A Stranger in His Own House (Luke 15:1-2, 11-32)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on August 18, 2019, Proper 15)

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A Homecoming Story

The story of the prodigal son is a homecoming story.  I imagine that it resonates so well with us because we all long for home, for the place where we belong without having to live up to any image, where we are welcomed without having to prove our worth, where we are embraced for who we are.

I imagine it resonates so well with us because we can all identify with the younger son who forsakes home in pursuit of the world’s attractions: wealth, pleasure, prestige.  We have all looked for love and life in the wrong places.  We have all taken a hard knock or two at some point and said to ourselves, “I’ve got to turn around.”

But when Jesus tells this story, he is not addressing the waywardness of his crowd.  He’s not on the street preaching judgment on the debauchery of his world.  He’s not calling, “Sinner, come home.”  When Jesus tells this story, he’s preaching to the choir, so to speak.  He’s addressing the Pharisees and the scribes, which is to say, he’s speaking to folks like you and me—folks who read scripture and pray, folks who go to worship every week and participate in various ministries.  The Pharisees and the scribes were the religious insiders of the day.  If they get a bad rep, then we should be extra cautious about judging them—for they are the ancient equivalent of us.  What we say about them, might well be said about us.

Outside Looking In

When he hears music and dancing, the elder son knows something’s up.  He asks one of the workers what’s going on and learns that his brother is home and his father is throwing a party.  He becomes indignant and refuses to join the celebration.

We’ve heard the story so many times that we may lose sight of a simple fact: by the logic of our world, the older brother’s anger is justified.  How many prodigal sons and daughters of our world have come home to find the door more or less closed in their faces?  I remember once going to a wedding where the sister of the groom was consistently excluded from his family’s pictures.  She had fallen into drugs and the wrong crowd in high school.  Whether from shame or a sense of punishment, the family would not welcome her in its joy.

The tragedy of the older brother, which is also the tragedy of the Pharisees and the scribes, is alienation.  Notice the words that the older brother uses to describe his relationship with his father and his brother.  To his father, he says, “I have been working like a slave for you.”  He sees his father as a slave-owner.  He sees their relationship in terms of work and reward.  About his brother, he says, “This son of yours…who has devoured your property with prostitutes.”  In other words, he may be your son but I wouldn’t stoop to call him brother.  He’s a sinner, for God’s sake.

And so it is that the “faithful” son, the one who has remained home all these years, working hard in the field, is a stranger in his own house.  The last we see of him in the story leaves us with a striking image: he is outside his home looking in, bitter and resentful.

What drives home the tragedy of the older brother, is that the feast inside is as much for him as it is for his brother.  His father clearly loves him just the same.  Just as the father runs out to meet his younger son, so he also comes out to plead with his older son.  Just as he insists on welcoming the prodigal as a dear son, so he greets his elder: “Son,” teknon in the Greek, an affectionate form of address.  He does not defend himself against his elder son’s complaints but cuts straight to what matters: his love for him too.  “You are always with me, and all that is mine is yours” (15:31).[1] 

What keeps the older brother on the outside looking in, what keeps him alienated and a stranger in his own house, are the same things that threaten to alienate us today from the beloved community that God desires.  Independence and the insistence that everyone is capable of pulling themselves up by their own bootstrap are what alienate the older brother, who essentially says, “I’ve been doing this all my life.  Why couldn’t he?”  Achievement and due reward are what alienate the brother, who essentially says, “I’ve earned this, but he definitely hasn’t.”  Honor and status are what alienate the brother, who essentially says, “I’ve enhanced your name, but he’s disgraced it.”  These things may all be true by the logic of the world, but by the logic of the kingdom they are what keep us apart from others.  They are what keep our world fractured and frozen.

Our Home?

And so it is that I wonder about the church today.  In a world where the gap between rich and poor grows wider and wider, where the political rhetoric becomes more and more divisive, how the church responds to those who are different can either deepen or diminish the division in the world.  We can ministers of reconciliation, or we can be complicit in the world’s division. 

The temptation of our world is alienation.  It’s toward writing other people off, reducing them to stereotypes.  It’s toward saying, those folks are godless, they’re socialists, they’re right-wing extremists, they’re poor and too lazy to get help, they’re rich and ignorant, they’re Muslim or Jewish.

But by the logic of the kingdom, more important than any of that is that “they” are God’s children.  The table that we gather around every week is not a table for a privileged few who’ve got the right doctrine or done the right deeds.  It’s for everyone.

That’s why for me, our Sunday sojourns this summer have been so meaningful.  As we have broken bread with memory care residents and the homeless and hungry folks of our community, we have lived into the beauty of this story.  We have discovered, perhaps, what home really is.

Prayer

Tender Father and Mother of us all,

Who comes out to us

When we are alienated,

Whether by wealth or success

Or spiritual entitlement:

We hear your words this morning,

“Son, Daughter, you are always with me,

All that is mine is yours.”

May we find our home

With long-lost brothers and sisters

Around your table.

In Christ, whose love saves us.  Amen.

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[1] Several of the insights from this meditation have come from Henri Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son (New York: DoubleDay, 1994), 77-88.

Would They Say No to a Table? (Luke 14:1-14)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on August 4, 2019, Proper 13)

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This Table Is a Trap

Tables are all over the gospel of Luke.  More often than not, they’re where we find Jesus.  And they’re where others find acceptance, forgiveness, healing, and transformation.  It’s no surprise that on more than one occasion, Jesus uses the table as a metaphor for the kingdom of God.  

But today the table is a trap.  Previously Jesus has dined twice with Pharisees.  At the last meal, he upsets his hosts.  He rebukes them for following the letter of the law while disregarding its spirit.  He tells them that the life they are living is a sort of death.  They’re missing out on the stuff that matters.  It’s not a surprise when Luke tells us that at the end of the meal, the Pharisees become hostile toward Jesus and begin to lie in wait for him, to catch him in something he might say (11:53-54). 

That forewarning brings us to today’s meal, which happens at “the house of a leader of the Pharisees.”  Today the table is a trap.

Seated around Jesus are a host of lawyers and Pharisees and then a person who sticks out like a sore thumb: the man with dropsy.  Dropsy here refers to the condition in which a person’s thirst is never satisfied.  As a result of excessive drinking, the body commonly becomes swollen.  Religious folks in Jesus’ day would have considered dropsy the result of sin.  They would have disdained such a person.  They would likely have considered him both ritually and morally impure.  So it is a real surprise that this distinguished gathering of religious leaders have invited him to their table.

But then, that’s all part of the plan.  Because today the table is a trap.

It is the sabbath, the day of rest.  Rumor is that Jesus does not always observe the sabbath.  Not long before this gathering, he had infuriated a synagogue leader by healing a crippled woman on the sabbath.  What disrespect for God and God’s day of rest, the synagogue leader had exclaimed; could he not have healed her on any of the other six days of the week?

And thus the trap.  This group of religious leaders wants to see this sacrilege with their own eyes.  They want to expose Jesus for the lawless troublemaker that he really is.

But the opposite happens.  Jesus exposes them—for their heartlessness.  In silence, he heals the man with dropsy and sends him away.  (This table, after all, is not truly a place of welcome to the afflicted man.  It was merely a stage and he merely a prop.)  Then Jesus asks a rhetorical question that reveals the hearts of his critics.  They would help one of their animals on the sabbath, would they not?  Why not one of their fellow men?

Jesus Turns the Tables

And so it is that this table, which begins as a trap, has now become a tutorial for what tables look like in the kingdom of God.  Jesus has turned the tables, so to speak.  Jesus transforms the table from a place of power and exclusion to a place of grace and welcome.

In the ancient world, tables were effectively a social boundary.  Rich people ate with rich people.  Poor people ate with poor people.  Honorable people ate with honorable people.  Sinners ate with sinners.  Religious folks kept this boundary better than most.  There kept all sorts of rules, spoken and unspoken.  They kept rules of ritual cleanliness, moral purity, and social standing.  And these rules kept tables divided.

What you did not do in the ancient world was mix different groups of people at the table.  Instead individuals could try to climb the ladder.  In other words, if you wanted to sit at the top tables, if you wanted to have a seat of honor, you had to earn it.  You had to rub the right shoulders, you had to keep up a certain appearance, you had to say and do the things that would give you honor.  This is what Jesus is talking about when he tells the parable of taking a seat at a banquet.  Everyone, he says, is trying to exalt themselves.  But the game is rigged.  You’ll never be satisfied.  In the end, you’re always humbled. 

So Jesus advocates the opposite tack.  Humble yourself at tables.  More specifically, when you give a lunch or dinner of your own, don’t invite your friends or family, which is to say, don’t invite people in your own group.  That just preserves the status quo.  It is a never-ending cycle, wherein I invite my friends, my friends return the favor and invite me, and so on.  The kingdom of God will never arrive that way.

Instead invite the folks who cannot repay you, Jesus urges.  Invite the down-and-outs, the excluded, the folks who have fallen on hard times.  Why?  They will be lifted up, and so you will you. 

The Homogenous Unit Principle

It is a glimpse of the kingdom: rich and poor, sinners and saints, sitting together at the table.

I imagine it’s an ideal that many of us appreciate.  It’s something to which we could easily say, “Amen.”  When I first read this story, I struggled to connect it to our experience.  After all, we do not practice the same exclusionary tactics that the Pharisees and religious leaders of Jesus’ day did.  (Although I should hasten to add that not all Pharisees looked the same.  In the story right before today’s story, a group of Pharisees warns Jesus that Herod wants to kill him.) 

We do not set up a “you must be this tall” yardstick at our sanctuary door to exclude persons on the basis of social status or religion or nationality.  We do not put barriers around the table, for we recognize it is the Lord’s table and thus bears his invitation, not ours.  The challenge for the church is not, “How do we stop being exclusive?”

For the church the challenge is a little less obvious.  We don’t actively exclude.  It’s just that churches tend to clump together in groups that look the same.  In fact, this reflects what used to be a principle of church planting: “the homogenous unit” principle.  It was basically the idea that it’s easier for folks to become Christians if there are fewer social barriers for them to cross, such as class, race, or language.  Martin Luther King, Jr., once observed the homogenous unit principle in action when he declared that 11 o’clock on Sunday is the most segregated hour in our nation.  His insight addressed more than race.  Studies suggest that churches also segregate along lines of wealth and education.  In short, we tend to worship with people who are like us. 

Just Think of a Table

But this is the opposite of what Jesus advocates.  While the world feels most comfortable in socially reciprocal relationships—it operates more or less on the “homogenous unit” principle—Jesus envisions a kingdom that is socially topsy-turvy. He anticipates a banquet where social reciprocity is not what unites us, but instead radical grace and welcome.  What unites a Jesus table is the belief that everyone is blessed and beloved by God and belongs at the table.  So a Jesus table is filled with folks from all different backgrounds, rich and poor, saints and sinners, a hodgepodge that transcends the rule of social reciprocity.

The challenge for us, then, is how can we begin to see the church as more than just a gathering of familiar faces, more than a gathering of old friends? How can we begin to see the church not as a gathering meant for us, but a gathering meant for others, especially those who are hurting?

I don’t think it’s a complete coincidence that Jesus issues this challenge with the image of a table. 

How can we imagine a church with more than just the same old faces? 

Just think of a table, Jesus says.

You’ve heard me dream about tables before.  Today’s scripture rekindles the dream.  A growing number of our neighbors, many of them the needful whom Jesus describes, would not darken the door of a church.  Maybe they feel they would be out of place.  Maybe they have other reasons. 

But what about a table?  Would they say no to food?  Would they say no to being embraced, no strings attached?  Would they say no to stories of hope, songs of joy, people who cared for them and prayed for them?  Would they say no to a table?  (I recently heard a Mexican-American pastor put it this way: To build trust, “you need a table with food on it and you need a lot of time.”[1])

It’s a far cry from a traditional worship service.  But it’s not far at all from Jesus, who is the good news that our neighbors may need to hear.  I hope you’ll humor me this dream and perhaps consider it yourself as the church continues to reflect on its calling and purpose in the world today. 

Prayer

Dear Christ,

Who welcomes us

As brothers and sisters

Just as we are,

Whose love

Draws us into

Who we are becoming:

May we as your body

In turn show your welcome and grace

To those outside our circle,

Especially the needful.

Amen.

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[1] Bekah McNeel, “Latino Immigrants Are Evangelizing America,” https://www.christianitytoday.com/news/2019/july/hispanic-church-planting-survey-immigration-evangelism.html, accessed July 29, 2019.

Hearing, Healing, Hallelujah (Luke 10:1-9)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on July 28, 2019, Proper 12)

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The Harvest Is Plentiful

Not once in his life

Does Jesus try to get people inside a building. 

Instead he sends his followers out—

Out into the community. 

His concern, after all,

Is not the health of an institution

But the health of the world.

In today’s scripture,

Jesus insists that there is a plentiful harvest

All round.

It is a striking metaphor,

Suggesting a God whose aim

Is growth, life, abundance;

A God whose gardening is done

Not inside a religious plot of soil

But in all the world;

A green thumb God

Who is constantly at work,

Who tills the hearts of men and women,

Who sows and waters and prunes,

Who tends to the garden

‘Til the day of its harvest.

And Jesus calls his followers

To share in the harvest.

He calls them

Not to stay inside

And to welcome all comers,

But to go outside

And to find the ripening of life

And to share in the work

Of God’s harvest.

Receiving Is Part of the Harvesting

Two Sundays from now,

We will go out—

Out into the community

To share the morning

With Rhonda Sneed and her friends,

Many of whom are homeless and hungry.

We will go

As the followers of Jesus went:

Not as saviors,

But as guests.

“Eat what is set before you,”

Jesus instructs his followers—

Which is a way of saying,

“Receive what your hosts

Have to give you,”

Which is not just food, of course,

But words, stories, life.

Somehow

Receiving is also part

Of the harvesting.

I’d like to leave

That thought dangling

For a minute.

And as it dangles,

I’d like to invite Lu

To share with us a glimpse

Of the community

We will be visiting.

This time in our worship gathering

Is traditionally reserved for the Word,

For scripture through which God is revealed.

I’d invite us to look at the pictures Lu shows

With the same reverence

That we show the Word.

For Jesus reminds us

That among our neighbors,

And especially in the least of these,

God is revealed.

Eat, Heal, Proclaim the Kingdom:

Three Events or One?

On a few of Lu’s slides,

You saw how the homeless

Gave generously:

One man teaching the youth guitar,

Another man helping a wearied volunteer.

This returns me to the question:

How is receiving

Part of the harvesting?

Listen again to Jesus’ words:

“Eat what is set before you;

Cure the sick who are there,

And say to them, ‘the kingdom of God has come near to you.’”

When I first heard these words,

I heard three separate actions:

Receive what is set before you;

Heal;

And announce the kingdom.

But recently I heard a story

From a pastor in Seattle.

He serves a church

That had thrived in the 20^th century,

Only to flounder in the new millennium,

As the city became increasingly “secularized.”

He said the church found renewal

Through the simplest of means—

And it’s one that should be no surprise

To us Disciples of Christ—

The table.

They called it dinner church,

And would offer multiple dinners

Through the week.

It was a simple affair:

Dinner,

A bit of scripture,

Stories shared,

And prayers offered.

Not in a rigidly formalized way,

But among tables and individuals.

Anyway, one day he was talking

To a friend who had been coming

To dinner church.

The friend revealed in passing

That he had recovered from a heroin addiction

The year before.

The pastor expressed surprise.

He didn’t know his friend

Was an addict.

He didn’t know

He had recovered.

His friend’s response was even more surprising.

“Oh, yeah.  You guys did it.

Dinner is how I recovered.”

He went on to explain

That the heroin voice went away

Whenever he was at dinner.

And when the heroin voice returned,

He knew that all he had to do

Was to hang on until another dinner.

A year of this passed,

And he had stayed clean—

He’d kicked the habit.

When I heard this story,

I thought back to Jesus’ instructions—

Receive; heal; announce the kingdom—

And suddenly what had seemed

Like three separate events,

Became one.

For wasn’t it at the table,

Where the church received the addicted man

And heard his stories

And cared for him as a child of God—

Wasn’t it also there that he was healed?

Wasn’t it there that the kingdom of God

Came unbelievably near?

I offer that thought for us

As we prepare to sojourn one Sunday

With the homeless and hungry folks

Of our community.

We are not going as saviors,

But as guests.

We are going

Where God has already been gardening.

And perhaps simply by hearing

What our brothers and sisters in Christ

Have to share with us,

We will share in a moment of God’s healing—

Which is to say,

In God’s kingdom harvest.

The Picture in Scripture

A number of folks have asked

What our gathering will look like

On that Sunday outside the Coliseum.

I have to be honest:

I don’t know exactly.

What I do know is that

It will not be a worship service

But more like what we see in our scripture:

Eating and conversing.

As we share the food that we bring,

We will also have the opportunity

To hear from the homeless and hungry folks of our city.

It’s an oft-overlooked point of the gospels

That in large crowds,

Jesus did not silence the interruptions

But directed his attention to them.

He heard the voices of the margin.

And so often from that hearing resulted healing, wholeness.

So as we share food,

We might also ask our friends,

“Tell us your story, if you would.”

And we might show we care by praying.

In fact, we’ll have a small table

Where we will offer quiet, personal prayer

For any requests that are shared.

If that’s something you’d be willing to do,

Please let me know.

And in this hearing and praying,

I trust there may be an unseen moment of healing—

As much for us, perhaps, as for our hosts.

And so it is that we will end our time

With celebration—

By proclaiming the nearness of God’s kingdom

In bread broken,

In cup outpoured,

In the love and welcome of God shared with all.

Hearing, Healing, Hallelujah.

That’s the picture I see in our scripture today,

And that, I hope, will be the picture of our gathering.

Prayer

Lord of the harvest,

Whose love takes root

All over our world—

So often the corners of our community

That are ripe for life

Are left unheard

And uncared for.

Draw us ever out,

And give us ears to hear,

That we might know your healing

And your kingdom come near.

Amen.

Stay Thirsty (Luke 7:36-50)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on July 21, 2019, Proper 11)

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The World’s Most Interesting Man

A few of you may be familiar with the Dos Equis advertisements in which the world’s most interesting man tells us all, “Stay thirsty, my friends.”  It strikes me that this slogan echoes the message of an even more interesting man, whose words we read in today’s scripture.  If you remember nothing else from today’s homily, I hope you’ll remember this sentiment: “Stay thirsty.”

A Garden Parable Of Thirst

Once upon a time, there was a garden.  In that garden were a multitude of flowers, including a rose and a buttercup.

The rose looked down on the buttercup.  No one had purposefully planted it.  It didn’t really belong in the garden.  But the gardener watered all the flowers just the same.

Some days the gardener would not come with water.  On those days, the buttercup would cry out, “I am so thirsty!”  When the gardener returned, the buttercup would exclaim to any flower who would hear her, “Oh, how good that water feels!  How cool, how refreshing, how invigorating!”  And she would sway and sing songs and smile at everyone.

But the rose stayed silent and stared with judgment at the buttercup.  How weak and needy it was.  It didn’t really belong in the garden.

One day when the gardener returned after having been away for a couple of days, the rose made up its mind.  Wanting to prove its place in the garden and its natural superiority to the buttercup, it decided to forego the gardener’s water.  As soon as the gardener left, the rose bent over and with its petals it scooped up the water from its base and flung it away.  “I don’t need this water,” it said to itself.  “I’m better than the buttercup.”

The rose repeated this behavior several more days in a row.  Though it would never admit it to anyone else—or even to itself—it began to feel dry and weak and thirsty.  Its petals withered and all that remained were its thorns.  As the buttercup continued to sway and sing and smile, its thirst continually quenched, the rose smoldered, its thirst unacknowledged and therefore crippling.

He Who Does Not Thirst, Will Not Drink

When Simon the Pharisee invites Jesus to eat with him, the last thing he expects is that a prostitute will crash their meal with tears and kisses and her hair scandalously let down.  She shouldn’t be here.  She’s ritually impure, morally unclean—and she’s uninvited!  Perhaps Simon doesn’t say anything because he wants to avoid a scene.  But even so, we hear his thoughts, “If Jesus were really a prophet, then he’d know that this woman is a sinner.  He’d know she doesn’t belong here.”

Jesus hears his thoughts too.  And after telling a story about how the larger the debt is, so the love is larger too, he makes a raw observation: Simon has not given him half the welcome that this woman has.  He greeted Jesus with no kiss, no water for his feet, no oil for his head.  Simon respects Jesus—he addresses him as rabbi, teacher—but he does not love Jesus.

The reason for this, Jesus suggests, is that unlike the woman Simon does not know his own lack, his own need.  Simon does not know his own thirst.  And he who does not thirst, will not drink.  He will not sing the joy of water.  The woman knows her thirst.  So she drinks and she sings.  She overflows with love.

Is the Church Still Thirsty?

In a 2004 survey of young adults outside the church, the Barna organization found that 87% think Christians are “judgmental,” 85% consider Christians “hypocritical,” and 72% say Christianity is “out of touch with reality.”[1]  That can be painful for the church to hear.  But to dismiss these folks’ perspective is also to dismiss their pain.  Many of these young adults are thirsty for community, for a home, for a place of belonging, and they have not found it at the church.  I wonder if that’s because at church they find more Simons than they do scandalous women.  (That didn’t come out right!)  They find respectable people who’ve got it all together, people who do not admit their own thirst.  There’s an unspoken pressure at many churches to put on a perfect front: after all, you’ve been saved.  How could you still be broken?  How could you still have struggles?  How could you still be thirsty?

The truth, of course, is that we are all thirsty.  Even Jesus knew the limitations and hardships of this human life.  Even he prayed out to God in tears and in sweat.  And it was from this thirst that he drank deep and loved without reserve.  Is it any coincidence, I wonder, that Jesus is always telling stories about seeds and flowers, brothers and brides, and feasts—wedding feasts, homecoming feasts, celebration feasts, any kind of feast you can think of?  Is it any coincidence that he would come to be known as a drunkard and a glutton?  Jesus thirsted for the goodness of life, for love and trust, for peace and joy, and so he drank deep and enjoyed the fullness of life and lived in the fullness of love.

I am happy and filled with hope about our church because on one more than one occasion, visitors have used the word “authentic” to describe the feeling of our church gathering.  I know that is true of us, because I have seen great thirst here.  I have seen tears shed and tough, honest words spoken and stories of struggle shared and raw, heartfelt prayers lifted up.  And from this great thirst, we have drunk deeply of God’s love and it has overflowed.  For I have seen embraces exchanged and food shared and creative talents celebrated and hard work dedicated.  Like the buttercup, we sway and sing and smile, full of life. 

Acknowledging Our Thirst

Because our thirst is what draws us closer to God’s love and the fullness of life therein, I’d like to invite us now into a moment of quiet, when we might contemplate just what our thirst is at this juncture in our lives. 

Are you thirsty?  For what?  For acceptance—to know that you God loves you and embraces you just as you are, even if you never changed?  Are you thirsty for direction—to hear a call that will enliven you and give your life meaning?  Are you thirsty for forgiveness? 

Or perhaps you’re not thirsty.  Why is that?  Are you afraid of your true self—your need or your limitations or the dark corners of your soul? 

Wherever you are, acknowledge that to God.  Acknowledge your thirst.  Ask for whatever it is you need.  Or acknowledge your non-thirst.  And ask God for the courage to confront your lack and your need.

….

Know now

That God is giving you what you need. 

Acceptance, forgiveness, courage….

Whatever it is that God gives you—

Drink from it deeply.

And love will overflow.

Prayer

Compassionate Christ,

Our thirst draws us

Shamelessly

Honestly

Into your company:

Quench us

That we might know

The fullness of life

And love largely.

Amen.

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[1] David Kinnaman and Gabe Lyons, unChristian: What a New Generation Really Thinks about Christianity…and Why It Matters (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2007), 28ff.

Identifying the Caller or Answering the Call? (Luke 6:46-49)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on July 14, 2019, Proper 10)

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Whoever Responds to God’s Call

For some, church is about proclaiming God “king” and then resuming business as usual, pursuing one’s own kingdom.  Or as Jesus puts it, it’s like a person who identifies God and then ignores God, who calls out, “Lord, Lord,” and then follows his own course.  

Perhaps this is nowhere more apparent than church business meetings, which usually take place after the worship service.  In worship, the congregation is seemingly united.  “Lord, Lord,” they say together, paying lip service to their God.  But moments later in the board room, that God is nowhere to be seen: it is a battle of personal interests, a contest of individual wills.  It is not the Spirit guiding the people, but the people curbing the Spirit.  It is not the patient Spirit of God that leads the way but simply the majority of stubborn, self-seeking wills.

For Jesus, answering the Call is infinitely more important than identifying the Caller.  For as Jesus knows, it’s all too easy to proudly identify the Caller and then promptly ignore the Call.

Did you know that the Greek word for church, ekklesia, means “called out”?  That corresponds well with what Jesus says.  The church is not about calling God by the right name.  The church is about what God calls for.  The church is whoever responds to God’s call.

The good news then is that we who listen to the call and respond faithfully, we will never be swept away, for our foundation is not of our own building—it’s not stone, brick, or concrete.  Our foundation is the call of God, which ground us and gives us life.  This is especially good news for the church today.  We don’t know the future; it may look inconceivably different from the present.  But if we are doing more than simply saying, “Lord, Lord,” if we are listening for the call of God and then answering it, giving it flesh—then we will weather any storm.

Prayer

Christ who is the cornerstone,

Who lays our foundation,

Not by ritual

Or the right names,

But by deeds of love:

Help us to hear the Call

In our own world.

And make us into

A faithful response.

Amen.

When Prayer Takes on Flesh (Luke 11:2-4)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on July 7, 2019, Proper 9)

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Prayers That Linger

I heard the story once of a young child who had seen a homeless man on the street corner.  At dinner that night, he asked his parents if he could give the blessing.  He prayed not only that God would bless the food on his family’s table but also that God would bless the man without food.  His heartfelt prayer lingered over the table even as he finished the blessing and they began eating.  As plates passed hands, the man on the street corner passed continually before their minds’ eyes.

By the time dinner was over, they were of one mind.  Together they got into their car and returned to the street corner, where they shared with the man bags filled with food.  Their short time together felt precious and holy.  They could feel the rough grit of the sidewalk under their shoes, and it felt holy.  They could feel the soft halo of light from the street lamp above, and it felt holy.  When they departed, the man blessed them.

Have you ever prayed a prayer that took on flesh? 

Maybe you prayed for a friend who was sick, but the prayer felt somehow incomplete, and later you found yourself writing a note to let them know you cared and you were there for them.  Maybe you prayed for a brother or sister, or son or daughter who was having a tough time, but the prayer felt somehow lacking, and later you found yourself calling them up on the phone, not knowing what you wanted to say, knowing only that you didn’t want them to feel alone.

Jesus Gives Flesh to the God for Whom He Prays

The Lord’s Prayer is a little bit like all these prayers.  It is ultimately a prayer that takes on flesh. 

To begin with, the Lord’s Prayer is a prayer for here not there.  We need you here, God, with us.  Your kingdom come here on earth as it is in heaven (cf. 11:2).  It is a prayer for now not later.  We need you with us today; we need our daily bread (cf. 11:3).  And it is always “we,” not “me.”  “Give us…forgive us…do not bring us” (11:3-4).  It is a prayer that presumes community.  

So Jesus is praying that God would be present here, now, in community. 

But like the little boy at the dinner table, or like you when you’ve prayed for your sick friend, Jesus can’t leave his prayer there.  His prayer gets up off its knees and goes into action.  Notice the one commitment Jesus makes in his prayer: “For we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us” (11:4).  In other words, Jesus, who is desperate to know God here and now in community, commits to doing the very thing that will make that possible.  For isn’t forgiveness one of the fundamental ways that we know God’s love here and now in the midst of our faults and failures?  And isn’t forgiveness the main thread of community, what transforms enemies into friends and strangers into brothers and sisters?

By forgiving others, Jesus gives flesh to the God for whom he prays.  He gives flesh to the God of beloved community, the God who is with us here and now.

The Handshake of God

Because we have prayed the Lord’s Prayer ourselves, I would like to invite us to give it flesh as well.  As an expression of our peace and our unity together, I invite us now with each hand to take the hand of a neighbor, so that we might form a human circle or thread.

Now close your eyes.  I am going to squeeze the hand of my neighbor.  When you feel one of your hands squeezed, open your eyes and then squeeze your other neighbor’s hand.  And I would invite you as we do this to wonder: could this be the God from our prayers taking on flesh?  Could this be the very handshake of God?