Sermons: #courage

Showing posts with label #courage. Show all posts

Thursday, April 6, 2023

Lost on the Way

April 6, 2023 – Maundy Thursday
St. John’s United Church of Christ, Union, Illinois

They were having dinner in the home of Lazarus. Just a few verses earlier in John’s gospel, Lazarus was raised from the dead. I imagine there was conversation around the table that night about death. The chief priests and Pharisees planned to put Jesus to death, and the word was out that they were looking for him. The writing was on the wall, and Mary knew that her time with the Lord was running short. So, in an extravagant act of love and devotion, she anoints the feet of Jesus.

We are not given to such startling displays of emotion. We are much more reserved, especially in church. We are more likely to respond to such an outburst with embarrassment. We’re more likely to think, like Judas, about the waste of such a precious resource, and of a better use for it. It is much easier for us to push away the thought of death and say to each other “You’ll be fine.” Even when death is inevitable, even when we know it is coming, we find it difficult to cope with.

Mary understood. Mary knew that life is fragile, even the life of Jesus, and that there is a time to really show how much we love someone. There are often flowers at the funeral, but they are perhaps more fitting in the hospital room. “The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume” (v. 3). The ambiance shifted as love was poured out. Was the scent of the perfume still with him at the end of that week? The memory of her act was surely still with him when he washed the feet of the disciples. Mary understood, she expressed her love and devotion, and in her actions revealed a glimpse of the extravagant love that God pours out on us.

Then Judas, the cynic, critiques the wasteful display. The mood shifts again to tension. And in response Jesus says: “You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me” (v. 8). Jesus is not saying that poverty is inevitable, that there will always be poor people. Rather, Jesus is telling them that you will always have people in your life who need your love and care. You will always have work to do to relieve suffering, heal sickness and brokenness, to bring hope and joy and peace. Even after Jesus is gone, the work of the disciples will go on.

The work will go on, and sometimes, you will not have Jesus with you. Sometimes you will get lost on the way, and there won’t be a guide, or a map, or GPS, or starlight, and you will have to carry on anyway. Sometimes your faith will leave you, even though your responsibilities don’t. Sometimes you will have a dark night of the soul, but you will still have to get up in the morning to feed the children.

Sometimes we lose touch with the meaning in our lives. Sometimes we’re doing good things, and other people appreciate us for what we are doing, yet we don’t feel it. We don’t feel inspired, connected, or engaged. Sometimes we just go through the motions.

There are times when we will have it all together. We will feel the meaning and importance of what we’re doing. We’ll know where we’re going, and why, and we’re ready. Sometimes all of the signs are in sight, we’re on the right track, and things are going great!

But then the wheels come off, and we get derailed. There might be something specific that throws us off our groove, some great loss or unexpected change, and what was all good and right yesterday is missing today. The job, or the relationship, or the class-work is still there, the obligations and tasks are still there, but it no longer feels the same. I’ve got a lot to do, but why am I doing it?

Jesus tells the disciples “You will not always have me” (v. 8). You will know darkness and despair. You will feel alone and unprepared. You will look for me and you will not find me. On that Saturday, so long ago, the disciples were faced with unbearable loss, and felt pain as they never had before. And we have, or we will, feel it too. It is the crashing wave of emptiness that washes over you when, instead of the beloved soldier, it is the officer, and the chaplain, who knock at the door. It is the dust falling over the city when you watched the towers fall, and those who rushed in did not come back out. It is the stabbing pain that causes you to fall when you arrive at the school only to be carefully escorted by the police officer toward the counselors. It is the silence of the watch in the night when the boat does not return to the harbor.

But take courage; you can survive this night. If you feel as if you’re lost and the way is no longer clear; if you feel like the Way, the Truth, and the Life have blown away on the wind; if you seek for Christ, for a sign that God is there, for the whisper of the Spirit and you find nothing; do not despair. It doesn’t mean that there is something wrong with you. It doesn’t mean that you haven’t been faithful. It means that you are living through a part of the journey of faith that we all experience. We all get lost on the way. Even Jesus, on the cross, felt forsaken.

The exile began in 587 BCE, when, after Jerusalem and its temple were conquered and destroyed by Babylon, some of the survivors were marched into exile in Babylon some 800 miles away. There they lived as refugees, far from home and oppressed. There was sadness, loneliness, and grief. The people yearned for home and a place where they belonged. Many lost their sense of meaning and purpose. Fifty years later, in 539 BCE, the Babylonian Empire was conquered by the Persians, who allowed them to return to their homeland.

The life of faith is about love and joy, hope and peace, and the deep connection with God that feels as close as Mary wiping the feet of Jesus with her hair. The journey of faith is also about loss, separation, loneliness, exile, and the vast distance between us and God. And faith is about the journey home, the renewal, rekindling, and rebirth of life, and love, and hope. In the depths of your darkness, take heart my friends. We are survivors, and we can return from exile. We are a resurrection people, and on Sunday the tomb will be empty.

Elissa Johnk, a Pastor in Vermont, tells this story:

There once was a man who made beautiful things with trees. His hands, dirty and calloused, seemed to meld into the rich, rough bark with which he labored. He chose his materials carefully, looking for things that others considered flaws: here was the year of heavy rain. There, it had suffered - the black tattoo of a fire scarring the yearly rings. In his hands, those disfigurements were beautiful. Indeed, they were the focal points of the tree’s new creation - signs that it had seen hardship, and survived.

And when he was done transforming trees, he moved on to people. In the same way, he looked for what others considered flaws - sins and scars. And, in his hands, people found their wounds became beauty marks - signs that they had seen hardship, and survived. Many, however, didn’t want their wounds exposed, and so they sent him back to the trees.

The trees greeted him lovingly, the darkness of his skin once again melding with the wood. As he had once done for them, they stretched him into a new form - one where his wounds were the centerpieces of new life. Our new life.

You see, we tell this story not out of guilt, but hope. Hope that, in its telling, we might feel our wounds exposed. That we might feel our sins, our scars – our very selves – melded to the cross. That we might feel ourselves being carved, stretched by the Master Carpenter into a new form – one that allows us to proclaim not simply “He is risen!” But, “I am risen!” too.

Amen.

[1] The scripture quotations contained herein are from the New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright © 1989 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the U.S.A. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Sunday, October 2, 2022

Guard the Good Treasure

October 2, 2022
St. John’s United Church of Christ, Union, Illinois

2 Timothy 1:1-14 [1]

The Apostle Paul spent much of his life travelling, spreading the gospel of Christ Jesus. He was at times welcomed, often times not welcomed, but managed to spread the Christian faith to churches throughout the ancient near-east. He was imprisoned more than once, and endured much suffering because of the faith that he was teaching. Yet Paul, for all he endured, never lost faith nor gave up his mission. Though the message of Christ crucified and risen was strange, even scandalous at the time, Paul was never ashamed, never lost courage, and never failed to give credit to God.

Timothy, most likely a minister ordained by Paul, is faltering. Troubling times can do that to you. His mentor is in prison for preaching this same faith, and Timothy may be wondering if he is next. All around were people who took offense at this Christian idea of a Savior who died on a cross. Critics point to Paul and ask what kind of Savior allows their followers to languish in prison? If Jesus conquered death, then why hasn’t he come back to conquer Rome? Timothy is losing the fire, is beginning to doubt, and Paul calls him away from the brink: “rekindle the gift of God that is within you,” he writes. Don’t give up, don’t give in to shame or fear. “God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.” Remember in whom you have put your trust.

We certainly live in troubling times. The earth is heating up and the storms are stronger, as we’re seeing in Florida. Violence fueled by racism and hatred brings death and destruction. War in Ukraine continues and the use of nuclear weapons seems more likely. Protests in Iran are met with a harsh response. Our leaders accuse each other of destroying America, and the foundations of our republic are shaken. We too may feel the doubt and fear that tugged at Timothy.

And yet, we remain faithful. We still rely on the power of God, “who saved us and called us with a holy calling, not according to our works but according to [God’s] own purpose and grace.” We have received sound teaching from Paul and John, Peter and Mary. We hold to the faith that first lived in our grandmothers and mothers, and which now lives in us.

This letter from Paul reaches out to us across time to meet our tears with a promise of joy. In the midst of the turmoil and struggles of his day, does Paul spread anger, resentment, or anxiety? No. How does our mentor, a great teacher of the faith, respond in the face of difficult circumstances, hard questions, and doubt? With gratitude. With all that Paul has endured, despite discouragement and setbacks, Paul is thankful for Timothy and for us. Paul shares with us the confidence that our faith is sincere, as sincere as the faith that lived first in Lois and Eunice, the faith that lived first in Mabel and Jean, the faith that lives now in me and in you.

There have been times when my faith was shaken. There are times today when I feel anger at what is happening in the world. There are religious leaders that cause me to be ashamed of the Church and how the Christian faith is used to harm and dehumanize people. There are days when the mountain of challenges seems insurmountable.

And yet, there are also days when my fire is rekindled. There are days like today when my hope is restored, when I am grateful for this calling and the gift of faith that has been given to me. There are days when some words written two-thousand years ago remind me that I have received a standard of sound teaching, the grace and faith and love of God in Christ, and I find that my tears are replaced with joy, and my fears are replaced by courage.

What are we to do, my friends, in these troubling times? We must carry on. Paul and Timothy are no longer here, but they passed on their faith. Our parents and grandparents passed on the faith that first lived in them. Now we must guard the good treasure entrusted to us. We must rekindle our faith, and take seriously our responsibility to pass it on. When we pass on our faith in Worship and Fellowship, through our families and friendships, we keep the flame of faith alive. We have our own knowledge and experiences, we have the scriptures, and these can help us to hold and transmit our faith. We have the help of the Holy Spirit living in us. And we have one another.

Remember. Remember your mentors in faith. Remember what has been passed on to you. Remember to pray for one another night and day. Remember the promise of life that is in Christ Jesus. Remember the one in whom you have put your trust, who is able to guard you with power and grace and love. Amen.

Sunday, April 3, 2022

Lost on the Way

April 3, 2022 – Lent 5
St. John’s United Church of Christ, Union, Illinois

Isaiah 43:16-21; John 12:1-8 [1]

They were having dinner in the home of Lazarus. Just a few verses earlier in John’s gospel, Lazarus was raised from the dead. I imagine there was conversation around the table that night about death. The chief priests and Pharisees planned to put Jesus to death, and the word was out that they were looking for him. The writing was on the wall, and Mary knew that her time with the Lord was running short. So in an extravagant act of love and devotion, she anoints the feet of Jesus.

Jesus tells the disciples “you will not always have me” (v. 8). You will know darkness and despair. You will feel alone and unprepared. You will look for me and you will not find me. On that Saturday, so long ago, the disciples were faced with unbearable loss, and felt pain as they never had before. And we have, or we will, feel it too. It is the crashing wave of emptiness that washes over you when, instead of the beloved soldier, it is the officer, and the chaplain, who knock at the door. It is the dust falling over the city when you watched the towers fall, and those who rushed in did not come back out. It is the stabbing pain that causes you to fall when you arrive at the school only to be carefully escorted by the police officer toward the counselors. It is the silence of the watch in the night when the boat does not return to the harbor.

The exile began in 587 bce, when, after Jerusalem and its temple were conquered and destroyed by Babylon, some of the survivors were marched into exile in Babylon some 800 miles away. There they lived as refugees, far from home and oppressed. There was sadness, loneliness, and grief. The people yearned for home and a place where they belonged. Many lost their sense of meaning and purpose. Fifty years later, in 539 bce, the Babylonian Empire was conquered by the Persians, who allowed them to return to their homeland.

Elissa Johnk, a Pastor in Vermont, tells this story:

There once was a man who made beautiful things with trees. His hands, dirty and calloused, seemed to meld into the rich, rough bark with which he labored. He chose his materials carefully, looking for things that others considered flaws: here was the year of heavy rain. There, it had suffered - the black tattoo of a fire scarring the yearly rings. In his hands, those disfigurements were beautiful. Indeed, they were the focal points of the tree’s new creation - signs that it had seen hardship, and survived.

Amen.

Sunday, September 5, 2021

Hark, Hark, the Dogs Do Bark

September 5, 2021
St. John’s United Church of Christ, Union, Illinois

Psalm 145:1-13a; Mark 7:24-37 [1]

Wow! Did you catch that? Jesus called that woman a dog. Where did that come from? He was probably exhausted from travel and mentally tapped out as well. He had just traveled from Galilee, where he had been arguing with the Pharisees again, to Phoenicia, which is modern-day Lebanon. He had hidden in a house “and did not want anyone to know he was there” (Mark 7:24). Then this local woman found him.

The Syrophoenician woman—we never learn her name—had the cards stacked against her. She was a Gentile, not a Jew, not one of the children of Abraham. She was a woman, and in those days, women just didn’t talk to men who were not members of their family. And to top it off, she caught Jesus on a bad day.

Wasn’t she hurting her cause to interrupt him as he rested? She was breaking customs, which made everyone around them uncomfortable. But she was desperate. She was driven by something more powerful than customs and protocol. Her daughter had been possessed by a demon, and she feared for the life of her daughter. What else could she do? She intrudes into the house and begs this Jewish holy man for help.

Jesus responds by telling this desperate woman that his mission is for the Jews and the Jews alone. He compares her to a dog looking for scraps. We squirm around in our seats, but it would not have been so out of character in those days for cultures to clash so rudely. Early Christians would have known that she was a pagan, and the healing of a foreign child by Jesus would be far more shocking than the words which offend us.

She must have been crushed, offended, deeply hurt. But, she can no longer bear the suffering of her child, so she does what she has to do. She responds with courage. She challenges the dismissal. She confronts Jesus, and it is this Gentile woman who teaches him, the Messiah, the true nature of his mission. Jesus is reminded of what he had just been teaching his followers: social conventions, like ritual hand washing before a meal, should not stand in the way of helping those in need. Indeed, she also challenges his derogatory label, calling to mind that it is the things that come out of us, our words and actions, which can cause harm and defile us.

One New Testament scholar remarks, “Could the story of the Syrophoenician woman be a kind of ‘conversion’ moment for Jesus, in which he realizes how (maybe in a very human moment of physical and mental exhaustion) he has lost sight of the point of his mission and has to be reconnected with it by someone assumed to be outside of it? Then for Mark the woman is more than simply rhetorically gifted: she is prophetic.”[2]

The Messiah is supposed to bring salvation to people of Israel, yes, but not only them. In Isaiah we read, “I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth” (Isaiah 49:6). Up until this point, Jesus has been focused only on ministry with the Jews. This journey into pagan lands, meant to be an opportunity for retreat and renewal, is the critical moment when Jesus truly grasps the universality of his mission.

This courageous woman confronts Jesus, and it changes him. The love that this mother has for her child touches something deep within him, and he is moved. From this moment on, there will be a new focus, a new mission field. From now on the children of God will be understood to include more than a chosen few. Mark ends his Gospel with these words: “Go into all the world and proclaim the good news to the whole creation” (Mark 16:15). And as we heard from the Psalm: “They shall speak of the glory of your kingdom, and tell of your power, to make known to all people your mighty deeds, and the glorious splendor of your kingdom” (Psalm 145:12).

Alas, I would be lying to you if I said that that the news proclaimed to all the world by Christians is always good. We Christians have not, as a whole, been very accepting or welcoming of people who are different from us. Our churches are much more likely to be segregated by race and culture than they are multi-racial or multi-cultural. Women find it much more difficult to hold a leadership role in the church, let alone be called as pastor. People of a certain sexual orientation or gender identity have heard in no uncertain terms that they are not welcome in most churches.

Somehow, the Syrophoenician woman got through to Jesus, and changed his heart. I have every reason to believe that if the heart of Jesus can be changed, so can mine, and so can yours. There are evil intentions in our hearts, but there are also good intentions. Sometimes it takes someone from outside of our comfort zone to help us realize that we are not expressing the best intentions of our hearts.

We are faced with an ever-growing list of serious problems that we need to address as a community, as a nation, and as a planet. In the first century, the poor, the widow, the orphan, the infirm, the mentally ill, the alien, and women had the cards stacked against them. In the twenty-first century, many of these people still live at the margins of society. We have become a nation more inclined to incarcerate people than rehabilitate them. Many of us still believe that people who are homeless or addicted to drugs must have brought it upon themselves. As the refugees from Afghanistan begin to arrive on our shores, does the voice of Lady Liberty still say “Give me your tired, your poor / Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free”?[3]

If we are going to get rid of the demons that are eating away at us, we need to be more like the Syrophoenician woman. We need to decide that the people that we love and the issues of justice that lie close to our hearts deserve our courage. We need to decide that we can no longer bear the suffering of God’s children and confront those with the power to make a difference.

The desperate mother and a deaf man who wouldn’t be silenced are children of God just as much as we are. They matter just as much as we do. Jesus demonstrates the love of God that reaches beyond all barriers, beyond race, culture, age, gender identity, gender expression, sexual orientation, ability, or socio-economic status. We too must seek to love beyond all barriers. Amen.

[2] Loye Bradley Ashton, Theological Perspective on Mark 7:24-37 in Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary, Year B, Volume 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009), 44-48.

[3] Emma Lazarus, “The New Colossus.”

Sunday, June 20, 2021

My Small Boat

June 20, 2021
St. John’s United Church of Christ, Union, Illinois

Psalm 107:1, 23-31; Mark 4:35-41 [1]

When I read this passage in Mark’s Gospel, I imagine myself in a small boat on a storm-tossed sea. The wind blows and the waves threaten to swamp the craft and I am holding on for dear life. I’ve never been in a real storm at sea, only a metaphorical one, but I can imagine the fear of that moment.

Another image that comes to mind is of a small, a wedge-shaped wood block, a brass plaque with raised lettering which reads, “O, God, thy sea is so great and my boat is so small.” This is the opening to an old Breton fisherman’s prayer, and was traditionally given to new submarine captains by Admiral Hyman Rickover. The Admiral gave this plaque to President John F. Kennedy, who kept it on his desk in the Oval Office.

What is my small boat against the storms of the world? The wind and waves of life imperil my fragile vessel, and even my faith seems small against the tempests. You may feel this way as well, when fear overtakes you. And there is much in our world that can cause us fear. We fear illness and financial losses, failure, disapproval, and embarrassment; and always, we fear death – our own death, the death of loved ones, and the demise of what we have known brought about by changes.

It is important to note that Jesus doesn’t say, “There’s nothing to fear.” The storm was a real threat to that boat on the Sea of Galilee, and the storms that assail us are fearsome as well. What Jesus says is, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”[2] It is a distinction that matters.

Imagine a small child, awakened in the night by the monsters in a dream, in the closet, or under the bed. The mother rushes to the bedroom, scoops the child up in her arms, and sits in the rocking chair. Wiping the tears from small eyes, the father whispers, “There’s nothing to be afraid of. The monsters aren’t real.” That may suffice for the night, for a child innocent of the world, but it’s not true. There are real monsters.

Now, the real monsters don’t look like the Pixar characters in Monster’s Inc.® They look more like isolation, chronic pain, addiction, rejection, job loss, financial strains, self-sabotage, illness, and grief. Sometimes they look like people, people without qualms, hesitations, empathy, or remorse. There are monstrous people who are so certain they are right, or the other is wrong, that any means is justified in service to their version of the truth. These monsters are terrifying because they are real.

When we feel that there is too much to fear, that the monsters are circling, that the storm is already swamping the boat, we want to scream at Jesus, asleep in the stern. “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”[3] God, where are you when we need you? The storms are so great and our faith is so small. In the silence that follows, there comes a whisper, “Fear not, for I am with you.”

Though the fearsome things are real, they don’t control us. They don’t get the last word, because God is mightier than they. The angels keep saying it, to the shepherds keeping watch and the women at the empty tomb, “Do not be afraid.” Jesus wakes, rebukes the wind and calms the sea. What you fear is real, yes, but you are not alone, for God is here, and even the wind and sea obey.

The truth is that some things which frighten us are real, and some are not. When our emotions get the best of us, it can be difficult to discern misdirection, half-truths, and lies from the truth. Even so, some of what we fear is real, and only through courage born of faith can we endure the storm. Only by recognizing that even if Jesus seems to be sleeping, he is there in the boat with us. And we too easily forget that line in verse 36, that even though Jesus was in one boat with the disciples, “Other boats were with him.”[4] My small boat is not alone on the sea; your boats are sailing along with mine.

There are many stories of those who have found courage through faith. One of mine comes in the words of Emily Brontë, an English novelist who is best known for writing Wuthering Heights. Her mother and two siblings died when she was young, and she suffered illness and isolation. In 1846, she published a book of poetry with her sisters Charlotte and Anne titled Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell. One of the poems, “No Coward Soul Is Mine,”[5] expresses Emily’s dauntless and elemental spirit.

No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heaven’s glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from Fear.

O God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present Deity!
Life – that in me hast rest,
As I – Undying Life – have power in Thee!

What faith teaches us is that even though there are real monsters and fearsome storms in life, the God who raised Jesus from the grave remains with us. What we fear need not paralyze us, does not have to control us, because we are not alone in our small boats. “Peace! Be still!”[6] Fear not, have faith, for I am with you. “O give thanks to the Lord, for God is good; God’s steadfast love endures forever.”[7] Amen.

[2] Mark 4:40.

[3] Mark 4:38.

[4] Mark 4:36.

[5] Emily Brontë, “No Coward Soul Is Mine,” in Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell, 1846.

[6] Mark 4:39.

[7] Psalm 107:1.

Sunday, August 9, 2020

Have Courage

August 9, 2020

St. John’s United Church of Christ, Union, Illinois

Matthew 14:22-33

The disciples had been through another stormy night. There is the story of Jesus asleep in the stern during a storm, but that is a different story. This time, they faced the storm without their leader. Battered by the waves, far from land, with the wind against them, they rode out the night. It takes courage to endure the storm, to wait for the dawn in hope that the storm will pass.

It took even more courage for Peter to get out of the boat and walk toward Jesus on the water. “Jesus spoke to them and said, ‘Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.’”[1] Peter, ever the bold one, swallows his fear and ventures out onto the sea. He tries to stay focused, but the wind was strong and his fear returned, and he began to sink.

I remember helping a member of my youth group walk across the high ropes course at Pilgrim Park Camp. Despite her fear of heights, she had made it up the pole, and across the first easy stretch, but now she had to trust only her balance and the ropes and harness to keep her from falling. She froze, and no amount of encouragement shouted from below could get her moving. So I put on a harness and climbed up to the place across from her.

At first, I just talked, reminding her what a great sister she was to her younger siblings, and got her to tell me about their new dog. Finally, I said, “You already have the courage to do this inside you. Just look at me and walk. Say to yourself, I will do this.” She finally started moving, made it to the next pole, and together we made it around to the way back down.

Fear is a natural response to danger. Fear kept our ancestors from being eaten by lions, and from falling over the edge of a cliff. Fear can keep us safe. Fear can also keep us frozen, unable to move forward, unable to grow. Fear of falling kept my friend safe, but she couldn’t stay up on that ropes course forever. She had to get moving. Fear of the stormy sea kept the disciples inside the boat, but they would never be more than fishermen if they didn’t follow Jesus.

An obscure author named Ambrose Redmoon once wrote: “Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than one's fear.” [2] You may have heard or read this before. It has been quoted in recognition of many who have shown bravery in the face of danger, police officers, fire fighters, soldiers, and others who overcame danger and fear to accomplish what needed to be done.

Having courage does not mean to be reckless or foolhardy. Those acts show a lack of fear, a failure to recognize the danger, or to not understand or care about the consequences of one’s actions. The brave person knows the fear, recognizes the risk, and balances that risk against the need for action and consequence of inaction. The firefighter knows to fear the fire, but also knows that in that burning building, there may be a life in need of saving. The Coast Guard swimmer knows the fear of drowning, but dives into the stormy sea for the same reason.

Now, Peter didn’t have to jump out of the boat. Jesus wasn’t drowning. That might have been cause for an act of bravery. Perhaps that’s why he falters, and begins to sink. Maybe he thinks a bold, showy act of faith is how this is supposed to work. So, he gets scolded, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?”[3] I think that what Jesus may mean here is not faith in himself, or in God. After all, Peter will go on to become the leader of the church. I think that Jesus is pointing out the lack of faith that Peter has in himself.

When we doubt ourselves, we limit what we are able to do. My friend up on the ropes trusted me and the others in our group. It was doubt in herself that kept her from moving. When you doubt that your writing is any good, you never send the manuscript to the publisher. When you doubt your ability to make something good, you never start the project. When you doubt that you can make a difference in the world, the gifts that you might share languish.

Courage to get started, to get moving, requires knowing the fear, the danger, and trusting in yourself enough to hold that fear and move anyway. That trust in yourself comes with time and experience, but it also comes from recognizing the presence of the holy that is within you.

Peter looked for Jesus out on the water to save him. He forgot that God’s Spirit was already within him, and it was trust in that presence that could give him the courage to stay on the surface of the water. God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, they are out there, yes. But they are also in here, in our being. God is not separate from us, but part of us, and we are part of God.

One of the great theologians of the past century, Paul Tillich, wrote of courage and its connection to God. In The Courage to Be, Tillich said that we are faced with tremendous anxiety. There is the anxiety of fate and death. There is the anxiety of emptiness and meaninglessness. And there is the anxiety of guilt and condemnation.

But the only way to overcome all of these is to face and accept them with courage. “Courage,” Tillich said, “is the self-affirmation of being in spite of the fact of nonbeing.”[4] We are ultimately faced with the reality that one day we will die. But we can become confident of our own personal existence only if we cease to base that confidence on ourselves. The courage to be is confidence in God who is being-itself.

When it is guilt that causes us to fear, we must remember that “the courage to be is the courage to accept oneself as accepted in spite of being unacceptable.”[5] God loves us and accepts us despite all our guilt. When it is self-doubt that causes us to fear, we must have the courage to trust that we are able to accomplish what must be done because of the presence of the holy within us.

We are part of the one who infinitely transcends our individual selves. “Faith is the state of being grasped by the power of being-itself.”[6] In spite of the seemingly infinite distance between us, God nevertheless accepts us into being. Even our death is not the end of meaning because God is not bound by death, and we belong to God.

The faith that leads us to have courage is faith that in spite of all that is set against us, in spite of fear and doubt, guilt and anxiety, we are one with the infinite, with God who promises to never leave us or forsake us. Let us then be brave as we do what must be done, as we seek for a way forward, as we prepare to meet the dawn with hope. Amen.

[1] Matthew 14:27. The scripture quotations contained herein are from the New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright © 1989 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the U.S.A. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

[2] From "No Peaceful Warriors!" (1991) by Ambrose Redmoon, available from gnosis@lumen.org.

[3] Matthew 14:31.

[4] Paul Tillich, The Courage to Be (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1952), 155.

[5] Ibid., 164.

[6] Ibid., 172.

Sunday, February 2, 2020

Living Into the Beatitudes

February 2, 2020

St. John’s United Church of Christ, Union, Illinois

Micah 6:1-8; Matthew 5:1-12

This is the beginning, according to Matthew. Jesus has been baptized, overcome temptation in the wilderness, and called his first disciples. He is already famous for teaching and healing. The crowds have gathered to hear what he has to say. And he begins with “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” (5:3). What is he trying to tell us? That it is a good thing to be poor in spirit? What if I am rich in spirit? What if I’m doing just fine?

He goes on. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (5:4). Well, that’s nice. Widows and orphans deserve to be blessed, what with all they’ve been through. Then things get a little more strange. “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth” (5:5). Well that just doesn’t make any sense, now, does it? The bold and the strong, they’re the ones who will inherit the earth, obviously. You can’t get ahead in this world if you’re meek. You have to take what’s yours, and if you have to take it from someone weaker than you, too bad for them.

“Blessed are the peacemakers…” (5:9). There is a scene in Monty Python’s Life of Brian (1979) in which people at the back of the crowd are too busy talking to hear what Jesus is saying. “I think he said, ‘Blessed are the cheese-makers.’”

In our culture, if you’re peaceful, you’re likely to be seen as unpatriotic, or un-American. If you are merciful, you’re soft on crime. If you’re meek, you’re asking for someone to push you around. In our culture, competition, power, and fear are the driving forces. Even if you think the Beatitudes are a nice idea, it is all too easy to see them as sentiment and not a practical guide for living.

But Jesus wasn’t just saying how nice it would be if people were more kind. He wasn’t saying that we should just get used to how things are, put up with oppression and injustice, and wait for the kingdom of heaven. Jesus was saying that we should live this way. Jesus was saying that we should be meek, or humble, merciful, peaceful, and that we should desire to live in right relationship with God. And Jesus wasn’t just talking to the disciples; he was taking to the crowd, and by extension, to us.

What if we looked at the Beatitudes as a whole, with one thing leading to the next? What if we took these blessings seriously, and not just metaphorically? Can we try to understand the Beatitudes as a guide for living, a set of principles which are an alternative to the way we usually view the world through the lens of our competitive consumer culture? There are three principles for living that can be found in the Beatitudes, according to Charles Cook, Professor Emeritus of the Seminary of the Southwest in Austin, Texas.[1] The principles are simplicity, hopefulness, and compassion.

If we read the words as they are, and not try to layer meaning on them, they point to a way of life in which simplicity is valued. Those who are meek are humble. If you are humble, you are open to the idea that you don’t know everything. You are open to the idea that God has not yet revealed everything, and there is yet more light and truth to be found. The humble ones know that they are only a part of the bigger picture. It takes humility to understand that we don’t own this world; it was given into our care by God. In caring for the earth, we care for that which belongs to God.

In a world filled with things that can cause us to fear, we need courage. If we hear what Jesus has to say, if we live our lives with humility, peacefulness, and mercy, we will be blessed with courage. In caring for others, we find that we have strength. If we live within our means, rather than grasping for more and more, we find that we have been blessed with abundance, with all that we need to live and more. The way of simplicity can free us from our culture of greed.

Do you have hope that things will get better? Many people no longer believe that. As the gap between rich and poor grows wider, as the divide between those on the left and right grows deeper, hope for the future seems to be getting lost, and is replaced by cynicism. The mantra of cynicism is “That’s just the way it is, get over it.” That way of thinking takes these words of Jesus, “For you always have the poor with you” (26:11), and turns them into a pronouncement rather than a call to always recognize and care for those among us who are poor.

Who are the poor in spirit? In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus says, “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God” (6:20). When you have next to nothing, faith in God can be the most important thing in your life. But poor in spirit can also mean those whose spirits are broken. If you lived in Roman occupied Galilee in the first century, your spirit as a nation had been broken. You were, as a people, oppressed, downtrodden, and brokenhearted. Yet, you are still God’s chosen people. Remember that, and it can give you hope. Jesus echoed the promise of Isaiah 61: God sent him “to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted (61:1).

Hopefulness is the second principle of living into the Beatitudes. Christ offers hope to the hopeless. “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled” (5:6). The day will come when right will win out over wrong. When we live in hopefulness, we know that mercy, humility, peace, and love will one day be the norm rather than the exception. When we face the world with hope, we know that it is darkest just before the dawn, and that the dawn will come. Because we live in Christ, we know that even though the road ahead leads to the crucifixion, it will also lead to the resurrection.

Hopefulness is what empowers us to believe that God’s kingdom is coming, and righteousness will claim the victory. “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” (5:10). These words inspire the kind of hope that moved the Pilgrims to set out for a new world, even though some would not live to see it. This hope caused the revolutionaries to set a course for independence, even though it would cost the colonies dearly in blood and treasure. This spirit of hopefulness allowed the abolitionists to keep fighting to end slavery against those who would use the same bible to keep the Africans in bondage. Hopefulness and faith in the kingdom of heaven empowered women to demand the right to vote, the descendants of slaves to demand an end to discrimination, and gay and lesbian people to demand the right to marry the ones they love.

The most powerful principle of living into the Beatitudes, the key to walking in the steps of Jesus, is compassion. Compassion is much more than pity. To pity another means that you feel sorry for them. Compassion is more than sympathy. To be sympathetic means that you share the feelings of another. To have compassion means more. It means that what hurts you hurts me. Compassion means that when you mourn, I mourn with you, and thus you may be comforted. We are in this together. You share my humanity. You are part of my family.

Compassion is the principle that led Jesus to break so many of the Laws of Moses. Compassion led Jesus to heal the man with the withered hand on the sabbath (12:10). Compassion led Jesus to touch the leper and heal him (8:2-3). Compassion led Jesus to perform miracles, such as feeding the five-thousand (14:14-21). Compassion gives us a hunger for justice and a thirst for righteousness. With compassion we can be merciful, we can seek peace, we can see the other as an extension of ourselves. With compassion we can love our neighbor as ourselves.

Compassion is the principle that is motivated by love. It was love that gave us Jesus: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son” (John 3:16). It was love that carried Jesus to the cross. It is compassion and love that can give us the power to endure persecution for the sake of Christ. “Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you” (5:11-12).

When we live into the Beatitudes, when we allow simplicity, hopefulness, and compassion to guide our lives, we will be able to bear all things, believe all things, hope all things, endure all things” (1 Cor. 13:7). When we live in love, we know that the kingdom of heaven is near. Amen.

[1] Charles James Cook, "Pastoral Perspective on Matthew 5:1-12" in David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, General Editors, Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary, Year A, Volume 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 308-312. Cook is Professor Emeritus of Pastoral Theology, Seminary of the Southwest, Austin, Texas.