The Mistake is When

This morning I e-mailed my parents an article from NPR that caught my attention: "It's Never Too Soon To Plan Your 'Driving Retirement.'" Using the story of a 94-year-old woman who decided to give up driving on her 90th birthday, the article explores this one particular challenge of getting older. In sending it to my parents (who are in their mid 60s), I was mostly joking. Still, though, there's a little bit of interest--though not at all concern yet--behind my sharing that article with them.

All things come to an end. Everything. Although that's a tough lesson to learn, the good news is that it's going to happen no matter what, so, whether we're willing to learn it or not, it's out of our control.

Sunday's gospel lesson (Mark 13:1-8) contains two distinct but related teachings. First, Jesus reminds us what we already know: everything will come to an end. One of his disciples points out the "large stones" and "large buildings" there on the Jerusalem temple mount, and Jesus responds rather forebodingly, "Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down."

Thanks a lot, Jesus. Thanks for the unpleasant reality check. That's like walking into an art museum, staring at a great masterpiece, and having someone come behind you and say, "You know, over time the paint oxidizes, leaving a less vibrant painting. Eventually, there will be nothing there." We don't like that reminder. We like pretending that this moment will last forever. Somewhere deep down, we know that it won't. And Jesus wants to awaken that reality within us.

Why? Because it's tempting to get lost in our own limited perspective and lose sight of God's time. "All flesh is grass," the prophet says. We are fleeting. Only God abides. (Sorry, Lebowski). And the kingdom of God demands singular focus. It requires us to keep God's perspective. Our time is short. The kingdom is coming. There's an urgency about it. Even the seemingly permanent structures of society will crumble away in the blink of an eye. What are we going to do about it?

But the second teaching in Sunday's gospel reading holds that perspective in check. "When will it be?" the disciples ask. "When will it all be accomplished?" Jesus responds with a clear warning: "Beware that no one leads you astray. Many will come in my name...and they will lead many astray...this must take place, but the end is still to come." There is remarkable emphasis on that last phrase: "the end is still to come." The earthquakes and tempests and wars and rumors of wars that seem to shake our existence to its very foundation are coming, but the end is still to come. There's a danger in mistaking the urgency of the coming kingdom for something that you can predict.

Jesus is telling us to get ready but don't rush. He's asking us to hurry up and wait. He's predicting the imminent destruction of the world and telling us it's still somewhere ahead of us. He's asking us to look for signs and be ready to act upon them but also not to mistake those signs for the end itself. And that leaves us in a tough place.

It's hard to live with urgency, and it's hard not to let urgency define us. What does it mean to be in between? What does it mean to keep that kind of perspective--the God's coming but not yet perspective? There's a graciousness to accepting it and building one's life around it but not letting it dominate us. To me, that seems like a message of hope.

Where Will We Find God?

November 8, 2015 – Proper 27B

1 Kings 17:8-16; Hebrews 9:24-28; Mark 12:38-44

© 2015 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here.

 

A few weeks ago, someone who has helped out several times with Wednesday-night dinners mentioned to me that she had never seen inside our church. I smiled. “Let’s go,” I said, “right now.” One of the privileges of working and worshipping at St. John’s is that I get to show people how beautiful our church is. I like to bring them into this space when it is almost dark and then watch their faces brighten and their jaws drop as I turn on the lights and they begin to soak in the beauty of this place. That evening was no different. Standing there, spinning around in all directions, she kept whispering to herself, “Wow! It’s amazing! My goodness!” It wasn’t long before we needed to head back into the kitchen, but I could tell that all of this had left a lasting impression on her. I invited her to come back when she would have more time to walk around and look at the windows and sit in a pew and just be in God’s presence.

This is a remarkable church. This is a holy place. And other people seem to notice. Over the past week and a half, St. John’s has been featured in the Decatur Daily several times. First, there was the picture of the staff dressed up as the Addams Family—no mistake for holiness there. But then it was an image of two of our windows, one of St. John and one of St. Stephen, two of the saints whom we celebrated on All Saints’ Day. I knew in advance that those pictures would run, but there was another one that I didn’t expect to see. Gary Cosby’s “Behind the Lens” feature showcased a photograph of a window from our chapel—a clear-glass, cruciform window with the open lectern bible beneath it.

As the photographer explained in his description of the picture, he didn’t expect to find the subject for his last ever feature in the Daily there, but, when he “stumbled across it,” he knew it was the image that captured his feeling that God had “opened a door” for him to come here twenty-one years ago and was opening a new door as he prepared to leave. What a remarkable sentiment! Although I see that spot in our church several times every week, it still surprised me to see it in the paper. I wasn’t expecting it. I wasn’t expecting to see such a clear and perfectly composed expression of holiness in a spot I see (and take for granted) all of the time. It’s funny, isn’t it, how God shows up even where we don’t expect to see him.

What about you: where do you see God? Where do you see him at work? Where do you look for him? Where do you expect to find him? And where is it that he surprises you when he shows up?

Today’s gospel lesson is all about God showing up in surprising places. It’s about seeing God at work in surprising ways. It’s about finding God where you least expect him, and learning to look for him when he is hiding in plain sight.

A scribe and a widow. Try to see them through the lens of ancient history. One is dressed in finest linen, and the other is covered in a tatter shroud. One walks about smiling and waving and nodding his head when others say hello, and the other keeps to herself, with her head bowed, shuffling her feet as she goes. One is figure of power and control, and the other is an emblem of helplessness and hopelessness. One is rich, and the other is poor. One knows that his future is secure, and the other just hopes to make it until tomorrow. One gives the appearance of success, and the other is a symbol of failure. One is respected—even revered—by his peers, and the other is avoided as a reminder of what life could be like if everything went wrong. One enjoys a life of blessing, and the other lives a life of daily struggle and suffering. One teaches God’s precepts in the temple, and the other is the definition of one from whom God’s blessing has been withdrawn. Looking through the eyes of one of Jesus’ contemporaries, where would you expect to see holiness? Or what about using your modern sight? If these two characters were found in downtown Decatur, whom would you expect to be an example of how God is working in the world?

All of us are familiar enough with the Christian story to know the “right” answer. We know that God loves the underdog. We know that God delights in the poor and the oppressed, the widow and the orphan. We know that Jesus teaches us, “Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of God; blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted; blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” We know all that. We know that, in the gospel, rich and powerful and religious is almost always a recipe for criticism. So why, then, are we still surprised when God shows up where we least expect it?

Where should we look for God? Who among us is the real symbol of holiness? Is it not the single mother who works two jobs so that her children can have a decent place to live? What about the alcoholic who has been sober for three days and wants the world to know how thankful he is to be alive? And don’t forget about the curmudgeonly ninety-year-old woman at the nursing home who smells funny and isn’t very nice and always wants tells you the same story about how much she loved her husband before he died. If you stopped long enough to listen—if you took enough time to look below the surface—isn’t that where you would find God at work—in the tough, hard places where hope is the only thing left for people to cling to?

Do not look for God in people or in places where holiness is only skin-deep. God is not at work when an image of godliness is only projected for its own sake. In fact, as the example of the scribes teaches us, the pretense of holiness can actually work against God and what God wants for the world. No matter how beautiful this place is, God will not be at work here unless we care more about the poor than about ourselves. No matter how diligent we are in going to church and saying our prayers, we will not be holy until our hearts belong first and foremost to those who cling to hope.

Look around. Look at this place. Look at us. Look at what we’re wearing. Listen to our long prayers. Like it or not, we are the scribes. But that doesn’t mean that we aren’t searching for holiness. Where will we find it? If God is with the widow and the orphan, the addict and the prisoner, we will not find him until we learn to look through the eyes of those who have given up everything. We will not find holiness until we learn to let go of everything that we have and join those who live where our Lord is to be found. May everything we do and everything we give be about the work of the gospel. May all our offerings be devoted to the work of Jesus.

Profiting Off the Backs of Widows

Although I avoid long prayers at all costs, I do wear a pretty long robe on Sunday mornings. I don't always get the best seats at dinner parties, but I do have a reserved spot in church. And I can't deny that I enjoy a respectful greeting in the grocery story...if by "respectful greeting" that means "a quick hello and not a 15-minute counseling session in the produce aisle." In short, as Jesus describes it in Mark 12, I am a scribe of whom you should beware.

Early this week, I wondered just how close I would get to the "devouring widow's houses" in my writing and preaching. My compensation comes directly from the money that people put into the offering plate. Some of them are widows. Some of them give a remarkable amount. Am I living off the backs of the poor? I still don't know a lot about what sort of contributions were expected of people in Jesus' day. Was the synagogue system unbalanced? Were poor people contributing too much? Were the religious elites profiting from the draconian demands on widows? Am I propagating the same system in the 21st century? Is Jesus talking about me?

I do take stewardship education seriously. I do think that God is calling all of us to make a sacrificial gift. We are supposed to discover more deeply what it means to depend on God through our giving. I talk a lot about the tithe as the normative practice for Christians--that we are called to give at least the first 10% of our income away to support God's work in the world. A poor widow's tithe is a lot smaller than Warren Buffett's, but I'm serious about that call being universal. I hear from lots of people who are living on a fixed income. "I don't have very much. I can't give very much." That's true. You can't. You can't give as great an amount now as you could a few years ago. But Jesus' celebration of the widow's two copper coins as more than anyone else had contributed suggests that it's not an amount that matters but the proportion. And I don't just mean the percentage. By "proportion" I mean both the percentage of your income and the share of your heart and life that it represents.

Elizabeth and I give 13% of our gross income to St. John's. On top of that, we also support the diocese and other local and national charities. I don't say that to suggest that you should measure your giving in comparison with ours. I say it to make it clear that I practice what I preach. Is 13% enough? No. We're still looking for ways to grow in our giving until, hopefully, one day we will have sold all that we own and have given it to the poor.

But, when it comes to living off the backs of widows, I am still guilty as charged. Why? Because I live in a state where regressive taxes are among the highest in the nation. In the State of Alabama, we all participate in an economic system that ensures the scribes will continue to wear their long robes and the widows will continue to give all that they have and more to support it. Take a look at this screenshot from www.itep.org:

I don't know much about itep.org. They claim to be an non-profit, non-partisan group that does research on tax policy. I'm not vouching for them or their work. But those percentages seem about right to me ("right" as in "accurate" not as in "just"). Why do I think those are accurate? Because we tax groceries. That means the same carton of milk that our family uses in a week costs my family less as a percentage of our income than a low-income worker who makes too much for food stamps. In Alabama, we have low ad valorem property taxes and high sales taxes. We have high fees for things like licenses and car tags and court costs--things which everyone needs regardless of their income. As a result, we are forcing--not asking--widows to put in everything that they have while the scribes continue to enjoy the best seats at the local charity banquet. Am I guilty? Yes. And so are many of us.

I don't plan to preach on regressive taxes this week, but my friend Jack Alvey and I were talking about Sunday's lessons, and he reminded me that this is an important issue. We are guilty--not only as clergypeople but as citizens of this state. I haven't been able to let it go. Alabama isn't alone in this, but Alabama is where I live. And, given its current tax policy, Alabama is a long way from the kingdom of God.

Faith Comes from Doing

It's hard to sit in a room and think your way into believing in something. Trust me: I tried.

When I was a child, I read and studied and prayed about being a Christian. I wanted more than anything to believe. I wanted to stop going to bed every night worried that, if I died, I wouldn't go to heaven. So I read and studied and prayed. I learned everything I could about Jesus, and I knew as much about him as any of my peers. But, still, I didn't know what it meant to believe--to trust--that God's love would take care of me no matter what. Something was missing. I needed an existential crisis.

Finally, in a rubber-meets-road moment, I was forced to acknowledge to my boss--someone who had hired me to be a counselor at a Christian camp--that I wasn't sure about my faith. I told him about my repeated prayers and my earnest pursuit of salvation. He chuckled gently and said, in effect, "Words don't make you a Christian. God does." He invited me to consider that me choosing God wouldn't ever be effective. Instead, God choosing me is what would make the difference. My pursuit wasn't to convince God to save me but to convince myself that God already had. Long story short: I discovered what it means to believe--a powerful realization that God's love is bigger than any choice I can ever make. It seems simple looking back, but it's the kind of thing I couldn't ever figure out on my own.

On Sunday, those of us who hear the Track 2 reading from 1 Kings 17 will encounter again the story of the widow of Zarephath. She's the one to whom God sent Elijah, saying, "Go now to Zarephath, which belongs to Sidon, and live there; for I have commanded a widow there to feed you." The story is a beautiful tale of faithfulness. The prophet asks for some food, but the widow declares that she only has enough to feed herself and her son before they die. Elijah promises that God--specifically "the LORD," which is to say the God of Israel's proper name "Yahweh"--would provide. And the poor widow woman did what she was told.

We don't get to read the whole story on Sunday. You may recall that it ends with the widow's son dying after a sudden illness and Elijah praying to God, prostrating himself on top of the boy, and God bringing the boy back to life. The climactic end is the woman's declaration, "“Now I know that you are a man of God, and that the word of the LORD in your mouth is truth.” In other words, the story ends with the woman (a Gentile) acknowledging the rightness of the LORD's prophet. It's a conversional moment. It's a confession of faith. And where did it start? With the woman's willingness to trust.

We have an opportunity to trust, but sitting in a room and reading and praying won't instill faith in our hearts. In other words, coming to church and listening to a sermon and saying our prayers won't make us believers. Yes, I know what Paul says in Romans 10:17, and I'm not trying to contradict that. Hearing comes first, but faith is action. Faith is trusting. Faith is putting it all on the line and saying, "Ok, God. Here it is. What's next?" If you suspect that sacrificial, proportional, first-fruits giving is one way to do that, you're right. But this isn't just about financial stewardship. It's about putting your life in God's hands. Money is one way to do that. What are the other ways? How can we encounter the existential crisis of needing a savior so that we can practice the art of yielding ourselves to salvation?

What Do You See?

When you see the scribes walking through the marketplaces with their long, fancy robes, what do you see? When they bow to each other extravagantly and salute each other with unnecessary reverence, what do you see? When you see them occupying the best seats in the front of the synagogue and at the high table at the wedding feast, what do you see? When you see them nodding their heads as they pray a carefully crafted, perfectly patient prayer, what do you see?

When you catch sight of a widow slipping in and out of the crowd, making her way to the treasury, what do you see? When you see her lower her head in shame because she accidently brushed against someone important in the crowded square, what do you see? As she holds out her hand and silently moves her lips, begging God to help her find enough food to eat now that she's dropping her last two coins into the box, what do you see? When the sound of those thin coins clinks inside the offering box, hardly making enough noise to bother over, and the woman looks around to make sure no one noticed how little she had to give, what do you see?

Jesus sees what we cannot. We see a rich holy man whom God has blessed abundantly. He sees a hypocrite. We see a poor sinner whose sadness and meekness must somehow be deserved. He sees a pillar of faith. Sunday, we are asked to see what he sees. Can we see it?

Like it or not, we still associate rich with reward. Like it or not, we still associate poor with punishment. Who sits in the corner office? Who tops the list of Fortune 500 CEOs? Who sits on the street corner? Who stands in the welfare line? Success is earned. Wealth is acquired. Prominence is deserved. Struggle is earned. Poverty is acquired. Disgrace is deserved. At least that's what we see.

Sunday, we will hear the story of the scribes who "devour widows' houses" and the poor widow who places all she has in the treasury. If we close our eyes, we will see the scene unfold before us. But, in the gospel, the identity of the characters is reversed. Jesus embraces the latter and warns us of the former. Jesus celebrates the poverty and chastises the wealth. Jesus praises the widow and excoriates the scribe. Why? Because he sees what we cannot see. He sees as God sees. He sees as we are supposed to see. Can we see it?

Deceitful Appearances

There's something remarkably Southern about Sunday's gospel lesson (Mark 12:38-44): one group is criticized for going out of their way to appear religious while an outsider is celebrated for her quiet faithfulness. This is a story of life in the Bible Belt, where Jesus still asks us to strip away all the pretense and reveal our true character before God.

In the opening scene, Jesus is teaching in the temple, where he excoriates the religious lawyers, saying, "Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! They devour widows' houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers." It's the classic prophetic combination of doing all right things for all the wrong reasons--namely, to hide their misdeeds. Long robes, long prayers, best seats--all signs of religiosity. Those are outward signs of faithfulness. Long robes cost money, and those who spend what they have on such garments are showing the rest of the world that they are willing to make a sacrifice for the faith. The same is true for the best seats in synagogues--spots reserved for those who contribute liberally to the community's causes. And, as any captive guest at a charity banquet can attest, long prayers are the guest preacher's way of saying, "I'm holy."

All that faith, however, is built on a lie. In fact, it's built on the destruction of widow's houses, which is to say that these religious authorities are making their extravagantly religious living on the mandatory, exploitative offerings of people like the poor widow, who becomes the focus of the second half of the gospel lesson.

Jesus takes a seat across from the treasury--the place where these offerings were collected. Amidst a crowd of individuals who deposit their offering is a widow. If Jesus does not notice her and single her out, no one would have seen her. Quickly, Jesus calls the disciples together and uses her example to teach them about deep faithfulness: "This poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on."

I need to do some more exegetical work to learn what sort of offering was expected, what it means that she put in everything she had, and how those offerings would have been used. At this point, though, it seems to be no accident that those who "devour widows' houses" are placed opposite "this poor widow." This is an opportunity to preach not only on sacrificial giving but integrity. This is a chance for the preacher to use the subject of money to peel back layers of pretense and expose our true selves.

I live in the South, where the second question one is asked (after "How's your family doin'?") is "How are things at your church?" We wear religion on our sleeve...and on our T-shirts and our bumper stickers. But what's going on underneath? Do we care about those things Jesus cares about, or do we use the pretense of religion to further our own cause? It's only Monday, and I'm already looking forward to what the Spirit will say to me and all of us this week.

We Need a Savior

Audio of this sermon can be heard here. A collection of sermons from St. John's, Decatur, can be found here.

November 1, 2015 – All Saints’ Day, Year B

Wisdom of Solomon 3:1-9; Revelation 21:1-6a; John 11:32-44

 

© 2015 Evan D. Garner

 

 

If you could ask Jesus for anything, what would it be? Remember: this is the guy who can heal the sick and feed the hungry and still the storms of life. He can give sight to the blind and open the ears of the deaf. He can make the lame leap like a deer and has the power to set the captives free. This is Jesus. He can do anything. If you had the chance to ask him to do anything for you, what would it be?

In a few minutes, we are going to baptize my fourth child, Emily Mae Garner, and today, as much as on any day, I find myself thinking about all the many things that I hope for her. And I wonder, if I could ask Jesus to do anything for her, what would it be?

I want her to be happy. I want her to grow up knowing that she is loved by her parents, by her siblings, by her friends, and, of course, by God. I want her to sense that her life has purpose and meaning—that, in this unfathomably huge universe, she still matters. I want her to have the opportunity to pursue her dreams. I want her to be confident enough to try new things and to take risks. I want her to know that even when she screws up and falls flat on her face she will always be loved. I want her to find someone whom she can love with all of her heart. I want her to know the joy and security of sharing a life with someone. I want her to know what it means to care as much about another human being as I care about her. I want all of those things for my daughter and, indeed, for all of my children, but, if I had the chance to ask Jesus for just one thing, I wouldn’t ask him for any of that. Why? Because my daughter doesn’t need any of those things as much as she needs a savior.

In today’s gospel lesson, Jesus comes upon a great tragedy. His dear friend Lazarus has died. The dead man’s sisters are overwhelmed with grief. The whole community has gathered at the family home to offer words of comfort and signs of support, but it seems that sadness has overtaken everyone. When Jesus finally arrives, four full days after Lazarus’ death, he is met by a host of weeping mourners. Even Jesus himself is caught up in the emotional loss, and he begins to weep for his dead friend.

Mary, when she comes out to meet him, falls at Jesus’ feet and says, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Those are the same words her sister had uttered only a few verses earlier in John 11. And I can’t tell what meaning those words carry. Are the sisters blaming Jesus because he did not make it in time to save their brother? Or are they simply acknowledging a painful truth—that his healing powers could have—would have—saved Lazarus had Jesus arrived before it was too late. Or might it be a quiet statement of unwaivering faith even in the midst of a deep loss? Regardless, those words ring in our ears as a devastating reminder of what might have been. Even the crowd picks up on the terrible irony, murmuring to themselves, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” If only…If only Jesus had gotten there sooner…If only he hadn’t been delayed…If only he had left as soon as he got word that his friend was sick…then Lazarus might still be alive.

But it is too small a thing for Jesus to have saved Lazarus from the brink of death. This story is bigger than that. There is a God-given purpose behind Jesus’ delay, which is, as Jesus himself explained, so that we might see the glory of God and believe. It was no mistake that Lazarus died before Jesus got there. His death became the opportunity for Jesus to invite the world to believe that he is more than a healer—that he has powers that are greater than even the most skilled physician on earth. In the raising of Lazarus, Jesus invites us to believe that he has the power even to save us after we are dead.

Defying the stench of death that lingered in the tomb, Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Confronting the darkness that held his friend, Jesus cried, “Lazarus, come out!” Confirming the miracle that had brought the dead man back to life, Jesus said, “Unbind him, and let him go.” And those who saw this great moment unfold knew that they had witnessed something that had never been seen before. This Jesus was more than a healer. He had power over life and death. Even the absolute darkness of the grave was no match for him.

That is the sort of savior in whom Jesus is inviting you to believe. It is everlasting life that he can give you. Why would you settle for anything less? Every day we are surrounded by offers that promise to improve our life: newfangled diets, exercise equipment, an assortment of pills, financial opportunities, vacation property, undergarments that hide fat bellies or fat thighs, things that grow hair and things that remove it. We are inundated by ads and commercials and e-mails that promise to give the life that we seek. But where can we get the power of life that never ends?

Jesus did not come to earth and die on the cross and rise from the dead so that you might have a better life now. Jesus did not come so that you could start all over and try again. Jesus was not born in Bethlehem to heal you or comfort you or make you happy. The Word did not become flesh and dwell among us so that your life might have meaning. God did not send his only begotten son so that those who believe in him might live out their days in peace and prosperity. God sent his son to save us from the power of death itself. Jesus came and lived and breathed and died and was raised from the dead so that we, too, might escape the clutches of death. It is too small of a thing for us to hope that Jesus might give us a good life—the kind of life we want for our children. Jesus came to save us, and salvation is what we need.

 

Today is the feast of All Saints, all those holy people of God who knew that Jesus has the power to save them from death. We celebrate his victory and claim it for our own. We put our faith, not in someone who can give us a helping hand, but in the only one who can deliver us from the grave. There is only one reason to baptize someone: to proclaim that Jesus’ death and resurrection have the power to save her. Today, as we baptize the newest saint in God’s holy church, we remember our own baptism as a sign that we belong to the one who came to save us. We are desperate for salvation, and salvation is what he gives.