"An Absent God?"

Preached July 29, 2012, at Rennie Memorial Presbyterian Church in Amelia, VA

Texts: Exodus 2:1-10
          Psalm 13
          I John 4:7-12

Our Old Testament text this morning is a familiar and beloved story - the story of Baby Moses in the Bulrushes. Aside from the Christmas and Easter stories, this is one of the very first Bible stories that I remember learning as a child. It's endearing, a wonderful story - it kind of has the ring of a fairy tale to it. But I invite you to take a close look at the story with me this morning, because there's something, or should I say someone who is inexplicably and perhaps even troublingly missing. Can any of you see who it is?

That's right, it's God! God is conspicuously absent from our text! In fact, aside from two very brief, almost passing, mentions of God's name in chapter 1, God is not mentioned in the book of Exodus until Moses has fled Egypt, married Zipporah the Midianite, had a baby boy himself, and is about to head out to the burning bush! The Hebrews, God's own chosen people, are suffering under a terrible oppression in Egypt. They have been forced into slavery, and now the new Pharaoh is conducting a genocide of their male children! Why is God, who made a covenant with their ancestors Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, absent?

Well Ginna, you could say to me, there are plenty of stories in the Bible that don't always mention God explicitly, but God is there in the background, mysteriously working out God's purposes. And you would be exactly right in saying that. In the stories of Joseph, Esther, and Ruth; the books of Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and Song of Solomon; God is this sort of background figure. God is there in the text but not really doing anything, per say.

So maybe I shouldn't be troubled, that God is not mentioned in this story of Moses' birth and rescue from the Nile, and maybe I wouldn't be, if it weren't for the fact that it is this story of Moses' birth, that launches the exodus into action.

The exodus, the story of God delivering his own people from their slavery in Egypt and leading them through the wilderness and into the Promised Land, is one of if not the central salvation story of the Old Testament. The rest of the Hebrew Scriptures constantly refer back to it. The 10 Commandments begin, "I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery; you shall have no other Gods before me." In the books of the Torah, the Law, there is a repeating refrain for why the Hebrews should obey God's Law. God says, "Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God redeemed you; for this reason I lay this command upon you today." The rest of the history of the Hebrew people, and of Jews and Christians today, continues to look back to this powerful, liberating act of God in the exodus.

The exodus has become a powerful symbol in our own time, too, for all those striving for liberation from oppression of any kind and looking to God to lead them and sustain them along their journey. Think of the spirituals that the African American men and women who were enslaved in our own country sang as they worked and as they worshipped - "Go Down Moses," "Wade in the Water," and many more classic spirituals drew on God's powerful act of liberation in the exodus and proclaimed the hope that God will liberate his people again from this new slavery and oppression.

And then a century later, in the Civil Rights Movement, our African American brothers and sisters sang these same spirituals and even more as holy bread for their journey, reminding them that God was with them, was working alongside them, and would ultimately liberate them from the oppression of segregation, discrimination, hate crimes, and racism. The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s final sermon before he was killed echoed the experience of Moses as the Hebrew people were about to enter the Promised Land. "I have been to the mountaintop," Dr. King said, "And I have seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you, but I have seen the Promised Land."

Yes, our ancestors knew, and as we still know today, that the God of the exodus is a powerful, active God, directly taking part in our human history to give life, to let the oppressed go free, to lead God's people out of Egypt and into the Promised Land.

Which brings me to my original question. Where is God in the story of Moses' birth? Why, at the very beginning of a story of such an active, liberating God, don't we hear anything about what God is doing to protect this vulnerable, defenseless baby, the very person through whom God will work to liberate his people? Why is God absent?

I think many of us can recall times in our lives when it felt like God was absent. Perhaps some of us are living through one of those times right now. The psalm that Sandra read for us this morning, Psalm 13, is a prayer from someone who was experiencing this same absence of God. The psalm reads, "How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I bear pain in my soul, and have sorrow in my heart all day long? How long shall my enemy be exalted over me?"

Has this ever been your prayer? Is it your prayer today? I know some days it has been mine. It has been my prayer when people I love have had to endure horrible suffering, be it from an illness, a family crisis, or an unjust economic or political system. It has been my prayer when I've seen the faces or heard the stories of innocent people caught in the crossfire of senseless violence, whether that violence be on a personal scale, as it was with the recent shooting in Aurora, Colorado, or a political scale, as it was in the case of Moses and the other Hebrew children and as it continues to be today in places ravaged by genocide and war.

"How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?" I wonder if this was Moses' mother's prayer, when she saw the precious baby boy to whom she had just given birth, but then remembered Pharaoh's decree that all Hebrew boys be drowned in the Nile. Later in the story, when God speaks to Moses from the burning bush, God tells him that he has heard the cry of his people who are enslaved in Egypt. I imagine the cry God heard sounded something like the cry we hear in Psalm 13. And I imagine the cry of Moses' mother sounded something like that as well. She had the precious gift of a child in her arms, a tyrant ruling over her was trying to kill that child, and all the while, God seemed to be absent.

But you see, I don't think it's an accident that Scripture fails to mention God in our story today. I think that just might be the author's way of communicating to us, so many thousands of years later, what the women in this story were experiencing. But there's something wonderful about this story -- there's a reason we call the Bible the Good News, after all, and I invite you to look with me at the text to see what it is.

Moses' mother didn't just cry out to God in the midst of her suffering. She saw that injustice, that suffering, the danger in which her defenseless baby boy constantly lived, and she decided, at great risk to herself, to do something about it. And you see, she wasn't the first Hebrew woman to do this. Before our reading this morning, before Pharaoh's decree that every Hebrew boy be thrown in the Nile, Pharaoh had tried another strategy to kill all male Hebrew babies. First, he called the Hebrew midwives, Shiprah and Puah were their names, and he told them to take the babies that the Hebrew women bore, and to kill all the boys, but to let the girls live. But these midwives feared God more than they feared Pharaoh, and even though the God they worshipped seemed absent, they decided they were still going to live as this God commanded. They didn't kill the baby boys - they didn't kill any of the children! And when Pharaoh called them back and asked them why they had disobeyed his order, they had the faith and the courage to lie to this oppressive leader. They told him that the Hebrew women were not like the Egyptian women, that they were so strong and vigorous that they gave birth unassisted, before the midwives even came to them!  Now I've never given birth to a child, but most people I know who have find this clever tale that Shiprah and Puah tell the Pharaoh to be quite funny!

And then we come back to our story for this morning. Moses' mother gives birth to a baby boy, and he lives, because these two midwives were determined to do God's work. And when Moses grows too big to be hidden any longer, Moses' mother shows that she too is determined to God's work of upholding life, of protecting the vulnerable, of caring for her child who she loves. She seals a basket with tar so that it will remain waterproof, puts her son in the basket, puts the basket in the river, and sends his sister to watch over him and see what happens. In a way she is actually following Pharaoh's orders! She does, after all, put her son into the Nile, just as Pharaoh decreed, but instead of throwing him into the river to die, she carefully and lovingly places him there for his own protection.

And then Pharaoh's daughter comes down to the riverside. Imagine the fear that must have seized Moses' sister's heart. Of all the people that could have found this baby, I can think of few more dangerous than a member of Pharaoh's own household! Surely she will tell her father, and he will kill him, right?

But that's not at all what happens. Pharaoh's daughter sees the baby, sees that he is crying, and she has compassion for him. She knows he is a Hebrew baby, but in perhaps the most incredible act of all, she openly defies her father's decree, declaring that she will not live by this policy of violence and oppression. And it is at this moment that Moses' sister boldly comes forward and offers to find a Hebrew nurse for the child. This conversation that Moses' sister and Pharaoh's daughter have is incredible, for it overcomes the boundaries of race and class that should separate these two women. One is Hebrew, the other Egyptian. One is a slave, the other a princess. But these women realize that when you work together to accomplish God's purposes, none of that matters. And so it is that these five women: the midwives Shiprah and Puah, Moses' mother and sister, and Pharaoh's daughter, cooperate to save the life of the baby that will go on to liberate the Hebrew people from their slavery in Egypt and guide them through the wilderness to the Promised Land.

Did they know what they were doing? I guess we can never know for sure, but Scripture doesn't give us any indication that they knew who Moses would become. I don't think that's what was important to them. I think what they cared about was protecting this beloved and vulnerable baby. Preserving life even in the face of oppression and death. Even when they felt that their God was absent, had abandoned them, this group of four Hebrew slave-women and an Egyptian princess worked together to do the work of liberation, the work of love. To act in ways that bring about and preserve life.

And seeing them do so can we really say that God is absent in this story? No, the more I read this story, the more I examine the life-giving actions of these women, I become more and more convinced that God is present in this story, but in a way we don't expect. God is not named or explicitly active. God is not lurking in the background, moving the characters around as pawns of Providence, forming a facade to keep God's activity hidden. No, I would encourage us not to discount what these women are doing. They are humans, just as normal and as sinful as you and me, and their action is genuine, is human, is subject to failure. These are real humans doing real human things.

But I believe that God is present in their actions precisely because of the real human things they are doing. Their action is born of love and compassion. It gives life. It liberates. And in some mysterious way, far beyond our understanding, this life-giving action is the embodied presence of God. As our New Testament reading this morning from I John proclaims, "No one has ever seen God. But if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us."

God is present in this story because these women are willing to risk everything to be the embodied, incarnate form of God's love.

So what about us? Can we do the same? Can we have the faith, the courage, the devotion to God's work and God's will, to open up our lives, and let God be present in us, live in us, through our love for one another?

When a tragedy strikes, when something happens that we are truly unable to comprehend, we ask, as we have always asked: "Where is God?" "Is God absent?"  The next time you find yourself asking that question, I encourage you to look around at the people surrounding you, for I suspect you may see God living in them.

And then I encourage you to take a good, long, prayerful look in the mirror. Look at your own response to the situation. Is what you are doing inspired by love and compassion? Does it liberate in the face of oppression? Does it give life in the face of death?

If so, you may just see a glimmer of the very face of Christ, smiling back at you.

"A Miracle in the Wrong Verse"

Preached July 22 at Rennie Memorial Presbyterian Church in Amelia, VA

Text: Luke 24:13-35

I imagine our Gospel Lesson today is a familiar text for many of us. The story of the Road to Emmaus has many times been called a paradigm of Christian worship: Bread is broken, the Word is proclaimed, our Lord Jesus Christ is present. Some have even called it a paradigm of Christian mission, of the whole Christian life. We proclaim the Gospel, we engage in table fellowship, and again, our Lord Jesus Christ is present.

I've been wondering, though, as I've studied this text this week, is this story, in fact, too familiar? Are we so focused on the ending that we know will come that we hardly pay attention to what happens as the story progresses? Do we know it so well that we can hear it and say "This is the Word of the Lord, thanks be to God," and completely miss the miracle?

Yes, I believe a miracle takes place in this text, an everyday miracle that we just might miss if we blink too long, or if we let our minds wander for a minute, because we know how the story will end. But the real, fundamental miracle of this text isn't perhaps the miracle we expect, and doesn't occur where we might think. So where is it? What is the miracle that takes place on the road to Emmaus?

My first inclination, and maybe yours, too, is to locate the miracle in verse 31 - when, after Jesus has blessed and broken the bread and given it to his disciples, their eyes are opened, and they recognize him.

This is truly a miracle, no doubt, when we come to know Jesus Christ in the breaking of the bread. We will do this today, in just a few minutes, as we take part in the sacrament of the Lord's Supper. We will break bread together. We will all partake of the same bread and the same cup, from the same table. And somehow, miraculously, we will receive the hospitality and experience the gracious presence of our Lord Jesus Christ. We will be in a holy fellowship, in divine communion with our triune God and with those who have gone before us and will come after us in the faith. We will experience a foretaste of the very Kingdom of Heaven. This is undoubtedly a miracle. But I don't think it's the fundamental miracle in this text.

Perhaps then, we'll turn to verse 32, after Jesus' disciples have recognized him, and he has vanished from their sight. For it is at this moment that the disciples reflect together, and they say to one another, "Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?" It is here, through that sacred practice of memory, of recalling the stories of the past and seeking to discern what they mean for us today, that the disciples retrospectively recognize Jesus in the way he proclaimed the Word of God to them.

This, too, is a miracle, isn't it? When we read Scripture, or hear Scripture, or memorize it and recite it to ourselves, and our hearts burn within us, and we know God is present. When, in the midst of illness or family crisis, of poverty or of hunger, we hear God's word, and we are changed. We have no reason to fear anymore because perfect love drives out fear; we can no longer sit in our sorrow because in our encounter with the Word, we have found cause for joy, our weeping has been turned to dancing. Certainly this does not happen every time we open the Bible, every time we look for God's Word. Often we are just like those disciples on the road to Emmaus. They knew their Scripture, but they had not yet had their eyes opened to the Resurrected Christ. We, too, can scour the Word of God and come back with nothing. Sometimes our eyes are closed, and just like these two disciples, we are kept from recognizing Jesus. But then as we reflect, as we remember, our hearts burn within us, and in the midst of the many words of our lives and our generation, we hear God's one unchangeable Word speaking directly to our hearts.

Encountering God in the Word - this too is a miracle. But I don't think it's the central miracle of this passage, either. No, you see, because in order to encounter Christ in the breaking of the bread, or to experience God's presence in the proclamation of the Word, something else has to happen in our story, something essential to everything else that unfolds.

You see, this story, this encounter on the Road to Emmaus, could have ended very differently. In verse 28, we are told that Jesus and the two travelers came near to the village that was the disciples' destination, and Jesus walked ahead, as if he were going on. And the disciples could have just let him go on his way. He'd been a good travelling companion for awhile, sure - the conversation had been entertaining, to say the least - but they were home now, and after such a difficult past couple of days and a seven-mile journey back home, they were tired. They needed a break, some time to sit, to decompress, to mourn their loss.

The disciples could have let Jesus go walking on his way. They could have said, "Go in peace," and returned home to eat dinner, just the two of them, and get a good night's sleep. They could have continued to grieve the death of the one they had hoped would be the Messiah, the one who would redeem Israel. They could have continued to hear the women's reports of an empty tomb as idle tales, the wishful thinking of those who are delirious with grief. And the story could have ended. And if it had, we might not be sitting here today.

But, thanks be to God, that's not what the disciples did. Verse 29 tells us that, as Jesus is walking on as if to leave the city, they urged him strongly, saying, "Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over." And Jesus went in to stay with them.

And it is only when they invite Jesus into their home, only because he sits with them in table fellowship, as the recipient of their hospitality, that they are able to recognize him in the breaking of the bread, and to remember the way their hearts burned within them as he proclaimed God's Word. And if I understand the text, that is where the fundamental miracle lies. Jesus' disciples, discouraged as they are by the death of their Lord only two days before, open their home and their hearts to a to complete and total stranger.

A stranger. There's the punch. That's the essential part. Remember, at this point, they don't know that it is Jesus they're inviting into their home. If they hadn't extended their hospitality to the stranger on the road, if that hadn't set down to engage in conversation and in table fellowship with this man, they never would have recognized their Risen Lord.

Why, then, did they do this? Why did these two disciples offer the hospitality of home and table to their strange new travelling companion? We can't know for sure, but I am inclined to believe that it is precisely because they were disciples of Jesus Christ. They'd heard him teach about feeding the hungry and welcoming the stranger, about how just as they fed, and clothed, and welcomed one of the least of these, they fed and clothed and welcomed Jesus. They'd seen him feed five thousand people because of his deep compassion for them, for they were like sheep without a shepherd. They'd seen him in table fellowship with prostitutes and tax collectors and sinners of every kind, and they'd heard his instruction that when they throw a banquet, they ought not invite their friends or relatives or rich neighbors, who could one day return the favor, but rather to invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And on that Resurrection Day, on the road to Emmaus, they saw a stranger who needed shelter for the night, and they heeded their Lord's instructions.

Because these two disciples followed Jesus and responded faithfully to what he taught them during his life, they are now able to recognize their Risen Lord in the glory of his Resurrection.

We, too, encounter the embodied presence of Christ in one another. When we share the Word, when we break bread together, and when we offer hospitality to the stranger in our midst. We are Christ's witnesses and Christ's body; he has no hands and feet in this world but our hands and our feet. Jesus has given us the same instructions that he gave those two disciples he encountered on the road to Emmaus. Will we be so faithful in living out the teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ?

In a few minutes, we will gather at Christ's table to celebrate the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper, to receive God's hospitality and be nourished in body and spirit. How then will we respond to such gracious hospitality? How will we, today and in the days to come, open our homes, our tables, our arms, and our hearts, to the strangers in our midst?

And when we extend our hands to one another and to the strangers around us, will we have the faith to recognize the presence of our Risen Lord? For he will be there, whether we recognize him or not.

"A Servant's Heart"

Preached July 15, 2012, at Rennie Memorial Presbyterian Church in Amelia, VA


Text: Philippians 2:1-11

"Make my joy complete," Paul tells the Philippians, "Be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord, and of one mind."

He says it twice, "Be of one mind." If you're anything like me, this statement is quite intimidating, seems like too much. There's an old rabbi's joke that says when two Jews are gathered in conversation, there are always at least three opinions present. I believe the same could be said of Christians, of Presbyterians, simply of people today. Even among those closest to us, often we can hardly agree on anything. When I was a child, my two younger brothers and I would fight so adamantly over whether to go to McDonalds, Wendy's, or Arby's for lunch after church on Sundays that my mom had to draw up a little paper wheel with each of our names to create a rotation for who got to pick where to go. Even then, I know fighting and grumbling continued. In my experience, it is difficult for us to come to a unanimous consensus, to be of "one mind," even when it's with those we love and over something as temporary and insignificant as where to go to lunch.

It's comforting, then, to know that full and total agreement is not what Paul is asking of us in this passage. Hey says be of one mind, yes. But then he explains what he means - the one mind that he urges us all to possess is "the same mind that was in Christ Jesus."

Paul asks us to live our lives sharing the "mind of Christ." But of course that begs the question, what does that mean?  What does it look like? Where is the specific set of rules, of instructions, for living as those who have the mind of Christ? And the church through the ages has tried to discern the mind of Christ, to come up with the instructions, the rules, for how to live as Christian disciples. We're still doing it today, when we gather together in worship, in prayer, in Sunday school, in fellowship - seeking a word from God, a set of clear-cut instructions for how we are to live.

Clear-cut instructions would be nice, but that's not what Paul gives us in this text. He lays out some guidelines, some very important guidelines for that matter - do nothing from selfish ambition, regard others as better than yourselves, look to the interests of others rather than your own interests. But then Paul launches into a story, a story I'd imagine all of us in this room know very well, about our Lord Jesus Christ, who was in the form of God, and yet emptied himself to become a human, a slave, obedient to God even to his death on a cross. And Paul tells us how because of this, God raised and exalted this Jesus Christ and gave him the name above all names, the name before which every knee shall bow as we confess that Jesus is Lord.

You see, Paul doesn't feel the need to tell us in great detail what it means to have the mind of Christ. Instead he points us to Jesus himself, he tells us this story and lets Jesus' own life speak to us about discipleship, about having the mind of Christ. He tells us the story of Jesus' humility - of how he did not exploit his power but emptied and humbled himself before others. He tells of Jesus' obedience to the will of God, an obedience that he was willing to follow through even to his cruel, humiliating death on a cross. He tells a story of Jesus' selflessness, about putting the needs of others and the will of God above his own needs and will.

Paul shows us that at the very core of the Gospel is our Lord Jesus Christ and his servant's heart.

A servant's heart. Someone who gives selflessly to others, and in doing so, embodies the mind and the person of Jesus Christ.

I imagine that most of us can call to mind a few examples of people with servant's hearts. My mind jumps quickly to famous examples, those whose servants' hearts have made the news, caught the attention of the world. I think of people like Mother Theresa, like Martin Luther King, Jr., like Oscar Romero, the Catholic priest from El Salvador who refused to stop serving communion and baptizing the babies of the poor and hungry, whose selflessness and obedience, like that of Jesus, led to his assassination.

These examples of a servant's heart, of the mind of Christ, are incredibly inspiring; they take our breath away, and they are cause to give praise to God. But it's not only those who make the news, those whose stories are recorded in our history books, who have learned to embrace the mind of Christ Jesus and to have a servant's heart. There are parents who wear their old shoes until the soles are worn thin so they can afford to buy their children new shoes for school. There are firefighters who risk their own lives when they enter a burning building to save someone trapped inside. There are those who invite the homeless into their homes, or sit down to a meal with someone who cannot afford to feed him or herself. These people, too, have servants' hearts. These people, too, live according to the mind of Christ.

A friend of mine shared a similar story with me this week about what it means to have a servant's heart. The story comes from a taxi driver in New York City who had been called to a house late one night, at the end of his shift. He arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes, he honked again. Since this was going to be his last ride of the night, he thought about just driving away, but instead put the car in park, walked up to the door, and knocked. "Just a minute!" answered a frail, elderly voice. He could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90s stood before him. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she asked. He took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took his arm, and they walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking him for his kindness. "It's nothing," he told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated." 

"Oh, you're such a good man, a kind soul," she told him. When they got in the cab, she gave him an address, and then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the fastest way..." he answered, puzzled.

"Oh I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice." He looked in the rearview mirror and saw that her eyes were glistening. "I don't have any family left," she continued in a soft voice. "The doctor says I don't have very long." The taxi driver quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

"What route would you like me to take?" he asked.

For the next two hours, they drove through the city. She showed him the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. They drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had the driver pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. At times, she asked him to slow down in front of a particular building or corner and sat staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now." They drove in silence to the address she had given him. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two nurses came out to the cab as soon as they pulled up. They asked the woman where she'd been, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her, the taxi driver thought to himself.

He opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.

"Nothing," he said.

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other passengers," he responded.

And almost without thinking, this taxi driver tells us, he bent down and gave the woman a hug. She held onto him tightly.

"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."

He squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light. Behind him, he heard a door shut. He thought to himself that it was the sound of the closing of a life.

After telling the story, the taxi-driver continued to reflect on the meaning of that experience, saying, "I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

"We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unawares - beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one. On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life."

I wonder if our humble, self-emptying, servant-hearted Lord Jesus ever thought something like that, after a hard day's work of healing, feeding, and teaching people.

I wonder if the heroes and saints of our time, like the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., or Oscar Romero, or Mother Theresa, ever thought something like that.

I wonder if any of you, after a day of caring for a son or a sister, after cooking a meal for a neighbor you know has been ill, after bringing someone a big old bag of tomatoes, or corn, simply because you know it will bring them joy, has thought something like that.

I hope you have, and I hope you will. For in these moments, you have followed the Apostle Paul's admonition to be of one mind, have the same love, and be in full accord with one another. You have emptied and humbled yourselves, just as our Lord did when he came to dwell among us, when he followed his obedience to God to the point of death, even death on a cross. You have let your life be led by the mind of Christ and a servant's heart.

May you continue to do so. For it is because of this kind of life, the life of the servant, that God has highly exalted Jesus, and given him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus, every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord. The servant is king. The central event of our lives and salvation, God's vindication of the world, is a humble act of service. Hallelujah! Amen.

[Story from Kent Nerburn, "And Where There is Sadness, Joy," in Make Me An Instrument of Your Peace. 1999.]

"A House of Prayer for All People"

Preached Sunday, July 8, 2012 at Rennie Memorial Presbyterian Church in Amelia, VA 

Texts: Isaiah 56:1-8 
          Matthew 15:21-28 

In our reading this morning, from the prophet Isaiah, God tells us he's going to bring people, new people, to his holy mountain, and make them joyful in his house of prayer, for, Isaiah says, God's house shall be called a house of prayer for all people.

A house of prayer for all people. Well that sounds nice, doesn't it? That's what we as the church are called to be, after all. A place where all people come to join together and worship God. If only the church really looked like that.

If only the church was truly a manifestation of the radical inclusiveness of God's Kingdom. It's a problem we've been struggling with for ages, a problem as old as the day is long. For you see, while we like the idea of God's house, of the church, as a "House of Prayer for All People," while we pray for the day when "every knee shall bow, and every tongue shall confess" faith in the God that we know loves and liberates us, the thought of a community that includes everyone scares us. We are human, and try as we might to love our neighbors as ourselves, our love and grace for one another is still a far cry from the love and grace of the God we worship.

The good news I bring you, brothers and sisters in Christ, is that we are not alone in our fear, in our reluctance, to embrace the church as a house of prayer for all people. Our mothers and fathers in the faith have struggled for thousands and thousands of years with this very same problem. Both of our texts this morning tell us of earlier times when God's people struggled to come to terms with God's radical inclusiveness. But they also remind us that in order to truly be God's people, we too must strive toward this very inclusiveness, and open our doors so that our churches and our houses may be houses of prayer for all people.

It's always been hard, following God's commands to be a truly inclusive people. We think we've got it down, we think we've done it, and then God does something radically gracious and unsettles all our ideas about who's in and who's out.

I think that's exactly what happens in our reading from Isaiah, this morning. It begins with good news: "Maintain justice and do what is right, for soon my salvation will come, and my deliverance be revealed." This is good news, yes, because the people Isaiah is addressing have just returned home from the Babylonian exile. They've had hard times - they've been conquered by another nation and shipped off to a land they don't know. And now they're back home, in the Promised Land, but they're getting worried because things aren't quite the same as when they left. You see, not all the Jews went into exile - some got to stay in the Promised Land - and the way they worship God is a little different than it was before. They're coming back home only to have to learn how to get along with different types of people. This is difficult for them. It hasn't been the glorious homecoming they were expecting. A reassurance that God's salvation is, in fact, coming? Good news indeed!

But that's just the beginning, see, because then comes some groundbreaking news, the part that knocks the Jewish people off their feet. As it turns out, in this prophesy, God is not just talking to the Jews! In fact, God includes two more groups of people to the list of those who will receive salvation and deliverance. God invites into his holy covenant, a covenant that was once only with the people of Israel, foreigners - those men and women who are not from the nation of Israel, and eunuchs - men who's genitals had been cut off so that they could serve as officers in the Persian army.

The foreigners and the eunuchs. These two names don't mean too much to us today, but for ancient Israel, they were about the last people anyone thought God would invite into his covenant. I imagine the Israelites felt betrayed - this was their God, their covenant; they were the children of Abraham, the chosen people. And they had been worshipping God faithfully in a foreign land, maintaining justice, doing what is right, keeping all of God's commandments.... And these commandments included prohibitions, laws that said that people like these foreigners and eunuchs were not allowed in the assembly of God! Deuteronomy chapter 23, verse 3: "No Ammonite or Moabite shall be admitted to the assembly of the Lord." No foreigners. And Deuteronomy chapter 23, verse 1: "No one whose testicles are crushed or whose penis is cut off shall be admitted to the assembly of the Lord." No eunuchs. This is God's word, God's law, the commandments that have been keeping the people of Israel alive through the years. And yet in Isaiah, God promises, to those foreigners and eunuchs who hold fast to God's commandments, a place in his house of prayer for all people.

It is important to mention, of course, that God doesn't extend this invitation to just anyone. It's not all foreigners, it's not all eunuchs - it's only to those who will maintain justice and do what is right. This new community that God is building is not one where "anything goes." All people in God's covenant - Israelite, foreigner, or eunuch - must obey God's commandments. But it's starting to get confusing for the Israelites. They thought they understood God's commandments, but those commandments said no foreigners or eunuchs would be invited into the assembly of God, and here God is inviting them in! Is God breaking his own commandments? Did Moses and their forefathers and foremothers in the faith get it wrong? How can they be God's holy, covenant community if they're now inviting in people who are considered unclean, considered abominations in the sight of the Lord?

The Israelites were upset by this prophesy, were angry about the radical inclusiveness of God's Kingdom. I imagine we today can understand why. It might feel like undeserving outsiders are being invited into the Kingdom. How are we supposed to keep God's covenant if God the lawgiver breaks his own laws? And I think it's ok that we're confused, that we have these objections, because, we're not alone in them. In fact, our Gospel lesson this morning points to a story when Jesus himself found himself struggling with the radical inclusiveness of God's Kingdom.

This story of Jesus and the Canaanite woman is often troubling for Christians, for the church, because what Jesus says and does is, quite frankly, not very nice. He refuses to help a woman who is suffering, and before he finally does grant her request, he calls her a dog! I can almost hear his mother Mary saying, "Now Jesus, what has gotten into you? You apologize and give that nice lady what she's asking for. You're the Messiah, after all, and she's just to save her daughter!" It's troubling, for us as Christians, who call Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior, to see Jesus acting like this.

I think it's troubling for us because while we spend plenty of time talking about Jesus' divinity, how Jesus is the Son of God, we often tend to forget about Jesus' humanity - how the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. But as Christians, we affirm that Jesus is both, fully human, and fully God. So I don't think we need to be afraid, or defensive, when we read stories from the Gospel like this one. In this story, Jesus shares with us in our humanity. And because Jesus, the very Son of God, is human just like us, God, through Jesus, teaches us something incredible in this story.

Jesus and this Canaanite woman get in a debate about whether or not he will heal her daughter. She's a Gentile, not a Jew, and so not a member of the covenant community of Israel that Jesus came to save. I find it strange that they even have this debate; after all, earlier in the Gospel, in Matthew chapter 8, Jesus healed the daughter of a Roman soldier - that's about as Gentile as you get! Why won't he do the same now? Is it because she's not only a Gentile, but also a woman? You see, women in this time weren't supposed to speak to men in public, let alone cry out repeatedly after Jesus and his disciples as they try to go on their way.

But, whatever the reason, Jesus and the Canaanite woman get into this debate. She asks for help, he ignores her. She continues to cry out, and the disciples say "Jesus, why don't you do something about her?" and he says, "I was only sent to the lost sheep of Israel." But she keeps crying out for help, and when that doesn't work, she catches up and kneels down at his feet so he can't ignore her anymore and says, "Lord, help me." And that's when Jesus responds, "It is not fair to take the children's food and throw it to the dogs."

Jesus gets in many debates like this over the course of his ministry, debates with the scribes, the Pharisees, with his disciples or members of the crowd... Satan tempts Jesus in the wilderness with bread, but Jesus says "One does not live by bread alone, but from every word that comes from the mouth of God." The Pharisees try to trick Jesus, asking if they should pay taxes to the emperor, but he says "Give to Caesar what is Caesar's, and give to God what is God's. In every other instance except this one, Jesus gets the punch line. He's the one who teaches, and everyone else learns. But in this story of the Canaanite woman, she gets the punch line, she is the teacher. She responds, "Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters' table." And Jesus is moved by her faith and heals her daughter.

You see, in her faith, this Canaanite woman doesn't just move Jesus, she changes Jesus, she teaches Jesus. That may sound radical, it may sound absurd, but Jesus recognizes that this woman speaks words of truth about the radical inclusiveness of the Kingdom of God. She wants Jesus to minister to her, to heal her daughter, but before that can happen, she has to minister to him, to teach our very Lord and Savior a lesson about God's inclusive community. She is the most unexpected of teachers, yet she is the one to remind Jesus just how big God's Kingdom really is. We see how much she has changed his heart as we continue in Matthew's Gospel, for the very next thing Jesus does is go up onto a mountain where he heals great crowds of Gentiles, of those outside of the covenant, and then feeds four thousand of them, just as he fed five thousand of his Jewish brothers and sisters just a couple chapters earlier.

If our Lord Jesus Christ can humble himself to learn about God's Kingdom from someone he had considered outside of his ministry, outside of the Kingdom, shouldn't we do the same? Perhaps we too need to be changed and taught by the Spirit of God working through the people we least expect, the last people we would imagine as part of God's covenant community.

Who are those people for us today? Who are the ones that we may exclude from our own church community yet whom God has already called to his table? It's different for everyone. For some of us, it's those who look and speak differently than we do, sometimes in a language we cannot understand. Immigrants who have come to our country to find work, but we don't know whether or not they are here "legally," as we like to say, and some of us may resent the way their presence has changed our communities.

For some of us, it's those in prison or those who have served their time and are back living among us in society. Maybe they make us feel uncomfortable, maybe they make us feel unsafe -- it's hard for us to welcome into the Kingdom those who have broken the laws, if only the laws of our country. In some way we don't think they "deserve it," that second, or third, or fourth chance that comes with grace.

In the last week that I spent at the Presbyterian Church (USA) General Assembly, I became increasingly aware than for many of us, it is those among us who are gay and lesbian. We see texts in our Bibles, like Leviticus chapter 18 verse 22, or Romans chapter 1 verses 26 through 27, that seem to condemn these brothers and sisters of ours, and we find ourselves struggling with the same question that plagued the ancient Israelites -- how could any of these people be part of the covenant community, be those invited to the house of God?

But our God is a gathering God, that's what Isaiah tells us. Just as God gathered the outcasts of Israel, just as God gathered the Church in Jesus Christ, and just as God has individually gathered each of us from wherever we are in life to be God's children - God is still gathering others to the Kingdom so that God's house may truly be a house of prayer for all people.

But, we protest, what about maintaining justice, and doing what is right? How can we as the church invite someone into our covenant community if they are breaking God's law, or the law of the land? But here, brothers and sisters, I offer a word of caution - many times our ancestors and ourselves have misinterpreted the will of God. The Israelites read the laws against eunuchs, and against foreigners, but then they heard the voice of God, inviting those people into the covenant. We, in the United States, read in the book of Ephesians "Slaves, obey your masters," but then we heard the voice of God, reminding us that we are all created equal, and that we are brothers and sisters in Christ. We read in First Timothy that no woman is to speak or teach in church, but then we heard the voice of God telling us that both men and women have spiritual gifts to offer in worship. And then as now, the lines of the rules we thought we knew started to blur, and we found ourselves unable to comprehend a God that would include even these outsiders into God's house of prayer for all people.

We may not like it that these new people are being gathered to God's Kingdom - it may make us uncomfortable. It may feel to us just like it did to those ancient Israelites who could comprehend how God was inviting into the Kingdom foreigners and eunuchs - people that it specifically said in God's holy law are outside of the covenant! It may feel to us just like it did to Jesus and his disciples when a foreign woman had to teach them a lesson about who God is and how God works. It's never been easy - opening our doors and our hearts the way that God opens his doors and his heart. And yet God continues to call us, the church, God's own people, to do just that.

In fact, as we learn from the story of Jesus and the Canaanite woman, these men and women may be the very people, the unexpected people, from whom we will learn and through whom we may experience the grace of God.

In every age, this has been a hard call for the church to live into. When faced with those who are different from us, we tend to close our doors rather than open them. We hide ourselves from outcasts and outsiders, forgetting that we too were once outsiders that God graciously gathered into the covenant. Often we fight among ourselves over how to deal with new kinds of people, over what they will do to the current community in which we've grown so comfortable. The new and unexpected grace of God can be quite difficult, quite frightening.

But in the face of this newness, God has told us what to do. "Maintain justice, and do what is right, for my salvation is coming soon." When we hold fast to God's promises, when we live in God's covenant and welcome people the way God welcomes them and welcomes us, we can trust in the Holy Spirit to stir our hearts and guide us, too, into this new covenant community. We can trust in the God who says to us in Isaiah chapter 43, "Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old; I am about to do a new thing - now it springs forth! Do you not perceive it?"

Thanks be to God. Amen.

"Of Pebbles and Giants"

Preached June 24, 2012 at Rennie Memorial Presbyterian Church in Amelia, VA


Texts: I Samuel 17:1, 4-11, 19-23, 32-49
          Ephesians 6:10-17

I always love a good underdog story. Most of us probably do. It's invigorating, exciting. The scene is set, everyone thinks they knows how things are going to play out, and then, out of nowhere, the underdog comes from behind, and against all odds, wins the day. It's heartwarming, inspiring. We find ourselves thinking, "If even he or she can defy the odds and triumph, maybe I can too!"

When we come to our Scripture lesson this morning, the story of David and Goliath, I think many of us are used to reading it as an underdog story. A little shepherd boy defeats a mighty giant warrior with a slingshot and a stone, and the underdog wins again. Lesson learned, end of story. We call it a children's story - in fact, I don't think I've ever come across a children's Bible that doesn't include the story of David and Goliath. But when we do this, I worry, do we write it off? Do we miss the radical message of hope about how God works, or the and sacred call of God that this story offers to people of all ages, perhaps even most especially to us as adults, who have had time in our lives to witness the ways of the world and grow weary of them?

It feels good to watch the underdog win, no doubt. But when we stop there, I think we miss the point. No, you see, the story of David and Goliath is not just a fairy tale or a good ball game. Did you hear the threats David and Goliath shout to one another before their encounter? Goliath taunts David, "Come to me, and I will give your flesh to the birds of the air and to the wild animals of the field!" And does David, the soon-to-be king of all Israel, respond with any more grace, with any more respect for human life, created in the image of God? Well, he does mention God's name, I'll give him that, but David responds to Goliath's threat to feed his dead body to the dogs by retorting that, "This very day the Lord will deliver you into my hand, and I will strike you down and cut off your head; and I will give the dead bodies of the Philistine army this very day to the birds of the air and to the wild animals of the earth!"

Is this a children's story? I don't have any children yet, but when I do, I don't imagine I'll be very keen on them talking to one another like this, or reading stories where the hero tells the villain he will cut off his head and feed it to the animals. I think I might prefer role models and stories for my kids who are less fixated on feeding their enemies to the dogs.

The point is, though, that this stand-off between David and Goliath is no ball-game. This is war - this is life or death. One of them will not survive this encounter.

And let me be clear, the Israelite and the Philistine armies are no audience watching from the stands, placing bets on who will win, making jokes about the players, waiting with bated breath to see what will happen. They're waiting with baited breath, all right, but that's because their lives and their freedom hang on what happens in this battle between David and Goliath. Do you remember Goliath's words, when he steps forward and offers his challenge? "Choose a man for yourselves," he says to the Israelite army, "and let him come down to me. If he is able to fight with me and kill me, then we will be your servants; but if I prevail against him and kill him, then you shall be our servants and serve us." No, this is no baseball game. This is the difference between life and death, the difference between freedom and being taken to a foreign land as a prisoner of war.

I wonder sometimes if our culture, our world, has forgotten that war is not just a really big sports game. I think of the books, movies, games, about war. Don't get me wrong - I think some of these do a wonderful job of describing the reality that soldiers and civilians in war zones face, putting life behind these experiences and images for those of us, like myself, who have never had to face such an experience. Some of these books and movies do a good job, but others...well, somewhere along the way they seem to have misunderstood. They talk about it like it's an adventure, just one big game. 

Those who have fought in wars know that it is no game. Those whose loved ones have served or are currently serving in the army know that it is no game. Those who have lost a loved one in a war know that it is no game.

No, I don't know that David saw himself as some underdog hero who would win fortune, fame, glory, and even go on to become King of Israel. I think he knew this was no game. He knew this was life and death.

So look with me, then at what David does, and, perhaps more importantly, at what he says before he acts...

David doesn't impress Saul with his past military victories, doesn't show him an impressive resume. He talks about his experience as a humble shepherd, and most importantly, he confesses his faith in the living God, who will save him from the giant.

Then, when David finally confronts the Goliath, he tells him that he comes to him in the name of the Lord. David says that God will deliver the Philistine army into his hand so that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel, and that this Lord does not save by sword and spear, for the battle is the Lord's.

"The Lord does not save by sword and spear." This makes sense, I suppose, for David has neither sword nor spear, and Goliath has both. Goliath is almost 10 feet tall; David is only a youth. Goliath is an experienced warrior; David is a shepherd. Goliath is dressed in state-of-the-art bronze armor; David just has the clothes on his back. Goliath has a sword, and a spear that weighs over 22 pounds; David has a staff, a slingshot, and 5 smooth stones.

Yes, by all means, David is the underdog in this encounter - but I don't believe the Scripture is trying to teach us a lesson about underdogs. No, you see, I hear this text about a God who does not save by sword and spear teaching us a lesson about the way God does save. This story speaks a word of hope to all people facing giants, facing evil, facing huge, overwhelming powers and structures that seem too large, too insurmountable for us ever to overcome. The text tells us that we can overcome these giants, that we will overcome these giants, in the name of the living God, precisely because this God does not save by sword and spear. Quite the contrary, our God uses pebbles to fight giants.

Pebbles to fight giants. It doesn't make any sense, does it? It doesn't fit with our logic, with our understanding of how things work, and that's exactly the point. What we learn from David and his slingshot is that God does not do things the way we do. Our God is powerful, our God is strong, our God is a mighty fortress - but the living God in whom David had faith, in whom we still have faith today, does not operate according to conventional ideas of power. Our God uses pebbles to fight giants.

And you see, King Saul and his army don't understand that. They're trying to fight fire with fire. But they can't - Goliath and his army are too strong. Being strong with force and powerful with weapons, that's the Goliath's thing, that's not God's thing. And so Saul and his army are too terrified to do anything.

Even when David does come along and offers to fight Goliath, when David reminds Saul about how God works, about how God delivers his people and will deliver David, Saul dresses David up in his own royal armor. It's a funny moment in the story, a bit of comic relief, if you will. David clanking around in Saul's heavy armor that is far too big for him, so big he can't even walk while he's wearing it! In giving him his armor, Saul is trying to clothe David in conventional, human ideas of power. But David says no, I don't need this. David's armor looks more like the armor Paul describes in his letter to the Ephesians. David puts on the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, the shield of faith, the helmet of salvation, the sword of the Spirit. The shoes that make him ready to proclaim the gospel of peace. David's armor is his faith in the living God.

And he fights a giant with a pebble, and the pebble wins.

I ask you now to stop and think for a minute - what giants are you facing in your life? Where do you encounter evil, and sin, and greed, and oppression, and hopelessness that seem too big for you to overcome? How do you experience what Paul calls "the rulers, the authorities, the cosmic powers of this present darkness, the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places?" And how do you stand up to giants like that?

I'd like to share with you two stories about pebbles and giants that I know...

I've told many of you that I spent a year living in Peru, working mission alongside the Presbyterian churches there. Well, there's a town in the mountains of Peru called La Oroya. It's a beautiful town, but there's a metal smelting plant there, owned by a billionaire from the US. And this man, who has more money than most people could ever dream of, he won't follow the environmental regulations that the Peruvian government has enforced because it's too expensive, he says, it would cost him too much money. Because of this, La Oroya is one of the 10 most polluted cities in the entire world. 97% of the children who live in La Oroya have lead poisoning. 97%. And the Peruvian government, well, they tell him his company needs to follow the laws, but they also like his business, the money he brings into the country, and they won't do much about it. It's a situation full of giants, full of "the cosmic powers of this present darkness." To the people who live in La Oroya, it's like a giant waving his spear, and there's nothing they can do. 

But there's also a group of kids who live in La Oroya, a group of 9-to-12-year-olds, who don't think this is right. They don't want to grow up with lead in their bodies anymore, and what's more, they have faith in the living God and believe that God doesn't want them to grow up with lead in their bodies anymore. And they've got a few pebbles in their pockets. One of their pebbles is education. They're smart kids, good in school, and they like to learn. And so they've learned how to use some video cameras. And they've learned about pollution, and about how to take care of their environment. And with the help of their parents and friends, they're starting to tell their story. And people are starting to listen. The story of La Oroya, and of the pollution and lead poisoning, have made it onto the television and into the newspaper in the US. And the giants are starting not to look so big anymore, all because a group of kids trusted that God works through pebbles. 

I'll tell you another story of pebbles and giants. Some of you may remember the gridlocked debate last summer in Washington, DC, over our country's federal budget. I was working in DC at the time with a man, a good man, a Presbyterian minister. His name was the Rev. Dr. J. Herbert Nelson II, J. Herbert is what we called him. And he heard the Republicans, and he heard the Democrats, and he heard all the politicians, talking about debt and deficit and default and the budget.

And he said I don't think God works that way. He said I don't hear anyone talking about people. He said I don't hear anyone talking about the people Jesus talked about, the ones who are hungry and need food, or thirsty, and need a drink of water. About people who have no homes, or no clothes, or are sick, or in prison.

And he started talking to some other ministers and religious leaders. And he said, "My faith in the living God tells me this isn't right, and we need to do something about it." And they said we think so too. These were giants they were up against, though; people so big, so powerful - what were a group of faith leaders could do. But they had a pebble. And they'd read their Bibles, and they knew that God uses pebbles to fight giants.

And do you know what their pebble was? Their pebble was prayer. 

They prayed and they prayed. They prayed outside when it was 100 degrees. They prayed in church. They prayed on the street, they prayed in their homes. And finally, when they didn't know where else to pray, they went to the US Capitol, right there in the middle of the rotunda, and they knelt down, 11 of them all together, one man in a wheelchair, and the read the Bible, and they prayed.

I asked you a minute ago to think about the giants you're facing in your life right now. For some of you, something may have come to mind immediately, for others, it may not be so obvious or clear. But I ask you now - what kinds of pebbles are you carrying around in your pockets, so that when the giants come, you are ready? Is your pebble prayer, like J Herbert? Is it education and teaching, like the children in Peru? Is it compassion? Or knowing how to be a good neighbor? Or mission? Or honesty? Or community? We all have our pebbles, our spiritual gifts -- God doesn't make us without them.

So I challenge you, in the week ahead, to look at what pebbles you're carrying with you, that you can use when a giant comes along in your life. Take those pebbles out. Examine them. Practice using them. And know that, like David, our greatest power, our greatest strength, is our faith in the living God. Amen.

"Seeds of the Kingdom"

Preached June 17, 2012, at Rennie Memorial Presbyterian Church in Amelia, VA.


Texts: Ezekiel 17:22-24
          Mark 4:26-34

I was talking the other day about different agricultural practices with a friend who grew up in a family of North Carolina farmers. As someone who has always lived in the city, it's not been until recently that I have begun to reflect on where my food comes from.

In fact, I have a distinct memory from grade school, maybe 3rd or 4th grade, when my class was doing a unit on plants. To add a more hands-on element to our study, we planted cucumber seeds in little Dixie cups full of dirt, placed them in the window, watered them regularly, and watched them grow. After a few weeks, we took them home, and my dad helped me plant my little cucumber seedling in the back yard. I took diligent care of the plant, and lo and behold, it grew a couple cucumbers! I remember how amazed I was that this tiny little seed I'd cared for had grown into a cucumber. Sure, I understood conceptually that seeds grow into plants, but this transformation had taken place before my very eyes. Somehow that seed in a Dixie cup had grown and transformed into food for our family.

My friend found this quite funny, of course, and I imagine many of you can understand why. There I was - a girl from the city who has forgotten how to dig around in the dirt.

As I've been meditating on our Gospel lesson this morning, however, I've started to return to that childlike wonder. There is something miraculous about the power of a seed. It's small, nondescript, seemingly insignificant. And yet it has the potential for life locked inside. When you stop to consider it, it really is mind-boggling. Who could tell, when looking at a tiny seed, that it will grow into a large and beautiful plant? When you start to really reflect on it, the agricultural process is an unsung miracle. In the two parables we heard this morning, Jesus tells us that in some way, the very Kingdom of God is just like that tiny seed.

Before exploring the parable itself, it's important that we first take a moment to reflect on what Jesus means by "the Kingdom of God" in this parable, for throughout the Gospels, it is the cornerstone of Jesus' preaching. Mark's Gospel does not begin with a picture of the sweet baby Jesus wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger as do Matthew or Luke, nor does he engage in sweeping poetic pondering on Jesus as God's Word made flesh, as does John in his Gospel. For Mark, that's not the main point. In his Gospel, we meet Jesus as a man from Nazareth who is baptized by John, is tempted in the wilderness, and then inaugurates his ministry with these words, "The time is fulfilled, and the Kingdom of God has come near; repent and believe the good news!"

So what is this Kingdom of God that has come near, that is such good news, that is like a seed, like a mustard seed? Many of us, when we hear the phrase "Kingdom of God" will automatically think of Heaven, of a place where God lives and where we will go when we die. That seems logical, sure; we've heard God referred to as the King of Heaven, after all. But I don't think that's what Jesus is talking about here. When Jesus teaches about life after death, he calls it the Resurrection, or the Resurrection of the Dead. No, if I understand the text, what Jesus means when he says the "Kingdom of God," is God's rule right here on this very earth! That's what we pray for when we pray the Lord's Prayer, isn't it? "Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven." Jesus begins his ministry, then, by proclaiming that the Kingdom of God has come near. God is beginning to rule on earth. And just a few chapters later, in our reading for today, Jesus describes this Kingdom using two seeds.

I would imagine that most of us are more familiar with the second parable, the Parable of the Mustard Seed. Matthew and Luke tell this story as well. The mustard seed is the smallest of the seeds, and yet when planted in the earth, it becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth branches that provide shade and a dwelling place for all the birds of the air. It's a wonderful parable, well loved by the Church, for it tells the story of God creating something so great and beautiful out of something so small and seemingly insignificant as a mustard seed. In fact, it tells us that is exactly how God's Kingdom is going to work.

 It's a good parable, a fine parable, but I am more intrigued by the first parable, often called the Parable of the Growing Seed, or the Parable of the Seed Growing of Itself. This parable is only found in Mark's Gospel -- it's less well known. It tells the story of a farmer that plants a seed, goes about his daily business while the seed sprouts and grows, and when the grain is ripe, he harvests it. That, Jesus says, is what the Kingdom is like. I'm glad this parable is here because it's so basic, so ordinary. It points to the presence of God's grace and God's Kingdom in the midst of normal, mundane, everyday life. Farmer sows, seed grows, farmer harvests -- and God's presence is there every step of the way. 

Moreover, there is a great mystery involved in this all. "The seed sprouts and grows," Jesus says, "but the farmer does not know how." He sows the seed with great faith, trusting that the earth will produce and that this seed will become grain for the harvest. And I imagine he looks at this fruit of the earth with great wonder as he cuts it down with his sickle, perhaps not that unlike my childhood awe at the growth of a cucumber. The seed sprouts and grows, but he does not know how.

Well, you could say, maybe that farmer just needs a dose of modern science, a lesson in botany or agriculture, perhaps, and then he'll understand how the seed grows. Certainly we've discovered a lot since Jesus' time about the mystery and miracle of growth and life, but I ask you today - does that make it any less of a miracle? Does that make it any less the astonishing handiwork of God? Even if we presumably know what the farmer did not, I think we can still look with gratitude and wonder at the mystery and miracle of a seed sprouting. And what's more, Jesus tells us that in that mystery, we see the Kingdom of God.

But there's more! You see, if I understand the text, I think Jesus is pointing through this mystery to something even deeper, even more profound. Look again at the parable with me. The farmer plants the seed, it sprouts and grows, and not only does the farmer not able to comprehend how this happens, but Jesus says the earth produces "of itself." The earth itself is actually the main actor in this parable. Just as the earth nurtures the seed so that it grows and transforms into a plant, so, Jesus tells us, God is nurturing the Kingdom, tending to it in ways we cannot always see and perhaps cannot understand when we do see. It is God's work, God's Kingdom, not ours. Certainly we can participate in God's activity - the farmer plants the seed, waters it, harvests the grain, but ultimately it is God's world, God's Kingdom.

This parable, then, isn't actually about the farmer, or the seed, or even about the Kingdom itself: this parable is about God. About the simple mystery of how God's grace works in the world, bringing things to maturity and fullness of life.

Jesus reminds us in both of these parables about the contrast between what we see and know and what God is actually doing. The farmer understands nothing of botany, does not know why or how the seed sprouts, yet there it is, germinating and growing within the soil. We understand so little about God's Kingdom, at times we may even feel like God is absent, but the Kingdom is there, germinating and growing, right under our very feet.

The farmer does not make the seed grow, only God does that. We cannot finally bring the Kingdom to fruition, only God can do that. In all that we do, we are fully dependent upon God's grace.

I think I understand why Jesus tells such a parable to his followers. Their Lord, their teacher, the man to whom they have sworn allegiance and have risked everything to follow will soon be crucified, dead, and buried. They don't know that resurrection is coming. It will be easy for them to get discouraged, to think the seeds of the Kingdom have been sown in vain.

 I think I understand, too, why Mark records such a parable in his Gospel. When he was writing, the Roman Empire was persecuting the Jews, including those people who had become followers of Jesus. The persecution erupted into a full-fledged war - Jesus' followers were being burned, thrown to the dogs, and crucified. It was easy for them to get discouraged - they had expected Jesus, the King of the Jews, to be a very different kind of king. We heard in our Old Testament lesson this morning a prophecy from Ezekiel where God makes Israel a great and mighty tree to which all the nations of the world will bow down. This is the vision so many had for Jesus - a powerful messiah, a warrior, one who would subdue the earth with power and might! And if that's who Jesus is supposed to be, if that's what God's Kingdom is supposed to be like, why were his followers being persecuted? Why were their efforts to proclaim the Gospel, to live according to the teachings of Jesus, why were they bearing no fruit?

And then they remembered that Jesus said the Kingdom of God is like a tiny mustard seed, like a seed that a farmer planted in the ground but only God could make grow. And they had faith. And they nurtured that seed of the Kingdom with all their hearts and minds and strength. They trusted that God would make the seeds grow.

We in the church today live in a very different situation than the crowds Jesus addressed or the community to which Mark wrote. But I think we, too, understand that feeling of discouragement, of hopelessness, of despairing that the Kingdom will never come. We receive the phone call that someone we loved has been killed in a car accident. We see on the news the face of an innocent child who is starving to death because the brutal regime at war with her nation is cutting off food supplies as a political weapon. We feel a cruel disease at work in our own bodies, robbing us of our strength and vitality. We know a brokenness so contradictory to the God of love that we have encountered in Jesus Christ. We despair that this God is absent, has forgotten us. We fear that the Kingdom will never come, on earth as it is in heaven.

But in the midst of that, we hear Jesus telling us a parable about a man who planted a seed, and it sprouted, and he did not know how. We hear Jesus reminding us about the dazzlingly ordinary way in which God's grace works. And even in our darkest times we experience moments of the Kingdom breaking in, sprouting up from the dry, bruised earth where it so often is hidden from our eyes. A community comes together to cook meals for one of their own after his father has passed away. A school administrator confronts a bullying situation, and a child begins to feel safe and welcomed again at school. We find deep within ourselves the strength to forgive a family member who has hurt us, and we begin to piece that relationship back together.

The brokenness of our world is real, we know, but the mysterious presence of the Kingdom is also real, and we can have faith that those seeds will sprout and grow. As God's people, we are entrusted with the responsibility to cultivate those seeds, to plant some of our own, to reap the harvest in its time. But like the farmer in our parable, we are ever reminded that we cannot do this work alone. In our planting, tilling, and harvesting, we remain fully dependent on the mysterious grace of God. We are called to the dual tasks to work for God's Kingdom and to have faith that God will usher it in. But, as Jesus reminds us in our text today, the Kingdom is breaking through. In the words of a contemporary author [Arundhati Roy], "Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, if you listen carefully, you can even hear her breathing." Thanks be to God. Amen.