It was time for a change, so Saying Graces has moved. Come on over to www.SayingGraces.com
Peace,
Ben
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
"Theirs is the Kingdom" - Matthew 5:1-12
Sermon on January 30, 2011
When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying:
‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
‘Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
‘Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
‘Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.
‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
‘Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
‘Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. 12Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.
I have more books than I know what to do with. Last weekend during the overnight retreat for our confirmation class, we took the confirmands into my office and into Amy’s office, simply to say that they were welcome there - welcome to come and visit, to chat, to say what’s on their minds… I have hundreds of books in my office on the shelves. Some are neatly categorized according to subject matter, and quite a few more are just stuck somewhere. I told the confirmation class, “If you ever want to read an interesting book about God, I’ve probably got one here for you. And if you ever want to read a book that will bore you to absolute tears, I’ve unfortunately got a few of those too.”
There are a few books on my office shelves that have been with me for more than twelve years, but not many. It was about twelve years ago now that I applied to be a student at McCormick Theological Seminary in Chicago, and thus began a book collection that my reading will likely struggle to keep up with for the rest of my life. But I have a few theological books, just a few, that predate any notion I ever had of seminary. Not long ago I became curious about those books - just personally curious about how they might have influenced me before I even considered being a pastor.
One of those books is called Theirs is the Kingdom: Celebrating the Gospel in Urban America, by Robert D. Lupton. I received that book when I was 19 years old. During my sophomore and junior years of college, I spent my spring breaks working with an organization called the Chicago Urban Project. Located in the Austin neighborhood of Chicago’s west side, the Urban Project works to empower families struggling in the midst of poverty. Theirs is the Kingdom was given to me by a man named John Hochevar, who was the project’s director.
John was a pretty amazing guy. He’s been ministering on the streets of the west side of Chicago for the better part of three decades now, reaching out to the poor, the homeless, the addicted, the lost… John was the first person I ever met who so clearly helped me understand the connection between our physical and spiritual salvations. God wants goodness and wholeness to be ours for all eternity, yes. But God also wants goodness and wholeness in our lives today, right now.
John was full of stories. Of course, working in a community where gangs ruled the streets and prostitutes strolled back and forth right in front of your church, you’d have to be full of stories, wouldn’t you? Once he told me about a time he got robbed. It was after dark, and he and one of his staff interns were coming home late from a meeting. They were driving through a horrible section of the neighborhood - a place known for continual violence and crime. In the middle of that neighborhood, the car broke down. Just sputtered to a stop. John coasted to the side of the road, put the car in park, and looked at his intern. “We’re in trouble,” he said, “so let’s pray.”
John and this intern began to pray, but not for long. A few men who had noticed the car dying surrounded the car, forced them out, and took everything they had, including their shoes. At one point, John said that he was frantically trying to pull his wedding band off of his finger because the robbers said that they would cut it off if he couldn’t. And they would have.
The robbers left, and there they were. No money, no shoes, (no cell phones, mind you, this was the 1980’s), stranded in the dark streets of this violent Chicago neighborhood. What would you do? I suppose instinct would tell you to get back in that car and hide. Maybe peek out from time to time and hope that a squad car came by. But John must have had Matthew 5:12 in his head: “Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven,” because instead of hiding in the car, he climbed right up on top of it. He sat himself up there on the roof of his car and began singing. “A Mighty Fortress is Our God,” “Amazing Grace,” at the top of his lungs, hymn after hymn after hymn, until help finally came. “They might think I’m crazy,” he said, “but at least they’ll see I’ve already been robbed, and they’ll also know why I’m here.”
As a young college kid from the safe suburbs, I was amazed by John’s commitment to God and to the city. So maybe it’s no surprise that I’m here, twenty-one years later with you in this city. I saw God’s heart for the city long before I ever saw myself in ministry.
It was just three years ago now that I began to have some conversation with others and a few of you about the possibility of ministry here at First Presbyterian in Racine. So many moments in that story confirmed that yes, this was where we needed to be, but I can remember one thing early on that drew me to you and to this church. I read in the material that the search committee had compiled that this congregation had made a conscious decision to remain here, in the city. On coming to Racine and seeing this building for the first time, I thought to myself, “Yes. This is where a church needs to be! In the city. Right next to downtown. Coffee shops and bars, the courthouse and a few abandoned storefronts. A neighborhood struggling with poverty. If you asked me where I’d put a church if I could, it would be here.” From the beginning I’ve been drawn to the fact that First Presbyterian Church is a church in the city.
During Jesus’ first sermon in Matthew’s gospel, he blesses so many of those who we see living in our cities.
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven…
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted…
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth…
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness…
Cities have a way of amplifying human brokenness. A church that would choose to situate itself in a city must be a church that is willing to confront that brokenness and, like Jesus, bless those who are meek, those who are poor in spirit, those who hunger and thirst…
Today after worship, this congregation will hold its 172nd annual congregational meeting. During the past 172 years, the city around us has changed quite a bit, hasn’t it? At one time, we were pretty much on the edge of town. Now we’re in the middle of it. This church has seen the surrounding blocks go through change after change after change. Property values rising and falling. Businesses coming and going. People and families changing…
I’m glad we’re here. And when I say that, I don’t mean to just say that I’m glad we’re alive and awake. I mean that I’m glad we’re sitting here on the corner of 7th and College, here in this city where the need is great and where churches willing to face that need have an opportunity to embody God’s love in a unique way.
I know of churches in the suburbs and churches in rural areas that are struggling to figure out how they might reach out and care for others. But you and I - we can walk out any door of this church or look through any window and see the need around us.
Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, which begins with our passage today, is a sermon to people who, like us, live and worship in the midst of a broken world. Jesus speaks to people who are perhaps tired of the way the world around them has defined what it means to “be blessed.”
To a world that says you’re blessed if you have a six-figure income, Jesus says you’re blessed if you’re poor in spirit. To a world that says you’re blessed if you’re happy, Jesus says you’re blessed even when you mourn. To a world that says you’re blessed if secure in your finances and insulated against a bad economy, Jesus says you’re blessed if you’re simply meek, and that the inheritance of the earth is yours.
Why is it important that we are a church in a city? For one thing, it’s in the city where we come face to face every day with those for whom Jesus says the kingdom awaits. “Blessed are they,” Jesus says, “for theirs is the Kingdom.”
This book that my friend John Hochevar gave me, Theirs is the Kingdom, still sits on my shelf. Its author, Robert Lupton, lived a life much like John’s. Lupton was a white, middle-class guy who cared for God’s people living in poverty, and so he moved into a high-crime area of Atlanta - right into a ghetto of that city - and there he began a ministry of outreach and love.
His book is just a collection of his stories and observations about that ministry. I want to close today by sharing just one of them with you. It’s a story about one cold January morning when Lupton walked out to his car to find a homeless man sleeping there. As you listen, may God soften your heart for our neighbors in this city, and may we find ourselves as a family of faith called more deeply into God’s love and service.
I hit the button on my alarm at 6:00 a.m. The whistling at the windows told me it was another cold January day. I’d slept restlessly: the thermostat was slightly high and I’d fluctuated between being too warm with two blankets and too cold with only one. No matter now. The hot steamy shower woke me up, and my thoughts turned ahead to a day of meetings and projects.
At 6:29 I walked out the front door, bundled in scarf and coat against the chill, thinking of my first meeting. As I opened the car door, my heart froze. A man sat behind the wheel.
I reacted instantly, defensively. No knowing whether the man was dead or dangerous, I drew my fist back to strike him before he recovered from his surprise. He slowly turned to meet my angry, startled face.
“What are you doing in my car?” I blurted out, my fist still clenched.
“I’m not in your car, sir,” the man slurred in a frightened, thick-tongued voice. “I’m not in your car, sir,” he buttered again and again as he slowly maneuvered his body out of my car and teetered off across the front lawn.
M heart was still pounding as I drove past him on the street. It wasn’t until I turned onto the expressway that my mind slowed down enough for me to reflect on what just had happened.
I remembered my thoughts in the shower about the thermostat. I had been glad our house was tight and well insulated. There were worse things than sleeping too warm. I remembered also how good it felt to shave and slip into freshly pressed clothes. And then I remembered how terribly frightened I was, how violated I felt that this stranger had intruded where he had no right to be.
I began to wonder where the man was headed. His dark silhouette stumbling down the street was vivid in my mind. I hoped that his dull mind was directing him to his home. I tried to avoid thoughts that he might have no home, that perhaps the temporary lodging in my car was all the home he possessed.
Why? Why should it be, I wondered, that I am so concerned about sleeping too warm when another human being equally loved by the Creator barely survives in a cold car outside my door? Why is it that I have a secure place to rest and be restored, when this man, and so many others like him, has no place to lay his head in peace?
The Christ, the despised one, the one from who we hid our faces, spoke softly, deeply in my spirit. It was the voice of one who himself claimed to have no place to lay his head. I began to weep. I remembered my clenched fist and my compassionless expulsion of this stranger from my life. I cried in sorrow for a broken man whom I had sent off into the cold—unshowered, unfed. And I sorrowed for the one whose heart is not yet sufficiently broken, whose heart hardens too quickly against the call of the Lord among the least of these.
“I am sorry, Lord, for turning you out into the cold. Thank you for using my car.”
When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying:
‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
‘Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
‘Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
‘Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.
‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
‘Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
‘Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. 12Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.
I have more books than I know what to do with. Last weekend during the overnight retreat for our confirmation class, we took the confirmands into my office and into Amy’s office, simply to say that they were welcome there - welcome to come and visit, to chat, to say what’s on their minds… I have hundreds of books in my office on the shelves. Some are neatly categorized according to subject matter, and quite a few more are just stuck somewhere. I told the confirmation class, “If you ever want to read an interesting book about God, I’ve probably got one here for you. And if you ever want to read a book that will bore you to absolute tears, I’ve unfortunately got a few of those too.”
There are a few books on my office shelves that have been with me for more than twelve years, but not many. It was about twelve years ago now that I applied to be a student at McCormick Theological Seminary in Chicago, and thus began a book collection that my reading will likely struggle to keep up with for the rest of my life. But I have a few theological books, just a few, that predate any notion I ever had of seminary. Not long ago I became curious about those books - just personally curious about how they might have influenced me before I even considered being a pastor.
One of those books is called Theirs is the Kingdom: Celebrating the Gospel in Urban America, by Robert D. Lupton. I received that book when I was 19 years old. During my sophomore and junior years of college, I spent my spring breaks working with an organization called the Chicago Urban Project. Located in the Austin neighborhood of Chicago’s west side, the Urban Project works to empower families struggling in the midst of poverty. Theirs is the Kingdom was given to me by a man named John Hochevar, who was the project’s director.
John was a pretty amazing guy. He’s been ministering on the streets of the west side of Chicago for the better part of three decades now, reaching out to the poor, the homeless, the addicted, the lost… John was the first person I ever met who so clearly helped me understand the connection between our physical and spiritual salvations. God wants goodness and wholeness to be ours for all eternity, yes. But God also wants goodness and wholeness in our lives today, right now.
John was full of stories. Of course, working in a community where gangs ruled the streets and prostitutes strolled back and forth right in front of your church, you’d have to be full of stories, wouldn’t you? Once he told me about a time he got robbed. It was after dark, and he and one of his staff interns were coming home late from a meeting. They were driving through a horrible section of the neighborhood - a place known for continual violence and crime. In the middle of that neighborhood, the car broke down. Just sputtered to a stop. John coasted to the side of the road, put the car in park, and looked at his intern. “We’re in trouble,” he said, “so let’s pray.”
John and this intern began to pray, but not for long. A few men who had noticed the car dying surrounded the car, forced them out, and took everything they had, including their shoes. At one point, John said that he was frantically trying to pull his wedding band off of his finger because the robbers said that they would cut it off if he couldn’t. And they would have.
The robbers left, and there they were. No money, no shoes, (no cell phones, mind you, this was the 1980’s), stranded in the dark streets of this violent Chicago neighborhood. What would you do? I suppose instinct would tell you to get back in that car and hide. Maybe peek out from time to time and hope that a squad car came by. But John must have had Matthew 5:12 in his head: “Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven,” because instead of hiding in the car, he climbed right up on top of it. He sat himself up there on the roof of his car and began singing. “A Mighty Fortress is Our God,” “Amazing Grace,” at the top of his lungs, hymn after hymn after hymn, until help finally came. “They might think I’m crazy,” he said, “but at least they’ll see I’ve already been robbed, and they’ll also know why I’m here.”
As a young college kid from the safe suburbs, I was amazed by John’s commitment to God and to the city. So maybe it’s no surprise that I’m here, twenty-one years later with you in this city. I saw God’s heart for the city long before I ever saw myself in ministry.
It was just three years ago now that I began to have some conversation with others and a few of you about the possibility of ministry here at First Presbyterian in Racine. So many moments in that story confirmed that yes, this was where we needed to be, but I can remember one thing early on that drew me to you and to this church. I read in the material that the search committee had compiled that this congregation had made a conscious decision to remain here, in the city. On coming to Racine and seeing this building for the first time, I thought to myself, “Yes. This is where a church needs to be! In the city. Right next to downtown. Coffee shops and bars, the courthouse and a few abandoned storefronts. A neighborhood struggling with poverty. If you asked me where I’d put a church if I could, it would be here.” From the beginning I’ve been drawn to the fact that First Presbyterian Church is a church in the city.
During Jesus’ first sermon in Matthew’s gospel, he blesses so many of those who we see living in our cities.
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven…
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted…
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth…
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness…
Cities have a way of amplifying human brokenness. A church that would choose to situate itself in a city must be a church that is willing to confront that brokenness and, like Jesus, bless those who are meek, those who are poor in spirit, those who hunger and thirst…
Today after worship, this congregation will hold its 172nd annual congregational meeting. During the past 172 years, the city around us has changed quite a bit, hasn’t it? At one time, we were pretty much on the edge of town. Now we’re in the middle of it. This church has seen the surrounding blocks go through change after change after change. Property values rising and falling. Businesses coming and going. People and families changing…
I’m glad we’re here. And when I say that, I don’t mean to just say that I’m glad we’re alive and awake. I mean that I’m glad we’re sitting here on the corner of 7th and College, here in this city where the need is great and where churches willing to face that need have an opportunity to embody God’s love in a unique way.
I know of churches in the suburbs and churches in rural areas that are struggling to figure out how they might reach out and care for others. But you and I - we can walk out any door of this church or look through any window and see the need around us.
Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, which begins with our passage today, is a sermon to people who, like us, live and worship in the midst of a broken world. Jesus speaks to people who are perhaps tired of the way the world around them has defined what it means to “be blessed.”
To a world that says you’re blessed if you have a six-figure income, Jesus says you’re blessed if you’re poor in spirit. To a world that says you’re blessed if you’re happy, Jesus says you’re blessed even when you mourn. To a world that says you’re blessed if secure in your finances and insulated against a bad economy, Jesus says you’re blessed if you’re simply meek, and that the inheritance of the earth is yours.
Why is it important that we are a church in a city? For one thing, it’s in the city where we come face to face every day with those for whom Jesus says the kingdom awaits. “Blessed are they,” Jesus says, “for theirs is the Kingdom.”
This book that my friend John Hochevar gave me, Theirs is the Kingdom, still sits on my shelf. Its author, Robert Lupton, lived a life much like John’s. Lupton was a white, middle-class guy who cared for God’s people living in poverty, and so he moved into a high-crime area of Atlanta - right into a ghetto of that city - and there he began a ministry of outreach and love.
His book is just a collection of his stories and observations about that ministry. I want to close today by sharing just one of them with you. It’s a story about one cold January morning when Lupton walked out to his car to find a homeless man sleeping there. As you listen, may God soften your heart for our neighbors in this city, and may we find ourselves as a family of faith called more deeply into God’s love and service.
I hit the button on my alarm at 6:00 a.m. The whistling at the windows told me it was another cold January day. I’d slept restlessly: the thermostat was slightly high and I’d fluctuated between being too warm with two blankets and too cold with only one. No matter now. The hot steamy shower woke me up, and my thoughts turned ahead to a day of meetings and projects.
At 6:29 I walked out the front door, bundled in scarf and coat against the chill, thinking of my first meeting. As I opened the car door, my heart froze. A man sat behind the wheel.
I reacted instantly, defensively. No knowing whether the man was dead or dangerous, I drew my fist back to strike him before he recovered from his surprise. He slowly turned to meet my angry, startled face.
“What are you doing in my car?” I blurted out, my fist still clenched.
“I’m not in your car, sir,” the man slurred in a frightened, thick-tongued voice. “I’m not in your car, sir,” he buttered again and again as he slowly maneuvered his body out of my car and teetered off across the front lawn.
M heart was still pounding as I drove past him on the street. It wasn’t until I turned onto the expressway that my mind slowed down enough for me to reflect on what just had happened.
I remembered my thoughts in the shower about the thermostat. I had been glad our house was tight and well insulated. There were worse things than sleeping too warm. I remembered also how good it felt to shave and slip into freshly pressed clothes. And then I remembered how terribly frightened I was, how violated I felt that this stranger had intruded where he had no right to be.
I began to wonder where the man was headed. His dark silhouette stumbling down the street was vivid in my mind. I hoped that his dull mind was directing him to his home. I tried to avoid thoughts that he might have no home, that perhaps the temporary lodging in my car was all the home he possessed.
Why? Why should it be, I wondered, that I am so concerned about sleeping too warm when another human being equally loved by the Creator barely survives in a cold car outside my door? Why is it that I have a secure place to rest and be restored, when this man, and so many others like him, has no place to lay his head in peace?
The Christ, the despised one, the one from who we hid our faces, spoke softly, deeply in my spirit. It was the voice of one who himself claimed to have no place to lay his head. I began to weep. I remembered my clenched fist and my compassionless expulsion of this stranger from my life. I cried in sorrow for a broken man whom I had sent off into the cold—unshowered, unfed. And I sorrowed for the one whose heart is not yet sufficiently broken, whose heart hardens too quickly against the call of the Lord among the least of these.
“I am sorry, Lord, for turning you out into the cold. Thank you for using my car.”
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