The Mayberry Preacher

IF JESUS WAS BORN IN A WAL-MART WORLD

NOTE TO READER:  Today was our annual Christmas Cantata, which becomes the "sermon" for Sunday worship.  I subscribe to the belief that God's word can be sung as well as spoken.  My plan was to provide a link here to our church website where you could listen to the service and cantata (the link is actually at the top of this page to the far right - you can click it any time)

Alas, my plans were thwarted when computer hiccups prevented us from recording the service.  Bah humbug.

Instead, I've decided to post an Advent sermon from last year.  Hope this will suffice.  Thanks for reading!

TMP

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Luke 2: 1-7
Steve Lindsley
December 2, 2007

It happened a little over three years ago, somewhere around the video aisle at Wal-Mart.  I remember her grabbing her abdomen and a twinge of discomfort across her face.  You okay?  I asked.  She responded that she was.  But in the silence that followed we both frantically wondered to ourselves – was this it?  Was our second son about to be born?

Maybe we just didn’t want to admit it to ourselves.  Last thing we wanted was to unnecessarily set into motion “The Plan:” my parents getting the phone call to hightail it to Mount Airy, her parents meeting us at the hospital in Winston, and a good friend of ours dropping whatever they were doing at the moment to come watch Connor.  Maybe it was that, and admitting to ourselves that our life was on the cusp of dramatically changing once again.

We temporarily parted company so we could do some Christmas shopping for the other.  She didn’t say anything else about it until long after we left Wal-Mart; probably while unloading bags in the kitchen.  By then the contractions had gotten stronger and more frequent; and it was only a matter of time.  Finally, around 9:00, phone calls were made to grandparents and our good friend came to stay with Connor.    We packed our bags and made the long drive to Winston-Salem; my wife actually encouraging me to go well over the posted speed limit.  Which I did.  We arrived at the hospital a little after 11; and two hours later Hunter Logan came to be with us. 

It has been said that the average person has a life expectancy of around 80 years, which works out to be a little under 710,000 hours.  Some of these hours come and go leaving hardly a trace in our memory banks.  But three years after the fact – Hunter celebrated his birthday this past week – three years later I can still recall every minute of what happened that Sunday evening – engrained in my psyche forever.  Zooming down 52, coming home in the morning to tell Connor about his new brother. 

And Wal-Mart – I’ll never forget Wal-Mart, because it was there where the crazy journey of the day began.  I have what I like to call a “strained fascination” with Wal-Mart.  On one hand I’m not crazy about some of their business practices and how they treat their employees with wages and health insurance.  But on the other hand I gotta admit – it’s got everything you need!  And I also see this store as a microcosm of our society – our consumer mentality, our desire to have “the latest thing” at the cheapest price.  You find all kinds of people at Wal-Mart – the wealthy and prosperous, right alongside the working poor.  All races and lifestyles, all family histories – they’re there under the same roof, 24 hours a day, seven days a week.  And I think that’s why when I look back on Hunter’s birth, part of me will always think of Wal-Mart.

Sometimes the journeys of our lives begin in the strangest of places; places you and I least expect them to.  It certainly was that way for Jesus, don’t you think?  I mean, it was bad enough for Mary and Joseph that she was pregnant.  Keep in mind, we’re talking about two teenagers.  Two unmarried teenagers.  It was as scandalous back in the day as it would be now.  No one believed her explanation that the child inside her was from God; a gift of the Holy Spirit.  And can we blame them?  Would we have believed her?

Then to make matters worse, a census was decreed by the high emperor and each man had to return to his homeland to be registered – he and all members of his family.  Joseph was from Bethlehem, which was a hundred miles away.  Mary was eight months pregnant.  Talk about lousy timing! 

So this was the scene: a scandalous pregnancy that had everyone talking, and a long hard trip they absolutely had to make.  There’s a great scene in the movie that came out a year ago, The Nativity Story, about the events leading up to the birth of Jesus.  The scene begins just as Mary and Joseph are heading out of town to Bethlehem – Mary on the donkey’s back and Joseph leading the way.  We see some of Mary and Joseph’s friends in the mix; “former friends” they should be called, because they couldn’t handle the fact that Mary got pregnant and Joseph continues to love her anyway.  They’re staring at Mary and Joseph with disgust and scorn.  The young couple is aware of this; and as they make their way through town Joseph turns to Mary and, with a wry smile, says, I think they’re going to miss us.

You and I know this story; we’ve had it seared into our brains for as long as we can remember, thanks in part to children’s pageants, Luke readings, manger scenes, and a certain hymn we are prone to sing this time of year:

Away in a manger, no crib for his bed
The little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head
The stars in the sky look down where he lay
The little Lord Jesus, asleep on the hay

Awww!  It is a scene we have successfully romanticized over the years.  But is it a realistic romanticism?  For if we stop to think about it – I mean, really think about it – it doesn’t make a lick of sense.  Jesus – born in an animal stable!  Last time I got near one of those, I had to hold my nose because of the stench.  How is it that we have become so comfortable with the idea of God’s son being born in a place like that?  And what would it look like, I wonder, if we brought the manger scene into the 21st century – if Jesus was born in our “Wal-Mart” world?  What would that look like?

They’re heading back to his hometown of Mount Airy for a number of reasons.  One is simply because they need to get away from where they had been.  Their teachers and friends had not been too thrilled when they began dating, but when she started showing it was like the end of the world had arrived.  Plus, a few months prior he picked up a traffic ticket in Surry County and had to have his day in court.  It didn’t help matters that Mary was about due, but the law’s the law, so they say.

So they pile into Joe’s 1987 Ford Mustang and make the 100-mile trip to Dobson, and he can tell she’s not comfortable.  Things get worse after his court appearance, although he did get improper equipment.  But the baby’s arrival is imminent, and making the trip back home is out of the question.  They don’t know what to do – they are young, lonely and confused.  They cruise down Highway 601, stopping at every hotel, but unbeknownst to them it is Mayberry Days and there’s not a vacant hotel room in sight.  Frantic, they pull into the Wal-Mart parking lot, because they need to pick up a few things, and because they have no idea what else to do.

She doesn’t want to be left alone in the car, so despite how much it hurts they walk into the store together.  People pass them by and know something’s wrong, but no one stops to help.  They grab the few items they need, but as they stand in the checkout line Mary doubles over in pain.  Joe shouts out for help – anyone, please!  The store manager comes over.  It’s obvious that it’s too late to get to the hospital now.  He doesn’t have much to offer, but there is the staff lounge in the back, and there’s a somewhat decent couch there, along with some tables and chairs.  They’re welcome to it, he says.

Mary and Joe stumble into the window-less room.  And later that night, but not much later, their baby son is born.  Born not among barnyard animals but amidst the Coke and snack machines.  Born not in the presence of wayward shepherds, but beside the “Employee of the Month” display (last month it was “Corinne.”)  Born not underneath the shining light of a celestial star, but from the light of the room’s harsh fluorescent lights.   “And Mary gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.”

Can you imagine this scene – it’s almost comical, isn’t it?  It’s not almost comical.  It is comical.  It is side-splitting, jaw-dropping, laugh-until-you-drop hilarious!  This story would make front page of half the newspapers across this country.  CNN would add it to their daily feed, and Cameron Kent and company would interrupt their regular newscast with “Breaking News! Baby born in Wal-Mart!”  And you and I would hear about this story, tell a few friends, shake our head in amazement, and then get on with our life.  And years later, when folks realized just who that Wal-Mart baby really was, somebody would surely wonder: how could God’s son ever have been born into the world like that? 

You know what I think, though?  I think it’s the only way God’s son could’ve been born.  I think Jesus had to enter our world right where we are – not in some sweet, peaceful serene scene we conjure up in our minds, as if an animal stable is the next best thing to a nice condo on the beach.  No, Jesus had to come into the world in all of its messiness; the very human, very radical, very raw reality we call our home.  Jesus – breaking into our world amidst all the good and all the bad; all the consumerism that takes over this time of year; all races and classes of people that sometimes get along and often don’t; all the many stories that define who we are and how we live our lives.  Jesus, born in a manger!  Born in Wal-Mart!  Born into our world!

Which begs the obvious question, of course: if Jesus actually came into the world this way today, would we recognize him?  Would we praise him as the Messiah and follow him with our lives?  That, my friends, is why we have four weeks of Advent: to prepare for what we know is coming, and to remind us that God often comes to us in the most mysterious of ways, when we least expect it.  We need four weeks to make sure we see him coming into our lives, for we dare not miss him.  We want to see the baby Jesus, wherever he is.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.

AT THE END OF THE WAY

Mark 1: 1-8; Isaiah 40: 1-11
Steve Lindsley
December 7, 2008

It didn't happen like this, of course.  It's not really the way the writer of Isaiah wrote it.  But I like imagining it anyway.  Prepare the way of the Lord, he said.  The Way – he's talking about a road.  They were preparing a road in the middle of the desert.  Not a real one, of course.  But if it were a real one, I imagine it might have gone something like this.

It's a massive building project that the prophet Isaiah describes – utilizing every resource available, every piece of equipment they could find, and numerous workers.  The bulldozer fleet is out in full force.  Earth movers work night and day to lift up the valleys and make low the mountains.  The greatest engineering knowledge of the day is put into practice.  Literally and figuratively, no stone is left unturned.

Two of the workers are side by side, digging their holes and moving their earth.  One turns to the other and, over the hum of the machinery, asks, So what is this thing we're working on, anyway?

Without taking his eyes off his job, the other replies, We, my friend, are working on The Way.

What way? the first says.

THE way, is his answer.  It leads to the greatest of places.

He still doesn't understand, so he tries a different take.  So where does this “way” go?

With a wry smile the other turns to face him and says, You'll just have to see it for yourself.

Months and months they labor on this “way.”  Years, in fact.  It never seems to end, but instead it keeps on going and going, through whatever terrain lies in its path.  On the hottest of days and the coldest of nights they continue to “make this way.”  And all the time, the first continues to think to himself: what can this be?  Where in the world could this road be leading to, and what will we find at the end of this road?  A huge metropolitan city?  An oasis in the desert?  The ninth wonder of the world?  What?  What could possibly be at the end of this road?

Years and years go by, and finally – finally – they reach the end.  The massive construction, engineering project concludes.  And as he peers around the corner to see what this road has finally brought him and everyone else to, he is shocked and dismayed to find  not a huge city, not an oasis in the desert, not the ninth wonder of the world – but sheep.  A bunch of sheep and their shepherd.  He will feed his flock like a shepherd, Isaiah says, he will gather the lambs in his arms and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother's sheep.

And other than that, nothing.  Nothing else.  Nothing that in his mind would've merited all the fuss, all the hard work, all the resources and years and time invested.  When he is finally somewhat over his shock, he turns to the guy beside him, who had been with him every step of the way.  And he asks incredulously, What is this??  Is this it?  Is this what we've been working for all these years?

And without taking his gaze off the flock, the other says to him, Yeah, it sure is.  And isn't it just wonderful!

Of course, it didn't really happen like that.  It's not a real road Isaiah is writing about.  It's an image – an image of a way that is prepared for us, prepared for the Lord; a way that cuts through the harsh desert and leads the people to God, who is both strong and meek, both powerful and powerless, both ruler and shepherd.  It is wonderful.  And it is not at all what we expect.

Advent is a season of expectations.  The word itself means “awaiting the coming.”  At least that's what it tries to be.  It tries to be about waiting expectantly for things to come, but the world you and I live in makes that hard sometimes.  There's very little to expect or wait for when December rolls around these days.  That's because this world has a nasty habit of giving away the secret before it's time – when we start seeing Christmas decorations up in Wal-Mart before Halloween, and Christmas music on the radio 24/7 before Thanksgiving, and Christmas ads out in full force in mid-fall.  Back in September, Amazon.com sent me an email reminder about the “upcoming holiday season” and buying that special gift for that special someone – from them, of course.  In September.  What's to expect anymore?

So it is probably hard for us to get a feel for the expectant times that the prophet Isaiah lived in.  For years they had endured captivity, thousands of miles from their beloved Jerusalem.  There were plenty of roads that led out of Babylon, but there were none they could take.  When it came to their faith and the future of that faith, every road around them was a dead end.

And that's when the prophet spoke new words to the people; and it was a message far different from the one they had heard before.  They were words of comfort and peace.  Of being spoken to tenderly instead of with a harsh tone.  They were words about how penalties had been paid and how the time of suffering was over.  And out of these words came the road they had hoped for for so long; the “way” that would lead them home:

A voice cries out:
In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord,
Make straight in the desert a highway for our God.
Every valley shall be lifted up,
and every mountain and hill be made low.
The uneven ground shall become level,
and the rough places a plain.
Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed,
and all the people shall see it together.

And with the prophet's words, the long-awaited building project had finally begun.  And it wasn't with bulldozers and earth movers and engineering know-how that the way would be made.  It was with a strengthened faith and a renewed hope.  Their time of expectation had come – and, unlike us, they didn't have TV or radio or our cultural conveniences to give the ending away.  They only had the limits of their heightened and overjoyed imagination to keep them going on this spiritual and figurative journey back home, as they wondered what waited for them at the end of the way.

So – how would you have felt if you came to that figurative ending, the one Isaiah describes for us, to find nothing more than a sheep and their shepherd?  Not a symbol of power and might, as we might expect, but one of meekness and humility?  Not one of victory and rule, but one of nurturing and submission?  How would you have felt if you were one of them, finding that all your years of hoping, all your years of labor, led you and everyone else to this most unexpected ending?

I don't know.  This may sound strange, but in a weird sort of way it reminds me of that scene from the Charlie Brown Christmas special – you know, the one they show ever year before Thanksgiving.  You remember.  Charlie Brown has been appointed director for the annual Christmas pageant, but things aren't going so well.  No one's really focusing all that much on the task at hand.  After some thought, Charlie Brown decides what they need is something to help get them in the “Christmas spirit.”  Like a Christmas tree, for instance.  That's exactly what they need.      

So Charlie Brown and Linus head out the door to go find the perfect Christmas tree.  They walk outside, all bundled up in their coats and hats; and looking up in the sky they see these two huge skylights shining all over the place, the same lights the car dealership uses when they have a sale going on.  They follow the lights to a Christmas tree lot, draped with strings and strings of small lights.  Now the trees in this lot are all aluminum trees – Linus knocks on one with his fist and it makes this hollow, metallic sound, like when you hit an empty gas can.  As Linus surveys the scene he looks to Charlie Brown and says, Boy.  This really brings Christmas close to a person.  And Charlie Brown can only say, Fantastic!

The camera scans through the lot of multi-colored aluminum Christmas trees – red and blue, gold, silver and purple – until it stops at one in the middle which stands out from the rest.  It is a puny little tree; and unlike the others it's a real one.  Three stubby branches hang off its tiny trunk, each containing a handful of needles.  It is anchored to a cross stand with some nails.  And in perhaps the most classic line of any Christmas television special, Linus asks, Gee, do they still make wooden Christmas trees?

What Linus sees as a curiosity, though, Charlie Brown sees as an opportunity.  This tree, he declares, will be the one they'll take back to bring Christmas spirit to the Pageant.  Linus is skeptical, reminding him that Lucy wanted a tree that would “represent the modern Christmas spirit.”  But Charlie Brown insists and picks the tree up – only to see half its needles fall to the ground.

Now if you're like me, and you've watched this special religiously every year, you know the rest of the story – the other kids make fun of his “poor Christmas tree, Linus goes on stage to recount the second chapter of Luke, Charlie Brown takes his tree and decorates it and all the kids huddle around it and sing “loo-loo-loo....”  Like any good Christmas special, it has a happy ending.

But see, I wonder if the lesson in all of this is found not at the end as the credits roll, but right there in that aluminum Christmas tree lot.  It is, to be sure, the most unlikely of trees Charlie Brown chooses, isn't it?  Because it's exactly what everyone least expects.  Because like Linus and Lucy and Pig-Pen and Schroeder and Snoopy and all the rest, we too expect big and flashy at the end of the road.  We expect the “way” to lead us to something that holds our attention in a world that moves a mile a minute.  The last thing we'd ever expect to find at the end of the way are shepherds and sheep, or a puny little Christmas tree.

Or, for that matter, a dusty old shack.  We'd never expect in our wildest dreams to find that at the end of the way.  Nor would we expect to find in that shack a random assortment of some barnyard animals.  They're scattered about the place, lying on whatever tuff of hay they can pull together, trying to keep warm on this chilly night.  They look cute, but the smell that emits from the place is anything but.  We don't expect to encounter that at the end of the way.

And we certainly don't expect to find at the end of that way, in that dusty old shack, a teenaged couple, probably high school sophomores at best.  They look like they hadn't slept in days, because they hadn't; and the look on their faces is one of absolute joy and absolute fear and exhaustion all rolled together.  She has that glow about her, and he is looking around trying to figure out exactly how he got here.  No, we don't expect to find them there either. 

But most of all, most of all, the last thing we'd ever expect to find at the end of the way is a newborn baby, just hours old.  Hours old!  He is wrapped in what amounts to a burlap sack, and the wooden structure he's laying in is used to feed the animals when morning rolls around.  He is asleep for the moment, but that will change when he gets hungry, and he'll let the whole world know it.  Right now, though, he's sleeping peacefully; teenage mom and teenage dad are looking on, as are the animals, all of them in this dusty old shack at the end of the way.

Now none of this, if we really think about it, is what we expect to find at the end of the way – a way that the prophet spoke of us preparing for; a way that the Baptist yelled and screamed about from the wilds of the desert.  You don't “prepare the way” for some animals and a couple of teenagers.  You don't “make straight” the path that leads to a baby in a food trough.   How is it, exactly, that thousands of years after the fact, we continue to follow the way prepared for us and come upon something as simple and profound as baby Jesus? 

If we are truthful with ourselves, Advent is a journey that makes no sense. A rewarding one – absolutely.  A life-transforming one – you bet.  But it makes little sense to a world who expects big and bold at the end of the way.  And until we realize that they have a point, until we recognize the absolute scandal of the manger – God of the universe, enfleshed in a lower-class, first-century Middle Eastern baby – until we get a grasp on the enormity of that, it is hard for us to ever really appreciate the journey that takes us there. 

So let's take time on this journey, shall we?  Let us marvel at the majesty of the way prepared for us, and how the valleys have been lifted up, and the mountains made low.  Let us stare in amazement at all the machinery and soak in the engineering masterpiece.  And when we finally – finally arrive at its end, let us never lose the ability to be utterly astonished, down to our foundations, at what we find there.  As followers of the baby, let us never be surprised about being surprised.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.

   

SHEPHERDING 2.0

Ezekiel 34: 1-16, John 21: 15-17
Steve Lindsley
November 16, 2008

I have a college buddy in Atlanta who owns a small business with a dozen or so employees.  We were catching up a few weeks ago – we were instant messaging on Facebook!  We do this about once a month.  I guess we could pick up the phone and actually talk, but Facebook is so much easier.

Anyway, our conversations usually revolve around the standard “how are you doing” stuff.  I, of course, I tell him about this wonderful church that I have the pleasure of serving, all the great things we have going on here; the fact that there's a little bit of dust around because of the construction but you know, at least we're warmer now....

It's a different kind of response when I ask the same thing of him.  It's one of those deals where you ask someone how they're doing, and you kind of figure it'll be the obligatory “fine” or “great,” but you wind up with a five-minute answer that's much more than you bargained for – you know what I mean?  My friend usually goes into some story about how things are tough with his company, and it's not just the economy.  There's the employee who didn't get the package in the mail on time, the office manager who missed their deadline, the business partner who never seems to carry his own weight.  My friend laments that he has to step in all the time to keep the wheels spinning, even if it means taking on the work of others. 

And most every time he's nearing the end of his rant, he closes with the well-known line: You know, Steve, if you want a job done right, you gotta do it yourself.  And every time he says this I can't help but feel a little sorry for him, you know?  That he feels like he's the only one who can do it right; that he doesn't feel he can put his faith and trust in his fellow co-workers, that he seems to think his way is the only way.

Maybe that's what's going on here – I kind of have a suspicion it is.  But then again, maybe it's not.  Sometimes people really do mess up, fall down on the job; and the boss has to come in and straighten everything out, make everything right, do it all on their own.  I mean, it doesn't say it explicity in our scripture reading today, but that seems to be pretty much what God does in the 34th chapter of Ezekiel, don't you think?  If you want a job done right, you gotta do it yourself. 

It's the middle of the sixth century before Christ, and the lives of God's people have been thrown into chaos.  The entire nation of Israel had been hauled off to live in Babylon, taken away from their homeland.  The people were defeated and demoralized, and their leaders were either gone or had become a shadow of their former selves.  They had failed to be the kind of leaders God had hoped they'd be, and the people needed them to be.

So the prophet Ezekiel enters into the fray, preaching a message of hope and renewal for the captives.  Except he doesn't call them captives, or people even.  He refers to them “sheep.”  And if you think about it, it's a perfect image, albeit not a very flattering one!  Sheep, generally speaking, are not the smartest animals in the barn.  They kind of wander around in groups, always in danger of going astray and never finding their way back to the fold.  They are fully dependent on their caretakers, the shepherds, to guide them from one green pasture to another.

As rough as the sheep have it, it isn't a picnic for the shepherds, either.  It's a 24-7 job just to keep up with all those sheep.  Good shepherds have to be attentive at all times, watching over their flock to make sure every one is okay.  But they can't just be focused on the here-and-now.  Shepherds have to always be thinking ahead of the game, to where the next green pasture would be, and make sure that their sheep get there safe and sound.

So the way Ezekiel sees it, Israel is the sheep, and their leaders are the shepherds.  Over the years God had sent them many shepherds, kings and priests and the like, to watch over the people and lead them to “greener pastures.”  But in this time of exile, when the sheep needed help the most, the shepherds had failed them.  The leaders of Israel had not been leaders; and they had failed their people in four specific ways:
     - They had not strengthened the weak;
     - They had not bound up the injured;
     - They had not brought back home those who had strayed;
     - And they had not taken time to seek out those who were lost.

Now according to Ezekiel, God has something to say about this.  God calls the leaders on the carpet, essentially saying to them, “You have failed your job!”  But that's not all God does.  In the next few verses, God puts on his best Donald Trump, “Apprentice” imitation and tells them, “You're fired!”  These no-good shepherds are out of a job, because they didn't do the job.

God has one more thing to say, and happens to be the divine equivalent of, if you want a job done right, you gotta do it yourself.  Amazingly, God declares, “I am the new shepherd!”  And God proceeds to do the very things the old shepherds should've done all along.  God will be the one to give strength to the weak, to bind up the injured, to bring back those who have wandered away, and to seek out the lost.  God will take care of the people, and no longer will they be forgotten or left to fend on their own.  God will be the new shepherd of Israel, and Israel – even in captivity – will be all the better for it.

Now no verses in scripture capture this image of God as shepherd any better than the 23rd Psalm – The Lord is my shepherd, it begins.  And what does this shepherd do?  He makes us lie down in green pastures; he leads us beside still waters.  He restores our soul.  With God as our shepherd, we are cared for, and we will never be forgotten again.  With God as our shepherd, we are protected from those who would do us harm.  With God as our shepherd, all wrongs are made right.  It 's great that God is our shepherd, isn't it?  It's something we celebrate in the joyous moments of our lives; and it's something we cling to when life is dealing out its worst.  It is a wonderful thing to have God as our shepherd.

I know I could end the sermon right here, but I'm not going to!  Because you know something?  At the risk of discounting God's love and grace, which I'm certainly not doing, there's a small part of me that feels funny about this.  And it's not God's fault – I think we're all grateful for all God does.  I'm pretty fond of the green pastures and cool waters myself.  It's just....it's just that it's a shame that God had to step in and take over the shepherding business in the first place.  It's a shame that God had to go all Donald Trump on us.  Because that used to be our job.  That's what we were supposed to be doing.  So while it's great that God stepped in like God did, shouldn't we feel sort of bad about failing to be the shepherds we were called to be?  Shouldn't we want our job back?

And I say “we” very intentionally here, my friends.  Because it is “we” that Ezekiel is speaking to.  When we're talking about “shepherds,” we're not just talking about the pastor, or the session, or the Congregational Care ministry team.  We're talking about all of us.  Do me a quick favor if you would – take your bulletin and look at the back, at the bottom, where all the staff are listed. Do you see the very first thing?  It says: Ministers: All the members of the church.  I'm not the only minister here, folks.  Every single one of you is a minister too – a shepherd.  Which makes it kind of interesting, really; because the fact is that you are both the members and the ministers; you are both the sheep and the shepherds.  You need to be cared for and kept in the fold, nurtured and loved.  But you also need to be the ones who care, who are the “keepers of the fold.” You're not just sheep.  You're shepherds too.

Jesus himself made this crystal clear when he met with his disciples on the lakeshore one morning after his resurrection – hanging out on the beach, munching on some grilled fish. He turns to Peter, whom he had previously called the rock upon which he would build his church.  And what does he say to Peter, what are his last words as he prepares to leave the future of the church in their hands?  Feed my sheep, he tells him.  That's what shepherds do for their sheep.  And that's what you and I are supposed to be doing for each other.

And that's the problem, isn't it? That's where we fall short.  Because we still don't quite have this shepherding thing down all that well, if we're honest with ourselves.  I mean, sometimes we're pretty good at it.  Sometimes we're great about seeing the needs around us and responding as the shepherds we're called to be.  But other times we're not so great.  You know, maybe we're okay with being a shepherd, but for a particular kind of sheep – the easy ones, the ones that don't require a lot of effort.  Or maybe we're fine with the whole shepherding thing, but we really want to do it as it's convenient for us, on our own timetable.  Then we can be shepherds.  Or maybe we feel, you know, that we've already done our time as shepherds, so we walk away from the flock, assuming that someone is going to step in take our place. 

I can't help but think as I read this story in Ezekiel that God's action forces us to ask ourselves all kinds of questions.  Are we really being the kind of shepherds God needs us to be?  Are we?  Are we being the kind of shepherds God needs us to be in our families?  Are we being the kind of shepherds God needs us to be for this church – because there's a whole lot of sheep here, ya'll, and there's plenty of shepherding to do!  Are we?  Are we being the kind of shepherds God needs us to be for our community, for our world; where the needs are great, where plenty of people have strayed from the flock, where there is precious little of those green pastures and cool waters to nurture and sustain us.  Are we being the kind of shepherds that God needs us to be?

That's the question this story poses to us, and the mandate Jesus gives us – to be shepherds in a world of lost sheep.  And I wish you and I could see, every minute of every day, what a wonderful privilege it is to serve God, to serve this church, and to serve our people.  I wish we had the ability to fully grasp how awesome it is, with God's help, to pick up our shepherd's crook and go out into a world of lost sheep.

I really wish we could be more like the lady that Shasta spoke to on the phone this past week.  This lady had called the church, like so many other people this time of year, about Thanksgiving meals – the ones the youth fundraised for and you all donated for.  You know, every year about this time there's a running joke around the church office – that when the phone rings we really don't need to answer it “First Presbyterian Church” but rather “Shasta's Thanksgiving meal answering service!”  You have no idea how many calls we get from people asking about their Thanksgiving meal.  It gets crazy.

On a particularly crazy day this past week, Lynn buzzed Shasta in her office: Phone for you about you-know-what.  Shasta picked up the phone.  The lady on the other end quickly introduced herself and then cut to the chase.  I need to talk to you about Thanksgiving meals, she said.  So Shasta dutifully launched into her spiel – how this woman would need to speak with so-and-so at the Salvation Army, how they would reserve the meals with them, how she could pick everything up on the Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving at such-and-such a time.....

Shasta said that when she finished, the lady patiently responded that she was not calling about a meal for herself.  She was calling because she wanted to make a donation, and she explained why.  She told Shasta about how her two sisters had experienced difficult times in recent years, really struggled with some things in their lives, and money was more than tight.  But thanks to the work of this church, their families had not had to experience a Thanksgiving holiday without a Thanksgiving meal.  This lady told Shasta, “You all fed my sisters and their families when they couldn't feed themselves.  Now it's my turn to help you feed someone else's sister.”

Feed my sheep, Jesus said.  Wow.  I don't know about you, but that woman on the other end of the phone sounds an awful lot like a shepherd to me.  Because a shepherd strengthens the weak and binds up the injured.  A shepherd brings home the strayed and seeks out the lost.  A shepherd serves God and serves everyone around them, not necessarily because they want to all the time, but because God needs them to all the time.  And listen – I don't doubt for one second that God will always be our shepherd.  It's just that I think we should do everything we possibly can to get our old job back.  Let's get our job back, shall we?  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.

THE BEATITUTDES - JESUS' POLITICAL MESSAGE

Matthew 5: 1-12
Steve Lindsley
September 21, 2008

I've told this story before, but in light of the sermon topic today I thought it was worth repeating.  Roy Romer was the governor of Colorado in the early and mid 1990's and was running for his third and final term.  One day on the campaign trail he found himself at a barbecue in a tiny town in the eastern part of the state.  It had been a busy and hectic day.  Romer hadn’t had time to eat breakfast or lunch, and by now was famished.

As he moved down the serving line, he held out his plate and the lady on the other side served him a small, scrawny drumstick.  Looking down at the drumstick, and feeling his stomach grumbling, the governor said to the serving lady, "Excuse me, do you mind if I have another piece of chicken. I'm really hungry." The woman replied, "Sorry, I'm supposed to give only one piece per person." Romer responded: "I see, but I haven't had breakfast or lunch today and I'm starving." "Sorry, but I've got my orders,” the lady replied. “One piece is all you and everyone else gets."

Romer, generally a modest man, had reached his breaking point. "Ma'am,” he demanded, “I am the governor of Colorado, and I want another piece of chicken!"  The lady didn’t flinch.  "Sir, I am the lady in charge of the chicken, and you're not getting another one.  Now move along!”

You gotta admit – there's a small part inside you that loves the fact that some obscure woman in Colorado could talk like that to the state governor – even if she was being a bit over-vigilant with the chicken.  And maybe it's for that reason that I thought this story would be a good way to begin today's sermon.  Because I realize that I'm putting a lot of trust in you all this morning – or, more precisely, I'm asking you to put a lot of trust in me.  As you know, we're in the middle of our Fall Stewardship sermon series and we are looking at Jesus' Beatitudes in the fifth chapter of the gospel of Matthew.  That's what's going on here.  Outside our church walls, you do not need me to remind you that our country is in the throes of what is becoming a fairly acrimonious presidential election.  And I imagine just having the word “political” in the sermon title might raise a few eyebrows.

So – a few quick disclaimers.  This sermon is not about the presidential election, or any election for that matter.  I have made it clear from this pulpit that I do not believe either political party in our country – or in any country – has all the right answers.  Over the years I've subscribed to the wisdom of people like Jim Wallis, a Christian evangelist and writer, who is fond of saying that “God is neither a Republican nor a Democrat.”  And when it comes to things like elections I believe our duty as Christians is to vote our conscience while at the same time not falling into the trap of “demonizing” the other side.  I'm still working on this one myself and imagine you are as well.

So today's sermon is not about the election.  But it is about being political – although not in the way you might think.  If I've confused you already, I'll remind you I said you'd be putting a lot of your trust in me this morning!  This sermon is about being political because Jesus was about being political – at least in how the word “political” is actually defined.  I came across a great definition of it that really gets to the heart of things.  The word political, according to this source, means: of or relating to one's views about social relationships involving authority or power.

So politics is about more than platforms and conventions, candidates and qualifications, donkeys and elephants.  It's about how people relate to one another, and how those people relate to and engage the “powers-that-be.”  And if the Beatitudes are about anything, as we discovered last week, they are about how Jesus chose, in his very first sermon, to speak to the people in that crowd; a crowd of folks that looks strikingly similar to you and to me.  So by definition, Jesus was not only being prophetic.  He was also being political.

Now I admit, this may sound strange to our modern ears.  But here's the thing: as people of faith we hold fast to the belief that Jesus' gospel message – God loving the world so much that he sent his son to give us new life – that this message transcends time and is as pertinent in the year 2008 as the day Jesus first spoke it.  But we also recognize that Jesus' message didn't occur in a “vacuum” – it didn't mysteriously appear out of thin air.  It came to us in first century Palestine in the form of a Jewish man whose people lived under the brutal rule of the Roman empire.  So if we are to get any sense of what his message meant back then, in order to better understand what it means for us today, we have to know the “lay of the land” of the world Jesus grew up in, and the world he ministered in for three years.  Otherwise all those “Blesseds” are nothing more than some fancy-sounding words.

So we return to where we left off last week – and we imagine ourselves as part of that crowd who got to hear Jesus' very first sermon.  We imagine ourselves as Jewish people because Jesus himself was a Jew. Followers of Jesus weren't called Christians until almost a half-century after Jesus' death.  So we are not Christians in this crowd – we are Jews, as is Jesus.

Life as a Jew in first century Palestine is not an easy one – but then again, life has never been easy for us.  It all started around 500 years ago.  Before then we were our own nation, living comfortably and confidently in Judah, worshiping in the Jerusalem temple, living the life.  That all came to a crashing halt when the powerful Babylonians ransacked our homeland and destroyed everything – including, perhaps most importantly, our spirit.  And from that moment on we ceased to be our “own people.”  The names changed over the years – Assyrians, Persians, Greeks, Romans – but the situation is agonizingly the same.  We are an occupied people and we can do nothing on our own.  We have zero power over our future.

So as part of the crowd hearing Jesus that day, we're aware of the different ways that our fellow Jewish brothers and sisters have responded to our plight.  There are the Zealots, who believe that an all-out holy war is the only way to go, rebelling against the establishment through bloody combat.  Our ancestors did it before us, and Zealots think that the time is here again.  So even though we just started listening to Jesus, maybe he's one of them.

Then there are the Herodians – called such because they were supporters of Herod, the Jewish governor who served as a puppet ruler for the Roman empire. For these guys rebellion is nothing more than suicide.  The best way to deal with the situation, Herodians say, is to align yourself with the powers-that-be – play their game, cooperate, don't make any waves.  It may not be the ideal life, but hey – at least it's a life!  We wonder if Jesus is a Herodian.

Course there are also the Essenes, who think the first two groups are not only wrong but “unenlightened.”  For them, the only way to please God is to leave behind the corrupt systems of the world – religious and political – and start a whole new society out in the desert.  And finally there are the Pharisees, who advocate a hard-line return to the Jewish laws – all 613 of them.  For them the problem is that we aren't pure enough.  If we just obeyed God's laws more rigorously and more intentionally, God would liberate us.

So – this is our “lay of the land” in first century Palestine.  An occupied people with four distinct political groups – Zealots, Herodians, Essenes and Pharisees.  And as we listen to Jesus speak and hear his wonderful words, we also cannot help but wonder – and maybe even turn to ask our neighbor in the crowd: politically speaking, which group do we think Jesus belongs to?

Well, we think to ourselves, he is saying some pretty radical stuff.  So maybe he's a Zealot.  But then again, he's talking about the meek and the peacemakers being blessed.  A Zealot would never say something like that, because in a Zealot world the fight is won by the strongest, the victor.  So no, Jesus doesn't seem to be a Zealot.

Maybe he's a Herodian.  But you know, that doesn't seem to fit either.  There's nothing in what Jesus says that gives us the impression he wants us to saddle up to the Romans and suck it up.  There's no “playing the game” here – on the contrary, he's talking about a whole new kind of game. So he can't be a Herodian.

Hmm.  You know, we are out here in the desert – so maybe he's an Essene!  Because, you know, Essenes want to get away and start a whole new community and all that.  But then again, Jesus doesn't seem like much of an escapist.  Actually, the more he talks the more he sounds like someone who wants people to be engaged in the world, not running from it.  No, we think, he's not an Essene either.

Which leaves only the Pharisees.  But that's a long shot.  Because there is no way a true Pharisee could get through the opening paragraph of his sermon without quoting something from Leviticus; some law on what to eat or how far to walk on the Sabbath. He does mention being “pure”......but it's “pure in heart,” and a true Pharisee is made pure by their actions.  He's not a Pharisee.

So – we're only into the first 60 seconds of Jesus' Sermon on the Mount, and already we're stumped.  We have no idea who Jesus is; and more importantly, we have no idea how to categorize the politics of his message – how exactly does Jesus “relate to our views about social relationships involving authority or power???”  He doesn't fit into the Jewish classifications of our ancient Palestinian world.  He is not a Zealot or a Herodian, and he's not an Essene or a Pharisee.  He doesn't fit in!

And that, right there, is the problem, isn't it? That's the crux of the whole thing.     Because when we really look at things – I mean, really look at them – we have to admit  that Jesus doesn't fit into our way of understanding the world!  He didn't fit into the preconceived notions of first century Jewish Palestine.  And he doesn't fit into the categories of 2008, either.

Jesus doesn't fit in to our way of things because that is not what he came here to do.  He did not come here to fit in.  He didn't come here to play our games; he came here to start an entirely new one.  And it is such a radically new game, such a vastly different kind of politics, that we often have trouble recognizing it as such.  I've already mentioned Jim Wallis, who has been a powerful advocate for what he calls “God's politics.”  And in his 2005 book by that name, Wallis describes it for us:

The place to begin to understand the politics of God is with the prophets.  What were their subjects?  Quite secular topics really: land, labor, wages, debt, taxes, equity, other races, economic divisions, social justice, war and peace.  Whom were the prophets speaking to?  Usually to rulers, kings, judges, employers, landlords, owners of property, and even religious leaders.  And whom were the prophets usually speaking for? The dispossessed, widows and orphans, the hungry, the homeless, the helpless, the least, the last, and the lost. (from God's Politics by Jim Wallis, 2005, pg. 32).

Last week we talked about the ways that Jesus' Beatitudes were prophetic. But a prophet doesn't just talk about the wrongs in our world.  A prophet seeks to do something about them – and not as part of any group but as part of God's group.  And that is precisely why Jesus – and all of us – can actually believe in crazy things like the meek, the pure in heart, the peacemakers, the mourning, the hungry and thirsty being blessed.  Because we're not bound to the systems and groups that already exist in our world, and how they choose to see things, and how they choose to respond.  As followers of Jesus, we are bound to God.

This, of course, can be a very frustrating thing!  Author Shane Claiborne recently made the observation that if we had our way as Christians, we'd be voting for Jesus this November.  Except he's not on the ballot.  And as far as what referendum to support, if we had our pick we'd punch our chad beside “kingdom-of-heaven-on-earth.”  But that's not on there, either. 

Still, this should not stop us from heeding Jesus' political message.  We can still be faithful followers of Christ.  We can still vote our conscience while refraining from demonizing the “other.”  And most of all, we can commit ourselves to a different way of “relating to one's views about social relationships involving authority or power” - more on exactly how we do that next week. 

But for now, the truth of the matter is this: as Christians we take our lead from – get this – a Jewish carpenter of first-century Palestine who spoke and acted prophetically and politically in a Roman world.  The question Jesus' Beatitudes leave us with is how you and I might do the same in ours?  Thanks be to God. AMEN.

THE BEATITUDES - JESUS' PROPHETIC MESSAGE

Matthew 5: 1-12
Steve Lindsley
September 14, 2008

It was Easter Sunday this past year, and the sanctuary was thriving with activity.  After the Call the Worship the congregation launched into our three Easter hymns as, pew by pew, worshipers were led by the ushers up front to “flower” the cross.  Not that Easter services, or any services for that matter, are ever “ordinary;” but this service had started off pretty much as one might expect.

All of that changed, though, when the back door opened somewhere during the middle of the second hymn, as folks were still coming up with their flowers. A visitor stepped in – which, thanks be to God, is not unusual for our church.  What was unusual was his appearance.  See, he was decked out in a white robe with gold markings on the sides.  He walked in and found an empty seat in a pew near the back.  Before he sat down, though, he knelt outside the pew, clutching his Bible, and started to silently pray.  He made the sign of the cross and then sat down.  And as he stepped into the pew, from my vantage point up here, it was then that I noticed – this man had no shoes on.   

So throughout the whole service – the choral anthem, the sermon, the prayers of the people and Easter communion – throughout all of that my mind was working in overdrive.  One part of my brain focused on the various tasks of leading worship, which I imagine you're glad I did.  The other part, though, continued to come back to this barefoot man dressed in a preacher's robe in our church.  I do notice when visitors are with us in worship – but this particular one really caught my eye.  And as much as I tried otherwise the questions bombarded my mind: what was this guy doing here?  Why the robe?  Was he going to stand up and start talking all of the sudden?  And where are the man's shoes?   

Any concerns I had were unfounded, as the service finished with no drama outside the drama of an Easter celebration.    And like many of you, I got to meet our special guest after church.  The “Barefoot Prophet,” he calls himself.  WXII had done a story on him not too long before that I found on YouTube.  Apparently back in 1987, this man felt called by God to stop wearing shoes, citing a verse from the book of Acts: Then the Lord said to him, “Take off the sandals from your feet, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.”  Since that day, no matter the season or the weather, he had officially been “shoeless.”  He goes around to various churches, worships with them, shows them a few news clippings and a letter from the state saying he has permission to drive without shoes.  And he never asks for a thing, other than giving thanks to God for another day of living, and for being able to worship God with you in your congregation.

As this man turned with a smile and headed out our church doors that day, I remember being thankful that he had come to our church that morning.  I also remember being thrilled to just meet an actual prophet.  I had never met one before – at least that I knew about.  I've read an awful lot about them, studied them in seminary and preached on them from this pulpit.  But I've never been face-to-face with a true, bona-fide prophet, shaken his hand, given him a hug.  And I'd never known before what a prophet's feet look like.  Now I know.

Now you may think I'm being flippant here, but I'm really not.  Can any of us come up with any good reason why this man was not who he said he was?  I mean, what makes a prophet a prophet anyway?  There are plenty in the Old Testament, that's for sure.  And none of them went to “prophet school” to get a degree. There's not a special ID card they whipped out of their back pocket to show you.  What makes a prophet a prophet?

You know, I have to figure that's the question that was running through the minds of the people in that crowd – the crowd who came to hear Jesus that day, hear him say those famous words:

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you.  Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

You've already heard these words once today, and I want you to get used to hearing them.  Because over the next couple of weeks, these Beatitudes will be our focus for our Fall Stewardship sermon series the rest of September.  And as we look at these simple yet profound statements that Jesus chooses to begin his ministry with, I hope we'll be willing to dig a little deeper than the surface, and to ask ourselves how these Beatitudes might inform us as we “celebrate God's mission in our church” and prayerfully decide how to respond to God's needs here for the coming year.

So we're going to look at these words an awful lot over the next three Sundays.  We're also going to look at who those words were spoken to – the crowd.  And one of the things I hope we'll come to see is that, in many ways, their crowd isn't a whole lot different than our crowd.  I mean, there were some obvious differences – a few thousand years of history will do that. They wore different clothes than you and I.  They had different backgrounds, traditions that reflected their place in the ancient Palestinian world.

But they also had a lot in common with you and me.  They had families; children and parents and the joys and struggles of family life.  They had jobs – as well as some not having jobs.  There were many things in their life that were certain and could be counted on, but there were other things that were less than reliable.  And like you and me, they held fast to an as-yet unrealized hope in something larger than themselves,   larger than their present. In those kinds of ways, at least, you and I are right there in that same crowd hearing Jesus speak to us

So – how exactly do we hear his words – his beautiful poetic words?   I figure that responses kind of ran the gamut, don't you think?  For some Jesus' words  might have sounded too much like a sales pitch – somebody trying to get them to buy something they don't really need.  That kind of stuff goes on in our day and time, doesn't it?  It's not hard to fathom that some, upon hearing Jesus, were halfway expecting him to wrap it up with, and you, too, can have this for only six low monthly payments of $24.95!  Those folks would've responded to Jesus with rolling eyes and harsh cynicism.

Who else?  I bet some in our crowd immediately came to the conclusion that this Jesus guy was certifiably crazy.  Mentally mixed-up in the head. And again, it's not hard to imagine this sort of thing when you see some of the people in our own day and time who claim to “speak for the Lord.”  How might that group of folks have responded?  They probably would've made fun of the guy, or even deemed him a danger worth keeping their eyes on. 

But there's a third element in our crowd; a third group who doesn't feel like they're getting a sales pitch, nor do they think this guy is off his rocker.  For these folks – for this part of the crowd – Jesus' words were something else entirely.  They were prophetic.  Prophetic.

So what exactly constitutes prophetic words?  Kind of like that first question – what makes a prophet a prophet?  Maybe the best way to address this is to talk about what prophetic words are not.  Play along with me for a second, if you will.  Consider for a moment if Jesus stood up there in front of our crowd and said his words not in the way Nancy read them earlier, or I read them, or the way we all known them, but consider instead if Jesus stood up there and said them like this:

Blessed are the rich in spirit, for the keys to the kingdom of heaven are theirs.
Blessed are those who are immune to despair, for they are comforted.
Blessed are the powerful, for the earth is theirs for the taking.
Blessed are those who are satisfied with the status quo, for they are content.
Blessed are those who exploit things for self-gain, for they get to hang out with God.
Blessed are you when people tell you how great you are and meet your every need.  Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven.

Now how would the crowd have responded to that?  I'll tell you exactly how.  They would've agreed, every last one of them, that Jesus was speaking the truth – the way things actually were.  Those in power – the Romans and the temple priests – they would've heard Jesus and saluted his loyalty.  They would've applauded his willingness to buy into the system they helped to create; a system that forever served their own interest and enabled them to to continue doing whatever they wanted to do.

And those on the outside looking in – the lower class, the powerless – they would've received Jesus' words with defeated resignation.  He wasn't telling them anything they didn't already know.  They knew they lived in a society where they would always be the low rung on the totem pole; where they had to take things one day at a time because you never could count on tomorrow.  They may not have liked it one bit, but they knew it was true.   And once again, that crowd in Jesus' day looks more and more like the crowd in ours. 

And that, my friends, is precisely why Jesus' words are prophetic.  Because when he stands on that mountain and looks out to a crowd of people so much like you and me, Jesus has the guts to tell us not just the truth as it is – he tells us the truth as it might be.   Jesus doesn't just tell us what we want to hear – he tells us what we need to hear.  And he doesn't just paint a picture of the way things work in the kingdoms of this world – he dares to describe how things operate in God's kingdom  - where the depressed, the lonely, the humble, and the kind-hearted find a home in the embrace of God.  Like those prophets of old, in one single swoop of the rhetorical tongue, Jesus exposed the fallacy of a top-down society and instilled hope in the hearts of the people who needed hope the most.

Which brings us back to the crowd – a crowd of Jews and Romans, rich and poor, young and old; and a crowd of white and black, upper and middle and lower class; a crowd of male and female, content and searching, fulfilled and despondent.  A crowd of us.  We in the crowds of the world hear Jesus speak and are faced with the same choice.  Do we pass it off as nothing more than a sales pitch?  Do we chalk it up to some crazy blabbering?  Or do we dare to see it as nothing more than a prophetic message from a God who wants to bring healing to a broken world?

Because I'll tell you something – I've seen the look in the eyes of someone who really believes this kind of stuff is not only possible, but that it is already happening.  I saw it in the eyes of a prophet who visited our church this past Easter morning, and the way the words of Jesus came alive in him.  And the thing is, you and I probably won't be led to stop wearing shoes or start wearing fancy white robes to church.   But by the grace of God, we will be led to embrace the power of hope that is alive to all of us through God.  And I'm telling you – if that's what being a prophet is about, then maybe they aren't as rare as we might think.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.