Luke 1:26-38

It’s only during Advent and Christmas that most Protestants pay much attention to Mary. Besides the virgin birth, there are a couple thousand years’ worth of theology, piety, and politics layered over Mary. It’s nearly impossible to dig her out from under it all. Some Christians pray to her. Others ignore her on principle. John Knox, the reformer who started the first truly “presbyterian” church, condemned making her an object of worship. Some Christians call her “Theotokos,” the Mother of God. For others, she represents a troubling model of pious femininity — ever sinless, ever virgin, ever mother.

I think the most extraordinary thing about Mary is how ordinary she was.

In this special season, this special holiday celebrating this Special Baby born to this Special Woman, it’s easy to start thinking Christmas is all about extraordinariness. But, on the contrary, if it’s about anything, it’s about the power of the ordinary to bring about God’s purposes. Mary was not chosen to be the mother of Jesus because she was special. She was chosen because she was the epitome of ordinary. A young girl of marriageable age, living an ordinary life in an ordinary town in an ordinary country. What a spit in the eye that was to the folks in power in Rome and Jerusalem.

Mary says, “Yes,” of course, “Let it be; here am I, a servant of the Lord,” but before that, she says something we often skip over. When the angel announces what’s coming, Mary says, “How will this happen?” We know these words; we’ve said these words. Maybe prefaced by “Whoa,” or “uh-oh.” We know that feeling: “How can this work out? What’s going to happen now?” It’s a confession of vulnerability. Mary has got to be thinking, “There is no way I can pull this off. Me? Who am I? It’s impossible.”

And Mary speaks up about that – she shows up with her authenticity as well as her disbelief and asks her very reasonable question; asks it right to the face of that angel from God, for crying out loud, and that’s the first good lesson we get from Mary. She shows us the ordinary courage of speaking up. Over time, the word “courage” became synonymous with heroics, but the root of the word is the Latin word for heart. Courage originally meant “To speak one’s mind by telling one’s heart.” That means putting your vulnerability on the line and in our world, that can be pretty extraordinary.

The angel Gabriel doesn’t try to talk her out of her questions; he doesn’t tell her she can do anything she wants if she just tries hard enough or wants it enough or believes enough. He says, “Nothing is impossible with God.”

Mary listens, and then answers, “Let it be.” Mary’s “Let it be” isn’t the same as “Whatever;” it isn’t acquiescence. That’s a popular assumption and it has served the purposes of those who would prefer the ideal Mary, and by extension, ideal women in general, to be compliant and above all, keep their mouths shut. For starters, this view can’t be reconciled with the other nine stories in which Mary appears in the New Testament. Mary shows up again and again as a woman with gumption, and we see it for the first time right here in this story. She says, “Yes.” Maybe saying yes is the most extraordinary thing about Mary. One writer poses the provocative but fascinating question: “What if Mary wasn’t God’s first choice? Imagine… a whole string of Marys who said, ‘No way.’” And far from being, “Whatever,” I believe Mary’s “Let it be” is much more powerful, much closer to the words of one of my favorite “Star Trek” characters, Captain Jean-Luc Picard: “Make it so.”

Ordinary people doing God’s work. A few years ago, I had my congregation join in this litany that made Mary’s gumption real and personal:
One: Greetings favored ones. The Lord is with you and intends to do great things through you.
Many: How can this be? We are ordinary, everyday people.
One: Yet you have found favor through God, and the Holy Spirit will come upon you, guide you, and work through you to care for this world and people God loves so much. For nothing is impossible with God.
Many: Here am I, a servant of the Lord. Let it be with me according to your word.

© Joanne Whitt 2023 all rights reserved.

Luke 1:46b-55

The lectionary for the Third Sunday of Advent offers Luke 1:46b-55 as an alternative to the Second Reading or Epistle. These verses are a song known as the Magnificat, named for the first word of the song in Latin. The angel Gabriel has just told Mary that she will bear a child. Gabriel then explains that Mary’s cousin, Elizabeth, is also expecting. Elizabeth is getting on in years, so this, too, is extraordinary news. “In haste,” Luke says, Mary goes to see her. When Elizabeth greets Mary, her unborn child recognizes Mary’s unborn child, and turns a joyful somersault. Elizabeth exclaims that Mary and her unborn child are blessed, and in response to this, Mary begins to sing.

And what a song it is! William Willimon tells the story of a college student telling him that the virgin birth is just too incredible to believe. Willimon responded, “You think that’s incredible, come back next week. Then, we will tell you that ‘God has cast down the mighty from their thrones, and has lifted up the lowly.’ We’ll talk about the hungry having enough to eat and the rich being sent away empty. The virgin birth? If you think you have trouble with the Christian faith now, just wait. The virgin birth is just a little miracle; the really incredible stuff is coming next week.”

I have to wonder: If they really thought about it, would more American Christians, or Christians generally, have a harder time with the story of the virgin birth, or with this song of Mary’s? Several biblical commentaries use the word “revolutionary” to describe the Magnificat. Mary’s song blesses God for the victory won over the proud, powerful, and rich for the sake of the lowly and the hungry. This is not a sweet soprano solo. One commentator says it’s more like Janis Joplin at Woodstock; to bring it up to date, maybe we’d say more like Janelle Monáe. But it’s all about God: God’s action, God’s faithfulness, God’s keeping God’s promises – it’s all about what God wants. God moves, and the people at the top who have organized reality for their benefit but at the cost of others come under siege. God keeps the covenant, and a teenager, a nobody from nowhere, testifies to wealth redistribution for the sake of the hungry. The fact that it’s Mary that’s singing this means God does exalt the lowly; that this happened to her means that the overturning of the inhumane order has begun. She is lowly, and she is lifted up.

Now, this is a good news, bad news proposition, isn’t it? Revolution sounds pretty scary to most of us. Cornelius Plantinga writes, “When our own kingdom has had a good year we aren’t necessarily looking for God’s kingdom.”

In December 2023, it’s hard to think of anyone who has had a truly great year. Many of us have much, but we also long for much. We lament the world around us: wars, climate change, growing economic inequality, threats to democracy, intractable political divisions; so much this year kindled our fear and diminished our hope. We also lament the emptiness or pain within us: illness, broken relationships, loved ones in trouble, loneliness. We’re all waiting for God’s shalom. So the question is: Can we hear Mary’s song as good news for all people, not just for some, but for all? Can we truly listen to it, and hear that lifting up the lowly and bringing down the powerful is good news for absolutely everyone? Mary sings about the God who saves not just souls, but real people with real bodies. We’re so used to thinking of “saving” or salvation kicking in only after we die that it might be more helpful for us to use a word other than “save.” Both “rescue” and “liberate” are good translations of the Greek here. We know this because every time the Old Testament writers use the word “save,” as in “God, save us,” that’s what they mean. Rescue us. Liberate us.

God wants to save all of us. God wants to rescue and liberate all of us from whatever enslaves or oppresses us, from whatever deprives us of shalom. And God wants us to act in ways that help that to happen.

© Joanne Whitt 2023 all rights reserved.

Mark 1:1-8

Mark comes out of the gate with news – get ready for something new. Get ready for change. The very first verse of Mark is, “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” He introduces us to John the Baptist, who shows up every Advent out on the fringes of society in the wilderness, looking and sounding like the last of the Old Testament prophets. His words echo Chapter 40 of Isaiah, but rather than comfort, he says God is on the way and so you’d better shape up. Repent. Quit doing what you’ve been doing and do what you know God is calling you to do.

John’s warning doesn’t sound so much like good news, but this is a specific kind of good news. The Greek word for “good news,” euangelion, the word we translate as “gospel,” was the word used to describe the report brought by a runner to a Greek city that a distant battle has been won, preserving their freedom; or perhaps that a son has been born to the king, assuring a generation of political stability. “Gospel” is good news having seriously to do with people’s welfare, not merely an event that makes some of us happy, but one that shapes our common lives for the better. “Gospel” in this sense means, “It is a new day; everything has now changed, and everything is better.” One writer says that the word “gospel” has become so ordinary that we need to rescue it, and the way to do that is to say that the root meaning of the term euangelion would today best be translated as “revolution.”

But this is not a revolution like other revolutions. God is our model, and especially God in Jesus. God’s revolution is a revolution of compassion and hope. It is a revolution that starts with coming home to God; with changing the human heart. That’s what repentance means: to turn around; quit going the direction you’ve been going. Quit moving away from God and God’s shalom; turn around and come home, just like the old song: “Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling … Come home.”

A few years ago, a church member gave me a real gift by introducing me to the work of Grace Lee Boggs, a Chinese American philosopher, writer, and activist in Detroit who died at age 100 in 2015. I don’t know what her faith background was, and it doesn’t matter to me and I’m convinced it doesn’t matter to God, either. Boggs was in Detroit during the riots of 1967, and she said initially she was persuaded by Black Power and Malcolm X. But when the destruction and violence broke out, she realized that Martin Luther King, Jr. was right about nonviolence as a way of life, as a philosophy. She said, “In the 1950s, Einstein said the splitting of the atom has changed everything but the human mind, and thus we drift towards catastrophe. And he also said that imagination is more important than education. In other words, the time has come for us to reimagine everything. … We have to re-imagine revolution and get beyond protest – we have to re-imagine revolution and think not only about the change in our institutions but the changes in ourselves.” We need, she said, “to grow our souls, to say that proudly, and unashamedly to talk about the kind of tremendous human transformation we have to make. We must be courageous enough to think that way, and to talk that way and to relate that way.”

“Tremendous human transformation.” If you don’t like the scary, churchy word, “repentance,” try “tremendous human transformation.” John the Baptist would approve. Or even, “to grow our souls.” I think he’d be okay with that, too.

The good news is not only at the very heart of who God is, but also is what God calls us to be. It’s not just John who is called to cry out and prepare the way. It’s all of us. Right here, right now, by making a difference in the lives of the people God has put all around us. Comforting, loving, and participating in God’s revolution of compassion and hope. God is continuing the story of the good news of Jesus in and through our words and actions and each of us will have a hundred and one opportunities this very week to contribute to that sacred story, to make it come alive, to help God keep God’s promises here and now. Advent is about waiting for the fulfillment of all God’s promises, but we don’t wait passively; we’re invited to throw ourselves into that venture both trusting God’s promises and living them right here, right now. After all, as Mark says in his first words, Jesus’ story is just the beginning. The story continues to unfold both around us and through us.

© Joanne Whitt 2023 all rights reserved.

This past Sunday, November 26, as I waited in a quiet sanctuary for worship to begin, a friend and his wife joined me in my pew. My friend is also a retired clergyperson, and he leaned over and asked, “Is it the First Sunday of Advent?” “No,” I answered quickly and with confidence, “it’s Christ the King Sunday. Advent begins next week.” He showed me the bulletin in his hands, the same bulletin I’d been handed on my way into the sanctuary but hadn’t looked at closely. There on the cover in bold letters was, “The First Sunday of Advent.” This congregation had chosen to begin Advent a week earlier than the traditional liturgical calendar. We both laughed, because we both had the same reaction: Initially, mild horror at this departure from tradition, followed quickly by the realization that it was unlikely anyone else in the sanctuary noticed or cared, and humble self-recognition at our knee-jerk attachment to tradition; in particular, to a human-designed liturgical calendar.

A few minutes later, another retired clergy colleague came and sat across the aisle from us. When he came over to greet us, I asked, “Is it the First Sunday of Advent?” Without missing a beat, he said, “No, it’s Christ the King Sunday. Advent begins next Sunday.” We showed him the bulletin, and watched his face go through exactly the same emotions we had experienced. He said, “You know, it really makes sense,” and the three of us shared another good laugh at ourselves.

The liturgical calendar orders the church year into seasons and festivals that follow the life of Christ. One purpose of this calendar is that as followers of Jesus, we might shape our lives according to his life. Another is that the annual cycle gives worshipers meaning, structure, anticipation, and routine in the same way birthdays, holidays, vacations, and anniversaries shape our lives outside the church. The seasons include Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Lent, Holy Week, Easter, Pentecost, and “Ordinary Time,” which covers the parts of the year not included in one of the other seasons. I love these liturgical seasons. I love that each season has a color for use in worship, for paraments (those cloths that cover a pulpit, lectern, or communion table), clergy stoles, and other worship materials: Purple or blue for Advent (you get to choose!); white for Christmas, Epiphany, and Easter; purple for Lent, red for Pentecost, and green for Ordinary Time. I love that each season is associated with Christian themes: Advent with hope, Christmas with joy and Incarnation, Epiphany with revelation, Lent with transformation and penitence, Easter with resurrection and new life, and Pentecost with the work of the Holy Spirit.

Just as Jesus explained that the Sabbath was created for humankind and not the other way around, I love that we can adjust the liturgical calendar to fit a congregation’s needs. One reason this Advent adjustment makes sense this year is that what would traditionally be the Fourth Sunday of Advent falls on Christmas Eve. By beginning Advent a week before the traditional date, this congregation will observe the Fourth Sunday of Advent on December 17, and Christmas Eve gets to be just Christmas Eve. I served as the pastor of churches that did not make this adjustment those years that Advent 4 and Christmas Eve fell on the same day. On Sunday morning, December 24, few people want to hear about something other than Jesus’ birth, even if they still plan to come to a candlelight service that night. I humbly confess that it hadn’t occurred to me to make this adjustment. Hence, my laughter of self-recognition. Someone said, “It is not by accident that humor and humility come from the same root word. If you can laugh at yourself, you’ll always have plenty of good material.”

Which is why I’m posting this blog. We can love our church traditions, and still recognize that they aren’t carved in stone. They’re just traditions. They’re designed to enhance our worship and guide our growth in faith and practice, but they need to meet the needs of the church. Like many (if not most) other aspects of church life, rigid attachment to “the way we’ve always done it” doesn’t serve us well. And deserves our humble laughter.

© Joanne Whitt 2023 all rights reserved.

Mark 13:24-37

Christians don’t corner the market on hope, but hope is nevertheless a hallmark of the Christian faith. The God of Exodus is revealed as the one who hears the cries of God’s people and responds with deliverance. Jesus points to the God who brings good news to the poor, proclaims release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, and sets free those who are oppressed. Christian hope says things do not have to remain as they are; God desires shalom, which encompasses not only peace but justice, healing, and well-being, for everyone, for all of creation.

Advent is the season of hope. Traditionally, Advent isn’t preparation for Christmas, but for the Second Coming of Christ. The early church assumed Christ would return at any moment, and as the centuries passed, the Church still waited for Christ’s return in glory. Many Christians still await a literal Parousia, while many others, including myself, observe Advent as a time of recognizing that Christ is always coming into our lives. What this looks like is focusing on God’s hopes for our hurting world even in the midst of the chaos and violence, the cynicism and greed, the hatred and tribalism that plague our world. God wants shalom for God’s world, and love is the way.

Advent always begins with an apocalyptic passage. When it looks as though the world is going to hell in a hand basket, that’s when apocalyptic literature shows up. Apocalyptic literature says, “Things are so bad they can’t be fixed. What we need is some sort of spectacular rescue.” This Sunday’s passage in Mark’s gospel is often called “the little apocalypse.” Jesus has just predicted that the Temple in Jerusalem will be destroyed. The disciples ask about signs, and Jesus describes utter devastation. But then, he says, after all this takes place, after everything is shaken to its core and when you can’t even count on the stars to stay in the skies, you will see the Son of Man coming in power and glory. These words were written after the destruction of the Temple. Mark’s audience would hear them and remember the horrific crushing of the First Jewish Revolt against Rome, ending in the siege of Jerusalem. The world as people knew it shattered. No wonder they hoped God would intervene.

It isn’t hard to imagine feeling like that. Maybe you feel as though things are going to hell in a hand basket. Apocalyptic literature is a wake-up call that says, “Look what’s going on! Can’t you see how far we are from God’s vision for us?” Jesus’ advice is, “stay alert,” “keep awake.” That might sound a little threatening. Like you’re watching out for the Boogey Man, maybe? Sometimes it seems as though the whole point of Advent is to keep people from having too much fun getting ready for Christmas. That is not the point. Waking up to how far we are from God’s vision for us reminds us what God wants for us. Waking up reminds us we’re called to hold onto hope for God’s ultimate plans for God’s world.

During my internship many years ago, a church member gave me a little book entitled, Dachau Sermons. The author, Martin Niemöller, was a Lutheran pastor and theologian imprisoned at the concentration camp at Dachau. He’s the source of the famous quotation, “First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out, because I was not a Socialist. Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out, because I was not a Trade Unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out, because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me – and there was no one left to speak for me.”

In the preface, Niemöller explains that for the first seven and a half years of his imprisonment, “special prisoners” like himself weren’t allowed to meet each other or to hold worship services. Then, beginning on Christmas Eve 1944, for no apparent reason, they were granted permission to come together every four weeks for worship until they departed Dachau; a total of six times. The “congregation” included a Dutch cabinet minister, two Norwegian shippers, a British major from the Indian army, a Yugoslavian diplomat, a couple of priests and a Macedonian journalist. They were Calvinists, Lutherans, Anglicans, Roman Catholics and a Greek Orthodox. In our era of growing interfaith understanding, this might seem routine. In 1944, it was practically unheard of.

What could feel darker, more hopeless, more like the end of the world, more apocalyptic than spending over seven years at Dachau? And yet, in each sermon, Niemöller preaches hope. Not optimism, not glib or false assurances that everything will turn out just fine. He says they all know from bitter experience that hope and reality are at times widely separated and often never come together. What he preaches is that God comes anyway. Then, and now, God comes. God comes to us where we are, as we are. Not as the people we are trying to be or have promised to be or so very badly want to be, but the people we are. The families we are. The congregations we are. The communities we are. The nation and world that we are.

Jesus’ Advent call to wake up and keep alert is not a threat. It’s an invitation. He invites us to wake up, to notice, to listen for the ways that God is coming. To notice God’s overwhelming, unimaginable love, and to trust God’s desire to rescue us from ourselves, from injustice, oppression, hunger, sickness, and all the ways we hurt each other. That’s the essence of apocalypse: that God is on the way. God comes. Advent says, “Wake up to that. Notice that. Place your hope in that.”

To those afraid that nothing is ever going to change, that nothing will get better, Advent hope says, “Hold on! God is on the move, headed toward you.” We don’t know when or how and that’s why Jesus invites us to stay alert, eager, actively on the job. As the Christmas carol, “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” reminds us:
How silently, how silently,
the wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
the blessings of His heaven.
No ear may hear His coming,
but in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive Him, still
The dear Christ enters in.

© Joanne Whitt 2023 all rights reserved.

Lesson: Matthew 25:14-30

A man entrusts his money to three of his slaves before he leaves on a long journey. Two of them put the money to work and double their master’s money. The third slave takes the one talent given to him and buries it. Depending on what’s going on with Wall Street, we might decide this third slave is the real financial genius. He didn’t lose a penny. But that isn’t how this parable goes. The slaves who took risks with their master’s money are heroes, and the slave who played it safe is in big trouble.

It’s a tough parable. Parables are not simply stories told to reinforce our moral or religious values. As someone observed, no one would have bothered to crucify someone who went around telling stories that encouraged proper moral behavior. Today’s parable is about the kingdom of God, and kingdom parables call us to a new way of life, a way of life in which God is the ruler of our hearts and minds.

A while back, many churches were snapping up boxfuls of a book called The Kingdom Assignment, the story of Denny Bellesi, a pastor who doled out $10,000 in $100 increments to church members one Sunday, with three requirements: 1) The $100 belongs to God; 2) you must invest it in God’s work; 3) report your results in 90 days. The reports were startling: people made money hand over fist to contribute to the church, creative ministries were hatched, lives were transformed, people wept for joy – and it was all covered on TV news. That is NOT what this parable is about. The point of this parable is not, “Invest wisely and you’ll double your money.” The point isn’t even that you’re supposed to use what you have, the gifts God has given you, to do God’s work. That’s important, but it points to one of the problems with Pastor Bellesi’s story: giving someone $100 and saying, “This belongs to God,” implies that the other half million in your investment portfolio does not. But that isn’t the point of this parable, either. One of the commentaries on this passage cautions preachers that if you use this parable during stewardship season, don’t make the mistake of telling the congregation that what Jesus really wants is a four and a half percent increase in their pledge. Something much bigger is at stake here.

Our first clue that this is about something really big is the talent itself. One talent was the equivalent of what a day laborer would make in 15 or even 20 years. If we say, conservatively, that the average day laborer today makes $20,000 per year, one talent would be 15 times that or $300,000; maybe more. The servant entrusted with 5 talents was given, then, one and a half million dollars; the one with two talents was given $600,000. In other words, a talent was a huge sum. Few people would have a clue about how to invest this much money, so burying it really does make sense. But our second clue to the meaning of this parable is that preserving it is not enough. Being careful is not being faithful. Somehow, risk is important here.

I wish there were a fourth slave in this story – a slave who is given one or more talents, who takes the risk of investing the money, but then loses it. That way we’d find out what’s really important: Is it the fact that the first two slaves doubled the master’s money, or that fact that they took the risk? But maybe there’s a reason there’s no fourth slave who risked and then lost. Maybe, whatever this is that we’re to invest, whatever it is we risk, there’s no way to lose.

When you put these clues together – the astonishing value, the fact that you’re supposed to take the risk of investment but maybe there’s no way to lose – it all adds up to life in the kingdom of God – risking to live as God wants us to live, risking to put the life of Christ that is in the midst of us to work so that his life shows in us, so that his life is increased through us.

What does that look like right now? As Christians, we’re commanded to live with our neighbor in love, to pray for our enemies, and to bless those that persecute us. At the same time, a mere, “Why can’t we just be friends?” approach to politics doesn’t change policies and practices that fall short of love of neighbor; it doesn’t heal the systems and patterns that privilege some and exploit others. Yet we know we have to repair the breach in our society; we have to mend what’s broken, or we will continue down this polarized path, with little good being accomplished that isn’t undone when the next party comes into power. Somehow, we’ve got to come back together, undo the chaos, and pay attention to what we’ve learned about justice, compassion, equality, moral responsibility, and freedom.

Somehow. There’s no easy answer, and that means a risky investment on our part; it means striving to do what’s faithful even though we don’t know exactly what that might be, or how things may or may not work out. Fred Craddock said, “The major themes of Christian faith – caring, giving, witnessing, trusting, loving, hoping – cannot be understood or lived without risk.” So when we feel afraid, which we will, and when we are tempted to shrink back, maybe we can remind each other who told this parable. Jesus certainly could have played it safe, burying his mission in a hole in the ground, looking out only for himself. But he did not. Jesus stepped right out there, standing up for all who had no voice. He fed the hungry, befriended the outcast, and healed the sick. He called all people to repentance and new life. Let’s not kid ourselves: taking those risks led Jesus straight to the cross. Jesus was not in life for survival or self-preservation. He was in it for the kingdom, to live the fullness of God’s reign until all people can share it together. Which is worth the risk.

© Joanne Whitt 2023 all rights reserved.

Resources:

Richard J. Henderson, Parables: Stories for Life in God’s World – Resource Book (Pittsburgh, PA: The Kerygma Program, 1998).

Matthew 25:1-13

The last time I preached on this passage, two of my grownup kids asked me the same question. “Why did the bridesmaids have to have their own lamps? If I had a flashlight and you didn’t, we’d just walk together, right?” “Good question,” was the best I could come up with. This parable raises many questions like this. If for some reason they couldn’t share the lamps, then why not share the oil? Why were the young women sent off to buy oil at midnight when the store was probably closed? Can you ever really be too late for the Kingdom of God? Why the closed door? Where’s the hospitality and grace in that? Why is it the bridesmaids who suffer, just because this bridegroom is late? You’d think that having to buy a dress you’re never going to wear again is punishment enough.

We aren’t told why this bridegroom is late, but we know the parable was put in written form fifty or so years after the Resurrection, when the early church was expecting Christ to return at any moment. It was taking much longer than they’d hoped. The early church used this parable to say just that: There’s been a delay. Don’t be surprised, don’t panic, and don’t give up. It doesn’t mean our faith is pointless.

We’re still waiting. The Church still affirms that there will come a time when God’s plans for the world are fulfilled, when all the biblical promises that they shall beat their swords into plowshares and spears into pruning hooks will come to fruition. We pray in the Lord’s Prayer every week, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth…” We are not there yet. In the meantime, we respond to God’s invitation to be a part of God’s coming kingdom, but it is a slow kingdom coming.

What do these bridesmaids have to say to those who wait? The bridesmaids who were equipped to deal with the long haul were deemed wise. And somehow, even though it’s not a perfect analogy, that oil is supposed to represent something we can’t share. Something we have to do for ourselves.

Some have said that a weakness of the Reformed tradition is that we don’t focus on practices, even though we know that anything we want to do well takes practice. In his book, Slow Kingdom Coming, author Kent Annan sets out five faithful practices that can help sustain us for the marathon of waiting and participating in the coming kingdom. These practices help us to be committed to deep instead of shallow change, and to making a long-term difference instead of settling for quick fixes. Together the five practices add up to “Keep awake!”

The first practice is “attention,” which means awakening to the situations in the world that cry out for justice. People awaken to injustice in all sorts of ways: friends, mission trips, travel to other countries, work with marginalized groups, reading, paying attention to the news, seeing films, maybe even sermons! This kind of waking isn’t easy. One year, the town where a church I served is located put scarecrows on lamp posts as decorations during October and November. These scarecrows became the subject of controversy. Some people thought they were creepy, as in haunted house creepy, and they might scare children. Others thought they were creepy, as in reminiscent of a lynching creepy, and hugely insensitive to people of color. People on the neighborhood social media website, Nextdoor, said, “Look, even if they don’t bother you personally, if any person of color feels less welcome on our streets, we need to rethink our Halloween decorations,” and there were statements from people of color that these scarecrows were, indeed, a problem. Others said, “If it doesn’t bother me, it shouldn’t bother anybody, and you’re too sensitive. Get over it.” Some people even got ugly about it.

If we pay attention, we might hear the voices of people we’ve never heard before; we might begin to realize how deep and wide the problems are. When we pay attention, we might recognize our own complicity with the way things are. That’s why Annan’s second practice is confession. The third practice is respect. Respect means the ability to see one another across our inevitable differences. The fourth practice, partnering, helps prevent misguided generosity because it keeps us from swooping in to rescue or save. Instead, when we partner with people we assume we all need to learn and receive, and we all have something to give. It also means going upstream, not just applying Band-Aids to problems but addressing the sources and causes of poverty and injustice. That, of course, takes more time, and requires more thought, effort, and patience.

Annan’s fifth practice is what he calls “truthing” – seeing the truth of what’s right in front of our noses. What are the real impacts of our ministry? “Truthing” means asking the question, “What ministries, what actions, actually bear fruit?”

Five practices, all designed to help us to “keep awake” while we wait. The opportunities for waiting on Jesus’ presence are all around us. Each time we work for justice, we testify to Jesus’ presence. Each time we bear each other’s burdens, we testify to Jesus’ presence. Each time we advocate for the poor, or reach out to the friendless, or work to make the world God loves a better place, we testify to the presence of the Risen Christ.

© Joanne Whitt 2023

Resources:

Kent Annan, Slow Kingdom Coming: Practices for Doing Justice, Loving Mercy and Walking Humbly in the World (Westmont, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2016).

Matthew 23:1-12

Author Brian McLaren tells a story about a man named Jeff who began attending McLaren’s church. After about six months, Jeff told McLaren, “For the first time in my life, I look forward to coming to church. It’s really having a good effect on me and my whole family. My wife says I’m a much better husband, and I know I’m improving as a father, too. I really get a lot out of your sermons. In fact, I agree with everything you say.”

This statement shocked McLaren. He was wasn’t sure even he could say that, given the way he winced when he listened to his old sermon tapes (I can relate). But Jeff continued. “There’s one thing, though. I don’t believe in God.”

McLaren wondered how Jeff could agree with everything he’d heard him preach, and not believe in God. McLaren was thinking, “Man, I must be some preacher if you still don’t believe in God.” But what he said was, “Why don’t you believe in God?” Jeff answered, “It’s my brother. He became a Christian and now nobody can stand him.” McLaren asked, “So you’re afraid if you start believing in God, you’ll become an arrogant hypocrite, or something like that? “Exactly,” said Jeff.

Ouch. Arrogant hypocrites, just like the Pharisees in this Sunday’s passage in Matthew’s Gospel. The Pharisees were a sect of Judaism that existed, alongside many others, in Palestinian Jewish society from about 200 B.C.E. to 100 C.E. They sought to preserve Israel’s identity by strict adherence to purity and Sabbath laws. This effort became increasingly important when Palestine was occupied by conquering empires. Apparently, Matthew thought that some of the Pharisees started out with good intentions but became corrupted by self-interest. They used their religion to massage their own egos, to make themselves feel important.

The thing is, religion has always been very susceptible to being corrupted into just another way for us to feed the unhealthy pride that lurks in the corners of our insecurities. As one commentator puts it, “You know, that pride that tempts us to try to make ourselves look more important or more moral or simply better than others. It’s the other side of the temptation to brand others as ‘sinners’ so that we can be ‘righteous.’”

If we’re totally honest, I suspect many church leaders can identify with the Pharisees’ concern with fringes and phylacteries, with titles and respect. It’s less common than it used to be but I have known pastors who insisted on being called “Dr.” or “Reverend,” even though (and I confess this is a quirky pet peeve of mine) “Reverend” is an honorific, not a title, and only grammatically appropriate when used in the third person and with the definite article, as in, “That man over there in the clerical collar is the Rev. John Smith.” And I’ve seen plenty of pastors – no, wait – I have been a pastor who has drooled over a vestment catalog.

We’re not so different from the scribes and Pharisees. In truth, there’s nothing wrong with phylacteries or fringes, or with vestments or titles. They all have their place when kept in perspective. Jesus’ concern, then and now, is the way those things get out of perspective, the way our motivations for doing them become distorted so that they become an end in themselves, the way they become substitutes for what we’re supposed to be about: glorifying God and living as disciples. The passage reminds us how quickly religious practice can move from being God-centered to being self-centered.

Many churches observe All Saints Day on the first Sunday in November. In the Roman Catholic tradition which colors most of what we think we know about saints, saints are people who lived an exceptionally good life and then died, who sometimes performed miracles, and whose memory has stood the test of time. Originally each saint had his or her own saint’s day, but there are around forty thousand saints in the Roman Catholic tradition, so eventually most of them were celebrated on one day: All Saints’ Day. But for Presbyterians, forty thousand is just a start. In his letters, the apostle Paul uses the word “saints” to refer to the church, the whole church on earth, here and now. In the Reformed tradition, all who are united in Christ, whether dead or living, are saints. Saints are not perfect people in either tradition. Being a saint does not mean being flawless. This very recognition, writes the Dali Lama, is the antidote self-centeredness. “True humility is not thinking less of yourself; it’s thinking of yourself less.”

Humility is the antidote to self-centeredness. Back to that story about Jeff, the young man who didn’t want to turn into an arrogant hypocrite. McLaren thought he should give Jeff something to think about rather than argue with him. So he said, “Well, maybe someday you’ll see a way to believe in God and become a better person instead of a worse one.”

Jeff said, “Wow, I never really thought of it that way. I guess that is an option.”

Perhaps that’s the invitation of both this passage and All Saints: to seek a way of believing in God that helps us become a better person instead of a worse one. We stand on the shoulders of saints who show us what that looks like, and on All Saints, we remember and celebrate them. In 1953, a man arrived at the railway station in Chicago to receive the Nobel Peace Prize. He stepped off the train, a tall man with bushy hair and a big mustache. As the cameras flashed and city officials approached with hands outstretched to meet him, he thanked them politely. Then he asked to be excused for a minute. He walked through the crowd to the side of an elderly Black woman struggling with two large suitcases. He picked them up, smiled, escorted her to the bus, helped her get on, and wished her a safe journey. Then, Albert Schweitzer – theologian, organist, philosopher, physician, and medical missionary in Africa – turned to the crowd and apologized for keeping them waiting. It is reported that one member of the reception committee told a reporter, “That’s the first time I ever saw a sermon walking.”

Thanks be to God, I have seen many, many sermons walking.

Resources:

Brian D. McLaren, More Ready Than You Realize: Evangelism as Dance in the Post-Modern Matrix (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 2002).
Alyce M. McKenzie, October 23, 2011, http://www.patheos.com/Resources/Additional-Resources/Do-As-I-Say-Not-As-I-Do-Alyce-McKenzie-10-24-2011
http://thewakingdreamer.blogspot.com/2011/11/doing-as-we-say-mt.html

© Joanne Whitt 2023 all rights reserved.

Lesson: Matthew 22:34-46

Jesus has just “silenced the Sadducees,” and so the Pharisees decide to take him on. They send a lawyer to test him. As you might expect, the lawyer chooses to test Jesus on a point of legal interpretation. In my experience, legal interpretation isn’t just for lawyers. In fact, it seems to come naturally to people, starting at a very early age. Take the rule, “You may not watch TV until your homework is done.” I have seen virtually every word of that rule subjected to intense scrutiny. Is “you” a singular or a plural pronoun? If you are finished with your homework, may you watch TV, even though your sister is still working on hers at the dining room table, a mere eight feet away? Does “homework” mean only the homework due tomorrow, or 2 or 3 days from now? If you’re supposed to finish a novel in three weeks, how much of that is your “homework” tonight? Does it count as “watching” if you didn’t get to choose the program? And perhaps most important, is there a penalty for watching TV before your homework is done?

And so the Pharisee lawyer asks Jesus, “Which commandment in the law is the greatest?” Jesus answers: The greatest and first, from Deuteronomy, is “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and soul, and might.” The second, which he says is like it, is from Leviticus: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” Then, Jesus challenges the lawyer to re-interpret the whole body of Jewish law. “On these two commandments,” he says, “hang all the law and the prophets.”

Now, Jesus’ words are clear enough. The Reformer, John Knox, is said to have declared, “The Word of God is plain in itself.” With all due respect to John Knox, especially given this coming Sunday is Reformation Sunday, when it comes to both Scripture and the law, I tend to agree with Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter, who said, “The notion that because the words of a statute are plain, its meaning is also plain, is merely pernicious oversimplification.”

When we hear the command to love, what many of us experience is something like, “I know I should love.” But we can’t just decide to love, and we can’t even be persuaded to love with the best, most convincing arguments. Sure, it’s easy enough to love someone who is just naturally lovable. But the problem is that none of us is lovable all the time. And some people, it seems, aren’t ever very lovable. Certainly, we can attempt to treat all people fairly. We can treat people with justice, because as Cornell West put it, “Justice is what love looks like in public.” But Jesus quoted Leviticus, not Micah; he used the word “love,” not “justice.”

On the Sunday before All Saints, it’s helpful for me to remember that many of the heroes of our faith figured out that it’s by allowing ourselves the experience of being deeply and completely and unconditionally loved by God that we are empowered to love others. People like Mother Teresa, Desmond Tutu and Martin Luther King Jr. realized that if God deems someone lovable, including ourselves, then who are we to disagree? Who are we to presume that someone who is worthy of God’s love is not worthy of our love?

It’s also helpful for me to remember a quotation – I don’t know the original source and it’s practically a meme at this point but it’s absolutely true: “People are hard to hate up close. Move closer.”

This past summer, protesters showed up at a church in San Francisco that I often attend when I’m not preaching elsewhere. After posing as visitors and disrupting Bible study before worship, the protesters grouped together outside and began shouting random homophobic epithets with an amplified mic at the people gathering for worship. I was there, and it felt menacing, especially because confrontations in our country too often turn violent. It felt like a violation; a disruption of what should have been preparation for worship. The pastor was on vacation, but the associate pastor handled the situation with grace.

A few weeks later, the pastor met with some of the protestors. She was able to tell them that while she trusted that they came to protest because they love Jesus, they weren’t communicating the love of Jesus to the congregation. They frightened people. She listened to their stories, and it became apparent why they had such a black-and-white, heaven-and-hell based theology. She didn’t agree with it, but she understood why it felt safer to them. She hoped they understood her congregation a bit better, as well. She probably didn’t change their minds. But she communicated the love of Jesus to them. She moved closer.

It’s by allowing ourselves the experience of being deeply and completely and unconditionally loved by God that we are empowered to love others. And then, move closer.

Lesson: Matthew 22:15-22

One of the most iconic moments of the original “Star Wars” movies came to mind when I read this passage. In “Return of the Jedi,” as the rebels realize they’re surrounded by Imperial ships, Admiral Ackbar shouts, “It’s a trap!” That’s what I want to shout to Jesus. We’re told from the outset that the Pharisees, fed up with Jesus, are plotting to entrap him. To do this they join forces with an unlikely ally, the Herodians. This is one of those, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend” situations. The Pharisees were highly observant Jews who despised Rome and Roman rule of their homeland. The Herodians supported the Romans. They both want to get rid of Jesus.

The census tax required by Rome was not only an economic burden; it was also a painful reminder that Judea was occupied by foreign powers who worshiped false gods. The tax could only be paid with Roman coins, which were not just legal tender but also pieces of propaganda. Most of the coins had an image of the emperor with inscriptions proclaiming him to be divine or the son of a god, a graven image that was both blasphemous and politically humiliating. So when they ask Jesus whether they should pay taxes to the emperor, they aren’t seeking tax advice. A “Yes” will discredit Jesus with the Jews and show him to be disloyal to God. A “No” will show him to be disloyal to the empire, and he could be arrested for treason.

Jesus asks to see a coin. Someone produces one. This, all by itself, incriminates the questioners. Apparently, they’re happy to do business with Caesar’s coins. “Whose image is on this?” Jesus asks. The coin, of course, bears Caesar’s image. It belongs to Caesar. I picture Jesus saying with a shrug, “So give it back to him.” We don’t disobey or offend God by paying our taxes.

Then the zinger. “And give to God the things that are God’s.”

What belongs to God? The coin bore Caesar’s image and belonged to Caesar. What is it, exactly, that bears God’s image?

We don’t have to hunt in our pockets or purses. Just look at the people you see on the street, at work, at home, at school and you will see the image of God again and again. Human beings may pay taxes to the emperor, but we do not belong to the emperor. We bear the image of God. We belong to God.

What are we to give God? That which is stamped with God’s image. Our very selves. Our very lives. Not just a part of ourselves. Not just a part of our lives. Go ahead, give Caesar the tribute, pay the taxes, but give God what belongs to God: your heart, soul, mind and strength; loving God and your neighbor as yourself.

What does this look like? There’s a theological word for our responsibility for God’s world and its resources, including our very selves, and that word is stewardship. Stewardship is so much more than raising money for the ministries of a church. Stewardship certainly encompasses our spending, the way we use our money, but that’s just a drop in the stewardship bucket. We are to be good stewards of everything, including our time, our talent, and our treasure; including this planet and all its resources. We belong to God. The earth is the Lord’s, and all that is in it; the world, and those who live in it (Psalm 24:1).

Carolyn Winfrey Gillette took this passage and put it to the tune of “God Whose Giving Knows No Ending,” a hymn in the Presbyterian hymnal, Glory to God. Gillette’s version includes these verses:

“Find a tax coin in your treasure; see the image that it bears.
Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s. (Give to rulers what is theirs.)”
Yet he pressed on with his message; “Give to God what is God’s own.”
We who bear our Maker’s image worship God and God alone.

Lord of all, in every nation, may your word be understood —
That we have an obligation to support the common good.
May our taxes, all together, fund our working hand in hand
So that life will be made better for all people in this land.

Still, we also hear your teaching: “Give to God what God is due.”
May no ruler — overreaching — try to take the place of you.
May we listen to your message, may we honor what is yours;
May we, living in your image, seek your kingdom that endures.

© Joanne Whitt 2023 all rights reserved.