent in the problem.  We complained to the landlord and were quickly chastised for being so “ungrateful.”  Our stay in that house lasted all of two weeks.

Lousy landlords tend to get most of the attention and “press time.”  The thing is, though, there are “terrible tenants” too.  I was talking to my brother this past week, who owns a few condos in Raleigh that he rents out.  He was sharing with me his worst tenant story.  Apparently some guy who rented an apartment from him just left town one day – no trace, no contact info.  My brother didn’t realize he was gone until two weeks later.  His tenant had left pretty much everything in the apartment, including a packed fridge that had somehow gotten turned off.  Cheese, milk, sandwich meat, produce and other perishables – all festering in there for two weeks.  And my brother had to clean it out.  Now that’s a terrible tenant!

So we may find it interesting, in our scripture today, that Jesus tells a story about some terrible tenants – I mean, really terrible.  And it’s not an apartment or condo, but a vineyard.  You know, the more we read the gospels, the more we realize that vineyards seem to be one of Jesus’ favorite parable locales.  And that makes sense, if we think about it – the Jewish people of Jesus’ time were still at heart an agrarian society, and they knew all too well the cultural divide that existed between those who owned land and those who worked in it.  Vineyards by their nature are great spiritual metaphors – the harvesting season, the “fruits of one’s labors,” the interplay between workers and owners.  Lots of stuff can happen in the vineyard.

And so Jesus tells a story about a vineyard.  Two stories, actually.  Jesus is on a roll!  Just the other day he entered Jerusalem with a whole lot of fanfare to people waving palm branches and shouting “hosannas” at him.  He kicked over some tables in the temple; he cursed a fig tree.  He’s not in much of a conciliatory mood; he knows his time is short.  And so he’s telling it like it is.

Jesus tells the first vineyard parable, but the crowd doesn’t seem to get it.  It’s hard to tell in black and white, but you get the sense that there was this uncomfortable pause after he finished that first vineyard story; people kind of looking at each other; Jesus waiting for that “aha” moment that never came.  And so Jesus goes back to the drawing board, perhaps rolling his eyes a bit as he does, and tries again: Let me tell you another parable!

We’re back in the vineyard, but something has changed.  There’s trouble brewing in the vineyard.  Jesus tells a story about a man who has lovingly and painstakingly built this wonderful vineyard and leases it to some tenants while he’s away.  Have you ever noticed in Jesus’ parables how everything seems to happen; everything seems to fall to pieces when the landowner is “away?”  When the harvest season comes, the landowner sends servants to collect the fruits.  But those tenants, those terrible tenants, will have none of it; and they beat and kill those servants.  The landowner is horrified when he hears of this, and sends more servants who receive the same treatment.  Finally as a last resort, the landowner sends his own flesh and blood, figuring that his son will command some respect.  But can you believe those terrible tenants show the son no mercy, casting him out of the vineyard and killing him in cold blood?

How’s that for a nice ending!  You know, sometimes Jesus’ parables have some closure to them – the shepherd finding the lost sheep after leaving 99, for instance.  But other times, Jesus’ stories don’t end all nice and neat.  And I’m pretty sure he does this on purpose.  Because life isn’t always nice and neat; nor is the message Jesus wants to convey to the people in what would be his last week.  Sometimes the message is messy.

The crowds get the message.  They understand what this story is about: God is like a landlord who leases his vineyard – his kingdom – to God’s people. And the time has come for God to see fruit from his workers. He wants to see faith in his promises and trust in his messengers. He wants his vineyard to produce a robust wine that leaves the boundaries of the kingdom walls and fills the entire world with the goodness of what grows. But rather than produce a measurable crop for the owner, the vineyard's tenants have sat on their hands and have nothing to show him. And worse, those tenants have flat-out ignored the warnings of eviction and murdered every prophet he sent on his behalf.

So what happens next?  Interesting, isn’t it, that Jesus asks the crowd what they think.  He lets them finish the story – did you notice that?  As it turns out, both the crowd and Jesus kind of come to the same conclusion: the terrible tenants are given the boot, and replaced with people who will not only treat the landowner with respect, but will make sure the vineyard produces the fruit its supposed to.

It’s an expected ending to the story, right?  It fits with what they – and we – believe about God’s kingdom: grace, when experienced and lived out in our lives, leads to changed lives through the good fruit we bear.  Because it’s all about the fruit, isn’t it?  It’s all about how our belief in Jesus affects our actions in the greater world. The time for the old tenants – the do-nothing, ungrateful bunch – is long gone.  The time for new tenants – faith-filled, Messiah-following, fruit-bearing – their time has arrived.

Everyone there that day agreed.  Well, almost everyone.  There’s this little verse at the end of the story that’s sometimes overlooked:

When the chief priests and Pharisees heard this parable,
They realized Jesus was speaking about them.

 “Them,” of course, being the wicked tenants.  The ones who disgraced God’s vineyard and didn’t bear any fruit.  The ones who did away with God’s representatives.  And the ones who would throw God’s very son out of the vineyard and put him to death.  This was Jesus’ last week on earth, remember.  How’s that for foreshadowing?  Those chief priests and Pharisees picked up on the subtext of Jesus’ little vineyard story and they weren’t all that thrilled with it.  Or, for that matter, with Jesus himself.

Ah, but that’s okay, they thought to themselves.  After all, that’s them.  That’s those other people who’ve messed up.  That’s their problem.  Not ours.  Right? 

Is it really not our problem, either?  You know, I’ve always found it curious in stories like this, where there’s a good guy and a bad guy, how we instinctively assume we’re the good one.  You know what I mean?  We do it with, say, the parable of the Prodigal Son.  We hear Jesus tell that famous story and imagine ourselves as the younger brother who messes up and is nevertheless welcomed back into the father’s embrace.  Because that’s a pretty good place to be!  Even though Jesus told that story so we could identify with the older brother, the one stewing in the field because grace had been extended where he didn’t think grace belonged.  Or last week’s parable of the Good Samaritan – we’re that noble Samaritan who overcame hate to lend a helping hand.  How awesome we are!  Except Jesus really has us as the other guy; the one who was saved by his greatest enemy and has to live with that for the rest of his life.

Why do we assume that we’re the ones in the right, and everyone else is not?  Why wouldn’t Jesus’ audience that day consider the possibility that it wasn’t just the chief priests and Pharisees who’d been terrible tenants, but themselves too? Obviously, it’s not a popular place to be!  But when we become so blind to the larger picture, as those tenants did, we run the risk of losing perspective – and losing faith. 

Do you remember a decade or so ago, the huge ruckus made over a hunk of granite in the rotunda of the Alabama Supreme Court?  The rock was a 5300-lb. monument, the top cut to look like the two tablets of the Ten Commandments.  A federal court had ordered its removal as a violation of church and state.  But Chief Justice Roy Moore, an evangelical Christian, stubbornly refused; and a firestorm worthy of 24-hour cable news ensued. Hundreds of supporters rallied to the steps of the courthouse to defend their martyr hero and swear their allegiance to what became known as “Roy’s Rock.”  They promised to do everything in their power to prevent it from being taken away – even if it meant going to jail. 

I remember reading an interview with one of those supporters a few years later as she thought back on those firestorm days – she being in a much different place than she was at the time.  And she remarked how, in the midst of all the hubbub and their well-intentioned efforts to do what they truly thought was doing God’s will, they kind of forgot something – something that was, quite ironically, etched in stone.  The second commandment on that very monument, which read: Thou shalt have no other gods; thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image… 

It is frighteningly easy to convince ourselves that we are on the right side of things when that simply isn’t the case.  And when it comes to Jesus’ little vineyard parable, it’s tempting for Christians today, the new tenants, to read these words as simply a rebuke of the old guard. But if we do that, we miss the whole point. Because if your landlord is feeling the need to recount stories of previous folks who let the vines go unpruned, who watched the grapes wither, and who treated the boss’ reps with not one ounce of respect, there’s a good chance he’s not doing it just to pass time.  He just might be trying to give you a healthy warning.  A warning that says:  Take care of all you’ve been entrusted with.  Show some respect for the boss!  And never confuse the tenant with the landlord.      

You know, Jesus seemed to be okay with parables that didn’t end all nice and neat.  And maybe we should, too.  Because there will always be trouble in the vineyard – until we take good care of what we’ve been given.  Until we bear the fruit God intends.  And until we live our lives as if this is God’s time, God’s earth, God’s vineyard – not ours.  As long as there’s trouble in the vineyard, there will always be a need for each and every one of us to do everything we can to bear that good fruit.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.

AFTER WAKING UP IN THE INN

Matthew 5: 43-48; Luke 10: 29-37,
Steve Lindsley
October 2, 2011
Faith In Action Sunday 

I’m not sure what I remembered first when I woke up in the inn that morning.  It was either that eerie sensation you get when you find yourself in a strange place, or the face of the man sitting next to me.  It belonged to the innkeeper, who was eager to fill me in on all that happened, why I very well might have been the luckiest man on earth, and who it was that literally saved my life.

I know you know who I am – my story’s been told too many times to count.  But the thing is, you only know half of my story.  You know the part Jesus told the crowds that day, about a man walking on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho.  You know that well.  But you know, it’s always puzzled me why Jesus didn’t tell the rest of it; the story I’m getting ready to tell you.  I guess he wanted everyone to figure it out for themselves.  Or maybe he wanted me to tell it.

I mean, I don’t know that I would’ve believed what the innkeeper said if it wasn’t for the cuts and bruises and splitting headache I woke up with that morning.  People get beat up on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho all the time.  It’s not the best part of town.  And when it happens, sometimes a kind person comes along; sometimes they don’t.  But never in my wildest dreams – in anyone’s wildest dreams – would a guy like him have lent a helping hand to someone like me.

By the way, in case you didn’t already know, I’m a Jew: a proud son of Israel and the faith of my forefathers.  Jesus didn’t mention that little detail when he told the story, but if you were back in our day and heard him mention that I was traveling “from Jerusalem,” it would’ve been obvious.  And I’ll be the first to admit – it was stupid to travel that road by myself.  Just plain stupid.  I remember hearing a rustle in the bushes behind me, the feel of hard fists pounding my body, the taste of my own blood, the feel of eager hands rummaging through my pockets.  I was barely conscious lying there on the ground, waiting and hoping someone would come by.

They did, of course.  But we all know how that went!  You know, I know folks today are taken aback when they hear it was a priest and Levite who passed me by, because they were religious types and should’ve been the first to stop.  And that’s true, of course. But you know what shocked Jesus’ audience even more than that?  It was the fact that they were Jews too, just like me.  And you don’t leave a fellow Jew in need – you just don’t!  My people had been through a lot over the centuries – slavery in Egypt, wandering in the desert for forty years, corrupt kings and Exile.  And we stuck together through it all.  And then there goes the priest and Levite, walking by me as if I wasn’t even there.  Every last ounce of hope left my body after that.  And the world went dark.

So I was quite surprised when I finally came to and saw the face of the innkeeper at my bedside.  I had to know – I had to know who saved me from certain death, who brought me to this inn and paid my bills so I could get better.  I was thinking maybe the priest came back, you know?  But the innkeeper said it wasn’t him.  Then who, I begged, who brought me here?  And that’s when the innkeeper told me the thing that would change my life: It was a Samaritan, he said.

Now – I know exactly what you’re thinking.  Everybody thinks it.  You’re thinking, That’s what Samaritans do.  Good Samaritans, you know?   You think a “Samaritan” is someone who goes out of their way to help someone, am I right?  Like the Boy Scout who helps the lady cross the street – he’s a “good Samaritan.”  Or the guy who stops to change the tire on someone else’s car – wow, what a “good Samaritan!”  But I’m telling you, all these years later, all these times my story has been told, and everyone totally misses the point, thinking a Samaritan is someone who helps you.  That’s not at all what a Samaritan is.

See, a Samaritan is a race of people in my day, like Germans or Americans or Chinese in yours.  When our nation split in two back in Old Testament times, they were the ones who formed their own nation north of Jerusalem and founded their own capital city there.  That city was “Samaria” – and the people who lived there and in that country were called, “Samaritans.” 

And you wanna know something?  Jews don’t like Samaritans.  And Samaritans don’t like Jews!  And no one really knows why.  I guess we never got over the split.  I know it’s hard for folks to understand the animosity and rivalry between other groups, but every now and then I find a good way to explain ours.  It’s kind of like the thing you all have here between Mount Airy and North Surry.  See, I understand there’s a special day in the year called “Grit Day,” where the Mount Airy people dress up in overalls and redneck clothing to make fun of the North Surry crowd.  Likewise, they dress up in fancy clothes like prom dresses and tuxedos to mock the Mount Airy bunch. 

It’s amazing how, the more things change, the more they stay the same!  The Jews were that uppity crowd, viewing the Samaritans as uncouth and rough around the edges.  Meanwhile, the Samaritans were the “local yokels” who thought the crowd down the road was too high on their horse to be much good to anyone.  This is how it was, year after year, except it ran much deeper than a school rivalry.  It got to the point where we didn’t like each other, we didn’t talk to each other, we didn’t trust each other.  And frankly, that’s the way we wanted it.

And then this guy Jesus comes along, and he tells a story about how a Samaritan helped a Jew out on the road to Jericho.

I don’t know.  Sometimes I wonder whom it’s harder for.  Was it harder for this Samaritan to see a Jew and swallow centuries of hate to lend a helping hand to his number one enemy?  Or is it harder for me now, knowing it was a despised Samaritan who came to my aid, and I had no choice in the matter?  We human beings are funny creatures, aren’t we?  By our nature, we’re not that fond of accepting help.  We prefer to blaze our own trail and make things work on our own.  And if we accept help from someone, we have this feeling in our gut like we’ll always owe them something.  We’ll forever be in their debt. 

So what do you do when the person who literally saved your life happens to be your worst enemy?  How do you deal with that?  How does a Mount Airy person react when someone from North Surry comes to their aid?  What’s it like for an injured American soldier in Afghanistan who has their wounds bandaged by someone from Al Qaeda?  How does a Southerner steeped in years of segregation deal with an African-American who becomes their next-door neighbor?  And how can a Jew like me ever come to grips with a very, very good Samaritan?

I mean, that’s what Jesus’ little story is all about, isn’t it?  Asking questions like that?  Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the human race, whether in my time or in yours, it’s that we all love drawing lines.  Lines that divide and separate into groups of our own choosing, around issues that don’t matter much in the big scheme of things.  And in drawing these lines, we come to view the “other” as someone very much unlike us; someone to be feared and mistrusted and hated.

And Jesus’ story, at its very heart, is about erasing those lines; banishing them from the face of the earth so we can truly see all the things, the wonderful things we share together.  See that we need each other, desperately.  And see that love is what life itself thrives on, just as we need air to fill our lungs and blood to course through our veins.  But not just any love; a fearless kind of love.  A love that recognizes all the risks of living faithfully in this world and stubbornly continuing to love anyway.

There’s this great story I once heard about a fearless kind of love.  It reminds me of the kinds of stories Jesus would tell; bold and courageous stories that show what love can really do.  I’d like to invite you to take a few minutes to listen:

********************

I don’t know how long it had been since these neighbors had even talked to each other.  I think it had been about two years, maybe.  And it started over the dumbest thing.  It was just that stray cat.  I mean, one of them thought it was theirs, and then it went over to the other porch there across the little field, the valley there.  And the other farmer took it in.  Each of them thought it was their cat; and every time they started talking, they’d start arguing about it.  And then they just quit talking.

So when the traveler came through looking for work, one farmer said, “You say you’re a carpenter?  Well, yeah, I got some work for you.  You see that house across this field there?  That’s my stupid neighbor.  You see this little ditch in the middle?  Well he calls that the creek.  He dug that with his plow.  He went up on the hill and changed the way the spring comes down.  The creek.   Well, if he’s gonna try to divide us up with that thing, I just assume finish the job.  I want a fence.  All the way across.  I don’t even want to have to look at him.  Can you do that?” 

And this carpenter said, “Well, yeah, I could do that.  I would need a whole lot more wood, but I could get started with what you’ve got in the shed there.  You’d have to go into town to get the rest.”

And by the time this farmer comes back, driving up that rudded road in his old truck full of lumber, he looks out into that field where his new fence ought to be.  And that carpenter has built…..a bridge.  Out of his wood.  Onto his land.  And here comes his neighbor, walking across his bridge onto his land, hand outstretched, big old goofy smile on his face, coming right up to his truck.

And his neighbor says, “You’re a brave man.  I didn’t think you’d want to hear the sound of my voice again.  I just feel like such a fool.  Can you forgive me? 

And this farmer finds himself saying, “Aww, I knew that was your cat.”

And he looks over and the carpenter’s walking away, and he says, “Hey!  I got some more work for you, if you want it.”

The carpenter says, “You’ll be fine.  I’m needed elsewhere.”

(from "Carpenter Story" by David Wilcox off his CD "East Asheville Hardware"

********************

You know, I don’t think its coincidence that that man was a carpenter. All those years ago, after waking up in the inn, and there’s still a whole lot I don’t know about the Samaritan who saved my life.  But this I do know: carpenters in your time and in mine have a way of bringing the worst of enemies together.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.