Sermon on the first Sunday of Advent, November 28, 2010
"He shall judge between the nations, and shall arbitrate for many peoples; they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more."
Like many of you, perhaps, I woke this morning eager and anxious for the latest news. At midnight our time—just ten hours ago—the United States and South Korea began military exercises in the Yellow Sea, just off the Korean peninsula, and so I braced myself when I opened my laptop for the most recent reports.
Global spotlights have shifted towards North and South Korea as tensions have mounted in that region, reminding the world that, technically speaking, the two nations have been at war for sixty years now.
For the past few weeks, I’ve contemplated preaching from the second chapter of Isaiah, basing this morning’s sermon largely on Isaiah’s vision of God’s reign, when the nations “shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks”—when “nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.” In light of wars raging on in our world and in light of a new war on the brink of ignition, it’s been strange to conceive a biblical message that feels largely out of touch with reality.
We might call Isaiah 2:1-5 wishful thinking at best, at least in this day and age. Swords and spears—tools of war melted into farming implements as nations commit never to fight again. Often our best wishes fall short of depicting such a wistful, far-flung scenario.
Our faith ancestors, however, clung to Isaiah’s vision of peace. The Assyrians had already conquered the northern kingdom of Israel. From the Sea of Galilee down to the cities of Samaria and Bethel, Assyrian armies had swept through from the north. Jerusalem was next, and with it, the rest of Judah. Each and every day, the question for the Judeans wasn’t if the war would come, but when.
But the land of Judah did have some time—time enough, perhaps, to make some attempt at a defense before the Assyrians invaded. And so do you know what the Judeans did to get ready? They were mostly farmers, of course—not soldiers. Eight weeks of boot camp was probably unrealistic. No time for drills or maneuvers or officer training. But they did have time to do one thing, and so they did what they could. They gathered together their tools—all their farming tools—and they took the metal from those tools and melted it down to make weapons. Plows and spades, scythes, pitchforks, and pruning hooks… All of it could be reshaped to make helmets and shields, swords and spears.
The Judeans couldn’t use sickles and plowshares to fight the Assyrians, but in a week or so, they could exchange them for tools of war. And that’s what they did.
But, of course, this came with a high price. You can’t till the soil with a spear and you can’t plant wheat with a broad sword. If you exchange your farming tools for weapons, basically you give up on an entire harvest season—you commit yourself to your immediate survival, but you essentially write off the year to come. And you hope that, should you survive the Assyrian assault, you’ll be able to scrounge enough to make it through to the next planting season with enough time to turn your swords back into plowshares and your spears back into pruning hooks.
This is where the Judeans found themselves. On the brink of war with no other option than to melt their livelihood into some semblance of a military stand. Bleak. Hopeless. Wishful.
Not much has changed. Well, ok—a lot has changed. But still today the nations scrounge their own resources to attack and defend. Close to a quarter of our own federal budget is currently assigned to defense spending, and for the past several years, China has increased its military spending by close to 10% annually. It’s estimated that worldwide, annual military expenditures come close to 1200 billion US dollars. That is, of course, a staggering amount of money to spend again and again, year after year.
A question to consider is this: what if Isaiah was right? And what if a day could come when the nations said, “We’re not going to ‘learn war any more’?” What if the United States and China and Iraq and Afghanistan and North and South Korea… What if we all melted down swords and spears and tanks and shell casings, and what if we committed those global resources to other things?
Well, for starters, it would only take 10 billion dollars to provide enough technology and infrastructure to present the entire world with access to safe drinking water. Just 10 billion! Currently, half the developing world—over 2 billion men, women, and children—suffer because their water isn’t clean. But we could solve that with just a fraction of one year’s worth of global military spending.
This may not be possible in this day and age, but it is nonetheless a biblical image that our faith ancestors clung to. They longed for the day they could melt down their swords and spears and turn them into the things they needed to feed their children and build a life for themselves. But of course, in spite of their best wishes, they sharpened their swords and braced themselves for the day they’d have to use them.
Now as I move on, let me be clear. This morning I do not mean to oversimplify globally complex issues of military conflict. I do not mean to nurture a naïve vision of soldiers and drug lords and members of the Taliban merrily dancing around a bonfire of melting weaponry.
I do mean to say this, however: the world we have is not the world for which God wishes.
So then, it can be with renewed hope and possibility that we as Christians enter once again into this time of year we call “Advent.” “Advent” means “coming,” and in this spiritual season, friends, we commit our thinking and believing to Christ’s coming in our world and in our lives.
What does this mean? It means that no matter how damaged, worn, or broken our lives become—no matter how destructive our world may be and no matter how far we fall from God’s wishes, Christ is coming to make all things new.
Once there was this preacher who’d just graduated from seminary. She was installed in a small church and, eager to begin her ministry, she set a goal of personally visiting every family in the church within her first six months.
At the end of six months, she almost had it done. Only one family remained, but people said, “Don’t bother. They’re not coming back.” Ignoring those words, this young minister drove out to the couple’s house. The wife was home and she invited her in, made some coffee.
The conversation rolled from one thing to the next. They talked about this. They talked about that. And then, they talked about it.
Two years ago, the wife was home with their young son. She was vacuuming in the back bedroom and hadn’t checked on him in a little while, so she went into the den—and did not find him. She looked through the rest of the house—no sign of him. And then in a panic she followed his trail—through the back patio door, across the patio, to the swimming pool… and then she found him.
“At the funeral, our friends from church were very kind,” she said. “They told us it was God’s will.”
The minister put her coffee cup down on the table. Should she touch it? Should she touch it? She touched it. “Your friends meant well, but they were wrong. God does not will the death of children.”
The woman’s face reddened, and her jaw got firm. “They who do you blame? I guess you blame me.”
“No, I don’t blame you. I don’t blame God… I can’t explain it. I only know that God’s heart broke when yours did.”
The woman sat there with her arms crossed. It was clear that the conversation was over. On the way home, the pastor kept kicking herself. “Why didn’t I leave it alone?”
Several days later the phone rang. It was the wife. “We don’t know where this is going, but would you come out and talk with my husband and me? We assumed that God was angry with us; but maybe it’s the other way around.” (1)
Sometimes life feels beyond repair. The wound is too deep. The odds of recovery, insurmountable. Sometimes the pain of life is too great to bear. Too many swords, not enough plowshares. Too many bombs, not enough fresh water wells.
Our hope this Advent season is not simple wishful thinking. It is our hope in the Christ—the one who transforms the broken places in our lives—the one who transformed even the cross, that instrument of death, and made it a symbol of life and new life.
Our hope is in Christ, the one who melts our suspicions and fears,and reshapes them into new images of promise and possibility. It is in Christ, then, that all our best hopes, our best dreams, and our best wishes lie. Amen.
(1) A story from the sermons of the Rev. Tom Long.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
"Upside Down Kingdom" - Luke 23:33-43
Sermon on Sunday, November 21, 2010
There was also an inscription over him, “This is the King of the Jews.”
Reading near the end of the gospel of Luke can feel like visiting a museum for the fiftieth time. We’ve seen it before—walked by this particular display on countless occasions. It’s the gruesome scene—Jesus’ final moments.
I don’t know about you, but I haven’t found too many museums that can hold my attention for much more than an hour, or maybe two. After that, I get glazed over and then it doesn’t matter what I’m looking at—a sixth century sword from the Byzantine Empire? An ancient Roman urn? One of Van Gogh’s finest? It’s not that I don’t appreciate great art and culture—I do. I’ve simply found that I can appreciate it more when I’ve liberated myself from having to appreciate it all at once. Give me one hour to find three or four things that I can truly stop and study any day, but please don’t ask me to try to see it all. I know myself—I’ll lose focus. I’ll get tired and crabby.
Sometimes the twenty-third chapter of Luke can feel like that tableau at the natural history museum that you’ve passed by dozens and dozens of times. We’ve read it. We’ve seen it. The Bible story, the passion play, the TV drama, the movie version… The Good Friday sermons and the Sunday school lessons… We hear the line, “they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left,” and we’re in territory that is perhaps too familiar—familiar enough, at least, so that nothing in the scene is sufficiently jarring enough to stop us in our tracks and make us linger for awhile.
Sometimes just one detail, though, is enough. Just one tiny detail—the inscription on the hilt of that particular sword, a chip in mouth of that urn, the brushstrokes Van Gogh used to make that one sunflower near the top… Sometimes a small detail is enough to draw us in, wondering anew about what it is we’re really looking at. I may not be able to lose an entire day at the museum, but I can get wonderfully lost in the right detail.
So let’s zoom in on our story a bit… See Jesus there, on the cross. He’s between two criminals, and he’s asking for forgiveness for these people who don’t know what they’re doing. Others are there, too—people who came to watch, and they’re just standing there, looking. Picture it all. A few more are grabbing at the clothes that have been stripped from Jesus. The soldiers are mocking him, offering cheap, sour wine. Someone from the crowd, a leader, shouts out, “let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” And this catches on. A soldier yells, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” And then even one of the criminals hanging there with Jesus says, “Yes! Save yourself and us!”
Zoom in a little more, and focus on this one detail. See that above Jesus’ head there’s a little sign hanging there, and it says, “This is the King of the Jews.” Dwell on that detail for a minute. It was a joke, really—a cruel joke someone thought of, maybe at the last minute. Was it one of the soldiers? Did he say to his friends, “Hey, I got an idea. Let’s make a sign and hang it on the cross. What should it say?” Or was he one of those who had been in the room when Pilate asked Jesus, “Are you the king of the Jews?” And maybe he heard Jesus respond: “You say so.” In any case, someone made that sign, the one that said, “This is the King of the Jews” and then attached it to the top of that cross.
Usually, when someone is crowned king, it doesn’t go like that. Recently, with Prince William’s engagement, the cameras have zoomed in on Britain’s royal family, and some of that attention has fallen on Prince Charles, who will assume the throne once Queen Elizabeth dies. When that happens, we can expect an uber-extravagant coronation ceremony—an international television event with all eyes on the crown as it is carefully lowered onto Prince Charles’ head. Then at some point, there will be a grand pronouncement: “This is the king.”
The pronouncement of Jesus’ kingship wasn’t quite so austere. No pomp, no circumstance. Just a soldier’s spur-of-the-moment joke, hand-written on a sign that got tacked to the cross: “This is the King of the Jews.” A cruel, sober reminder that Jesus isn’t like other kings—that Jesus’ kingdom isn’t like other kingdoms. It’s sort of the upside down kingdom—the kingdom where the first are in fact last and the last are first, the poor are rich and the rich are poor, where the meek inherit everything. It’s the kingdom where you love your enemies and pray for the people who persecute you—the kingdom where you are blessed if you mourn, blessed if you hunger, and blessed if you thirst. It’s all upside down. It’s the kingdom where the King refuses to force anyone to do anything, but instead behaves like a servant. It’s the kingdom where the King is mocked as he is crowned.
Now today is Christ the King Sunday. In the church year, it’s the Sunday before we do it all over again—Advent, then Christmas, then Epiphany, then Ash Wednesday, Lent, Easter… The message of any self-respecting Christ the King Sunday is, well, that Jesus Christ is King and Lord. It’s really sort of an everyday message, much like “Christ is born” and “Christ is risen,” but if nothing else, Christ the King Sunday gives us a shove towards saying it more intentionally: Jesus Christ is King.
But maybe then the question remains for you and for me: What does it mean to say that? What does it mean to say, “Jesus Christ is King and Lord”?
There’s a great story about George Buttrick, one of the absolute best preachers of all time. I recently came across a list of the top ten preachers of the twentieth century. Buttrick came in at number three, right behind Billy Graham and right ahead of Martin Luther King Jr. He was a force.
Well anyway, Buttrick was on a flight once, heading back to New York City, where he served as a pastor, and he was jotting down some notes for his sermon the following Sunday. The man sitting next to him on the plane looked over several times, and finally his curiosity got the best of him and he said to Buttrick: “I hate to bother you—but what in the world are you working on?”
“Oh, I’m a minister,” Buttrick explained, “and I’m working on my sermon for Sunday.”
“Oh, religion,” said the man, “I don’t like to get all caught up in the in’s and out’s and complexities of religion. I like to keep it simple. ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ The Golden Rule—that’s my religion.”
“I see,” said Buttrick, “and what do you do?”
“I’m an astronomer,” said the man. “I teach at the university.”
“Oh yes,” said Buttrick, “Astronomy—I don’t like to get all caught up in the in’s and out’s and complexities of astronomy. Twinkle, twinkle little star—that’s my astronomy…” (1)
I suppose that in many ways, we tend to reduce Christianity to something we can manage. Maybe it’s the golden rule. Maybe it’s just trusting God and trying to be a good person. Maybe it’s showing up for church and looking for good advice to get you through the week.
But friends, we are citizens of the upside down kingdom. And central to our identity can be nothing other than this: Jesus Christ is King and Lord. Now maybe that language bothers you. Maybe you’re afraid of sounding like one of those crazy Christians on TV, or like that distant relative who shows up at family reunions and pesters everyone with his religious chatter.
But look at it this way: Someone is “Lord” in your life, or something is “Lord.” If there’s a throne in the kingdom of your life, it’s probably good to acknowledge that it seldom sits empty. Someone or something is always there, ruling over you. Now, in a self-reflective moment, you might say that that “someone” is you, actually. Oftentimes, we are the ones sitting on that throne, attempting to rule the life before us. Though even that is an oversimplification, because usually it’s just a part of us on the throne, calling the shots and attempting to be king.
Which part of you has been trying to rule your life lately?
Which part of your life is king and lord right now?
Is it the workaholic in you?
The voice in you that can’t imagine your life without your job?
Is it the part of you that thinks that a higher salary is your final ticket to joy?
What voice is ruling in your life?
The voice that says that if you could just lose ten pounds, you’d be happy?
Or are you being ruled by that inner voice that keeps telling you, over and over again that your job is to keep everybody happy, so don’t argue, don’t say what you really think, don’t make waves…
What is sitting on the throne of your life?
Is it a wound that you can’t let heal?
A past hurt that you can’t let go of?
Are you ruled by anger?
Or fear?
Is your king an attachment or an addiction?
Or is your “king” a certain belief you have, deep down, that the world would be a wonderful place if everybody could just see things your way?
Or in a strange way, is the king in your life your growing conviction that it just doesn’t matter anymore, so why try?
Today I want to encourage you to make room in the throne room of your soul for the One who turns all that stuff upside down.
If we were another church, I suppose this is where we’d stick the alter call. And if you wanted to publicly acknowledge Jesus as Lord, you could trot on up here and make it happen. But here’s the truth, friends—it already did happen. In Jesus Christ, God has already loved you with a love that you can’t do a darn thing about. You can’t make it more real by acknowledging it, just like you can’t make it less real by ignoring it. That's what grace is, by the way.
The real question is this: what does Christ as King mean for you today? Answering that question is not a once-in-a-lifetime moment, but rather a daily practice that we engage as we live forward in faith. God bless us as we do just that. Amen.
(1) This is a fairly well-known story, but I got it first from my friend Mark Ramsey, pastor of Grace Covenant Presbyterian Church in Asheville, NC, in his sermon "Uncomfortable" on June 20, 2010. You can read it here.
There was also an inscription over him, “This is the King of the Jews.”
Reading near the end of the gospel of Luke can feel like visiting a museum for the fiftieth time. We’ve seen it before—walked by this particular display on countless occasions. It’s the gruesome scene—Jesus’ final moments.
I don’t know about you, but I haven’t found too many museums that can hold my attention for much more than an hour, or maybe two. After that, I get glazed over and then it doesn’t matter what I’m looking at—a sixth century sword from the Byzantine Empire? An ancient Roman urn? One of Van Gogh’s finest? It’s not that I don’t appreciate great art and culture—I do. I’ve simply found that I can appreciate it more when I’ve liberated myself from having to appreciate it all at once. Give me one hour to find three or four things that I can truly stop and study any day, but please don’t ask me to try to see it all. I know myself—I’ll lose focus. I’ll get tired and crabby.
Sometimes the twenty-third chapter of Luke can feel like that tableau at the natural history museum that you’ve passed by dozens and dozens of times. We’ve read it. We’ve seen it. The Bible story, the passion play, the TV drama, the movie version… The Good Friday sermons and the Sunday school lessons… We hear the line, “they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left,” and we’re in territory that is perhaps too familiar—familiar enough, at least, so that nothing in the scene is sufficiently jarring enough to stop us in our tracks and make us linger for awhile.
Sometimes just one detail, though, is enough. Just one tiny detail—the inscription on the hilt of that particular sword, a chip in mouth of that urn, the brushstrokes Van Gogh used to make that one sunflower near the top… Sometimes a small detail is enough to draw us in, wondering anew about what it is we’re really looking at. I may not be able to lose an entire day at the museum, but I can get wonderfully lost in the right detail.
So let’s zoom in on our story a bit… See Jesus there, on the cross. He’s between two criminals, and he’s asking for forgiveness for these people who don’t know what they’re doing. Others are there, too—people who came to watch, and they’re just standing there, looking. Picture it all. A few more are grabbing at the clothes that have been stripped from Jesus. The soldiers are mocking him, offering cheap, sour wine. Someone from the crowd, a leader, shouts out, “let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” And this catches on. A soldier yells, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” And then even one of the criminals hanging there with Jesus says, “Yes! Save yourself and us!”
Zoom in a little more, and focus on this one detail. See that above Jesus’ head there’s a little sign hanging there, and it says, “This is the King of the Jews.” Dwell on that detail for a minute. It was a joke, really—a cruel joke someone thought of, maybe at the last minute. Was it one of the soldiers? Did he say to his friends, “Hey, I got an idea. Let’s make a sign and hang it on the cross. What should it say?” Or was he one of those who had been in the room when Pilate asked Jesus, “Are you the king of the Jews?” And maybe he heard Jesus respond: “You say so.” In any case, someone made that sign, the one that said, “This is the King of the Jews” and then attached it to the top of that cross.
Usually, when someone is crowned king, it doesn’t go like that. Recently, with Prince William’s engagement, the cameras have zoomed in on Britain’s royal family, and some of that attention has fallen on Prince Charles, who will assume the throne once Queen Elizabeth dies. When that happens, we can expect an uber-extravagant coronation ceremony—an international television event with all eyes on the crown as it is carefully lowered onto Prince Charles’ head. Then at some point, there will be a grand pronouncement: “This is the king.”
The pronouncement of Jesus’ kingship wasn’t quite so austere. No pomp, no circumstance. Just a soldier’s spur-of-the-moment joke, hand-written on a sign that got tacked to the cross: “This is the King of the Jews.” A cruel, sober reminder that Jesus isn’t like other kings—that Jesus’ kingdom isn’t like other kingdoms. It’s sort of the upside down kingdom—the kingdom where the first are in fact last and the last are first, the poor are rich and the rich are poor, where the meek inherit everything. It’s the kingdom where you love your enemies and pray for the people who persecute you—the kingdom where you are blessed if you mourn, blessed if you hunger, and blessed if you thirst. It’s all upside down. It’s the kingdom where the King refuses to force anyone to do anything, but instead behaves like a servant. It’s the kingdom where the King is mocked as he is crowned.
Now today is Christ the King Sunday. In the church year, it’s the Sunday before we do it all over again—Advent, then Christmas, then Epiphany, then Ash Wednesday, Lent, Easter… The message of any self-respecting Christ the King Sunday is, well, that Jesus Christ is King and Lord. It’s really sort of an everyday message, much like “Christ is born” and “Christ is risen,” but if nothing else, Christ the King Sunday gives us a shove towards saying it more intentionally: Jesus Christ is King.
But maybe then the question remains for you and for me: What does it mean to say that? What does it mean to say, “Jesus Christ is King and Lord”?
There’s a great story about George Buttrick, one of the absolute best preachers of all time. I recently came across a list of the top ten preachers of the twentieth century. Buttrick came in at number three, right behind Billy Graham and right ahead of Martin Luther King Jr. He was a force.
Well anyway, Buttrick was on a flight once, heading back to New York City, where he served as a pastor, and he was jotting down some notes for his sermon the following Sunday. The man sitting next to him on the plane looked over several times, and finally his curiosity got the best of him and he said to Buttrick: “I hate to bother you—but what in the world are you working on?”
“Oh, I’m a minister,” Buttrick explained, “and I’m working on my sermon for Sunday.”
“Oh, religion,” said the man, “I don’t like to get all caught up in the in’s and out’s and complexities of religion. I like to keep it simple. ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ The Golden Rule—that’s my religion.”
“I see,” said Buttrick, “and what do you do?”
“I’m an astronomer,” said the man. “I teach at the university.”
“Oh yes,” said Buttrick, “Astronomy—I don’t like to get all caught up in the in’s and out’s and complexities of astronomy. Twinkle, twinkle little star—that’s my astronomy…” (1)
I suppose that in many ways, we tend to reduce Christianity to something we can manage. Maybe it’s the golden rule. Maybe it’s just trusting God and trying to be a good person. Maybe it’s showing up for church and looking for good advice to get you through the week.
But friends, we are citizens of the upside down kingdom. And central to our identity can be nothing other than this: Jesus Christ is King and Lord. Now maybe that language bothers you. Maybe you’re afraid of sounding like one of those crazy Christians on TV, or like that distant relative who shows up at family reunions and pesters everyone with his religious chatter.
But look at it this way: Someone is “Lord” in your life, or something is “Lord.” If there’s a throne in the kingdom of your life, it’s probably good to acknowledge that it seldom sits empty. Someone or something is always there, ruling over you. Now, in a self-reflective moment, you might say that that “someone” is you, actually. Oftentimes, we are the ones sitting on that throne, attempting to rule the life before us. Though even that is an oversimplification, because usually it’s just a part of us on the throne, calling the shots and attempting to be king.
Which part of you has been trying to rule your life lately?
Which part of your life is king and lord right now?
Is it the workaholic in you?
The voice in you that can’t imagine your life without your job?
Is it the part of you that thinks that a higher salary is your final ticket to joy?
What voice is ruling in your life?
The voice that says that if you could just lose ten pounds, you’d be happy?
Or are you being ruled by that inner voice that keeps telling you, over and over again that your job is to keep everybody happy, so don’t argue, don’t say what you really think, don’t make waves…
What is sitting on the throne of your life?
Is it a wound that you can’t let heal?
A past hurt that you can’t let go of?
Are you ruled by anger?
Or fear?
Is your king an attachment or an addiction?
Or is your “king” a certain belief you have, deep down, that the world would be a wonderful place if everybody could just see things your way?
Or in a strange way, is the king in your life your growing conviction that it just doesn’t matter anymore, so why try?
Today I want to encourage you to make room in the throne room of your soul for the One who turns all that stuff upside down.
If we were another church, I suppose this is where we’d stick the alter call. And if you wanted to publicly acknowledge Jesus as Lord, you could trot on up here and make it happen. But here’s the truth, friends—it already did happen. In Jesus Christ, God has already loved you with a love that you can’t do a darn thing about. You can’t make it more real by acknowledging it, just like you can’t make it less real by ignoring it. That's what grace is, by the way.
The real question is this: what does Christ as King mean for you today? Answering that question is not a once-in-a-lifetime moment, but rather a daily practice that we engage as we live forward in faith. God bless us as we do just that. Amen.
(1) This is a fairly well-known story, but I got it first from my friend Mark Ramsey, pastor of Grace Covenant Presbyterian Church in Asheville, NC, in his sermon "Uncomfortable" on June 20, 2010. You can read it here.
Monday, November 8, 2010
"Busy" - Luke 10:38-42
Sermon on November 7, 2010
Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.” But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”
Daylight Savings Time has ended. You know this either because you remembered to set your clocks back last night, or because you showed up at church an hour early this morning and sat around waiting for the coffee to get done. That extra hour of sleep is always something to look forward to. Of course, if your family is like ours right now, you know that while you can set a clock back 60 minutes, you’ll have no such luck with a toddler, who cares nothing for daylight saved or spent.
We tried explaining all of this to Ezzy at bedtime last night, but to no avail. She is our consistent early riser, and Daylight Savings Time to her does not mean an extra hour of sleep, but rather an extra hour to run around the house at 4:30 in the morning. So she was up five hours ago, ready to get busy with her day—ready to keep us busy with her day…
I want to talk about being busy this morning. Are you busy? Have you been busy lately? Is that a good thing in your mind?
Maybe you’ve heard this one before. A man grows up in a small town, heads off to college and then to law school. He passes the bar, and then returns home, a new lawyer. He’s eager to get going, and perhaps to be a man of importance in this small town where he grew up. He opens a new law practice, but business is slow at first. In fact, he doesn’t have a single client yet.
But then one day, he sees a man coming up the sidewalk, and figures he should probably try to make a big impression on this prospective client. So as the man comes to the door, the young lawyer picks up the phone. He motions for the man to come in and sit down, all the while talking on the phone: “No. Absolutely not. You tell those clowns in New York that I won't settle this case for less than one million. Yes. Tell the DA that I'll meet with him next week to discuss the details.”
He goes on like this for almost five minutes, while the man sits there patiently. Finally, the lawyer puts down the phone and turns to the man. “I'm sorry for the delay, but as you can see, I'm very busy. What can I do for you?”
The man replies, “I'm from the phone company. I came to hook up your phone.”
We like being thought of as busy people.
On Wednesday night we had our monthly Taizé worship service here in the sanctuary. One of the things I’ve come to love about that service is its quiet, reflective mood. There’s no sermon at our Taizé service—instead we share ten minutes of absolute silence, sitting here in the dark with some candles burning up front. It’s a beautiful time to be mindful and prayerful with God.
This past Wednesday, though, I caught myself during that silent time struggling to actually be quiet. I was sitting still in one of the pews back there, and though I wasn’t making any noise, I certainly wasn’t “quiet.” My mind was racing with the things I still needed to get done—lists to take care of, issues to think about, phone calls to make… I think I spent five of my ten silent minutes just trying to be silent.
Maybe you’ve been there too. If not at Taizé worship, then perhaps here, on Sunday morning. It takes intentional time to shrug off the busy-ness of the week—the scheduling and rescheduling, mental notes and unfinished lists, and the weekly scrum of work, school, soccer practice, piano lessons, doctors’ visits, birthday parties, board meetings, and fundraisers—not to mention all the church stuff going on.
As a pastor, one thing I know for sure is that no one needs more stuff to do. Nobody shows up at church these days saying, “Please, help me max out my schedule this week—I’m not busy enough.”
If anything, we come to worship on Sunday morning looking for some shelter from it all—a chance to step away from the rush and the clutter—to be, perhaps, in one agenda-less moment with God and with our faith family.
And yet church life itself brings its own kind of busy into our lives. Let me remind you that none of you go to church; rather, you are the church. And being the church means more than the confines of a Sunday morning worship service.
In his gospel, Luke tells the story of two women, Mary and Martha, who welcome Jesus into their home. Martha does what a lot of us might do if the Son of God showed up at our place. She cleans, she sweeps, she fires up the stove and gets supper going. This isn’t just any houseguest, mind you, so she tackles that recipe she’s been saving, the one with the blanching and the braising and the mincing—the one that uses every pan in the kitchen.
She’s setting the table, getting the drinks ready, trying to keep the counter clean, thinking ahead to dessert, and wondering just where in God’s name her sister is! Mary is in the other room. She’s sitting at Jesus’ feet. Listening.
Can you hear what Martha is muttering under her breath? “Well, I guess in Mary’s world, food for Jesus just cooks itself!” She paces back and forth, getting more and more irritated with Mary for just sitting there, not helping out. Finally she can’t take it anymore, so she comes into the room. She doesn’t even talk to Mary—maybe she’s too mad. Instead she says to Jesus, “Don’t you care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself?”
I wonder what Martha wanted to hear. I wonder if she wanted Jesus to say, “Yes, Martha! You’re right! Mary, don’t you see how hard your sister is working? Are you going to leave her to do it all alone? Oh, poor Martha—you’ve been slaving away in that kitchen. How can we help?”
That’s not what Martha heard. I’m sure she didn’t expect Jesus to say what he did. “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”
That’s where the story ends. And we’re left to wonder what happened next. Did Martha literally throw in the towel and join Mary at Jesus’ feet? Did she keep cooking? Did anybody eat anything that afternoon?
This morning I’d like to use this story of Mary and Martha to help us think about the busy-ness of our own lives.
Being a Christian might make you busy, but being busy does not necessarily make you a Christian. I think most of us would accept this to be true, and yet when we’re asked to describe our presence in the Christian faith, most of us most of the time lead with those things that make us busy. Choir, Sunday school, the mission committee, bells, buildings and grounds, youth group, potlucks, senior gems, fellowship… The list goes on and on of all those things that can keep a church busy for years and years.
For many of us, our busy-ness in the church mirrors our busy-ness in the rest of our lives. High-functioning, sometimes over-functioning… Scheduled, sometimes over-scheduled… Often not a minute to spare, sometimes not a second to spare… We look forward to a vacation, to a weekend, even, when we can unplug and enjoy some free time, but then we find that we tend to over-program and over-schedule our free time, too.
Now, let’s not completely discount busy-ness. Much of the time, we’re busy with things that we love. And being busy, we get things done—things that we’re passionate about, things that give us life and energy. The problem, of course, is this: we tend to define ourselves by what we do, and not by who we are.
Right? You meet someone for the first time.“What do you do?” they ask. It’s not just a conversation piece. It’s a basic assumption in our society that what we do defines us.
Jesus says to Martha, “Martha, dear, this isn’t about what you do. It’s about who you are.” And this is where Luke’s gospel becomes clear. Mary is sitting at Jesus’ feet.This is where disciples sat—at their teacher’s feet. Sitting at Jesus’ feet, Mary isn’t shirking her responsibilities as a host; she’s claiming her identity as a follower of Jesus.
And Jesus says, “Martha, there is only need of one thing, and Mary has chosen it.”
This month we find ourselves in season of Stewardship. By now you’ve received a pledge card in mail. And for the last week, perhaps, you’ve been asking yourself, “What did we pledge this year?” “What can we afford to give next year?”
I want to warn you. Stewardship can become like all the other things that occupy our busy thoughts and anxieties and activities in the church. Filling out that pledge card may feel to you like “one more thing” to take care of in a busy week.
The first stewardship question I want to invite you all to ask is not, “How much can we spare?” or even “How much does the church need?”
The first question to consider is this: WHO AM I?
This was Mary’s first question when Jesus came into her home. Not “What should I do to get ready?” or even “What’s for supper?”
Her first question was this: WHO AM I? And answering that question, the busy-ness of the day faded away and she sat a Jesus’ feet to listen and learn.
I want to be clear about something this stewardship season. You are not a “giver.” You are not a “pledging unit.” You are a disciple of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. And everything, everything, EVERYTHING—stewardship included— begins there.
Amen
Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.” But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”
Daylight Savings Time has ended. You know this either because you remembered to set your clocks back last night, or because you showed up at church an hour early this morning and sat around waiting for the coffee to get done. That extra hour of sleep is always something to look forward to. Of course, if your family is like ours right now, you know that while you can set a clock back 60 minutes, you’ll have no such luck with a toddler, who cares nothing for daylight saved or spent.
We tried explaining all of this to Ezzy at bedtime last night, but to no avail. She is our consistent early riser, and Daylight Savings Time to her does not mean an extra hour of sleep, but rather an extra hour to run around the house at 4:30 in the morning. So she was up five hours ago, ready to get busy with her day—ready to keep us busy with her day…
I want to talk about being busy this morning. Are you busy? Have you been busy lately? Is that a good thing in your mind?
Maybe you’ve heard this one before. A man grows up in a small town, heads off to college and then to law school. He passes the bar, and then returns home, a new lawyer. He’s eager to get going, and perhaps to be a man of importance in this small town where he grew up. He opens a new law practice, but business is slow at first. In fact, he doesn’t have a single client yet.
But then one day, he sees a man coming up the sidewalk, and figures he should probably try to make a big impression on this prospective client. So as the man comes to the door, the young lawyer picks up the phone. He motions for the man to come in and sit down, all the while talking on the phone: “No. Absolutely not. You tell those clowns in New York that I won't settle this case for less than one million. Yes. Tell the DA that I'll meet with him next week to discuss the details.”
He goes on like this for almost five minutes, while the man sits there patiently. Finally, the lawyer puts down the phone and turns to the man. “I'm sorry for the delay, but as you can see, I'm very busy. What can I do for you?”
The man replies, “I'm from the phone company. I came to hook up your phone.”
We like being thought of as busy people.
On Wednesday night we had our monthly Taizé worship service here in the sanctuary. One of the things I’ve come to love about that service is its quiet, reflective mood. There’s no sermon at our Taizé service—instead we share ten minutes of absolute silence, sitting here in the dark with some candles burning up front. It’s a beautiful time to be mindful and prayerful with God.
This past Wednesday, though, I caught myself during that silent time struggling to actually be quiet. I was sitting still in one of the pews back there, and though I wasn’t making any noise, I certainly wasn’t “quiet.” My mind was racing with the things I still needed to get done—lists to take care of, issues to think about, phone calls to make… I think I spent five of my ten silent minutes just trying to be silent.
Maybe you’ve been there too. If not at Taizé worship, then perhaps here, on Sunday morning. It takes intentional time to shrug off the busy-ness of the week—the scheduling and rescheduling, mental notes and unfinished lists, and the weekly scrum of work, school, soccer practice, piano lessons, doctors’ visits, birthday parties, board meetings, and fundraisers—not to mention all the church stuff going on.
As a pastor, one thing I know for sure is that no one needs more stuff to do. Nobody shows up at church these days saying, “Please, help me max out my schedule this week—I’m not busy enough.”
If anything, we come to worship on Sunday morning looking for some shelter from it all—a chance to step away from the rush and the clutter—to be, perhaps, in one agenda-less moment with God and with our faith family.
And yet church life itself brings its own kind of busy into our lives. Let me remind you that none of you go to church; rather, you are the church. And being the church means more than the confines of a Sunday morning worship service.
In his gospel, Luke tells the story of two women, Mary and Martha, who welcome Jesus into their home. Martha does what a lot of us might do if the Son of God showed up at our place. She cleans, she sweeps, she fires up the stove and gets supper going. This isn’t just any houseguest, mind you, so she tackles that recipe she’s been saving, the one with the blanching and the braising and the mincing—the one that uses every pan in the kitchen.
She’s setting the table, getting the drinks ready, trying to keep the counter clean, thinking ahead to dessert, and wondering just where in God’s name her sister is! Mary is in the other room. She’s sitting at Jesus’ feet. Listening.
Can you hear what Martha is muttering under her breath? “Well, I guess in Mary’s world, food for Jesus just cooks itself!” She paces back and forth, getting more and more irritated with Mary for just sitting there, not helping out. Finally she can’t take it anymore, so she comes into the room. She doesn’t even talk to Mary—maybe she’s too mad. Instead she says to Jesus, “Don’t you care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself?”
I wonder what Martha wanted to hear. I wonder if she wanted Jesus to say, “Yes, Martha! You’re right! Mary, don’t you see how hard your sister is working? Are you going to leave her to do it all alone? Oh, poor Martha—you’ve been slaving away in that kitchen. How can we help?”
That’s not what Martha heard. I’m sure she didn’t expect Jesus to say what he did. “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”
That’s where the story ends. And we’re left to wonder what happened next. Did Martha literally throw in the towel and join Mary at Jesus’ feet? Did she keep cooking? Did anybody eat anything that afternoon?
This morning I’d like to use this story of Mary and Martha to help us think about the busy-ness of our own lives.
Being a Christian might make you busy, but being busy does not necessarily make you a Christian. I think most of us would accept this to be true, and yet when we’re asked to describe our presence in the Christian faith, most of us most of the time lead with those things that make us busy. Choir, Sunday school, the mission committee, bells, buildings and grounds, youth group, potlucks, senior gems, fellowship… The list goes on and on of all those things that can keep a church busy for years and years.
For many of us, our busy-ness in the church mirrors our busy-ness in the rest of our lives. High-functioning, sometimes over-functioning… Scheduled, sometimes over-scheduled… Often not a minute to spare, sometimes not a second to spare… We look forward to a vacation, to a weekend, even, when we can unplug and enjoy some free time, but then we find that we tend to over-program and over-schedule our free time, too.
Now, let’s not completely discount busy-ness. Much of the time, we’re busy with things that we love. And being busy, we get things done—things that we’re passionate about, things that give us life and energy. The problem, of course, is this: we tend to define ourselves by what we do, and not by who we are.
Right? You meet someone for the first time.“What do you do?” they ask. It’s not just a conversation piece. It’s a basic assumption in our society that what we do defines us.
Jesus says to Martha, “Martha, dear, this isn’t about what you do. It’s about who you are.” And this is where Luke’s gospel becomes clear. Mary is sitting at Jesus’ feet.This is where disciples sat—at their teacher’s feet. Sitting at Jesus’ feet, Mary isn’t shirking her responsibilities as a host; she’s claiming her identity as a follower of Jesus.
And Jesus says, “Martha, there is only need of one thing, and Mary has chosen it.”
This month we find ourselves in season of Stewardship. By now you’ve received a pledge card in mail. And for the last week, perhaps, you’ve been asking yourself, “What did we pledge this year?” “What can we afford to give next year?”
I want to warn you. Stewardship can become like all the other things that occupy our busy thoughts and anxieties and activities in the church. Filling out that pledge card may feel to you like “one more thing” to take care of in a busy week.
The first stewardship question I want to invite you all to ask is not, “How much can we spare?” or even “How much does the church need?”
The first question to consider is this: WHO AM I?
This was Mary’s first question when Jesus came into her home. Not “What should I do to get ready?” or even “What’s for supper?”
Her first question was this: WHO AM I? And answering that question, the busy-ness of the day faded away and she sat a Jesus’ feet to listen and learn.
I want to be clear about something this stewardship season. You are not a “giver.” You are not a “pledging unit.” You are a disciple of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. And everything, everything, EVERYTHING—stewardship included— begins there.
Amen
Monday, November 1, 2010
"A Private Conversation" - Luke 19:1-10
Sermon on Sunday, October 31, 2010
Jericho. Our story from Luke’s gospel takes place in the city of Jericho. But before we get to Zacchaeus climbing a tree to see Jesus, you should know something about Jericho. You see, in New Testament times, there were just two major highways in all of Israel, and one of them ran right through Jericho. This alone made Jericho a strategic city at the time, but there’s more.
To understand Jericho’s location in Jesus’ day, let’s picture ourselves traveling from Madison to Milwaukee. Obviously it makes sense to take I-94 straight across. Only in this case, the people living along the interstate are hostile enemies. Oconomowoc, Delafield, Waukesha—all full of people who are likely to mug us on our way.
So instead of traveling straight east, we’re going to dip south, almost to the Illinois border, then move east through Lake Geneva, and push on, all the way to Kenosha before heading back north along the lake. Inevitably, we’re going to come through Racine on our way to Milwaukee. But now here’s the rub—in order to travel through Racine, we’ve got to pay a toll. Racine is the customs station between Madison and Milwaukee. Are you riding a camel? There’s a fee for that. Got any cows? Any goats? There are fees for those too. Oxen pulling a cart? How many axles? There’s a fee for that.
This was Jericho during Jesus’ day. And folks didn’t have a choice. Coming to Jerusalem during the Passover, they didn’t want to travel through Samaria, for fear of what might happen to them, so they took the long way around—on a highway that took them straight through Jericho. During the Passover, Jerusalem swelled with at least several hundred thousand out-of-towners, so Jericho itself became a bit like Racine on a Fourth of July weekend—packed with people. And every single one of them had to pay.
Now where did all those tax dollars go? Jericho schools? The Jericho senior center? New recycling bins? No, the travel tax went to Rome. Keep in mind that the Roman Empire had control over Israel at this time in history. Caesar looked at Jericho and all those Jewish families passing through, year after year, and said to himself, I believe we can make some serious money off of this! So the taxes didn’t stay in Jericho—they went straight to Rome. Except…
Except that someone had to collect the tax, right? Someone had to be the one to make sure everybody paid—to make sure that every calf, ram, sheep, goat, donkey, and ox was charged on its way through town. After all, you can’t have taxes without a tax collector, right? This was Zacchaeus. Zacchaeus was the chief tax collector in all of Jericho, the most lucrative city for tax collectors in all of Israel. And here’s what Rome said to tax collectors like Zacchaeus: “We don’t care what you charge—just so long as we get our cut.” And so guys like Zacchaeus charged people though the nose, sent a portion to Rome, and pocketed the rest. Zacchaeus, the chief tax collector of Jericho, was filthy rich. Which is really quite ironic—the name, “Zacchaeus” means “clean” or “innocent.”
Jesus came to Jericho, and by this time he had true celebrity status. He’d raised the dead, healed the sick, restored sight to the blind… Already we had tens of thousands flocking through Jericho to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover. Once word got out that Jesus was among them, they all strained to catch a glimpse—to hear Jesus speak, to watch him heal, or to be healed themselves. Now this really was like Racine on the Fourth of July—a parade crowd waiting for Jesus to come by! And Zacchaeus couldn’t find a seat.
Luke says that Zacchaeus was short, and so that’s why he had to climb a sycamore tree to see Jesus. But I wonder if there wasn’t more to it than that. I wonder if Zacchaeus had any friends—anyone to sit with along the parade route while they waited for Jesus—anyone who’d make room for him on their blanket, maybe share a cheese sandwich and a drink. Anyone? No. You don’t make too many friends by gouging money from them, so Zacchaeus’ best seat was alone, up the tree.
It must have come as quite a shock when Jesus stopped by that tree and looked up. Clearly he was staring right at Zacchaeus. And you know what I think? I think that the crowd gathered around saw Jesus look up that tree, and they thought to themselves, “Oh this is going to be good. Zacchaeus, the “pure” and “innocent” one is going to get his now—and we get to watch!” Every vindictive bone in every single body there was twitching—ready to watch Jesus give Zacchaeus what he had coming: judgment for every dime he squeezed out of the people, judgment for lining his pockets and living the high life in a poor city, judgment for turning his back on Israel for the sake of Rome.
Jesus said, “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.” And two things happened. One, the people went ballistic. “What?!? Are you kidding, Jesus? Obviously you have no idea who this guy is! He’s a sinner! The worst of the worst!” Someone might have yelled out, “Hey, Jesus—I thought you said, ‘Blessed are the meek.’” And in fact, I bet there were some who gave up on Jesus right then and there—“Well, forget it. No friend of Zacchaeus is a friend of mine”—and they walked away.
The second thing that happened was this: Zacchaeus got out of the tree. Luke says that Zacchaeus “hurried down and was happy to welcome Jesus,” but I picture him scrambling down out of that tree as fast as he possibly could. And you know what? Zacchaeus might have been thinking the same thing the people were: “What? Are you kidding, Jesus? Obviously you have no idea who I am. I’m a sinner. The worst of the worst.”
Jesus followed Zacchaeus to his home, and the two men went in. And what we have next in Luke’s gospel is a private conversation. We don’t know how it went. We don’t know what Jesus said or how Zacchaeus took it. What we do know is that when all was said and done, Zacchaeus was ready to give half his stuff to the poor and to pay four times back to anyone he’d ever cheated.
But what happened in Zacchaeus’ house? What went on in there? We’ll never know, except to say that a radical transformation occurred.
Now few of us here would easily identify ourselves with Zacchaeus. His extreme wealth, coupled with his extreme social isolation make him one with whom you might not have much in common. I do wonder, however, if there aren’t two moments in Zacchaeus’ story that might help us think about our faith lives.
The first is a private conversation with Jesus. A turn-off-the-cell-phone, sit-down-and-get-serious private conversation with Jesus. Sure, you go to church, you sing in the choir, you teach Sunday school, you read up on theology and read the Bible from time to time. Sure, you show up at church most Sundays, you hang out with church friends… you even act like a Christian most of the time! You help out at the food pantry, you volunteer at the shelter, you look for ways that you can “live out your faith.” All of that is great—just great! But sooner or later, and then hopefully often, you need to have a private conversation with Jesus.
No one else needs to know about it at that point. The whole city of Jericho might be loitering outside, but inside, it’s just you and Jesus. When’s the last time you had that private conversation? The one where you let Jesus in, skip the chit-chat, and get down to what’s real. This is the private conversation where you let Jesus have his say—the one where he says to you, “Zacchaeus, there’s a reason why I’m here in your life. I want you. Not just a part of you. I want all of you. Not just your Sunday best, or you on your best behavior—I want you. Follow me.”
Jesus says, “I know about the parts of you that you try to hide. The insecure you. The me-first you. The part of you that you keep hidden from your family and friends—the selfish you, the cruel you.” Keep in mind that Zacchaeus was selfish and cruel in a city where it paid handsomely to be selfish and cruel. Jesus says, “This isn’t about what you’ve done—it’s about what you’re going to do. And I want in.”
The second moment in the Zacchaeus story that can help us think about our own lives of faith is that moment when Zacchaeus goes public. We’re not sure how this went down. Maybe he said it just to Jesus, but I picture Zacchaeus running out onto the front porch of his house and announcing, “Hey world! I’m giving away half of everything! And to the people I’ve cheated: I’m paying you back times four!”
Faith, and the conversations we have with Jesus, are private, but at some point and in some way, we need to go public.
I recently stumbled across a website called “privatefaith.com.” Here’s what it says on their homepage: “Here there are no rules except those that you create for yourself with God. All people are accepted as you are. Please consider joining this new religion if you think it is right for you.” You can join the “church” at privatefaith.com by just telling them you’re “in.” And as its title would suggest, your presence there is completely private.
Now while I can appreciate and honor someone’s desire for privacy when it comes to his or her relationship with God, the simple truth of the matter is that Christianity is not a private religion! At some point we need to go public with our faith. The private commitments we make in our private conversations with Jesus must have public ramifications.
Jesus said, “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house.” (Matthew 5:14-15)
How will you “go public” today? This week? In what way will you allow Christ’s lordship in your life move you to act? Will it be an act of compassion? Will it be a radical act of commitment? Will you give away half of your wealth? Will you give anything away? You don’t have to answer yet. Have that private conversation with Jesus first. And listen to what he wants you to do. Amen.
Jericho. Our story from Luke’s gospel takes place in the city of Jericho. But before we get to Zacchaeus climbing a tree to see Jesus, you should know something about Jericho. You see, in New Testament times, there were just two major highways in all of Israel, and one of them ran right through Jericho. This alone made Jericho a strategic city at the time, but there’s more.
To understand Jericho’s location in Jesus’ day, let’s picture ourselves traveling from Madison to Milwaukee. Obviously it makes sense to take I-94 straight across. Only in this case, the people living along the interstate are hostile enemies. Oconomowoc, Delafield, Waukesha—all full of people who are likely to mug us on our way.
So instead of traveling straight east, we’re going to dip south, almost to the Illinois border, then move east through Lake Geneva, and push on, all the way to Kenosha before heading back north along the lake. Inevitably, we’re going to come through Racine on our way to Milwaukee. But now here’s the rub—in order to travel through Racine, we’ve got to pay a toll. Racine is the customs station between Madison and Milwaukee. Are you riding a camel? There’s a fee for that. Got any cows? Any goats? There are fees for those too. Oxen pulling a cart? How many axles? There’s a fee for that.
This was Jericho during Jesus’ day. And folks didn’t have a choice. Coming to Jerusalem during the Passover, they didn’t want to travel through Samaria, for fear of what might happen to them, so they took the long way around—on a highway that took them straight through Jericho. During the Passover, Jerusalem swelled with at least several hundred thousand out-of-towners, so Jericho itself became a bit like Racine on a Fourth of July weekend—packed with people. And every single one of them had to pay.
Now where did all those tax dollars go? Jericho schools? The Jericho senior center? New recycling bins? No, the travel tax went to Rome. Keep in mind that the Roman Empire had control over Israel at this time in history. Caesar looked at Jericho and all those Jewish families passing through, year after year, and said to himself, I believe we can make some serious money off of this! So the taxes didn’t stay in Jericho—they went straight to Rome. Except…
Except that someone had to collect the tax, right? Someone had to be the one to make sure everybody paid—to make sure that every calf, ram, sheep, goat, donkey, and ox was charged on its way through town. After all, you can’t have taxes without a tax collector, right? This was Zacchaeus. Zacchaeus was the chief tax collector in all of Jericho, the most lucrative city for tax collectors in all of Israel. And here’s what Rome said to tax collectors like Zacchaeus: “We don’t care what you charge—just so long as we get our cut.” And so guys like Zacchaeus charged people though the nose, sent a portion to Rome, and pocketed the rest. Zacchaeus, the chief tax collector of Jericho, was filthy rich. Which is really quite ironic—the name, “Zacchaeus” means “clean” or “innocent.”
Jesus came to Jericho, and by this time he had true celebrity status. He’d raised the dead, healed the sick, restored sight to the blind… Already we had tens of thousands flocking through Jericho to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover. Once word got out that Jesus was among them, they all strained to catch a glimpse—to hear Jesus speak, to watch him heal, or to be healed themselves. Now this really was like Racine on the Fourth of July—a parade crowd waiting for Jesus to come by! And Zacchaeus couldn’t find a seat.
Luke says that Zacchaeus was short, and so that’s why he had to climb a sycamore tree to see Jesus. But I wonder if there wasn’t more to it than that. I wonder if Zacchaeus had any friends—anyone to sit with along the parade route while they waited for Jesus—anyone who’d make room for him on their blanket, maybe share a cheese sandwich and a drink. Anyone? No. You don’t make too many friends by gouging money from them, so Zacchaeus’ best seat was alone, up the tree.
It must have come as quite a shock when Jesus stopped by that tree and looked up. Clearly he was staring right at Zacchaeus. And you know what I think? I think that the crowd gathered around saw Jesus look up that tree, and they thought to themselves, “Oh this is going to be good. Zacchaeus, the “pure” and “innocent” one is going to get his now—and we get to watch!” Every vindictive bone in every single body there was twitching—ready to watch Jesus give Zacchaeus what he had coming: judgment for every dime he squeezed out of the people, judgment for lining his pockets and living the high life in a poor city, judgment for turning his back on Israel for the sake of Rome.
Jesus said, “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.” And two things happened. One, the people went ballistic. “What?!? Are you kidding, Jesus? Obviously you have no idea who this guy is! He’s a sinner! The worst of the worst!” Someone might have yelled out, “Hey, Jesus—I thought you said, ‘Blessed are the meek.’” And in fact, I bet there were some who gave up on Jesus right then and there—“Well, forget it. No friend of Zacchaeus is a friend of mine”—and they walked away.
The second thing that happened was this: Zacchaeus got out of the tree. Luke says that Zacchaeus “hurried down and was happy to welcome Jesus,” but I picture him scrambling down out of that tree as fast as he possibly could. And you know what? Zacchaeus might have been thinking the same thing the people were: “What? Are you kidding, Jesus? Obviously you have no idea who I am. I’m a sinner. The worst of the worst.”
Jesus followed Zacchaeus to his home, and the two men went in. And what we have next in Luke’s gospel is a private conversation. We don’t know how it went. We don’t know what Jesus said or how Zacchaeus took it. What we do know is that when all was said and done, Zacchaeus was ready to give half his stuff to the poor and to pay four times back to anyone he’d ever cheated.
But what happened in Zacchaeus’ house? What went on in there? We’ll never know, except to say that a radical transformation occurred.
Now few of us here would easily identify ourselves with Zacchaeus. His extreme wealth, coupled with his extreme social isolation make him one with whom you might not have much in common. I do wonder, however, if there aren’t two moments in Zacchaeus’ story that might help us think about our faith lives.
The first is a private conversation with Jesus. A turn-off-the-cell-phone, sit-down-and-get-serious private conversation with Jesus. Sure, you go to church, you sing in the choir, you teach Sunday school, you read up on theology and read the Bible from time to time. Sure, you show up at church most Sundays, you hang out with church friends… you even act like a Christian most of the time! You help out at the food pantry, you volunteer at the shelter, you look for ways that you can “live out your faith.” All of that is great—just great! But sooner or later, and then hopefully often, you need to have a private conversation with Jesus.
No one else needs to know about it at that point. The whole city of Jericho might be loitering outside, but inside, it’s just you and Jesus. When’s the last time you had that private conversation? The one where you let Jesus in, skip the chit-chat, and get down to what’s real. This is the private conversation where you let Jesus have his say—the one where he says to you, “Zacchaeus, there’s a reason why I’m here in your life. I want you. Not just a part of you. I want all of you. Not just your Sunday best, or you on your best behavior—I want you. Follow me.”
Jesus says, “I know about the parts of you that you try to hide. The insecure you. The me-first you. The part of you that you keep hidden from your family and friends—the selfish you, the cruel you.” Keep in mind that Zacchaeus was selfish and cruel in a city where it paid handsomely to be selfish and cruel. Jesus says, “This isn’t about what you’ve done—it’s about what you’re going to do. And I want in.”
The second moment in the Zacchaeus story that can help us think about our own lives of faith is that moment when Zacchaeus goes public. We’re not sure how this went down. Maybe he said it just to Jesus, but I picture Zacchaeus running out onto the front porch of his house and announcing, “Hey world! I’m giving away half of everything! And to the people I’ve cheated: I’m paying you back times four!”
Faith, and the conversations we have with Jesus, are private, but at some point and in some way, we need to go public.
I recently stumbled across a website called “privatefaith.com.” Here’s what it says on their homepage: “Here there are no rules except those that you create for yourself with God. All people are accepted as you are. Please consider joining this new religion if you think it is right for you.” You can join the “church” at privatefaith.com by just telling them you’re “in.” And as its title would suggest, your presence there is completely private.
Now while I can appreciate and honor someone’s desire for privacy when it comes to his or her relationship with God, the simple truth of the matter is that Christianity is not a private religion! At some point we need to go public with our faith. The private commitments we make in our private conversations with Jesus must have public ramifications.
Jesus said, “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house.” (Matthew 5:14-15)
How will you “go public” today? This week? In what way will you allow Christ’s lordship in your life move you to act? Will it be an act of compassion? Will it be a radical act of commitment? Will you give away half of your wealth? Will you give anything away? You don’t have to answer yet. Have that private conversation with Jesus first. And listen to what he wants you to do. Amen.
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