Pastor Nagle
03/27/2005
“That’s All Folks” John 20:8-9 The Festival of the Resurrection March 27, 2005
In the old days, before there was television, there were movies. And people would go to the movies on a very regular basis—sometimes to see the movie itself, but almost as often to see the latest cartoon. Cartoons which, more often than not, ended with the words scrolled across the screen, “That’s all folks.” Which at that particular moment was true, but which didn’t bother anyone, because there was always something ahead. Surely the main feature, maybe another cartoon, always another week.
Some of you, fully aware that this is my last Sunday as a pastor of our congregation, have come to worship this morning with a sense of sadness, with a sense of finality, with a sense that the sermon title is true: That’s All Folks. If that attitude is true for you, then you’re in good company, for that’s precisely the same attitude which was held by Peter and John, early in the morning of that first Easter. You know the story. Even know the whole story in the several different ways it’s told in the four gospels. But that kind of knowledge gives us an advantage the first disciples didn’t have. For Peter and John were in some ways like a little child seeing the fading scene at the end of a cartoon—asking, is that really all there is? Listen again to this one partial sentence lifted from this morning’s gospel story: “for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead.” And then the disciples returned to their homes.
These days, it seems an almost impossible reaction—that the disciples went to the tomb, the empty tomb, and didn’t think more about it, didn’t do more about it. But you can understand why. On Friday afternoon, fewer than 40 hours earlier, the disciples had been witness to Jesus’ death on the cross. And it was a real death too. Not play-acting. Not mass hypnosis. Not a literary device. Scripture is quite clear that the government carried out the sentence reserved for trouble-makers. Jesus was executed. Dead. And then buried. And everyone there knew, “That’s all folks.” That’s what they thought then. But we know better now, don’t we?
I’d like to think so, but there are days when I’m not very certain. Not very certain that you and I know more or believe more. True, I did take out of context the line that said the disciples didn’t understand. And it’s true that they went back to their homes. But the story went on, of course. That little by little, the disciples remembered the prediction and the promise, and came to accept what could not reasonably be understood. That this Jesus who was more than Jesus, was able to do what only God could do—defeat the power even of death, and live on. So that, all of a sudden, the meaning of “that’s all folks” was changed. Because, all of a sudden, there was more than there had been. And the certainty of more yet to come. Do you know what that could mean? Could mean for you and me?
It means that the endings we have come to dread are not endings at all, but pauses along a much longer path. When there is physical death, when Johnny and Susie break up, when the job disappears and when Pastor Nagle retires, it would be easy to fall apart and assume that life as we know it will never be again. Haven’t you attended funerals like that, where the mourners grieve greatly, as they are encouraged to do by the preacher and the neighbors? Not that there is anything wrong with tears. I’ll bet we don’t get through all of today without some. But those tears had better be temporary because the theology that lies behind the cartoon words says that they must be temporary. For a moment, that’s all folks. For eternity, well, the word infinity comes to mind. And I can’t explain that one either. But that’s the promise we’re given. That life goes on and on.
Though it’s true that, for some people, infinity, eternity, seems awfully long. When death came at the end of sickness, it was a friend. No one wanted poor health to go on forever. And when Johnny and Susie broke up, or when the company decided you must leave, that was all right too. And my retirement. Some things aren’t meant forever. Some things are supposed to end, or else, how can what comes next ever come to be? And someone says, “You’re sadder than that, aren’t you? Are you really so callous that, after 36 years, you’re just going to turn your back and go away?” Turn my back, yes. But not go away. Go on, in a path toward something new, for us all. So that if you see my back, you can follow my back, and keep on with me and what I have always proclaimed, so that you’ll come to see what Peter and John saw too. That there is so much ahead. And it’s called Easter, the Festival of the Resurrection. That’s what it’s all about. You just have to look at the gospels and count the pages to know that that’s what it’s all about.
So, though Jesus lived among us for 30-something years, it’s only the last relatively little while that matters enough to be included in scripture. And of the time spent in all his travels, all his teaching, all his healings, the gospels give the greater space to the last week of his life. And the first day of new life most of all. Over my years here, I taught many things in sermons and classes. Sometimes I reminded you of the need for obedience. Surely the Ten Commandments is in scripture. Sometimes I reminded you of the need for social action. Surely the Old Testament prophets are in scripture. Sometimes I reminded you of the need for knowledge and prayer and spirituality. And it’s all there too. But our world misses the point entirely if it concentrates on any or all of those, at the expense of these words—that the Lord is risen. He is risen indeed. Nothing else in scripture has much meaning, except in the light of those words. Nothing else in life has much meaning, except in the light of those words. And anyone who says that the end is near or that the end is here, anyone who lives with sadness and dread, anyone who insists that passages are blocked and the way is not clear, has failed to understand just as much as Peter and John—people who were witness to everything important, and then just went home. It happened for them, but simply must not happen for us.
Then what shall we say about “That’s all folks?” Deny that it has meaning? No, but push it off, way further off, than we could have supposed. To see that the new life given to us is so full of glory and grandeur and joy and peace that nothing else matters. But that the glory and grandeur and joy and peace with Christ is the “all” to which we refer. And as children of God, which of us would want it any other way. To know, for sure, that Easter truly is the “all” that is. For (and here is what it’s all about) the Lord is risen. He is risen indeed.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Thursday, March 24, 2005
"The Sermon According to Billy"
Pastor Nagle
03/24/2005
“The Sermon According to Billy” Maundy Thursday March 24, 2005
“Mommy. Mommy.”
“Billy, when you’re kneeling at the altar for Holy Communion, you shouldn’t be talking.”
“But Mommy, this is important. I need to know something.”
“What?”
“Who’s that?”
“Billy, that’s the pastor. You know that. Now be quiet.”
“Mommy, not the pastor. I know him. Who’s that? Who’s that person kneeling over there on the other side?”
“That’s Mrs. Shultz.”
“Why are her eyes closed?”
“Because she’s praying.”
“About what?”
“When they kneel here, people pray for lots of things. They pray that God will keep on loving them. They say they’re sorry for bad things they’ve done. They ask God to help sick people.”
“Is that why he’s here?”
“Who?”
“The man there who’s coughing. Is he sick?”
“Oh yes, Billy, he is. Mr. Kramer is very sick. Maybe you and I can ask God to help him get better.”
“Does coming to Holy Communion make you get better? Is eating and drinking it like taking medicine? I don’t like medicine.”
“Well, actually, Holy Communion is kind of like God’s medicine. It makes us feel better about what’s wrong with us, even if what’s wrong with us doesn’t disappear right away.”
“Is that why that lady there is crying—because something didn’t disappear right away?”
“Billy, Mrs. Myers has lots going on in her life. So much going on that it’s ok for her to cry.”
“But doesn’t she think God can take care of her?”
“Billy, God can take care of everyone.”
“Then why is she crying?”
“Maybe she just needs a reminder.”
“Like Holy Communion, right?”
“Well, yes. Holy Communion does remind us that God takes care of us. But, please. It’s important that you be quiet and stop asking so many questions.”
“But Mommy, this is important too. Why isn’t that person crying?”
“How do you know Mr. Gordon isn’t crying?”
“Because I’m looking at him.”
“Can you tell what’s going on inside him?”
“No.”
“But God can.”
“God can see inside us? Eew.”
“I mean that God can understand what’s going on inside us. He knows what bothers us and what makes us laugh. He knows what we try to do and if it’s something good, he helps us do it. He knows everything about us.”
“Does he know I think that man looks funny when he sings?”
“Billy!”
“Well, he does.”
“But isn’t it more important to know that he likes to sing? And that when he sings the songs, he’s praising God?”
“I don’t know all these songs.”
“No, you don’t. But some day maybe you will. The songs we sing remind us of Jesus and the way he lived and the day he died.”
“I don’t like to think about dying.”
“Nobody does, I guess. But with Jesus, it was different. He didn’t just die. He lived again. And that’s what Easter is about. At church and Holy Communion, we don’t think just about dying. We think more about living. But Billy, I’ll have to talk to you later. We can’t disturb the people next to us.”
“That man doesn’t have anybody next to him Does God know why that man’s kneeling all by himself?”
“He’s alone because he doesn’t have any family here.”
“I’ve got family. I’m glad I’ve got family. I’m sorry he doesn’t have family. Can we be his family?”
“Well we are his family, sort of. I mean, when we’re all here around the altar, we’re the family of God.”
“Johnny’s family fights. A lot.”
“Every family fights sometimes. But in Holy Communion, we don’t think about the fights we have with each other—except to say that we’re sorry.”
“Do you think everybody here is sorry?”
“I don’t know. Probably not. It took you a long time to apologize when you hit your sister.”
“But she wasn’t being nice.”
“Neither were you. But here you both are, you on this side of me and she on the other side. And I love you both—even when you didn’t say you were sorry.”
“Did God know about me and my sister?”
“God knows everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything. But he loves you anyway. Just like I do. But being sorry isn’t the only reason we come to the altar. Lots of times, we come because we’re happy.”
“So that’s why that lady smiled at me.”
“Probably. When we think of all that God has given us, when we know that we’re loved, when we know that we’re surrounded by other people who know about God, we just have to smile.”
“So it’s ok to look around?”
“Well, you shouldn’t stare, but if you didn’t look around, you wouldn’t know who else is here, would you? And if you didn’t know who else is here, you wouldn’t be able to smile at them, would you?”
“I tried smiling at that other lady, but she didn’t smile back. She didn’t even look at me. Is she mad about something?”
“No, Billy, Mrs. Kraft’s not mad.”
“Then why didn’t she look at me?”
“I guess she’s looking at something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. When her eyes are closed like that, maybe she’s looking at a picture of Jesus or remembering a verse from the Bible, or maybe she’s thinking about people who brought her to communion.”
“Just like you bringing me, right?”
“That’s right. Holy Communion is so special to me that I want everybody to know.”
“There are a lot of people here, but I don’t think everybody’s here.”
“More people than you can count. Some of them you see. Some of them are far off. But they’re still here. But Billy, you’ve got be quiet. The pastor’s getting closer.”
“But why do we have to be quiet?”
“So we can hear what he says.”
“What does he say?”
“He says the most important thing you’ll ever hear. Listen.”
“The Body of Christ, given for you. The blood of Christ, shed for you. For you, and you, and you, and you too, Billy.”
03/24/2005
“The Sermon According to Billy” Maundy Thursday March 24, 2005
“Mommy. Mommy.”
“Billy, when you’re kneeling at the altar for Holy Communion, you shouldn’t be talking.”
“But Mommy, this is important. I need to know something.”
“What?”
“Who’s that?”
“Billy, that’s the pastor. You know that. Now be quiet.”
“Mommy, not the pastor. I know him. Who’s that? Who’s that person kneeling over there on the other side?”
“That’s Mrs. Shultz.”
“Why are her eyes closed?”
“Because she’s praying.”
“About what?”
“When they kneel here, people pray for lots of things. They pray that God will keep on loving them. They say they’re sorry for bad things they’ve done. They ask God to help sick people.”
“Is that why he’s here?”
“Who?”
“The man there who’s coughing. Is he sick?”
“Oh yes, Billy, he is. Mr. Kramer is very sick. Maybe you and I can ask God to help him get better.”
“Does coming to Holy Communion make you get better? Is eating and drinking it like taking medicine? I don’t like medicine.”
“Well, actually, Holy Communion is kind of like God’s medicine. It makes us feel better about what’s wrong with us, even if what’s wrong with us doesn’t disappear right away.”
“Is that why that lady there is crying—because something didn’t disappear right away?”
“Billy, Mrs. Myers has lots going on in her life. So much going on that it’s ok for her to cry.”
“But doesn’t she think God can take care of her?”
“Billy, God can take care of everyone.”
“Then why is she crying?”
“Maybe she just needs a reminder.”
“Like Holy Communion, right?”
“Well, yes. Holy Communion does remind us that God takes care of us. But, please. It’s important that you be quiet and stop asking so many questions.”
“But Mommy, this is important too. Why isn’t that person crying?”
“How do you know Mr. Gordon isn’t crying?”
“Because I’m looking at him.”
“Can you tell what’s going on inside him?”
“No.”
“But God can.”
“God can see inside us? Eew.”
“I mean that God can understand what’s going on inside us. He knows what bothers us and what makes us laugh. He knows what we try to do and if it’s something good, he helps us do it. He knows everything about us.”
“Does he know I think that man looks funny when he sings?”
“Billy!”
“Well, he does.”
“But isn’t it more important to know that he likes to sing? And that when he sings the songs, he’s praising God?”
“I don’t know all these songs.”
“No, you don’t. But some day maybe you will. The songs we sing remind us of Jesus and the way he lived and the day he died.”
“I don’t like to think about dying.”
“Nobody does, I guess. But with Jesus, it was different. He didn’t just die. He lived again. And that’s what Easter is about. At church and Holy Communion, we don’t think just about dying. We think more about living. But Billy, I’ll have to talk to you later. We can’t disturb the people next to us.”
“That man doesn’t have anybody next to him Does God know why that man’s kneeling all by himself?”
“He’s alone because he doesn’t have any family here.”
“I’ve got family. I’m glad I’ve got family. I’m sorry he doesn’t have family. Can we be his family?”
“Well we are his family, sort of. I mean, when we’re all here around the altar, we’re the family of God.”
“Johnny’s family fights. A lot.”
“Every family fights sometimes. But in Holy Communion, we don’t think about the fights we have with each other—except to say that we’re sorry.”
“Do you think everybody here is sorry?”
“I don’t know. Probably not. It took you a long time to apologize when you hit your sister.”
“But she wasn’t being nice.”
“Neither were you. But here you both are, you on this side of me and she on the other side. And I love you both—even when you didn’t say you were sorry.”
“Did God know about me and my sister?”
“God knows everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything. But he loves you anyway. Just like I do. But being sorry isn’t the only reason we come to the altar. Lots of times, we come because we’re happy.”
“So that’s why that lady smiled at me.”
“Probably. When we think of all that God has given us, when we know that we’re loved, when we know that we’re surrounded by other people who know about God, we just have to smile.”
“So it’s ok to look around?”
“Well, you shouldn’t stare, but if you didn’t look around, you wouldn’t know who else is here, would you? And if you didn’t know who else is here, you wouldn’t be able to smile at them, would you?”
“I tried smiling at that other lady, but she didn’t smile back. She didn’t even look at me. Is she mad about something?”
“No, Billy, Mrs. Kraft’s not mad.”
“Then why didn’t she look at me?”
“I guess she’s looking at something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. When her eyes are closed like that, maybe she’s looking at a picture of Jesus or remembering a verse from the Bible, or maybe she’s thinking about people who brought her to communion.”
“Just like you bringing me, right?”
“That’s right. Holy Communion is so special to me that I want everybody to know.”
“There are a lot of people here, but I don’t think everybody’s here.”
“More people than you can count. Some of them you see. Some of them are far off. But they’re still here. But Billy, you’ve got be quiet. The pastor’s getting closer.”
“But why do we have to be quiet?”
“So we can hear what he says.”
“What does he say?”
“He says the most important thing you’ll ever hear. Listen.”
“The Body of Christ, given for you. The blood of Christ, shed for you. For you, and you, and you, and you too, Billy.”
Sunday, March 20, 2005
"A Reason to Smile"
Pastor Nagle
03/20/2005
“A Reason to Smile” Matthew 21:1-11 The Sixth Sunday of Lent March 20, 2005
“A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road.” So said Matthew, as he reported on what happened that day when Jesus arrived to celebrate the Passover in Jerusalem. We’ve gotten so used to that parade story that we’ve called the day Palm Sunday. We even spend money to import palm branches from Texas to get us in the mood of copying the early disciples. But only sort of in the mood. We don’t actually distribute the palms until the end of church because we’re afraid that people will fidget and play with them during the sermon, or start to strip off those stringy things and get them all over the carpet. Or that if we wave them around too much, some little kid will put an eye out. So in the best sense of double-speak, we say we celebrate Palm Sunday, but we do it in a far more sedate way than the original crowd did. Which may be a characteristic of life and the church and our theology. A characteristic of it and a problem with it. That we’re entirely too serious. About lots of things. So that if there’s a message today, maybe it’s this— we need to lighten up. Which is not something about which we all will agree.
I remember when I was maybe ten years old. It was an evening Lenten service, dark and proper. Daddy was in the pulpit, Mother was in the choir loft, I was in the front row with a friend of mine who somehow got me tickled. I don’t remember if it was something he said or did, but I started to smile, which led to a giggle and a rather small shaking of the shoulders. Which I tried to stop—it being Lent, for heaven’s sake. But despite the glare of my earthly father (who must have been as upset as my heavenly father) I couldn’t stop. I will say that later that night, I was not in as happy a mood. I wonder if something like that ever happened to you. Not that the preacher sees you giggling and passing notes during the sermon, but who was it who told you that “this is church, so stop smiling.” “This is God’s house, so stop running around.” “This is Jesus’ parade, so stop waving those palms. And pick up your cloak. Good gracious, if you put your cloak on the ground, that donkey is going to walk on it. Or worse. Do you think good cloaks grow on trees? And don’t even think about cutting down more palm branches. It ruins the shape of the tree. And if someone happens to say to you, Hosanna, you just say, And also with you.”
My hidden camera records that thirteen per cent of you smiled at that, but that a significant number of you did not. And more than a few said, Have you forgotten that today is Passion Sunday? No, I haven’t forgotten at all. Today is one of those two-fers. Two for one. It’s both Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday. The beginning of Holy Week, Jesus’ last week, the occasion of his betrayal and denial, arrest and death. Which, admittedly, is dark and serious stuff. But in the church, it used to be that at the beginning of this solemn time, almost to the end of dark and purple Lent, we had at least this one day to lighten up. But then someone thought it was far more fitting to spend the time getting in the mood for what follows. Which, in their eyes, meant being solemn and somber. Because, according to some people, what follows Palm Sunday is Holy Week. And they’re right, of course. But isn’t it also true that what follows Palm Sunday is Easter? Though some people think you can have a good Easter only after you’ve endured an awful Holy Week. Sort of like hitting your head because it feels so good when you stop. Maybe even hitting your head with a cross.
Which is not to deny that Jesus suffered. Which is not to say that he didn’t die. But that we can say with delight more than sadness, how wonderful that he did. How inexplicably wonderful that he did. But if it seems right, proper and necessary that we should exercise due solemnity, let’s just do it for awhile, and not make a habit of it. What kind of homes did some of us come from, that we don’t understand how to lighten up? Why do we always associate religion with harshness, and the church with strictness? Why do we count it as our faithful assignment from God to investigate people’s lives to check how dirty their cloaks are? Why do we look at palm branch cutters as vandals rather than celebrants? And whose idea was it to keep more people out of heaven than we admit in? For that matter, who ever figured that we had a part in that at all? Have you noticed that any publicity the church gets these days is based more on our darkness than our light, on our standards more than our joy, on our fights more than our parties?
Yes, today is the beginning of Holy Week. Yes, we’re five days away from remembering the gory way the Romans executed people. Yes, we’re draped in purple soon to be black. And yes, ours is truly an awful world. Yes, we know who are sick, even to death. Yes, there are people close and far off who lack even the basics we take for granted. Yes, there are people who do vile things to themselves and others. Yes, God gave Moses ten commandments. Yes, Paul asked us to take seriously our relationship with God. Yes, and when I ask you to lighten up, I’m in a minority—but you know, if we’d fully accept and believe in what we truly know is the end of the story, maybe the way we tell the story would be different, with the result that other people’s life stories would be different too. Truly, there are more people outside the church this day than are inside it, partly—even mostly—because of our solemnity, our intention to emphasize sin and our reluctance to live with joy. Those absent people already know they have sometimes done too little and often done too much. Whether they intend it that way or not, whether others have gotten them that way or not, there are people all around us who suffer shame and indignity and the separation that results from it. People who suffer pain in their bodies and hearts and minds. Who are so down they can’t even imagine up. People who suffer in uncounted ways. But you and I are the ones who can end that suffering. But it’s a choice on our part, whether or not to lighten up. We can either say to people, You made your awful bed; now lie in it. Or we can let them start life all over again. We can sniff at their dirty cloaks or we can walk with them anyway. Or even give them our own cloaks. If we wouldn’t mind getting them dirty. Even when it’s obvious that the place we lay them means that they will get dirty.
And someone says, if you think the church is going to smile at sinners, and lay cloaks in front of asses, and laugh with the dying, or make light of our God, you’re wrong. And you’re unfaithful, theologically incorrect, a discredit to the church, and an idiot besides. And maybe I am. Over the years, more than one person has told me that, as they left this congregation for more holy fields. But St. Paul said that we should be fools for Christ, though maybe he meant something slightly different. But see, that shouldn’t bother us, that someone would accuse us of idiocy, because the foundation of our faith, the very thing we believe, is idiocy. And always has been. Imagine, God bringing the dead back to life. It’s absolutely, well, ludicrous. And though that has been the theme throughout this Lenten season, it was especially so in our readings last Sunday. Do you remember that the first story then was a tale about dead bones? The people of Israel portrayed as a pile of dead bones. But when the prophet proclaimed the word of the Lord to them, they came together and danced about. And if you had been present, what would your reaction have been? Would you have clapped your hands and laughed out loud, or would you have organized the bones into some order. Or asked them to not rattle so much. Or have them sign a faith statement saying that they’d never dry up again. And do you remember that last week’s gospel story was that long one about Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead? That four days after the man had died, Jesus arrived and brought him back to life. That he called him out of the tomb and brought him back to life. If you had been present then, what would your reaction have been? With a perfectly straight face, would you have soberly said, Thank you Jesus for doing such a good job? Or instructed Lazarus to go and clean up because he smelled so bad, and looked even worse. Or at his appearance, would you have hooted and hollered and jumped up and down. Even waved a palm branch. Cut down and waved palm branches until someone complained and told you to stop it.
Which, by the way, is what the church does so well. We say, Stop it, as if any joy we exhibit would be an affront to God. But I ask, how could it be an affront to God? With the dry bones and with Lazarus, he started it all, didn’t he? Why not hoot and holler, and wave a branch or two? What was dead is alive. Should we have a problem with that? I’ll share this with you—with retirement just ahead, can you guess what I’ll miss and what I won’t? Do you know what I wish the future here will be like? Oh, I know right from wrong, and always have. But it’s a lot more fun rejoicing in God getting me right than in hearing other people telling me how I’m wrong. Over the years, we’ve experienced together some of those difficult and divisive times. Over the years, I’ve watched people take sides on who should be allowed to use the building, and whether we could afford that much electricity, and whether it’s proper to use a snappy song in worship, or allow jeans instead of a suit. And we’ve tried to figure out if it’s a waste of resources to supply new cloaks to people who would just get them dirty, or a waste of money to buy new palms for people to wave. Sometimes, the decisions we made were up-lifting, and we banded together in unity. Sometimes, our arguments were so fierce and our relationships so strained that we separated into camps that refused to talk with each other, let alone smile.
On that first Palm Sunday, do you suppose Jesus smiled? Most people would say no— considering the man was five days away from death. But you know, when you see the benefits of what lies ahead, when you see what good it can provide, when you understand that it’s all about life, that even when you lose your own, it’s about life for others, do you think it’s just possible that Jesus smiled? And if he did, do you think you and I can lighten up too? To know that the church’s calendar is an artificial thing, and that Easter has already happened. And to know and proclaim that the Lord has already been raised from the dead. Which means that we have been freed from the clutches of death. Which also means we can offer that same gift to other people, and be glad when they accept it. And joyfully keep on with them even if they haven’t accepted it the same way we have. Why the dark outlook? Jesus was the Savior of the world, not some squinty-eyed hall monitor. And he told us there would be joy in heaven when people like us stop worrying about cloaks and palm branches and the people who we think misuse them, and when instead we celebrate the giving of another chance. Another lively chance.
It’s true, of course, that there are sad times and somber times, and harsh times and threatening times, and sinful times and uncertain times. It’s obvious to all that this is not the world that God created. But it is most certainly the world that God saved. And if we believe that God is in control, and I say that anyone who can defeat even the power of death is definitely in control, then there will always be good times and a reason to smile. That even in bad times, there will always be good times and a reason to smile. By God, we’re Christians. How could there not be good times and a reason to smile?
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord. Blessed is he who believes in the name of the Lord. Blessed is he who delights in the name of the Lord. And also with you.
03/20/2005
“A Reason to Smile” Matthew 21:1-11 The Sixth Sunday of Lent March 20, 2005
“A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road.” So said Matthew, as he reported on what happened that day when Jesus arrived to celebrate the Passover in Jerusalem. We’ve gotten so used to that parade story that we’ve called the day Palm Sunday. We even spend money to import palm branches from Texas to get us in the mood of copying the early disciples. But only sort of in the mood. We don’t actually distribute the palms until the end of church because we’re afraid that people will fidget and play with them during the sermon, or start to strip off those stringy things and get them all over the carpet. Or that if we wave them around too much, some little kid will put an eye out. So in the best sense of double-speak, we say we celebrate Palm Sunday, but we do it in a far more sedate way than the original crowd did. Which may be a characteristic of life and the church and our theology. A characteristic of it and a problem with it. That we’re entirely too serious. About lots of things. So that if there’s a message today, maybe it’s this— we need to lighten up. Which is not something about which we all will agree.
I remember when I was maybe ten years old. It was an evening Lenten service, dark and proper. Daddy was in the pulpit, Mother was in the choir loft, I was in the front row with a friend of mine who somehow got me tickled. I don’t remember if it was something he said or did, but I started to smile, which led to a giggle and a rather small shaking of the shoulders. Which I tried to stop—it being Lent, for heaven’s sake. But despite the glare of my earthly father (who must have been as upset as my heavenly father) I couldn’t stop. I will say that later that night, I was not in as happy a mood. I wonder if something like that ever happened to you. Not that the preacher sees you giggling and passing notes during the sermon, but who was it who told you that “this is church, so stop smiling.” “This is God’s house, so stop running around.” “This is Jesus’ parade, so stop waving those palms. And pick up your cloak. Good gracious, if you put your cloak on the ground, that donkey is going to walk on it. Or worse. Do you think good cloaks grow on trees? And don’t even think about cutting down more palm branches. It ruins the shape of the tree. And if someone happens to say to you, Hosanna, you just say, And also with you.”
My hidden camera records that thirteen per cent of you smiled at that, but that a significant number of you did not. And more than a few said, Have you forgotten that today is Passion Sunday? No, I haven’t forgotten at all. Today is one of those two-fers. Two for one. It’s both Palm Sunday and Passion Sunday. The beginning of Holy Week, Jesus’ last week, the occasion of his betrayal and denial, arrest and death. Which, admittedly, is dark and serious stuff. But in the church, it used to be that at the beginning of this solemn time, almost to the end of dark and purple Lent, we had at least this one day to lighten up. But then someone thought it was far more fitting to spend the time getting in the mood for what follows. Which, in their eyes, meant being solemn and somber. Because, according to some people, what follows Palm Sunday is Holy Week. And they’re right, of course. But isn’t it also true that what follows Palm Sunday is Easter? Though some people think you can have a good Easter only after you’ve endured an awful Holy Week. Sort of like hitting your head because it feels so good when you stop. Maybe even hitting your head with a cross.
Which is not to deny that Jesus suffered. Which is not to say that he didn’t die. But that we can say with delight more than sadness, how wonderful that he did. How inexplicably wonderful that he did. But if it seems right, proper and necessary that we should exercise due solemnity, let’s just do it for awhile, and not make a habit of it. What kind of homes did some of us come from, that we don’t understand how to lighten up? Why do we always associate religion with harshness, and the church with strictness? Why do we count it as our faithful assignment from God to investigate people’s lives to check how dirty their cloaks are? Why do we look at palm branch cutters as vandals rather than celebrants? And whose idea was it to keep more people out of heaven than we admit in? For that matter, who ever figured that we had a part in that at all? Have you noticed that any publicity the church gets these days is based more on our darkness than our light, on our standards more than our joy, on our fights more than our parties?
Yes, today is the beginning of Holy Week. Yes, we’re five days away from remembering the gory way the Romans executed people. Yes, we’re draped in purple soon to be black. And yes, ours is truly an awful world. Yes, we know who are sick, even to death. Yes, there are people close and far off who lack even the basics we take for granted. Yes, there are people who do vile things to themselves and others. Yes, God gave Moses ten commandments. Yes, Paul asked us to take seriously our relationship with God. Yes, and when I ask you to lighten up, I’m in a minority—but you know, if we’d fully accept and believe in what we truly know is the end of the story, maybe the way we tell the story would be different, with the result that other people’s life stories would be different too. Truly, there are more people outside the church this day than are inside it, partly—even mostly—because of our solemnity, our intention to emphasize sin and our reluctance to live with joy. Those absent people already know they have sometimes done too little and often done too much. Whether they intend it that way or not, whether others have gotten them that way or not, there are people all around us who suffer shame and indignity and the separation that results from it. People who suffer pain in their bodies and hearts and minds. Who are so down they can’t even imagine up. People who suffer in uncounted ways. But you and I are the ones who can end that suffering. But it’s a choice on our part, whether or not to lighten up. We can either say to people, You made your awful bed; now lie in it. Or we can let them start life all over again. We can sniff at their dirty cloaks or we can walk with them anyway. Or even give them our own cloaks. If we wouldn’t mind getting them dirty. Even when it’s obvious that the place we lay them means that they will get dirty.
And someone says, if you think the church is going to smile at sinners, and lay cloaks in front of asses, and laugh with the dying, or make light of our God, you’re wrong. And you’re unfaithful, theologically incorrect, a discredit to the church, and an idiot besides. And maybe I am. Over the years, more than one person has told me that, as they left this congregation for more holy fields. But St. Paul said that we should be fools for Christ, though maybe he meant something slightly different. But see, that shouldn’t bother us, that someone would accuse us of idiocy, because the foundation of our faith, the very thing we believe, is idiocy. And always has been. Imagine, God bringing the dead back to life. It’s absolutely, well, ludicrous. And though that has been the theme throughout this Lenten season, it was especially so in our readings last Sunday. Do you remember that the first story then was a tale about dead bones? The people of Israel portrayed as a pile of dead bones. But when the prophet proclaimed the word of the Lord to them, they came together and danced about. And if you had been present, what would your reaction have been? Would you have clapped your hands and laughed out loud, or would you have organized the bones into some order. Or asked them to not rattle so much. Or have them sign a faith statement saying that they’d never dry up again. And do you remember that last week’s gospel story was that long one about Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead? That four days after the man had died, Jesus arrived and brought him back to life. That he called him out of the tomb and brought him back to life. If you had been present then, what would your reaction have been? With a perfectly straight face, would you have soberly said, Thank you Jesus for doing such a good job? Or instructed Lazarus to go and clean up because he smelled so bad, and looked even worse. Or at his appearance, would you have hooted and hollered and jumped up and down. Even waved a palm branch. Cut down and waved palm branches until someone complained and told you to stop it.
Which, by the way, is what the church does so well. We say, Stop it, as if any joy we exhibit would be an affront to God. But I ask, how could it be an affront to God? With the dry bones and with Lazarus, he started it all, didn’t he? Why not hoot and holler, and wave a branch or two? What was dead is alive. Should we have a problem with that? I’ll share this with you—with retirement just ahead, can you guess what I’ll miss and what I won’t? Do you know what I wish the future here will be like? Oh, I know right from wrong, and always have. But it’s a lot more fun rejoicing in God getting me right than in hearing other people telling me how I’m wrong. Over the years, we’ve experienced together some of those difficult and divisive times. Over the years, I’ve watched people take sides on who should be allowed to use the building, and whether we could afford that much electricity, and whether it’s proper to use a snappy song in worship, or allow jeans instead of a suit. And we’ve tried to figure out if it’s a waste of resources to supply new cloaks to people who would just get them dirty, or a waste of money to buy new palms for people to wave. Sometimes, the decisions we made were up-lifting, and we banded together in unity. Sometimes, our arguments were so fierce and our relationships so strained that we separated into camps that refused to talk with each other, let alone smile.
On that first Palm Sunday, do you suppose Jesus smiled? Most people would say no— considering the man was five days away from death. But you know, when you see the benefits of what lies ahead, when you see what good it can provide, when you understand that it’s all about life, that even when you lose your own, it’s about life for others, do you think it’s just possible that Jesus smiled? And if he did, do you think you and I can lighten up too? To know that the church’s calendar is an artificial thing, and that Easter has already happened. And to know and proclaim that the Lord has already been raised from the dead. Which means that we have been freed from the clutches of death. Which also means we can offer that same gift to other people, and be glad when they accept it. And joyfully keep on with them even if they haven’t accepted it the same way we have. Why the dark outlook? Jesus was the Savior of the world, not some squinty-eyed hall monitor. And he told us there would be joy in heaven when people like us stop worrying about cloaks and palm branches and the people who we think misuse them, and when instead we celebrate the giving of another chance. Another lively chance.
It’s true, of course, that there are sad times and somber times, and harsh times and threatening times, and sinful times and uncertain times. It’s obvious to all that this is not the world that God created. But it is most certainly the world that God saved. And if we believe that God is in control, and I say that anyone who can defeat even the power of death is definitely in control, then there will always be good times and a reason to smile. That even in bad times, there will always be good times and a reason to smile. By God, we’re Christians. How could there not be good times and a reason to smile?
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord. Blessed is he who believes in the name of the Lord. Blessed is he who delights in the name of the Lord. And also with you.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
"Remember This: It Starts With Eeeny Meeny"
Pastor Nagle
03/16/2005
“Remember This: It Starts With Eeny Meeny” Joshua 24:14-18 Psalm 145:1-13 Midweek V March 16, 2005
I don’t know that the first lesson tonight is my favorite Old Testament passage, but I will say that it’s one I have thought about often. Thought about, but not always used in a helpful sort of way. The story describes that moment when the people of Israel are to decide about life in the future. And Joshua puts a choice to them: you can either live with the Lord your God or with other gods. You can either live fully with the Lord your God or you can just sort of hang out with him. You can live with the Lord your God in joy or with fear. You can live with the Lord your God only when you know what the future will bring or you can sign on without certainty forever. It’s a scripture passage that deals with choices.
It was a theme we heard in tonight’s other lesson. Remember that the crowd in Jerusalem was given a choice. Because the tradition was to release a single prisoner as a sort of good-will gesture, they were asked, Who should it be—Barabbas or Jesus. And the crowd said Barabbas. Who should it be—Jack the Ripper or Jesus? And the crowd said Jack the Ripper. What about Jeffrey Dahmer, Saddam Hussein, any child molester or fraud? But the crowd never changed its mind. To this day has never changed its mind. Though of course I’ve taken literary license. Twice. First, I pretended that the crowd had made lots of bad choices. Second, I pretended that the crowd was still choosing today. Which may not be totally accurate. Though it’s true enough that you and I have options.
Eeeny Meeny Miney Mo. All the choices we all can make. What we believe in, what we care about, what we do and how we say it. Starting with how you end that childhood rhyme. Growing up, playing eeny meeny, what did you catch by the toe? And did your choice matter then? Does it matter now? On what basis do you ever decide anything— what’s best for you, or others? What’s best for now, or always? What’s best according to common sense, or your own? What brings life or death? And whose?
You know, this matter of choices sometimes depends on how many of us are involved, and who is looking on. That whole mob thing can sway a lot of votes. Sway them foolishly, if I think the mob is wrong. Rightly, if my own interests are served. Have you ever been part of a mob? Would you ever consider the church a mob? Well, it’s the stuff discussion groups are made of. And there’s usually more heat than light generated. Who is to say what’s right and wrong? The mob made its choice. But Pilate wasn’t sure. He himself might have decided otherwise, but when people gang up on you, well, you might choose poorly. Unless you know who you are. Unless you know what you believe. Unless you’ve thought it all through.
I’m spending the closing days before retirement thinking through all the stuff I want you to remember. Things I think are valuable for the living of life. In most cases, they are things you’ve heard me say before. And here’s one of them—that it all starts with a choice. And that the choice can be considered long before it’s actually made. The example I have consistently given is that just as you learned how to drive defensively, it’s good to live with advance knowledge too. Like me, when you’re driving at dusk near a field where the highway department has warned deer live, you know what you’re going to do in case one of them jumps out. You may not know exactly what to do, and other people may do something different, and you may do it well or too late. But at least you know that something has to be done. The problem with the crowds and with Pilate too, was that they did the wrong thing.
Though calling some thing wrong seems to mean that there’s an opposite in which something can be called right. But that’s not always true. There may be two rights, begging for a choice. There may be two wrongs, each to be avoided. But your choice will be more informed when you think about it in advance. Even if you think about things that might never happen, things you hope will never happen, try working ahead. And in it all, that you devise some guideline which you follow. As far as that goes. So someone says: when I make a choice, I’m going to do what the Bible says. What the Bible says in the New Testament. What Jesus said in the New Testament. And if Jesus didn’t say anything about it in the New Testament, I’ll decide on the basis of the Old Testament, unless the pastor shows that the Old Testament was misinterpreted. Unless the pastor had an ax to grind in his own misinterpretation. In which case I’ll do what I want as long as I don’t hurt anyone. But if I have to hurt someone, I’ll make sure that more others are freed from hurt. But if the hurt might come equally -- well, that’s when people throw up their hands in frustration and either vote a straight ticket or play “Eeeny Meeny.” Or do nothing and hope that the problem goes away, or hope that someone else makes a choice which doesn’t demand input from them. You know, I myself don’t like any of that—not even the biblical part. So I end up with something like this prayer: “Dear God, I’m going to do the best I can with the information I have at hand. I may be right. I may be wrong. If I’m right, help me see that I’m probably not always right. If I’m wrong, help me to see which of my accusers is more right, and why. And then help me change my choice with you in mind.” I don’t know that that’s the right way, or the best way. It’s a way that works for me. But you have to choose for yourself.
What I can say about such a way of doing things is this: it’s better to make a wrong choice than to make no choice at all. And it’s all right to remember that God forgives those who live with humility in their wrong choices. And to remember that God walks with us throughout. In all these Lenten sermons, that’s been a common theme—to remember that God walks with us through it all. And here’s the summary—that in these weeks, we have heard that God who walked with us in the past continues on with us in the present—and reminds us to keep our fork, as a symbol that better things are yet to come. We don’t have to believe that, but I think it’s a good idea, because we’ve heard that we can live with joy more than sadness, even when life seems sad enough to drive us to despair. That we can we live with peace more than war, though after consulting with people with no vested interest, we would be willing to defend what we think is right. We’ve heard that we can live with hope that things will get better, but that some times, we must understand this is as good as it gets. And we can be glad about it. That we know we are dust, but that we’re certain God’s creative hand works best with dust. That there is always cause and effect, and that God calls us to make a difference in the world. That we decide to get up from where we are and follow his lead to any of several places and ideas and situations where we might act. And that we do it for others more than ourselves, knowing that God already gave himself for us—so that we now have plenty to give away. That there will be times when we are sorrowful, but that we don’t need to wallow in our sorrow, but instead live with a certainty that there is as much joy in the world as grief. And that God who made the lilies of the field and the birds of the air and blessed them for a little while will bless us longer and more. To know that things aren’t always as they seem, and that we must decide when they are better and when they are worse. But that we recognize that the whole is greater than the parts, and that true vision sees as much scheme as we can and admits what we cannot. That we have done stupid things in life and surely deserve being written out of God’s presence. But that when we think it’s all over, we’re mistaken, for with God it’s never over. And that though we are ready to give in and give up, we have his strength and example to follow, as well as his promise of new life. And that may be the most important thing of all—that we are an Easter people, always given the promise of new life.
Joshua said to the people of Israel, It’s up to you whether or not you choose it. It’s the same situation now. May God bless us in our choosing.
03/16/2005
“Remember This: It Starts With Eeny Meeny” Joshua 24:14-18 Psalm 145:1-13 Midweek V March 16, 2005
I don’t know that the first lesson tonight is my favorite Old Testament passage, but I will say that it’s one I have thought about often. Thought about, but not always used in a helpful sort of way. The story describes that moment when the people of Israel are to decide about life in the future. And Joshua puts a choice to them: you can either live with the Lord your God or with other gods. You can either live fully with the Lord your God or you can just sort of hang out with him. You can live with the Lord your God in joy or with fear. You can live with the Lord your God only when you know what the future will bring or you can sign on without certainty forever. It’s a scripture passage that deals with choices.
It was a theme we heard in tonight’s other lesson. Remember that the crowd in Jerusalem was given a choice. Because the tradition was to release a single prisoner as a sort of good-will gesture, they were asked, Who should it be—Barabbas or Jesus. And the crowd said Barabbas. Who should it be—Jack the Ripper or Jesus? And the crowd said Jack the Ripper. What about Jeffrey Dahmer, Saddam Hussein, any child molester or fraud? But the crowd never changed its mind. To this day has never changed its mind. Though of course I’ve taken literary license. Twice. First, I pretended that the crowd had made lots of bad choices. Second, I pretended that the crowd was still choosing today. Which may not be totally accurate. Though it’s true enough that you and I have options.
Eeeny Meeny Miney Mo. All the choices we all can make. What we believe in, what we care about, what we do and how we say it. Starting with how you end that childhood rhyme. Growing up, playing eeny meeny, what did you catch by the toe? And did your choice matter then? Does it matter now? On what basis do you ever decide anything— what’s best for you, or others? What’s best for now, or always? What’s best according to common sense, or your own? What brings life or death? And whose?
You know, this matter of choices sometimes depends on how many of us are involved, and who is looking on. That whole mob thing can sway a lot of votes. Sway them foolishly, if I think the mob is wrong. Rightly, if my own interests are served. Have you ever been part of a mob? Would you ever consider the church a mob? Well, it’s the stuff discussion groups are made of. And there’s usually more heat than light generated. Who is to say what’s right and wrong? The mob made its choice. But Pilate wasn’t sure. He himself might have decided otherwise, but when people gang up on you, well, you might choose poorly. Unless you know who you are. Unless you know what you believe. Unless you’ve thought it all through.
I’m spending the closing days before retirement thinking through all the stuff I want you to remember. Things I think are valuable for the living of life. In most cases, they are things you’ve heard me say before. And here’s one of them—that it all starts with a choice. And that the choice can be considered long before it’s actually made. The example I have consistently given is that just as you learned how to drive defensively, it’s good to live with advance knowledge too. Like me, when you’re driving at dusk near a field where the highway department has warned deer live, you know what you’re going to do in case one of them jumps out. You may not know exactly what to do, and other people may do something different, and you may do it well or too late. But at least you know that something has to be done. The problem with the crowds and with Pilate too, was that they did the wrong thing.
Though calling some thing wrong seems to mean that there’s an opposite in which something can be called right. But that’s not always true. There may be two rights, begging for a choice. There may be two wrongs, each to be avoided. But your choice will be more informed when you think about it in advance. Even if you think about things that might never happen, things you hope will never happen, try working ahead. And in it all, that you devise some guideline which you follow. As far as that goes. So someone says: when I make a choice, I’m going to do what the Bible says. What the Bible says in the New Testament. What Jesus said in the New Testament. And if Jesus didn’t say anything about it in the New Testament, I’ll decide on the basis of the Old Testament, unless the pastor shows that the Old Testament was misinterpreted. Unless the pastor had an ax to grind in his own misinterpretation. In which case I’ll do what I want as long as I don’t hurt anyone. But if I have to hurt someone, I’ll make sure that more others are freed from hurt. But if the hurt might come equally -- well, that’s when people throw up their hands in frustration and either vote a straight ticket or play “Eeeny Meeny.” Or do nothing and hope that the problem goes away, or hope that someone else makes a choice which doesn’t demand input from them. You know, I myself don’t like any of that—not even the biblical part. So I end up with something like this prayer: “Dear God, I’m going to do the best I can with the information I have at hand. I may be right. I may be wrong. If I’m right, help me see that I’m probably not always right. If I’m wrong, help me to see which of my accusers is more right, and why. And then help me change my choice with you in mind.” I don’t know that that’s the right way, or the best way. It’s a way that works for me. But you have to choose for yourself.
What I can say about such a way of doing things is this: it’s better to make a wrong choice than to make no choice at all. And it’s all right to remember that God forgives those who live with humility in their wrong choices. And to remember that God walks with us throughout. In all these Lenten sermons, that’s been a common theme—to remember that God walks with us through it all. And here’s the summary—that in these weeks, we have heard that God who walked with us in the past continues on with us in the present—and reminds us to keep our fork, as a symbol that better things are yet to come. We don’t have to believe that, but I think it’s a good idea, because we’ve heard that we can live with joy more than sadness, even when life seems sad enough to drive us to despair. That we can we live with peace more than war, though after consulting with people with no vested interest, we would be willing to defend what we think is right. We’ve heard that we can live with hope that things will get better, but that some times, we must understand this is as good as it gets. And we can be glad about it. That we know we are dust, but that we’re certain God’s creative hand works best with dust. That there is always cause and effect, and that God calls us to make a difference in the world. That we decide to get up from where we are and follow his lead to any of several places and ideas and situations where we might act. And that we do it for others more than ourselves, knowing that God already gave himself for us—so that we now have plenty to give away. That there will be times when we are sorrowful, but that we don’t need to wallow in our sorrow, but instead live with a certainty that there is as much joy in the world as grief. And that God who made the lilies of the field and the birds of the air and blessed them for a little while will bless us longer and more. To know that things aren’t always as they seem, and that we must decide when they are better and when they are worse. But that we recognize that the whole is greater than the parts, and that true vision sees as much scheme as we can and admits what we cannot. That we have done stupid things in life and surely deserve being written out of God’s presence. But that when we think it’s all over, we’re mistaken, for with God it’s never over. And that though we are ready to give in and give up, we have his strength and example to follow, as well as his promise of new life. And that may be the most important thing of all—that we are an Easter people, always given the promise of new life.
Joshua said to the people of Israel, It’s up to you whether or not you choose it. It’s the same situation now. May God bless us in our choosing.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
"A Lot Going On in Wichita"
Pastor Nagle
03/13/2005
“A Lot Going On in Wichita” John 11:1-45 The Fifth Sunday in Lent March 13, 2005
Can you recall the moment when you were informed of someone’s death? Someone entirely too young, entirely too fit, entirely too unlikely. And at that news, did you say something like this: “I can’t believe it. That can’t be so. I just saw him. Are you sure? There’s got to be some mistake. Not him. I’m shocked. I don’t know what to say.” And might you suppose that was the reaction of the pastor of Christ Lutheran Church in Wichita, Kansas, when the police told him that a member of his church, the president of the congregation council, had been arrested as a notorious serial killer? Do you suppose the pastor said, “I can’t believe it. That can’t be so. Not him. Are you sure? There’s got to be some mistake. I just saw him. I’m shocked. I don’t know what to say.” But not knowing what to say is part of the grieving process. Was part of the grieving process in this morning’s gospel reading.
The Bible tells us that a certain man who lived in Bethany, just outside Jerusalem, was ill. Apparently was so ill, that he died. You can imagine the sadness of his sisters, Mary and Martha. Maybe they weren’t shocked or dumbfounded. But they surely were at loose ends, trying to decide what to do next, what had to happen next. This was their brother who died. Was he also their financial support? Surely their emotional support. But things happen quickly when there’s been a death; they have to. People need to be notified, the story has to be told, the body has to be prepared, folks stop by the house, everyone expresses their condolences, and share their shock and regret. But then, according to tradition, within 24 hours, Lazarus’ body was laid to rest in a cave, a tomb, with a protective stone guarding the entrance. He was gone, though not forgotten. And the story could have ended there.
But then Jesus showed up. Four days after Lazarus’ death, Jesus showed up. After some of the grieving was finished, after the entombment was accomplished, Jesus showed up. Showed up late, said Mary and Martha accusingly. Too late to be helpful to the sisters, and way too late to do anything for Lazarus. Whom he had often claimed as his loving friend. And the story could have ended there too. But something amazing happened. Jesus stood outside Lazarus’ tomb and called out his name, and said to the dead man, “Lazarus, come out!” And he did come out. Much to the shock of the sisters, much to the horror of the crowd, much to the amazement of the disciples, much to the delight of Lazarus, Jesus turned everything around and brought the dead back to life.
And here’s a question: if Jesus could and did turn everything around and bring Lazarus of Bethany back to life, do you think Jesus can and will turn everything around and bring life to Dennis Rader, that pillar of the Lutheran Church in Wichita who is charged as a brutal serial killer?
Oh, maybe you didn’t see that question coming. Maybe I caught you by surprise—but then Jesus caught Mary and Martha by surprise too. What was dead was made alive. Who in her right mind would ever have expected something like that to happen? Though the question in Wichita is, who would want something like that to happen? Am I stretching too far to inquire what Jesus would do with Dennis Rader? Or have you already worked it out in your own mind? Probably worked it out in your own mind, after considering that Dennis Rader killed someone, killed many people, tortured and killed people, bound and tortured and killed people seemingly without remorse. People like Dennis Rader disgust us, don’t they, even if they do go to the same church we do. How could we ever expect Jesus to have anything to do with someone so disgusting, so dirty, so rotten, so smelly. But then, if you remember the gospel story, after four days, Lazarus was that disgusting, dirty, rotten and smelly too. And was that the point? Along with Mary and Martha, Bible students have wondered forever—why did Jesus wait so long to go to Lazarus? One answer is that by waiting so long, so terribly terribly long, Jesus’ gift of new life was more than anyone would ever expect. And to show that there was no sleight of hand trick to Jesus’ miracle. And to say that nothing ever disgusts Jesus.
Though it’s true that lots of things disgust us. Serial killers, for instance. And maybe preachers who try to convince people that God cares about serial killers. While it’s true that Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, why should we ever believe that Jesus would hold out a gift of newness to Dennis Rader? After all, Dennis Rader didn’t ask for God’s love to be shown through Jesus. But then, neither did Lazarus ask for God’s love to be shown through Jesus. Lazarus was dead. And presumably, Dennis Rader is guilty.
So what do you think? For awhile, pretend that you’re not a member of Christ the King Lutheran Church in Cary, but that you’re a member of Christ Lutheran Church in Wichita. What do you think? Do you think we should fire Dennis as the president of our congregation? Do you think we should kick Dennis out of the church? Do you base your answer on the constitution or on common sense or on emotionalism or on scripture? Do you make your decision on the way I read scripture or the way lots of other people read scripture? For there is a difference, you see. There is and always has been a difference in how we read scripture. There is and always has been a difference in how we regard grace.
Oh, I recognize that some of this discussion could be highly intellectual. But that’s why I asked you to imagine that you’re part of Christ Lutheran in Wichita. All of a sudden, sin and death and grace and forgiveness and heaven and hell are no longer Sunday terms. They’re every-day reality. So much so that the question will not go away. How shall we deal with Dennis Rader? How would God want us to deal with Dennis Rader? Should we pray for him or about him? And someone rightly says, Before we pray for or about Dennis Rader, can we spend at least a few moments in prayer for his victims and for their families, for the church in Wichita and for Dennis Rader’s own family? Why should we pray for him if we don’t pray for them? And I agree—but are we limited in prayer? Can we not pray for both, for all?
We could pray for Dennis Rader, I guess, but we might not want to pray for Dennis Rader because instead we want to scream—if the charges hold, we have to say that he was a sinner. A really really bad sinner. A sick and savage sinner. And likely, that’s so. But from our childhood, what have we learned in church? What do we sing in our hymns and read in our Bibles? Didn’t Jesus die for sinners? Yes—but (we protest) surely he didn’t die for that kind of sinner! But what does that mean—that we believe Jesus died only for the nice sinners? The little sinners? The clean and undisgusting sinners? It sounds as if what we say we believe and what we really believe are two different things. But that was the case for Martha too, when she said, Lord, I believe you can raise my brother from the dead. But Lord, I wish you wouldn’t roll away the stone because it’s already been four long hot days. For her and for us, on the one hand, there’s belief. On the other hand, there’s practicality. On the one hand, there’s the church. On the other hand, there’s the world. On the one hand, we know God can. On the other hand, we don’t think God should.
So, Martha—do you or do you not believe? Do you and I believe or do we not believe? Two weeks before Good Friday, do we or do we not understand the cross? Isn’t grace defined as God’s steadfast unchangeable love? And does it come only when we ask for it? Or does it come best when God sees what we need most. It’s a basic question—who needs God’s grace, and who needs it more, you or Dennis Rader? And this question too—when does Dennis Rader need the church more, last month or right now?
Today’s gospel reading said that, standing by the tomb, Jesus began to weep. Why did he cry? Surely because he was sad. But sad about what? Sad that someone died, or sad that someone didn’t understand? Sad about Lazarus, or sad about Mary and Martha and their uncertainty about belief and trust and hope? Or was he sad about the future? Does Jesus still cry? I’ll bet he does, and is it so because he’s disappointed at the way we’ve lived, or because he sees us so close to death, or because he didn’t want it to come to this, or because we haven’t figured it all out yet? Maybe because we haven’t figured it out yet, though this morning we have read all about it. And this is what we read: that Jesus comes to the smelliest most disgusting dead parts of life and says, We’re going to start all over again. Is that how you read the story? And if it is how you read the story, if you believe that Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead and gave him new and renewed life, is there any chance Jesus will bring new and renewed life to Dennis Rader, and to his family and to his victims and their families, and to his church? And if all that comes to them, do you suppose it might, just might, come to you and me too?
Today’s second lesson said this: “If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit that dwells in you.”
And isn’t that what Easter is all about? That he brings us life? That when we are faced with death, any kind of death, Jesus helps us deal with it, even get us out of it? In this world, we cannot escape death (or anything else awful). But how we handle nasty things, how we deal with smelly things, how we feel about disgusting things is an indication of how we regard Jesus. We know that he stands with us during normal death, holy and peaceful death, expected and contented death. But if the death is something sad and shocking and inexplicable, something vile and contemptible, do we still think he’s with us?
No, we don’t believe that at all. The thought of violence—sickening, depraved, unremorseful, continual violence—is just too much for us to handle. And it’s hard for us to imagine that Jesus would want to handle that either. It’s simply part of our nature that we love justice, and that we feel more for those who are hurt, than for those who do the hurting. The concept of grace or any free and undeserved gift is simply too difficult to comprehend, and we don’t apologize for wanting Dennis Rader to rot in hell. We’re simply too human to see it any other way. And we have to hope that God will excuse us, forgive us, for that. And he will. Grace given is grace given, not grace earned. Nor is grace apportioned to the size of the sin. But let’s be aware that Jesus’ weeping isn’t an isolated thing. Jesus wept for Lazarus, and for his sisters; we can agree on that. I say that Jesus weeps for Dennis Rader, and for all his victims; we may sort of agree on that. But more than that, I’m convinced that Jesus weeps for you and me too.
There’s a lot going on in Wichita these days. In the city, in the church, in homes and hearts, there’s a lot going on in Wichita. A lot of dealing with grief. With the loss of life and the loss of innocence and the loss of hope. A lot of people asking, Are you sure it’s so? I just can’t believe it. At the time of death, it is our initial human response. It’s what we say. But in the days still ahead, standing by every tomb at every death every day, may we be also led to say, Lord, call us all out and raise us all up and increase our faith, through your most gracious gift.
03/13/2005
“A Lot Going On in Wichita” John 11:1-45 The Fifth Sunday in Lent March 13, 2005
Can you recall the moment when you were informed of someone’s death? Someone entirely too young, entirely too fit, entirely too unlikely. And at that news, did you say something like this: “I can’t believe it. That can’t be so. I just saw him. Are you sure? There’s got to be some mistake. Not him. I’m shocked. I don’t know what to say.” And might you suppose that was the reaction of the pastor of Christ Lutheran Church in Wichita, Kansas, when the police told him that a member of his church, the president of the congregation council, had been arrested as a notorious serial killer? Do you suppose the pastor said, “I can’t believe it. That can’t be so. Not him. Are you sure? There’s got to be some mistake. I just saw him. I’m shocked. I don’t know what to say.” But not knowing what to say is part of the grieving process. Was part of the grieving process in this morning’s gospel reading.
The Bible tells us that a certain man who lived in Bethany, just outside Jerusalem, was ill. Apparently was so ill, that he died. You can imagine the sadness of his sisters, Mary and Martha. Maybe they weren’t shocked or dumbfounded. But they surely were at loose ends, trying to decide what to do next, what had to happen next. This was their brother who died. Was he also their financial support? Surely their emotional support. But things happen quickly when there’s been a death; they have to. People need to be notified, the story has to be told, the body has to be prepared, folks stop by the house, everyone expresses their condolences, and share their shock and regret. But then, according to tradition, within 24 hours, Lazarus’ body was laid to rest in a cave, a tomb, with a protective stone guarding the entrance. He was gone, though not forgotten. And the story could have ended there.
But then Jesus showed up. Four days after Lazarus’ death, Jesus showed up. After some of the grieving was finished, after the entombment was accomplished, Jesus showed up. Showed up late, said Mary and Martha accusingly. Too late to be helpful to the sisters, and way too late to do anything for Lazarus. Whom he had often claimed as his loving friend. And the story could have ended there too. But something amazing happened. Jesus stood outside Lazarus’ tomb and called out his name, and said to the dead man, “Lazarus, come out!” And he did come out. Much to the shock of the sisters, much to the horror of the crowd, much to the amazement of the disciples, much to the delight of Lazarus, Jesus turned everything around and brought the dead back to life.
And here’s a question: if Jesus could and did turn everything around and bring Lazarus of Bethany back to life, do you think Jesus can and will turn everything around and bring life to Dennis Rader, that pillar of the Lutheran Church in Wichita who is charged as a brutal serial killer?
Oh, maybe you didn’t see that question coming. Maybe I caught you by surprise—but then Jesus caught Mary and Martha by surprise too. What was dead was made alive. Who in her right mind would ever have expected something like that to happen? Though the question in Wichita is, who would want something like that to happen? Am I stretching too far to inquire what Jesus would do with Dennis Rader? Or have you already worked it out in your own mind? Probably worked it out in your own mind, after considering that Dennis Rader killed someone, killed many people, tortured and killed people, bound and tortured and killed people seemingly without remorse. People like Dennis Rader disgust us, don’t they, even if they do go to the same church we do. How could we ever expect Jesus to have anything to do with someone so disgusting, so dirty, so rotten, so smelly. But then, if you remember the gospel story, after four days, Lazarus was that disgusting, dirty, rotten and smelly too. And was that the point? Along with Mary and Martha, Bible students have wondered forever—why did Jesus wait so long to go to Lazarus? One answer is that by waiting so long, so terribly terribly long, Jesus’ gift of new life was more than anyone would ever expect. And to show that there was no sleight of hand trick to Jesus’ miracle. And to say that nothing ever disgusts Jesus.
Though it’s true that lots of things disgust us. Serial killers, for instance. And maybe preachers who try to convince people that God cares about serial killers. While it’s true that Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, why should we ever believe that Jesus would hold out a gift of newness to Dennis Rader? After all, Dennis Rader didn’t ask for God’s love to be shown through Jesus. But then, neither did Lazarus ask for God’s love to be shown through Jesus. Lazarus was dead. And presumably, Dennis Rader is guilty.
So what do you think? For awhile, pretend that you’re not a member of Christ the King Lutheran Church in Cary, but that you’re a member of Christ Lutheran Church in Wichita. What do you think? Do you think we should fire Dennis as the president of our congregation? Do you think we should kick Dennis out of the church? Do you base your answer on the constitution or on common sense or on emotionalism or on scripture? Do you make your decision on the way I read scripture or the way lots of other people read scripture? For there is a difference, you see. There is and always has been a difference in how we read scripture. There is and always has been a difference in how we regard grace.
Oh, I recognize that some of this discussion could be highly intellectual. But that’s why I asked you to imagine that you’re part of Christ Lutheran in Wichita. All of a sudden, sin and death and grace and forgiveness and heaven and hell are no longer Sunday terms. They’re every-day reality. So much so that the question will not go away. How shall we deal with Dennis Rader? How would God want us to deal with Dennis Rader? Should we pray for him or about him? And someone rightly says, Before we pray for or about Dennis Rader, can we spend at least a few moments in prayer for his victims and for their families, for the church in Wichita and for Dennis Rader’s own family? Why should we pray for him if we don’t pray for them? And I agree—but are we limited in prayer? Can we not pray for both, for all?
We could pray for Dennis Rader, I guess, but we might not want to pray for Dennis Rader because instead we want to scream—if the charges hold, we have to say that he was a sinner. A really really bad sinner. A sick and savage sinner. And likely, that’s so. But from our childhood, what have we learned in church? What do we sing in our hymns and read in our Bibles? Didn’t Jesus die for sinners? Yes—but (we protest) surely he didn’t die for that kind of sinner! But what does that mean—that we believe Jesus died only for the nice sinners? The little sinners? The clean and undisgusting sinners? It sounds as if what we say we believe and what we really believe are two different things. But that was the case for Martha too, when she said, Lord, I believe you can raise my brother from the dead. But Lord, I wish you wouldn’t roll away the stone because it’s already been four long hot days. For her and for us, on the one hand, there’s belief. On the other hand, there’s practicality. On the one hand, there’s the church. On the other hand, there’s the world. On the one hand, we know God can. On the other hand, we don’t think God should.
So, Martha—do you or do you not believe? Do you and I believe or do we not believe? Two weeks before Good Friday, do we or do we not understand the cross? Isn’t grace defined as God’s steadfast unchangeable love? And does it come only when we ask for it? Or does it come best when God sees what we need most. It’s a basic question—who needs God’s grace, and who needs it more, you or Dennis Rader? And this question too—when does Dennis Rader need the church more, last month or right now?
Today’s gospel reading said that, standing by the tomb, Jesus began to weep. Why did he cry? Surely because he was sad. But sad about what? Sad that someone died, or sad that someone didn’t understand? Sad about Lazarus, or sad about Mary and Martha and their uncertainty about belief and trust and hope? Or was he sad about the future? Does Jesus still cry? I’ll bet he does, and is it so because he’s disappointed at the way we’ve lived, or because he sees us so close to death, or because he didn’t want it to come to this, or because we haven’t figured it all out yet? Maybe because we haven’t figured it out yet, though this morning we have read all about it. And this is what we read: that Jesus comes to the smelliest most disgusting dead parts of life and says, We’re going to start all over again. Is that how you read the story? And if it is how you read the story, if you believe that Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead and gave him new and renewed life, is there any chance Jesus will bring new and renewed life to Dennis Rader, and to his family and to his victims and their families, and to his church? And if all that comes to them, do you suppose it might, just might, come to you and me too?
Today’s second lesson said this: “If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit that dwells in you.”
And isn’t that what Easter is all about? That he brings us life? That when we are faced with death, any kind of death, Jesus helps us deal with it, even get us out of it? In this world, we cannot escape death (or anything else awful). But how we handle nasty things, how we deal with smelly things, how we feel about disgusting things is an indication of how we regard Jesus. We know that he stands with us during normal death, holy and peaceful death, expected and contented death. But if the death is something sad and shocking and inexplicable, something vile and contemptible, do we still think he’s with us?
No, we don’t believe that at all. The thought of violence—sickening, depraved, unremorseful, continual violence—is just too much for us to handle. And it’s hard for us to imagine that Jesus would want to handle that either. It’s simply part of our nature that we love justice, and that we feel more for those who are hurt, than for those who do the hurting. The concept of grace or any free and undeserved gift is simply too difficult to comprehend, and we don’t apologize for wanting Dennis Rader to rot in hell. We’re simply too human to see it any other way. And we have to hope that God will excuse us, forgive us, for that. And he will. Grace given is grace given, not grace earned. Nor is grace apportioned to the size of the sin. But let’s be aware that Jesus’ weeping isn’t an isolated thing. Jesus wept for Lazarus, and for his sisters; we can agree on that. I say that Jesus weeps for Dennis Rader, and for all his victims; we may sort of agree on that. But more than that, I’m convinced that Jesus weeps for you and me too.
There’s a lot going on in Wichita these days. In the city, in the church, in homes and hearts, there’s a lot going on in Wichita. A lot of dealing with grief. With the loss of life and the loss of innocence and the loss of hope. A lot of people asking, Are you sure it’s so? I just can’t believe it. At the time of death, it is our initial human response. It’s what we say. But in the days still ahead, standing by every tomb at every death every day, may we be also led to say, Lord, call us all out and raise us all up and increase our faith, through your most gracious gift.
Wednesday, March 9, 2005
"Remember This: It's Not Over 'Til It's Over"
Pastor Nagle
03/09/2005
“Remember This: It’s Not Over ‘Til It’s Over” Ps 51:1-13 Romans 7:14-25 Midweek IV March 9, 2005
I’d swear that TV’s funniest videos are made up—except that we all know that some people do really stupid things. Do stupid things and dangerous things, awful things and rude things, harmful things and thoughtless things. Even sinful things. And you yourself may know that because you read the newspapers, or maybe because you were witness to embarrassing moments, or maybe your own personal history would cause people to ask: What were you thinking? Though, of course, you weren’t thinking. Or weren’t thinking clearly. Or weren’t thinking long-term. Or weren’t thinking about others. Wouldn’t it be nice if there were some built in warning-light that asks if you really want to keep on doing what you’re doing? Computers have them. Cars have them. All we have is Judas.
People have wondered forever what Judas was thinking. Was it the money? Was it the fame? Was it a concern for right religion? Was it concern for Jesus’ safety? Whatever it was has caused the name Judas to be linked with hatred and scorn. Even though he repented. And that’s what it said in our scripture tonight. That Judas suddenly realized he had done wrong. I guess you have to congratulate him for something. It’s more than you and I may have done. Which is only half-accurate. You and I have repented for the things which have been uncovered. It’s the rest we keep quiet. And why not? Do you really think we’re going to admit to something that no one else has discovered about us? No, we’ll pretend it’s all right and, only later, when the truth has come out, will we make a show of being sorry. But even then, it’ll work out in our favor. Not that we escape, but that we are forgiven.
I’m spending some of our Lenten time together making a list of things we should always remember. A kind of handy digest for believers. And here’s this week’s nugget: it’s not over ‘til it’s over. Was it Yogi Berra who said that, or Judas Iscariot? Either person, there’s some wisdom there, if we’d pay attention to it. Though some people don’t pay attention and, brought face to face with all they have done and left undone, are quite certain there’s no hope for them, ever. Even knowing that Judas repented, some people still see only darkness ahead for people who mess up. For, rightly, they say— maybe Judas did repent, but did God accept Judas’ repentance. I can’t say for sure, but I think I know. Was not the purpose of the cross that the payment for sin would be made, and that all who had offended God would be put back in a right relation with him? Though saying Judas only “offended” God is a pretty big understatement. In betraying Jesus, Judas did more than offend God. He tried to kill him off.
There are at least three ways to look at Judas. One is to say, That’s the worst excuse for a human being we have ever seen, and God should have invented a new and deeper level of hell to which he should be sent. Other people might say, Judas was wrong and what he did was awful, but we have to hope that a loving God was willing to deal with even that most horrible sin. And the rest of us might say, We’d better hope that Judas gets loved and gets in, because we’re not a whole lot better than he was. Which is not what most people say—that last, I mean. Only a few mentally-disturbed people actually think that what they have done is as bad as what Judas did. You don’t think that you’re as bad as Judas, do you?
Well, if you do, and I myself do think that, let’s ask the righteous others sitting around you tonight to be quiet for a bit while you and I talk about the grace of God. You have heard me say time and again that if it weren’t for God’s grace, I would go totally crazy. That’s what it means to see yourself like Judas. To know that what you did and how often you did it and how unbothered you were, was more than just stupid. More than offensive. That it went to the very core of the matter, and caused people to shake their heads. On that, I’ll bet we can agree. But then what? Once you come to your senses and realize how really stupid it was, or even if you don’t fully realize how stupid it was, is there anything still ahead?
Is it all hopeless? Or is there something that can change what we have done, and make it better? Is there any reason to believe that good could come from the wrong stuff we have done? That there could be restitution? Or amendment? That the world would be willing to change its mind, and that God would be willing to forgive any of it? It’s a long-shot, in some people’s eyes. Would you forgive you, if you were in charge? Are you glad you’re not in charge? Could you imagine a loving grace-filled verdict from God who is in charge? Shouldn’t we be glad at the very thought that God might let Judas in, knowing that if Judas gets in, we do too? But my constant proclamation of grace often has been met with a stony silence from some people, with the claim that by begging or assuming or hoping that Judas is in—and me too—that I cheapen God’s grace. That for grace to be given, for any change to be made, for a difference in the days ahead, there needs to be an apology, even a groveling, that indicates the stupidity was fully realized.
It’s not an easy thing, this matter of grace. If it’s grace, it’s free. But if there’s a string attached, it’s not free. And though my apology might be sincere, my sincerity might not stretch to cover every time I do the same stupid thing. And though I might have changed my ways in order to give up one kind of wrong, I have taken up something else stupid, maybe different in size or matter, but not in separation from God. In short, it’s either stupid or it’s not. It’s wrong or it’s not. We’re either in or we’re out. And I like to think that I’m in. Though there is a catch—not that I must fully repent to be in, for I cannot, but that I must fully proclaim it, which I can do. Not proclaim my entry through the pearly gates it with a smugness that figures I pulled a fast one on God, but to tell everyone that God pulled a fast one on me, and wouldn’t give me up without a fight.
Though when you do stupid things, there are consequences. You know, you can’t un- ring a bell. But even the consequences of life can be used by God to make a difference. Is not Jesus’ death on the cross the greatest example of all? God can do whatever he wants, and nothing will get in his way. Not even death itself. Nor does he limit himself in the number of possibilities. Of all the banners that have been displayed here over the years, I think the one that most people find assuring is the one that says “God isn’t finished with me yet.” It isn’t the prettiest banner we display, but it is the most truthful one, for it reminds us that it’s not over ‘til it’s over. And here is what grace proclaims: that it’s never over. And that life and repentance and awareness and grace is always being defined and tried on and accepted and proclaimed. And that if one thing isn’t so, another might be. How shall we best picture the love of God? If there can be 57 varieties of pickles, can there not be 57 varieties of grace?
Though just what is meant by the banner message isn’t certain. God isn’t finished with me yet. Does that mean that he’ll make me better? Or that there are trials still in store? Does he expect me to make restitution, or to see myself in a different light? Does he want me to relinquish control? Will he use me as an example for others, maybe make me the poster boy for grace? Who knows? There are many different paths that might be taken, and the details of the journey aren’t certain. But the constancy of God’s grace is.
Grace that comes to cover over a little bit. Grace that comes to cover over a lot. Grace that comes freely and without any knowledge on our part. Grace that is obvious to everyone. Grace that comes after proper apologies are made. Grace that comes even when the apologies are only half-hearted. Grace that turns life around. Grace that comes when life has already been turned around. Grace that has already begun but promises still more ahead. Grace that has begun and begs to be shared with others. All of which makes grace something infinitely wonderful. Grace still to come.
St. Paul said it first: I haven’t done the things I should have done, and I have done the very things I shouldn’t have. Is that true for you too? Sure it is. So what’s next? Just admitting it all—or admitting it all and trying to make amends? It’s a truism much proclaimed, that you can’t unring a bell. But you can ring it a second time, doing better. Or if the first bell was ruined, you can get another bell. Or if the world is out of bells, you can give the word yourself, telling people that it’s never over. That if the consequences of wrong seem to go on and on—and they often do—then the grace of God goes on and on too, and it always does. So that we live with hope, and with certainty. With embarrassment and with relief. With loss and with gain. With defeat and with victory.
When we do something stupid, people ask us, What were you thinking. When God takes us back and takes us in and takes us home, people may ask him that too. It’s the same question, but with two different answers. What were you thinking? I guarantee you that God’s answer is better than ours.
03/09/2005
“Remember This: It’s Not Over ‘Til It’s Over” Ps 51:1-13 Romans 7:14-25 Midweek IV March 9, 2005
I’d swear that TV’s funniest videos are made up—except that we all know that some people do really stupid things. Do stupid things and dangerous things, awful things and rude things, harmful things and thoughtless things. Even sinful things. And you yourself may know that because you read the newspapers, or maybe because you were witness to embarrassing moments, or maybe your own personal history would cause people to ask: What were you thinking? Though, of course, you weren’t thinking. Or weren’t thinking clearly. Or weren’t thinking long-term. Or weren’t thinking about others. Wouldn’t it be nice if there were some built in warning-light that asks if you really want to keep on doing what you’re doing? Computers have them. Cars have them. All we have is Judas.
People have wondered forever what Judas was thinking. Was it the money? Was it the fame? Was it a concern for right religion? Was it concern for Jesus’ safety? Whatever it was has caused the name Judas to be linked with hatred and scorn. Even though he repented. And that’s what it said in our scripture tonight. That Judas suddenly realized he had done wrong. I guess you have to congratulate him for something. It’s more than you and I may have done. Which is only half-accurate. You and I have repented for the things which have been uncovered. It’s the rest we keep quiet. And why not? Do you really think we’re going to admit to something that no one else has discovered about us? No, we’ll pretend it’s all right and, only later, when the truth has come out, will we make a show of being sorry. But even then, it’ll work out in our favor. Not that we escape, but that we are forgiven.
I’m spending some of our Lenten time together making a list of things we should always remember. A kind of handy digest for believers. And here’s this week’s nugget: it’s not over ‘til it’s over. Was it Yogi Berra who said that, or Judas Iscariot? Either person, there’s some wisdom there, if we’d pay attention to it. Though some people don’t pay attention and, brought face to face with all they have done and left undone, are quite certain there’s no hope for them, ever. Even knowing that Judas repented, some people still see only darkness ahead for people who mess up. For, rightly, they say— maybe Judas did repent, but did God accept Judas’ repentance. I can’t say for sure, but I think I know. Was not the purpose of the cross that the payment for sin would be made, and that all who had offended God would be put back in a right relation with him? Though saying Judas only “offended” God is a pretty big understatement. In betraying Jesus, Judas did more than offend God. He tried to kill him off.
There are at least three ways to look at Judas. One is to say, That’s the worst excuse for a human being we have ever seen, and God should have invented a new and deeper level of hell to which he should be sent. Other people might say, Judas was wrong and what he did was awful, but we have to hope that a loving God was willing to deal with even that most horrible sin. And the rest of us might say, We’d better hope that Judas gets loved and gets in, because we’re not a whole lot better than he was. Which is not what most people say—that last, I mean. Only a few mentally-disturbed people actually think that what they have done is as bad as what Judas did. You don’t think that you’re as bad as Judas, do you?
Well, if you do, and I myself do think that, let’s ask the righteous others sitting around you tonight to be quiet for a bit while you and I talk about the grace of God. You have heard me say time and again that if it weren’t for God’s grace, I would go totally crazy. That’s what it means to see yourself like Judas. To know that what you did and how often you did it and how unbothered you were, was more than just stupid. More than offensive. That it went to the very core of the matter, and caused people to shake their heads. On that, I’ll bet we can agree. But then what? Once you come to your senses and realize how really stupid it was, or even if you don’t fully realize how stupid it was, is there anything still ahead?
Is it all hopeless? Or is there something that can change what we have done, and make it better? Is there any reason to believe that good could come from the wrong stuff we have done? That there could be restitution? Or amendment? That the world would be willing to change its mind, and that God would be willing to forgive any of it? It’s a long-shot, in some people’s eyes. Would you forgive you, if you were in charge? Are you glad you’re not in charge? Could you imagine a loving grace-filled verdict from God who is in charge? Shouldn’t we be glad at the very thought that God might let Judas in, knowing that if Judas gets in, we do too? But my constant proclamation of grace often has been met with a stony silence from some people, with the claim that by begging or assuming or hoping that Judas is in—and me too—that I cheapen God’s grace. That for grace to be given, for any change to be made, for a difference in the days ahead, there needs to be an apology, even a groveling, that indicates the stupidity was fully realized.
It’s not an easy thing, this matter of grace. If it’s grace, it’s free. But if there’s a string attached, it’s not free. And though my apology might be sincere, my sincerity might not stretch to cover every time I do the same stupid thing. And though I might have changed my ways in order to give up one kind of wrong, I have taken up something else stupid, maybe different in size or matter, but not in separation from God. In short, it’s either stupid or it’s not. It’s wrong or it’s not. We’re either in or we’re out. And I like to think that I’m in. Though there is a catch—not that I must fully repent to be in, for I cannot, but that I must fully proclaim it, which I can do. Not proclaim my entry through the pearly gates it with a smugness that figures I pulled a fast one on God, but to tell everyone that God pulled a fast one on me, and wouldn’t give me up without a fight.
Though when you do stupid things, there are consequences. You know, you can’t un- ring a bell. But even the consequences of life can be used by God to make a difference. Is not Jesus’ death on the cross the greatest example of all? God can do whatever he wants, and nothing will get in his way. Not even death itself. Nor does he limit himself in the number of possibilities. Of all the banners that have been displayed here over the years, I think the one that most people find assuring is the one that says “God isn’t finished with me yet.” It isn’t the prettiest banner we display, but it is the most truthful one, for it reminds us that it’s not over ‘til it’s over. And here is what grace proclaims: that it’s never over. And that life and repentance and awareness and grace is always being defined and tried on and accepted and proclaimed. And that if one thing isn’t so, another might be. How shall we best picture the love of God? If there can be 57 varieties of pickles, can there not be 57 varieties of grace?
Though just what is meant by the banner message isn’t certain. God isn’t finished with me yet. Does that mean that he’ll make me better? Or that there are trials still in store? Does he expect me to make restitution, or to see myself in a different light? Does he want me to relinquish control? Will he use me as an example for others, maybe make me the poster boy for grace? Who knows? There are many different paths that might be taken, and the details of the journey aren’t certain. But the constancy of God’s grace is.
Grace that comes to cover over a little bit. Grace that comes to cover over a lot. Grace that comes freely and without any knowledge on our part. Grace that is obvious to everyone. Grace that comes after proper apologies are made. Grace that comes even when the apologies are only half-hearted. Grace that turns life around. Grace that comes when life has already been turned around. Grace that has already begun but promises still more ahead. Grace that has begun and begs to be shared with others. All of which makes grace something infinitely wonderful. Grace still to come.
St. Paul said it first: I haven’t done the things I should have done, and I have done the very things I shouldn’t have. Is that true for you too? Sure it is. So what’s next? Just admitting it all—or admitting it all and trying to make amends? It’s a truism much proclaimed, that you can’t unring a bell. But you can ring it a second time, doing better. Or if the first bell was ruined, you can get another bell. Or if the world is out of bells, you can give the word yourself, telling people that it’s never over. That if the consequences of wrong seem to go on and on—and they often do—then the grace of God goes on and on too, and it always does. So that we live with hope, and with certainty. With embarrassment and with relief. With loss and with gain. With defeat and with victory.
When we do something stupid, people ask us, What were you thinking. When God takes us back and takes us in and takes us home, people may ask him that too. It’s the same question, but with two different answers. What were you thinking? I guarantee you that God’s answer is better than ours.
Sunday, March 6, 2005
"The Day You Stop Believing"
Pastor Nagle
03/06/2005
“The Day You Stop Believing” John 9:1-41 The Fourth Sunday in Lent March 6, 2005
Every week, during our worship services, we pray for a whole list of people. Sometimes we read their names out loud, sometimes not. Some of those people you know; most you do not. But just because their names are listed, you figure something important is going on in their life. Sometimes it’s something happy; more often, it’s something sad or scary or frustrating. Week after week we pray for those people, whether they like it or not. And sometimes, the people about whom we pray don’t like it at all.
If you’ve read anything other than the sports page this past week, you know that an awful serial killer has been arrested in Kansas. He had terrorized a community there by his continued violence that earned him the nickname, BTK—bind, torture and kill. Which is precisely what he did to one man’s family. That he killed four members of the same family. It may be obvious or maybe it’s hard to say, but how would you react if you came home one day and someone you love had been murdered. Shocked, sickened, sad, angry? The four murders in one family happened some years ago, but last Sunday I watched an interview with one of the surviving members of that family who said—when my family was killed, that was the day I stopped believing in God. Because after an awful thing like that, I couldn’t believe that there is a God, and if there is, I don’t want to be around a God who would allow something like that to happen. The man who made that statement said that he used to go to church, had been an altar boy, had been raised to believe, but at the time of his family’s grisly death, he asked where God was.
Which is close enough to part of this morning’s gospel story. It was a long story, that story of a man who was born blind. I figure it’s a rough thing to face life like that. Different from everybody else. Not able to do what everybody else does. Maybe living with anger and frustration. And with no answers too. Isn’t it a part of our life that we like answers? More than one person listed in our prayers has asked that question, “how come.” There’s even a special word that describes that question. It’s called theodicy— the justice of God. If there is a God and if God supposedly loves his people, why do bad things happen? More than that, why do bad things happen to good people? It’s not fair. And it’s not. So that people have forever asked questions, trying to get to the bottom of it. In today’s gospel, people asked Jesus, How come this man is blind? Where should we put the blame? Did he do something wrong, or did his parents do something wrong? (The assumption was that somebody must have done something wrong, because bad things don’t just happen.) But Jesus turned the matter away from finger-pointing and used the blind man as an example of healing. Remember that Jesus touched the man’s eyes and said, Because I am the light of the world, you don’t have to live in darkness any more. And right away the man was able to see. But what does that have to do with the man in Kansas who gave up believing in God?
He’s living in a kind of darkness too, isn’t he? Not saying something wrong, not scolding him, but just assuming that as hurt as he is, as angry as he is, as frustrated as he is, until now not having answers about that crime, even he admits his life has been changed. And surely not changed for the better. Whenever you ask the question, How come, and get no answer, there’s a kind of blindness, isn’t there? If the answer were obvious, you could say, Now I see. But sometimes, we don’t see, can’t see, or else what we do see is almost too painful to bear. Have you ever asked, God, where are you? If it hasn’t happened yet, the day will surely come.
It may come when the thing you most loved is taken away from you. It may come when your dreams are smashed. It may come during a time of pain that only gets worse. It may come when your own name is on our prayer list, or would be, if you’d let anyone know about the pain you’re facing. Even while you’re part of the church. Some people keep on keeping on with the church, even though they have these deep and troubling questions. And the deepest of them all is, Where is God? Didn’t he make a promise to be around? Don’t I deserve better than this?
The question is tied up with an assumption some people have—that everything that happens in life is part of some grand plan that God has. But I say, be careful when you believe that, because some of the things that happen in life happen in spite of God. Not that he can’t change them, but that he allows people to do what we want—even to do the hurtful things we want. So that murder isn’t part of God’s plan. Nor is blindness. But God can use the awful things of our life and turn them into something else. If we’ll let it happen. But that’s a big if, because if we let ourselves get changed, get healed, we set ourselves up for a lot of hard work.
Consider the blind man. He’d been blind forever. His parents didn’t like it that way; the man himself didn’t like it that way. It caused discomfort and upset and frustration for everybody, but it had gone on so long that the blind man and his parents had gotten used to it. Didn’t like it, but had gotten used to it. Had fallen into the routine of it all. And you’d think that the blind man would have been overjoyed at being given the gift of sight. And in the gospel lesson, he was. Would you be pleased? Sure—because you’d be able to see again. But if you’d made your living by begging as a blind man, now you’d have to find work as a sighted man. And if your blindness kept you from seeing awful things, with sight you’d have to deal with what’s in front of you. And if people paid attention to you before, maybe now they’d ignore you. So it happens that we’re not always glad about something that changes life. Especially if, all of a sudden, the change means you have to start believing again.
Remember the man in Kansas. When his family was murdered, he gave up believing in God. What should he say, now that the killer has been caught? I believe in God again? I’ll bet he won’t say that. Maybe he couldn’t say that, because he’s gotten so used to living life one way, anything that changes his life may prove too heavy a load. And yet, there’s some logic, isn’t there? That if God is blamed for making things bad, he should be praised for making things good? That’s logic, but when your life is blind, you can’t always see logic. But fortunately, God doesn’t base his love on the way we respond.
Or at least, that’s what I say—that God doesn’t base his love on the way we respond. Although a lot of people whom you know say just the opposite—that God loves only those who do respond. You know, God loves believers, does not love unbelievers. God loves people who obey the commandments, does not love people who break the rules. God loves those who love other people, does not love those who hate those around them. But what should we say about the relationship between God and the bitter Kansan. That because he gave up on God, God should or has or will give up on him? If that’s what we believe, we have to be the saddest people of all. For in truth, it’s when we give up on God most, that he comes to us best. And that’s not logic, but it is the proclamation of the church. That the day you give up believing in God is the day God most comes to you. And we could see that, if we weren’t blind.
Today is set aside here as a time for healing. Even though scripture tells us that Jesus was a healer, the church doesn’t do much with healing, because we don’t always take it very seriously. Except for some strange television preachers whom we sometimes regard as fake, we just don’t think that any significant healing can take place. And as an example, we use the most difficult stories we can. If a person has a missing arm, no amount of healing prayers this morning is going to grow a new arm back. And if a person’s broken leg is in a cast, we don’t really believe that the right words this morning will allow that person to go skiing again. And if someone has died, even has been murdered, we don’t see that anything will bring those people back to life. And they can’t be brought back to life. But if we can’t see that kind of healing, is there something else we should see? Is the one and only prayer we ought to make this morning, Lord, help us see? Lord, take away our blindness, and make us see?
How about these prayers at a time of blindness: Make us see what is right and what is wrong. Make us see what can and cannot be changed. Make us see how we can be involved in change. Make us see how life would be different if we would change and be changed. All of which is easier said than done. If you’re missing an arm, our prayers today won’t restore it. But our prayers today might cause you to see yourself less with a handicap and more with an opportunity. Living less with anger at what you do not have, and more with what you could be. And someone says, That’s a crock. That’s not healing at all; it’s attitude adjustment. And maybe it is. But would you reject the cure because someone uses a different name to describe it? The blind man from the gospel lesson had his sight restored. I have no reason to believe that anyone that blind will suddenly see here today. But there are lots of people around us right now who need to see better and deeper. And who can. Who need to see better and deeper and to look in a different direction. Not giving up on God, but depending on God whose promises are still sure. That he who created the whole world, and us, continues to watch over the whole world, and us, even when we and the whole world are in turmoil.
And that’s part of what a healing service is all about—that we take seriously the fact that this whole world is in turmoil. The man in Kansas isn’t the only person who ever gave up on God. He’s not the only person today who is angry and sad and frustrated. Angry, sad and frustrated by an injury that has come about. Angry, sad and frustrated by a marriage that hasn’t worked out. Angry, sad and frustrated about dreams that haven’t come true. Angry, sad and frustrated at the meanness people show and the meanness we show back. Angry, sad and frustrated by the pains that bother our heads and our stomachs, our backs and our bowels. Not just that smiling a lot and saying that we love God will quiet our bowels or strengthen our backs, but that the way we have lived doesn’t seem to be doing much. Would rejoicing in being a child of God help?
What about that man in Kansas? Would it help him to know that he’s still a child of God? He doesn’t think so, because he doesn’t believe in God any more. But just because we don’t believe in God doesn’t mean that God doesn’t care for us. And is that healing— to ask that we and everyone here, those whose names are in the bulletin and in everyone’s hearts, will give up whatever blindness there has been, in favor of seeing another way, God’s way, to get through it all. Not that the conditions of awful life have been changed, but that we have changed how we handle the awful conditions of life.
Jesus said to the blind man, “I am the light of the world. If you want to see better and deeper and stronger, go and wash your eyes.” And he did. And he was changed. May that be the story that gives you hope today.
03/06/2005
“The Day You Stop Believing” John 9:1-41 The Fourth Sunday in Lent March 6, 2005
Every week, during our worship services, we pray for a whole list of people. Sometimes we read their names out loud, sometimes not. Some of those people you know; most you do not. But just because their names are listed, you figure something important is going on in their life. Sometimes it’s something happy; more often, it’s something sad or scary or frustrating. Week after week we pray for those people, whether they like it or not. And sometimes, the people about whom we pray don’t like it at all.
If you’ve read anything other than the sports page this past week, you know that an awful serial killer has been arrested in Kansas. He had terrorized a community there by his continued violence that earned him the nickname, BTK—bind, torture and kill. Which is precisely what he did to one man’s family. That he killed four members of the same family. It may be obvious or maybe it’s hard to say, but how would you react if you came home one day and someone you love had been murdered. Shocked, sickened, sad, angry? The four murders in one family happened some years ago, but last Sunday I watched an interview with one of the surviving members of that family who said—when my family was killed, that was the day I stopped believing in God. Because after an awful thing like that, I couldn’t believe that there is a God, and if there is, I don’t want to be around a God who would allow something like that to happen. The man who made that statement said that he used to go to church, had been an altar boy, had been raised to believe, but at the time of his family’s grisly death, he asked where God was.
Which is close enough to part of this morning’s gospel story. It was a long story, that story of a man who was born blind. I figure it’s a rough thing to face life like that. Different from everybody else. Not able to do what everybody else does. Maybe living with anger and frustration. And with no answers too. Isn’t it a part of our life that we like answers? More than one person listed in our prayers has asked that question, “how come.” There’s even a special word that describes that question. It’s called theodicy— the justice of God. If there is a God and if God supposedly loves his people, why do bad things happen? More than that, why do bad things happen to good people? It’s not fair. And it’s not. So that people have forever asked questions, trying to get to the bottom of it. In today’s gospel, people asked Jesus, How come this man is blind? Where should we put the blame? Did he do something wrong, or did his parents do something wrong? (The assumption was that somebody must have done something wrong, because bad things don’t just happen.) But Jesus turned the matter away from finger-pointing and used the blind man as an example of healing. Remember that Jesus touched the man’s eyes and said, Because I am the light of the world, you don’t have to live in darkness any more. And right away the man was able to see. But what does that have to do with the man in Kansas who gave up believing in God?
He’s living in a kind of darkness too, isn’t he? Not saying something wrong, not scolding him, but just assuming that as hurt as he is, as angry as he is, as frustrated as he is, until now not having answers about that crime, even he admits his life has been changed. And surely not changed for the better. Whenever you ask the question, How come, and get no answer, there’s a kind of blindness, isn’t there? If the answer were obvious, you could say, Now I see. But sometimes, we don’t see, can’t see, or else what we do see is almost too painful to bear. Have you ever asked, God, where are you? If it hasn’t happened yet, the day will surely come.
It may come when the thing you most loved is taken away from you. It may come when your dreams are smashed. It may come during a time of pain that only gets worse. It may come when your own name is on our prayer list, or would be, if you’d let anyone know about the pain you’re facing. Even while you’re part of the church. Some people keep on keeping on with the church, even though they have these deep and troubling questions. And the deepest of them all is, Where is God? Didn’t he make a promise to be around? Don’t I deserve better than this?
The question is tied up with an assumption some people have—that everything that happens in life is part of some grand plan that God has. But I say, be careful when you believe that, because some of the things that happen in life happen in spite of God. Not that he can’t change them, but that he allows people to do what we want—even to do the hurtful things we want. So that murder isn’t part of God’s plan. Nor is blindness. But God can use the awful things of our life and turn them into something else. If we’ll let it happen. But that’s a big if, because if we let ourselves get changed, get healed, we set ourselves up for a lot of hard work.
Consider the blind man. He’d been blind forever. His parents didn’t like it that way; the man himself didn’t like it that way. It caused discomfort and upset and frustration for everybody, but it had gone on so long that the blind man and his parents had gotten used to it. Didn’t like it, but had gotten used to it. Had fallen into the routine of it all. And you’d think that the blind man would have been overjoyed at being given the gift of sight. And in the gospel lesson, he was. Would you be pleased? Sure—because you’d be able to see again. But if you’d made your living by begging as a blind man, now you’d have to find work as a sighted man. And if your blindness kept you from seeing awful things, with sight you’d have to deal with what’s in front of you. And if people paid attention to you before, maybe now they’d ignore you. So it happens that we’re not always glad about something that changes life. Especially if, all of a sudden, the change means you have to start believing again.
Remember the man in Kansas. When his family was murdered, he gave up believing in God. What should he say, now that the killer has been caught? I believe in God again? I’ll bet he won’t say that. Maybe he couldn’t say that, because he’s gotten so used to living life one way, anything that changes his life may prove too heavy a load. And yet, there’s some logic, isn’t there? That if God is blamed for making things bad, he should be praised for making things good? That’s logic, but when your life is blind, you can’t always see logic. But fortunately, God doesn’t base his love on the way we respond.
Or at least, that’s what I say—that God doesn’t base his love on the way we respond. Although a lot of people whom you know say just the opposite—that God loves only those who do respond. You know, God loves believers, does not love unbelievers. God loves people who obey the commandments, does not love people who break the rules. God loves those who love other people, does not love those who hate those around them. But what should we say about the relationship between God and the bitter Kansan. That because he gave up on God, God should or has or will give up on him? If that’s what we believe, we have to be the saddest people of all. For in truth, it’s when we give up on God most, that he comes to us best. And that’s not logic, but it is the proclamation of the church. That the day you give up believing in God is the day God most comes to you. And we could see that, if we weren’t blind.
Today is set aside here as a time for healing. Even though scripture tells us that Jesus was a healer, the church doesn’t do much with healing, because we don’t always take it very seriously. Except for some strange television preachers whom we sometimes regard as fake, we just don’t think that any significant healing can take place. And as an example, we use the most difficult stories we can. If a person has a missing arm, no amount of healing prayers this morning is going to grow a new arm back. And if a person’s broken leg is in a cast, we don’t really believe that the right words this morning will allow that person to go skiing again. And if someone has died, even has been murdered, we don’t see that anything will bring those people back to life. And they can’t be brought back to life. But if we can’t see that kind of healing, is there something else we should see? Is the one and only prayer we ought to make this morning, Lord, help us see? Lord, take away our blindness, and make us see?
How about these prayers at a time of blindness: Make us see what is right and what is wrong. Make us see what can and cannot be changed. Make us see how we can be involved in change. Make us see how life would be different if we would change and be changed. All of which is easier said than done. If you’re missing an arm, our prayers today won’t restore it. But our prayers today might cause you to see yourself less with a handicap and more with an opportunity. Living less with anger at what you do not have, and more with what you could be. And someone says, That’s a crock. That’s not healing at all; it’s attitude adjustment. And maybe it is. But would you reject the cure because someone uses a different name to describe it? The blind man from the gospel lesson had his sight restored. I have no reason to believe that anyone that blind will suddenly see here today. But there are lots of people around us right now who need to see better and deeper. And who can. Who need to see better and deeper and to look in a different direction. Not giving up on God, but depending on God whose promises are still sure. That he who created the whole world, and us, continues to watch over the whole world, and us, even when we and the whole world are in turmoil.
And that’s part of what a healing service is all about—that we take seriously the fact that this whole world is in turmoil. The man in Kansas isn’t the only person who ever gave up on God. He’s not the only person today who is angry and sad and frustrated. Angry, sad and frustrated by an injury that has come about. Angry, sad and frustrated by a marriage that hasn’t worked out. Angry, sad and frustrated about dreams that haven’t come true. Angry, sad and frustrated at the meanness people show and the meanness we show back. Angry, sad and frustrated by the pains that bother our heads and our stomachs, our backs and our bowels. Not just that smiling a lot and saying that we love God will quiet our bowels or strengthen our backs, but that the way we have lived doesn’t seem to be doing much. Would rejoicing in being a child of God help?
What about that man in Kansas? Would it help him to know that he’s still a child of God? He doesn’t think so, because he doesn’t believe in God any more. But just because we don’t believe in God doesn’t mean that God doesn’t care for us. And is that healing— to ask that we and everyone here, those whose names are in the bulletin and in everyone’s hearts, will give up whatever blindness there has been, in favor of seeing another way, God’s way, to get through it all. Not that the conditions of awful life have been changed, but that we have changed how we handle the awful conditions of life.
Jesus said to the blind man, “I am the light of the world. If you want to see better and deeper and stronger, go and wash your eyes.” And he did. And he was changed. May that be the story that gives you hope today.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)