Leader Failure

One year to the day after I began a career as an ordained minister, my boss went on sabbatical. In the three months that followed, I learned a lot about how systems work. My boss had been ordained for twenty-four years. I had been ordained for exactly one. My boss had been the rector of that parish for twelve years. I had been the curate for twelve months. We worked together to set up clear procedures during his absence. I would run staff meeting and vestry meetings and other administrative pieces, and another employee would approve the financial expenditures. But no one decided ahead of time what to do when people started to revolt.

Looking back, it wasn't terrible. It just felt terrible. We had a relatively new children's director who had brought fresh, exciting ideas to the parish. Some of those changes were threatening to some of the parents and other stakeholders, and, about a week after my boss left, my phone started ringing. People wanted to tell me just how terrible things were, how our children's program was falling apart, and how people would start leaving the church if I didn't do something. "What do you think I can do about that?" I asked, unsuccessful in my attempts to quiet things down. Eventually, the rector had to come back from sabbatical and meet with concerned people, including me and the children's director. Perhaps if I had been there longer and had more authority in the system and had more experience in parish dynamics, I could have done a better job of diffusing that anxiety, but, as it was, there was only one person who could convince the parish that everything was going to be ok, and that was my boss.

When Moses went up the mountain to receive the Law from the Lord in Exodus 32, he was gone for a long time. During his absence, Aaron learned a lot about the system he inhabited. "When the people saw that Moses delayed...the people gathered around Aaron and said to him, "Come, make gods for us, who shall go before us; as for this Moses, the man who brought us up out of the land of Egypt, we do not know what has become of him." I don't know what's less surprising: that the people gave up on God and Moses so quickly or that Aaron agreed to their plan without hesitation. In the verses that follow, we read how Aaron told them to take off their gold rings so that he could melt and cast them into the image of a calf. "These are your gods, O Israel!" the people proclaimed in front of the idol, and Aaron built an altar and established a festival to worship it.

Systems need leaders. They always have them. Usually, they're clear--a rector, a boss, a parent--but sometimes they are chosen by the system in informal ways--a playground captain, a classroom example-setter, a star athlete. When the appointed leader of a system is unavailable, the system shifts until it finds someone else to take over. That change is an anxious, challenging time. Some systems are able to handle such change more easily than others. Some leaders have helped diffuse their authority throughout the system so that not everything falls apart when those leaders are absent for a while. Others, as we know too well, haven't figured out how to help people know that they will be ok even when the leader is absent.

Who is to blame in Exodus 32? As the story is told to us, the people almost immediately demand new leadership--a new Moses and new gods. They cannot handle the uncertainty of Moses' prolonged absence. They are anxious and unwilling to inhabit their anxiety. They're accustomed to complaining to Moses when they are unhappy and Moses fixing all of their problems. They don't know how to solve this problem on their own, so they choose another leader and other gods to take Moses and the Lord's place.

Aaron does no better. He agrees to the people's request immediately. He is fully invested in this new leadership role. Instead of being differentiated from the anxiety and demands of the system, he falls victim to them. As we see later in Exodus 32 when Moses returns, Aaron is quick to throw the blame on the people: "You know the people, that they are set on evil. For they said to me, 'Make us gods who shall go before us…' They gave [their gold] to me, and I threw it into the fire, and out came this calf." That's hardly what happened, but it shows us Aaron's flaw.

We could also blame Moses, who has been quick to accept the anxiety of the people onto himself. When they were hungry, he ran to God and got it fixed. When they were thirsty, he ran to God and got it fixed. The system had learned to expect that Moses and only Moses could solve their problems. No one knew how to take care of himself or herself anymore. That contributed to their impatience and anxiety in Moses' prolonged absence.

We can't blame the Lord, but his response to Moses is telling: "The Lord said to Moses, 'Go down at once! Your people, whom you brought up out of the land of Egypt, have acted perversely; they have been quick to turn aside from the way that I commanded them.'" Your people. Not my people. God isn't accepting responsibility for this problem. He's willing to call them "my people" when he hears their cry from Egypt, but, as soon as they start to worship the image of a golden calf, they belong to Moses. Again, I don't think we can blame God for this, but the way the story is told to us matters. We're left with a feeling that even God himself isn't functioning in the system as freely as God might.

What does this mean for us? Change is hard. Systems will work fiercely to maintain their equilibrium even if it's an unhealthy one. Parishes that have a long history of underfunctioning clergy will not easily accept a go-getter for a rector. Families that have accepted substance abuse for decades will struggle to accept sobriety. Communities that are comfortable with decision-making power being concentrated in the hands of a few will have a hard time learning how to share that authority throughout the community. A new rector, a new prayer book, a new marriage canon, a new altar guild chair, a new building, a new bishop, a new president--change is always difficult.

Our job as congregational leaders and family leaders and community leaders is to help other people in our system accept their own anxiety and deal directly with their own conflict. Change is difficult, but change is inevitable. How we prepare for that change makes a big difference. Are we constantly putting out fires, holding everyone together in a conflicted system by sheer determination? What happens when we cannot do that anymore? Are we so authoritarian that every decision needs to come through us? What happens when we move on? Not even Moses lasts forever. By the end of Deuteronomy, he's figured out how to transition away from leadership. What about us? Are we stuck in the wilderness, or are we headed for the Promised Land?

Open Invitation With High Demand

It's hard to make it through Matthew 21 and 22 with the same commitment to grace that one had back when Jesus rode first into Jerusalem at the beginning of chapter 21. In our lectionary, this will be the third week in a row with a difficult kingdom parable. First, there was the story of the two sons, one who refused to help his father but later went and the other who promised to help his father but never showed up. Yesterday, we had the parable of the wicked tenants who were leased a vineyard but refused to give the owner his proper share of the produce. This week, we have a wedding feast in which the invited guests are replaced by whomever can be found, yet one improperly attired guest is immediately thrown out "into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth." Jesus' summary response? "Many are called, but few are chosen."

I hope it will not surprise you that I am still committed to grace and unconditional love at its absolute extreme. I want to find the love that the father has for both sons. I want to celebrate the gift of the son even to the wicked tenants. I want to focus on the invitation of all people to the wedding banquet. But these three parables, all told shortly before the climax of Jesus' ministry, clearly suggest that, despite God's gracious invitation, there are some people who are ejected from the kingdom because they did not respond to that invitation appropriately. In my experience of the human condition, that seems to place way too much emphasis on us.

I work hard to avoid the supersessionist implications of these parables--that the Gentiles are given the kingdom that the Jews have forsaken. That's bad theology. God has made a promise to his people, and God does not fail to keep his promises. We could, instead, focus on the rejection of the religious elites and the inclusion of the societal outcasts--a distinction of power rather than ethnicity. That makes me a little more comfortable and will certainly work for most of our congregations of powerful, well-connected people who need to be reminded what it means to accept fully the invitation to participate in the kingdom's banquet. But I'm still left with that theologically uncomfortable position that our participation in the kingdom depends on our intention, our reception, our works. I don't believe that. So how do I make it through this parable?

Look again at Sunday's parable. The king provides a banquet and sends his slaves to bring the invited guests in, but they refuse. That's ridiculous: no one would refuse the king's invitation. Then the king sends the servants back a second time to urge them to come because the feast is ready. Again, that's ridiculous. The king would never have to do that, nor would he be willing to. When the servants arrive, the invited guests give a range of ordinary excuses--too busy, business deal, harvest to collect--and others turn violent. Again, this is ridiculous. This is the kind of invitation around which one's life revolves. One makes time for the king's wedding banquet. Then the king sends the army to kill all of those who mistreated his servants and to burn their city. That seems somewhat extreme, but at least now the king is behaving in a way that resembles our expected reaction.

After all of that ridiculousness, the king goes completely off the reservation and brings in everyone who will respond--the good and bad who would answer the invitation. This becomes the criteria by which worthiness is judged. Will you accept the invitation and come? Those who were initially invited were unworthy because they allowed the occupations of life to take priority over the king's banquet. The good and bad who come into the banquet hall are worthy because they respond...except for one. One of the guests was not properly attired. This is the final twist of the story. This is the last unexpected detail. The guest who was worthy because he responded is unworthy because he is not fully participating. Even after responding to the invitation, he is not committed to the banquet, so he is cast out. Even the unexpected guests are expected to participate.

What is the message to us? All of us are invited into the banquet. Those who are privileged enough to receive the initial invitation and a follow-up request, and those for whom the king has recently made space. That's remarkable. Everyone is invited in. For some, life gets in the way, and they are left out. For another, half-hearted participation singles him out, and he is rejected. I suppose we'd better say a committed yes to the kingdom when it comes to us, but what happens when we're not ready?

This parable doesn't deal with that, so it leaves me still wanting. What happens when we're not ready? What happens if we fail to see what is really taking place? What happens if we say yes but change our mind? Over and over, Jesus says we must be fully committed to him--leaving behind families, even hating one's own life--if we are going to follow him into his kingdom. What about those of us who haven't understood the invitation? Is there hope for us? I believe that there is, but I'll admit that this parable and the two before it haven't made a lot of space for it. I'm still looking, though.

Only This Gift Can Break The Cycle

October 8, 2017 – The 18^th Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 22A

Exodus 20:1-4, 7-9, 12-20; Philippians 3:4b-14; Matthew21:33-46

© 2017 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here.

 

Has anyone ever lent you something for so long that you forgot it wasn’t yours? What happens when the lender calls and asks for it back? Perhaps you’re so surprised that you try to mask your panic and confusion with a little white lie: “Sure, I know where that is. I can’t believe how long it’s been. I should have given that back to you ages ago.” But, in your mind, you’re racing from one corner of the house to another, wondering where in the world it could be. What happens a week later when you still can’t find it? You could come clean, confess that you haven’t seen it in months, and offer to buy your friend a new one…or you could tell another, not-so-white lie. You could tell her that you’re almost certain that you gave it back months ago—that you drove by when she wasn’t home, left it on her front porch, and may have even send her a text. “Did you get my text?” you ask in a most believable tone.

If you take advice from today’s parable, however, it seems that there’s a third option. Instead of offering to replace it or pretending you already have, you could simply threaten the person who lent it to you. You could push her down on the ground and stand over her and say, “You’ll be sorry if you ever ask about that again.” That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? It’s the kind of thing you see in a nightmare or a mobster movie. When the owner of the vineyard sends his slaves to collect his share of the produce, the tenants in the vineyard beat and kill those servants, attempting to send a message that they’re not going to give the vineyard back. They plan to keep it for themselves. What sort of crazy logic is that? What kind of insane person would do such a thing?

We would. Over and over again. We do it all the time. We may not treat our friends or neighbors like that because of what they might say about us on Facebook, but that’s exactly how we treat the one who has given us everything we have. We horde the things that God has given us, pretend that they were ours to begin with, and keep the fruits of our labors for ourselves. All of our skills, abilities, resources, and opportunities belong to God, yet we begin almost every encounter by asking what’s in it for us. All of the love, affection, loyalty, and trust that we enjoy come from God, yet we would rather hold on to them than give them away. Our greatest gift, the freedom to choose whom we will honor with our lives, is handed to us by God, and we choose to turn inward and seek self-satisfaction instead of devoting ourselves to our creator.

How do we know that this is the case? Just look at the signs all around us. There is more than enough food in the world to feed every hungry person, yet there are children right here in Decatur, Alabama, who go to bed hungry every night. There is more than enough wealth in the world to go around for everyone to have a decent life, but that wealth remains concentrated in the hands of those who use the resources and opportunities with which God has blessed them for themselves instead of others. Instead of living in a world in which the dignity of every human being is equally respected, our children look up to celebrities who treat women as second-class citizens and praise them for their sexuality instead of their full humanity. When a murderous madman guns down fifty-eight people and injures almost five hundred more before taking his own life, we collectively feign outrage but then quickly demonstrate that we care more about politics than putting an end to such violence. We have everything we need to make the world the way that God dreams that it could be—the wealth, the opportunity, and the freedom—but we’ve been borrowing all of those things for so long that we’ve forgotten that they don’t belong to us.

That’s what happens when the owner plants a vineyard, puts a fence around it, digs a winepress, builds a watchtower, and then goes away to a distant country for a long, long, long time. We’re the ones who did all of the work. We’re the ones who have borne the scorching heat all this time. The fruit of the garden is the result of our own efforts, not his. Why should we have to give up what we have worked for? Who cares if prophets and preachers have come to remind us that we owe something to the one who planted the vineyard? He’s been gone so long that in our minds we can no longer distinguish between what belongs to him and what belongs to us. It might sound like insanity to think that when the owner sends his son to come and collect what is due that we can kill him and keep it for ourselves, but that’s exactly what we do because we’ve convinced ourselves that it isn’t really his anymore.

But you know what’s even crazier than that? That, after we repeatedly reject the word of the prophets and claim the vineyard for ourselves, God would send his son to us anyway. Doesn’t God know better than that? Doesn’t our track record speak for itself? Doesn’t God know exactly what we will do to his son when he sends him to us? Of course he does. And, even if it doesn’t make sense to us, that’s exactly why he sent him in the first place—because only the gift of God’s own son can break through our self-centered cycle of greed, violence, and misuse.

By freely giving us his son, God gives us the chance to see just how wildly open God’s gracious hands are to us. We know, of course, that the death of God’s son is not the end of the story. We know that, after we killed him on the cross, God raised his son from the dead on the third day. In the light of the resurrection, we are invited to look upon the illogical gift of God’s son and see how irrational we ourselves have become. The gift of the son lifts the veil from our eyes and shows us that everything is gift. When we recognize that everything we have is given to us by God and not the product of our own anxious toil, we discover the freedom to devote ourselves not to our next pay check, not to our 401(k), not to our political party, not to our own security, but to the one who gives us all of those things in the first place. In the sacrifice of the son, therefore, we discover what it means to trust that God will always provide for us.

Will we come to our senses? Will we look upon the cross of Christ and see that the same God who is willing to give us his own son is also willing to give us our daily bread? Will we look upon his sacrifice and see that everything we have is pure gift? Will that free us up to care less about ourselves and more about God? Will we finally know the peace that comes from bearing fruit for God’s kingdom? Our best hope—our only hope—is not found in ourselves but in the one who gives us all good things. Look upon God’s son, God’s gift to the world, and see that you have nothing to fear. God will always provide. Knowing that, choose to bear fruit for the kingdom because you can see that you don’t have to keep it for yourself.

Recapturing God's Holiness

On Sunday, those of us who use Track 1 from the RCL will hear some very familiar words: "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..." The first reading is the Ten Commandments from Exodus 20. I may not have them written on my heart as clearly as they have been engraved in tablets of stone monuments, but I know them pretty well. It's funny to me, then, when I encounter the NRSV language of Commandment #3, which makes perfect sense but is missing some of what I expect from the KJV in my memory.

When I think of #3, I usually think of, "Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain," but we will hear, "You shall not make wrongful use of the name of the Lord your God." That's right, of course. That's what it means to take the Lord's name in vain--to misuse it--but this is one of those biblical specificities that has lost its significance and that most modern retranslation don't fix.

What does it mean to take God's name in vain? Or, more importantly, what is it that God is asking God's people to do or not do? Why is this important? Why is this one of the big ten?

Back when I was newly ordained, I wanted to show a video clip in a Sunday school class I was teaching, but the clip had some profanity in it. I went to my boss and told him about it. I explained that I could bleep out some of the words but wanted to be sure that a missed "shit" or "damn" wouldn't get me (or him) in trouble. "I'll be sure to cut out all the F-words and GDs," I reassured him. "That's a shame," he said, "because goddammit has always been one of my favorites." I laughed nervously.

Does Commandment #3 prohibit us from saying GD? When my child says "Oh my gosh!" instead of "Oh my God!" is she doing the right thing, or does it even make a difference? Is "God" the issue here? Or is it "Yahweh," the supposed "name of the Lord" that we should be worried about. Is there a difference between saying, "Yahweh damn it!" and "Goddammit!?"

In the Orthodox Jewish tradition, saying or writing the name of the Lord is forbidden. That's why the Bible has LORD instead of Lord. When we see the all-caps, we know that's a moment when the actual name of God would have been meant. In the biblical manuscripts, they didn't write out the name for fear of breaking the commandment, so they sometimes used the four-letter abbreviation YHWH. For some, that's still too close for comfort, so other designations like "Adonai" and "Jehovah" and "Elohim" were used. We do similar things in English, of course, using "Lord" and "God" and "Almighty" and "Holy One" to all mean God...whatever God's name is. Now that the English tradition of capitalizing the first letter of God to mean specifically Israel's god is widespread, many Orthodox Jews won't even write that word out and instead us G-d to avoid violating #3. Is that what G-d really wants us to do?

The real point is that God is holy. God is not like us. God is unfathomably other. In the ancient near east, there was power in a name. To give or say a name is, in effect, to own something. To call explicitly upon the name of the Lord is to wield the power and holiness that the Lord possesses. One cannot use that power carelessly.

In some ways, we still have echoes of this in our own culture. Parents give their children names. No one else gets to do that. As an adult, a child might choose his or her own name, but the formative years of one's life are spent being known as whatever your owning parents have chosen to call you. We don't call people of respect by their first name. Our elders are "Mr. Washington" or "Mrs. Atkinson." The President of the United States is "Mr. President" or "President Trump" and not "Donald." (Over the last decade, that politeness has eroded in the media as "Obama" became a sufficient way for journalists and pundits to refer to the President, a tradition that continues with "Trump.") How many people do you think call the Queen of England "Elizabeth" and not "Your Majesty?" For a long time, senior African-Americans were denied the courtesy of being called by their last names as white children were taught to call them "Miss Tammy" or "Mr. Bill," which was a not-a-subtle reinforcement of the class structure.

Maybe it's time for us to recapture the elegance of a name. Maybe I should ask people to call me "Mr. Garner" and not "Evan." Maybe I should drop the casual way I refer to parishioners by their first names and only call them "Mr. Dunn" or "Mrs. Charlton." I wouldn't want to do that to instill a formality between us. I enjoy the intimacy that comes from exchanging first names. But maybe that would remind us something important about who God is. It's important to remember that the Holy One who Inhabits Eternity isn't just "Fred" or "Jenny." God is God. God is holy. God does not lend his name for casual use. God commands our respect and worship and adoration at all times. We may not need to abbreviate every time we use G-d's name, but, by restricting its use to those occasions that befit the fullness of God's holiness, we learn to think of God as holy.

Consider, then, the CEB's version of Commandment #3: "Do not use the Lord your God’s name as if it were of no significance." The remarkable thing about God is that God allows God's people to use God's name. It is given to us. God speaks it. We receive it. We communicate it. But we cannot do it casually. There is power in it. It is significant. Let's recapture not the legalistic observance of "thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain" but the spirit of respect that Commandment #3 inspires. God is holy. We are not. But, with care and reverence, we are invited to call upon the name of the one who saves us--God himself.

Write Off Our Losses in Christ

One night, during a live performance by David Sedaris, Elizabeth elbowed me in the ribs. Sedaris had been describing the experience of having a colonoscopy and had mentioned that the doctor had asked whether he wanted to stay awake to watch. Without hesitating, I leaned over and said to Elizabeth, "I'd want to watch." As soon as the words came out of my mouth, Sedaris remarked that the only kind of people who would want to watch their own colonoscopy are the same people who enjoy doing their own taxes. That's when she elbowed me. Because, in fact, I like doing my taxes.

Clergy taxes are a little complicated, so it helps that I got a leg-up from a CPA whom I paid to do them for a few years. But every year, I seemed to find a few things that he had missed, and, after a while, I wondered why I was paying him to do it. Now, it's a game between me and the IRS to see if I can find all of the little legal bits and pieces that will save me money. I mention that little tax game because Sunday's epistle lesson from Philippians 3 involves a theological claim that makes more sense when you think of it as a write-off.

In the opening line, Paul boasts of his accomplishments: "If anyone else has reason to be confident in the flesh, I have more: circumcised on the eighth day, a member of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew born of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless." But then he writes, "Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ." Those of us who grew up in churches that used the Lutheran, Protestant grace-over-law lens as the primary way of interpreting the gospel are familiar with this passage. Paul wants us to know that his earthly accomplishments--his works--amount to nothing compared with "the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus [his] Lord." But this isn't simply a philosophical claim. Paul is using financial language to make his point.

What is the loss he is talking about? The Greek word is "ζημίαν." It means "damage" or "loss" or "detriment." It indicates the sort of thing that tanks a business venture. It's what the adjuster says when your twelve-year-old car is T-boned by a careless driver. It's the "bad deal" of an unsuccessful business venture produces nothing but a negative. Given that Paul uses the opposite financial term for gain ("κέρδη") in the beginning of the sentence, we see that he has money on his mind. What was on the books as a profit has actually become a loss. This isn't the sort of loss that is recovered. It's a stain on the accounting sheet. Paul has invested lots of time and effort into his identity as a faithful Pharisee, and now he recognizes that all of that effort produced nothing. It was money spent with nothing gained. The only thing he can do is write it off.

This morning, I stumbled upon the CEB translation of this passage, which incorporates that accounting language: "These things were my assets, but I wrote them off as a loss for the sake of Christ." That's what it means to have banked on one's own efforts only to discover that they are worthless. That's the reversal that Christ represents to Paul. That's the reversal Christ represents to us.

When it comes to your relationship with God, what are you storing up for yourself? In my own preaching and writing, I've come to a place where living out the gospel is particularly important. In a culture defined by conflict and tragedy and poverty and racial strife, I hear Jesus calling me to do something about it. But why am I doing it? Why am I inviting others to do it? Why does any of us do good works in the name of Jesus? If we're trying to build an account for ourselves with God, we'd better take another look at the balance sheet. All of our efforts are total loss when brought into the light of knowing Jesus. We don't do them because we want God to approve of us. God loves us because that's who God is not because of who we are or what we do. We do these things because we know that we are loved irrespective of them.

If you feel a tension with this Sunday's gospel lesson, I'm glad to hear it. I do, too. In Jesus' parable, the vineyard is taken away from the wicked tenants and given to those who will bear fruit for the kingdom. That's the way Jesus describes it. Paul must not have known this parable, or, perhaps, he just didn't like it very much. The classic answer is that our efforts must not be an attempt to earn God's love but a response to it. That feels right, but I'm still having trouble reconciling that with the parable Jesus uses. I'm going to wrestle with it for a few more days and see if something comes out.

Nothing Can Stop True Love

Wednesday in Proper 21

Zechariah 8:20–23; Luke 9:51–56

 

 

I don't remember the details, but I remember being fascinated when I read about a conductor who decided to defy a longstanding tradition and lead his orchestra in the performance of a piece of music by Wagner while touring in Israel. Wagner, of course, was one of Adolf Hitler's favorite musicians. Like many nineteenth-century Germans, Wagner held widespread anti-Semitic views, and that racially exclusive ideology is manifest in some of his works. Primarily because of his adoration by the Third Reich and not because of the content of his music, Wagner's music was unofficially banned from public performance in Israel. In an interview after the controversial performance, the conductor said that he decided to perform Wagner after hearing an Israeli's cell phone play Wagner as its ring tone. He wanted to push the boundaries and seized on the opportunity. He wanted to question why a musician's talent and gift to the world should be excluded because of its less-than-stellar reputation.

 

Sometimes individuals and movements become so closely linked with particular symbols or cultural icons that we forget how to think of them separately. In Luke 9, Jesus is on his way from Galilee to Jerusalem. He has fed the 5,000. He has been identified by Peter as the Messiah. He has predicted his death and resurrection. He has gone up the mountain and been transfigured before Peter, James, and John. He has descended back into the world and has set his face to Jerusalem and the fate that awaits him there. But you can't get from Galilee to Judea without passing through Samaria, and Samaria meant trouble.

 

Or did it? You've heard about the hatred that existed between Samaritans and Jews. The Samaritans were the descendants of the Jews, who had stayed behind after the exile, and whose parents had intermarried with their Babylonian oppressors. The Samaritans didn't have the tradition of the Exile and the biblical, prophetic tradition that came with it. They didn't take part in the centralized worship that happened on the temple mount in Jerusalem. They had their own traditions and customs, and they represented everything that Jewish people hated. They were not merely unfaithful but anti-faithful. Their very existence was a reminder that the world wasn't the way it was supposed to be--the way that Israel's God had declared it should be. But with Jesus times had begun to change.

 

As Zechariah prophesied, in the last days, when God's Messiah comes, "Men from nations of every language shall take hold of a Jew, grasping his garment and saying, 'Let us go with you, for we have heard that God is with you.'" And where will they go? To Jerusalem. "Many peoples and strong nations shall come to seek the Lord of hosts in Jerusalem." In other words, peoples from all traditions and tribes will see that the Lord is to be found in Jerusalem, and they will come to meet him there. That's what God's people believe. And now that the disciples are certain that their master is, indeed, the Messiah, they know that this is the time when all people--even the Samaritans--will come with them to Jerusalem to celebrate the fulfillment of all of God's promises. That's why they go into the Samaritan town and seek a place to rest on the journey. Normally, a Jewish person wouldn't dream of stopping in that hostile territory, but this isn't just their dream but God's dream, and they know that, since Jesus is the one on whom the whole world has been waiting, they will be warmly received there.

 

But they aren't. "Because Jesus' face was set toward Jerusalem," Luke tells us, "they would not let him stay." Some habits are hard to break. When the Samaritans hear that Jesus and his disciples are headed to Jerusalem, they know that he's just another Samaritan-hating, Samaritan-denouncing, Samaritan-oppressing Jew who thinks that Jerusalem is the center of God's universe. They want nothing to do with Jerusalem and a prophet who declares that all peoples must go there to meet God. They have already met God, thank you very much, and they don't need a Jerusalem-loving Jew to help them see him.

 

What is the disciples' response? "Jesus, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?" Surely, if you are the fulfillment of God's promises, then anyone who won't come with us, anyone who won't accept us, is standing in the way of God's kingdom. Do you want us to ask your Father to destroy them? But Jesus rebukes them. And then he heads on his way.

 

Do you ever feel so excited about something that you can't imagine how anyone else wouldn't share your excitement? Do you ever feel so certain about something that you cannot help but dismiss any naysayers as clearly being on the wrong side? Have you ever hoped for something so fervently that someone or something that stands in the way feels less like an impediment and more like an enemy? That's the thing about love. It does not insist on its own way. It reaches out and trusts that those who reject it will not defeat it. As Wesley the farm boy from The Princess Bride declared, "Death cannot stop true love. It can only delay it for a while." Why? Because true love does not demand anything it return. It is not deterred by the actions or inactions of others. It just loves. It invites. It hopes. And it loves. That is the way of Jesus. Even if the world rejects it, it is still the way of Jesus. It is still the way of love.

We Have The Answers

Yesterday in church, we heard Jesus tell the parable of the two sons, one told his father "no" but went to work anyway and one who told his father "yes" but failed to go. Jesus asked his hearers, "Which one of the two did the will of his father?" And the crowd quickly identified the first son. Our preacher, Warren Swenson, reminded us that the real answer is more complicated than that, but he also pointed out that the crowd didn't really have a choice. At least on the surface, the answer was obvious. This Sunday, Jesus tells a similar parable with a similar result.

In Matthew 21:33-46, Jesus tells the parable of the vineyard. A landowner built a vineyard, invested in its infrastructure, leased it out to tenants, and went away to a distant country. When it was harvest time, he sent his slaves to go and collect his share of the produce, but the tenants beat the slaves, even killing one. So the landowner sent another delegation of slaves, whom the tenants treated in like manner. Finally, the landowner sent his son, the heir, whom the tenants also killed, convincing themselves foolishly that by doing so they could keep the vineyard for themselves. Jesus asks his hearers, "When the owner comes, what will he do?" And they all know the answer. Jesus puts it on their lips. He doesn't need to say a word because they already know how the story ends: "He will put those wretches to a miserable death, and lease the vineyard to other tenants who will give him the produce at the harvest time."

There's more to it than that, of course. Hopefully, by the time we get to Sunday, I'll be ready to dive with the congregation into the nuances of the story, but, at first glance, the point seems to be that the hearers already know the answer to the question. They know that the wicked tenants will get their due. They know that even foolish landowners who send their own son to confront wicked tenants don't put up with that sort of disobedience forever. The story can only have one ending. Even Jesus' opponents--even those who question his authority--know what the outcome will be.

This morning, the first thing I awoke to was the news that a man had opened fire on a crowd of people at a music festival on the Las Vegas Strip, killing at least fifty. That number--fifty--is the tipping point at which this mass shooting becomes the most deadly in modern history as it surpasses the forty-nine who were killed at the Pulse night club in Orlando two summers ago. Fifty. Two scores and ten. Take a minute and think about fifty people. Can you name fifty close friends? It's the number of people on a small flight from a rural airport to the big hub. It's two overcrowded elementary school classrooms worth of students. It's the number of people who worship at our early service on a full Sunday. Fifty people. Fifty men and women. Fifty human lives. Fifty family members. Fifty life stories. Fifty dreams. They are all gone. And the number is expected to rise.

We are in the middle of a horrific parable. First, a school shooting. Then, a terrorist attack at a business. Then, a slaying in a church. Then, a mass murder at a night club. Finally, a slaughter at a concert. You can fill in the gaps with dozens more mass shootings. The story is the same. It is repeated over and over. And what is our response? Political gridlock. Unfunded mental health care. No gun reform. Partisan bickering. Maybe, if we do nothing, peace will just find us. Maybe, if we give everyone a gun, no one will be willing to open fire. Maybe, if we use labels like "religious fanatic" or "mental illness" or "lone wolf" or "radicalized racist," we can pretend that these sorts of things don't happen close to us, that good, God-fearing people like us can insulate ourselves from such violence. What happens next? What will the outcome be? How will this end? We know the answer.

There is evil in this world, and that evil is at work in the hearts and minds and actions of all people. Every one of us is a part of a human system that isn't the way it was created to be. Sin affects all of us. We can't fix it on our own. Ultimately, our only hope lies in God, who is the one who can take all of our struggle, all of our failure, all of our pain, all of our darkness and finally make us and all of creation the way it was created to be. That's the story of Jesus. That's the story that gives us hope. But we cannot sit idle until that day comes. We cannot pretend that the coming of God's kingdom has nothing to do with us. We cannot refuse to take action, refuse to act, refuse to bear fruit and think that there will not be a price to pay.

What will happen when the owner of the vineyard comes? He will destroy those wicked tenants and lease the vineyard out to someone else. We are the tenants We are responsible for keeping it and tending it and helping it bear fruit. The owner is here. He has come to us. Now is the time for us to bear fruit for God's sake. We cannot keep silent and hope that we can get away with it any longer. We must end access to assault-style firearms and ammunition by ordinary citizens. We must drastically increase our funding for mental health care. We must demand that our representatives and senators and president do whatever it takes to end this violence. Ultimately, evil can only be overthrown by God, but, when God comes, will he find that we have borne fruit for the peaceable kingdom or for the violence that stands in opposition to it?