NOTE: Here are my worship notes for Sunday, March 9th 2014: the First Sunday of Lent. This message is part one of three re: our 250th Anniversary.
Introduction
To my mind, there is a type
of mystical or even cosmic poetry taking place among us at First Church as we
simultaneously enter the liturgical season of Lent and prepare to celebrate our
250th anniversary as a congregation. It came to pass,
of course, purely by chance on one level – we needed to find a weekend that did
not compete with either national and school holidays that was still reasonably
close to the date of our founding – and March 16th fit the
bill.
But as it turns
out there was a more providential wisdom at work within and among us, luring us
to this date so that our celebration might occur smack in the middle of
Christianity’s most penitential observances. The 17th century French
Roman Catholic priest, Jean Baptiste de la Salle, who gave birth to an
educational reform movement for the poor throughout France by first inviting
destitute teachers into his home for lunch, put it like this:
'The more you abandon to God
the care of all temporal things the more He will take care to provide for all
your wants. But if on the contrary you try to supply all your needs, Providence
will allow you to continue to do just that, and then it may very well happen
that even necessity will be lacking to you. For God will reprove you for your
lack of faith in reliance on self.'
Perhaps you recall that Jesus
said much the same thing in Luke 12 when he told his disciples: Do not worry about your
life, what you will eat, or about your body, what you will wear. For life is more than
food, and the body more than clothing. Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap,
they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them. Of how much more
value are you than the birds! And
can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? If then you
are not able to do so small a thing as that, why do you worry about the rest? Consider the lilies of
the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even
Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. So if God so clothes the grass of the
field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, how much more
will he clothe you—you of little faith.
So here we are: at the start of Lent, kicking our preparations
for the 250th anniversary celebration into high gear and opening
ourselves to the wisdom of God’s grace in a Scripture that speaks to us about
wandering in the wilderness. I love the paradoxical
tenderness and irony of this turn of events. Because, you see, it invites us to
place our lives and ministry into a continuum of trust that began long before
this church was founded and will continue long after we have run the race set
before us.
As St. Paul liked to
say: Since
we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses… all of whom have looked to
Jesus Christ as the true perfecter of their faith; let us, therefore, lay aside
every weight and sins that clings so closely and with perseverance run the race
set before us looking always to
Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith, who for the sake of the joy that was set before him
endured the cross, disregarding its shame and has taken his seat at the right
hand of the throne of God. (Hebrews 12) This
morning, with the grace of God, I would like to share with you two broad themes
about how we might celebrate our anniversary within the continuum of trust
afforded by Lent. Specifically, let me:
+ First, sketch in
broad strokes what I understand to be at stake in today’s gospel reading in
which Jesus flees to the desert immediately following his baptism. There are some deep theological insights that
speak to our condition in 21st century Massachusetts as much as they
did to 1st century Palestine.
+ And second, how
our context for ministry in Pittsfield has changed dramatically in 250 years –
and what that might mean for us if we’re listening for God’s still speaking
voice amidst the busyness and clutter of our everyday lives.
Is that reasonably
clear? First a review of some Lenten
biblical wisdom from St. Matthew; and second a bit of theological reflection on
what Lent suggests for our ministry in Pittsfield after 250 years? Ok, but let’s pause for a moment of prayer:
All Loving God, in you are hidden all
the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. Open our eyes that we may see the
wonders of your Word; and give us grace that we may clearly understand and
freely choose the way of your wisdom; through Christ our Lord. Amen.
Insights
Today’s gospel reading from
Matthew opens many Lenten seasons – and there is a reason – it is filled with
sacred and counter-cultural truth. It
also evokes for us the symbolism of the wilderness, an image rich with
historical implications for both the Hebrew and American people. So let me remind you of what wandering for 40
days in the wilderness would have meant for those who first heard these
words. Scholars are clear that the 40
days Jesus endured in the desert “echo Israel’s 40 years there.” (Judith Jones,
Working Preacher, online commentary)
This desert
season, you see, is to be a time of temptation, discernment and confusion on
the road to clarity as well as a time of practicing the essentials of a new
ministry. Under the
leadership of Moses, the children of God received the 10 Commandments and began
to practice living in a way that was different from their bondage in
Egypt. They practiced sharing rather
than hording. They practiced trusting God rather than obeying Pharaoh. They spent a few generations learning to live
as God’s people rather than broken and wounded slaves without a future.
And Jesus does much the
same thing, too: he practices how his
new ministry is going to take shape and form.
Specifically, he practices what it means to be live as one who has been
called the Son of God. And what he does
in the desert gives us a clue about what we are to do during Lent because
through him, we, too have been called sons and daughters of the Lord. Remember the words that God spoke through the
Holy Spirit at Christ’s baptism? “Behold,
this is my Son, the beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”
In our baptism – in our
commitment to follow Christ as Lord – we too have been given the name
beloved. We too have been renamed
children of the Lord – sons and daughters of God – women, men and children who
have been joined together in one body known as… the Body of Christ. So what Jesus does in the desert bears
watching, yes? His practicing – his temptations
and his responses – tell us something about what it means to live as God’s
beloved children. And today’s story
offers three insights:
· If you are the Son of God, change these stones
into bread: this is the first test tossed at Jesus by the
Devil. It is meant to confuse him about
how to live as an authentic child of God. And it is interesting to note that
the Greek word for the devil – diabolos – comes from a juggling prop used to
perform tricks in a confusing manner.
Right out of the gate the story tells us that when we practice living as
a child of God it is natural to become confused. That is, it is going to take
practice and concentration and commitment because that old trickster, the
Confuser diabolos, is always waiting for us.
· And the first trick we need to deal with has to
do with satisfying our hungers: if you are REALLY the Son
of God the Trickster says to Jesus you won’t let yourself go hungry. “If you are royal or divine, then prove it
and use your power to satisfy… yourself.”
See where this is going? To which
Jesus says: NO, being a child of God is
NOT about being selfish – or privileged – it is about identifying God’s will
with the common good.
Do you recall how Jesus defined and described those who did the
will of the Lord in their everyday lives?
It had nothing to do with what we often consider our sacred or religious
affectations and everything to do with how we cared for one another: when
did we see thee hungry Lord and feed thee… or naked and clothe thee… or alone
and visit thee?
If you recall Christ’s answer say it along with me: whenever
we saw one of the least of these my sisters and brothers and cared for them,
then you did so unto me. For Jesus
being the Son of God means “accepting his humanity and sharing in it fully;”
there is no privilege among the children of God, no artificial hierarchy and no
selfishness for those practicing the upside-down values of God’s community, ok?
(Jones, Working Preacher)
· Second the Trickster tries to push Jesus into
abusing his identity as the Son of God by taking him to Jerusalem: you say you trust God so prove by jumping off
the highest point of the Temple. The tricks and challenges
don’t quit – Diabolos is incredibly persistent and creative – which is why old
Reinhold Niebuhr used to say that the children of darkness often win more than
the children of the light: they try harder when we give up! To which Jesus
says: real faith doesn’t question God
even in the midst of our doubt. There
will always be darkness and challenge so children of God take a long view and
keep their eyes on the prize.
· So Diabolos tries one more time – and returns at
the end of the story when Jesus is in the Garden of Gethsemane – saying: I have
authority of the world, so bow down to me and I will give you power over
everything in my kingdom. Do you see
what’s at stake here? Satan is saying
that he has control over the world – not God – he assumes authority over
everything that God has created. To
which Jesus replies that the Devil may believe whatever he wants but real
children of God live in obedience to a higher calling. In fact, Jesus makes it clear that whatever
has fallen under the corrupt authority of the Trickster will be healed and
redeemed and made sacred again by God’s grace.
Three challenges – three
practices – living for the common good, trusting God and rejecting sin’s
authority in the world – this is what Christ practices in the desert. And this
is what Lent asks us to practice, too.
So let me make a leap of faith and jump from the desert of 1st
century Palestine to 21st century Pittsfield, specifically to the
Sanctuary of First Church of Christ, Congregational where find ourselves on the
first Sunday of Lent awaiting our 250th anniversary.
Let me be
explicit: this year’s celebration of our ministry will be different – probably
very different – from previous anniversaries because our context has changed so
profoundly from our founding days. On
our 125th birthday – as well as our 200th anniversary –
the Protestant Church in America was the dominant form of religion.
Not so in
March 2104 – in fact, in New England as well as the Pacific Northwest today,
more people self-define themselves as “spiritual but not religious” than any
other religious category. More than
Roman Catholic, more than Southern Baptist (the two largest groupings) and
certainly more than Congregational or United Church of Christ. As
Canadian theologian Douglas John Hall reminds us: our type of doing church and
observing faith has been disestablished.
No one looks to us for leadership or moral authority; no one thinks of
us as first in any way, shape or form if they even know of us. And precious few even care what we do here on
Sunday mornings or throughout the week. They know our absence would be a
physical blight upon Park Square, but not because of our status or authority or
even our ministries.
In a word, because the
world has changed, both our ministry and the theology that guides our ministry
has had to change. I think of it like
Jesus in the desert, practicing a more humble style of being the Son of God,
and my hunch is that this is what God is asking of us, too. Ministry in 2014 is about solidarity and
partner-ship, not power and status. And that’s why I find myself turning again
and again to the discoveries of St. Paul and what he describes as a “theology
of the Cross.” It is a humble spirituality – a gentle practice of being
faithful – one that begs to be embodied in these strange times.
Douglas John Hall put it like this in
describing the challenge of the 21st century for people like you and
me: "The
best way of conveying the theological method and spirit (of this age comes
through) considering the three Pauline virtues of faith, hope
and love... especially how these so-called virtues (work) in light of what
they are each negating. (For) unless the negation of each is understood,
the positive statement of each is cheapened and made into a cliche." (Waiting
for Gospel, p. 90)
He then goes on to unpack each:
First is faith: "What
does this term negate? The metaphor that crops up time and again in Paul's
writing is sight. Faith, which comes by hearing and is precisely a
not-seeing... is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things
not seen." It is the act of trust - glimpsed as through a glass
darkly, to be sure - and never fully seen. Faith that is not sight" Hall
notes, "is thus a faith warned against presumption."
Second, is hope - "an orientation to the future not the
past and a recognition that the present is still lacking its
promised fulfillment - and its negation is reality including human
despair, fear, doubt, brokenness and sin. "What is
hoped for must not be taken for granted, so hope must live with its antithesis
of hopelessness and despair... for what we hope for has not fully
happened." Hall again points to St. Paul: "In hope we were
saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen.
But
if we hope for what we do not see, then we wait for it with patience."
Hall is clear: first we practice trusting God, second we practice
patience rather than presumption or even arrogance.
And third we live into love - "and love negates many
things" - for "love does not insist on its own way."Quoting Reinhold Niebuhr, Hall writes: "'The crux of
the Cross is its revelation of the fact that the final power of God over man
(sic) is derived from the self-imposed weakness of his love.' This, I think, is
of the essence of this theology and it is hard for all to accept who think of
deity chiefly in terms of power, omnipotence and almightiness. But if God is
love, then the divine power must accommodate itself to divine love
and not vice versa. And for the theology of the cross this is basic."
Hall closes with an extended quote from Tillich whom we know to be bright
and broken and even cruel - but often wise, too.
Conclusion
The
founding father of the Protestant tradition, Martin Luther, once spoke of what
God revealed to the world in Jesus as God making himself small for us. One of
the theological giants of an age now forgotten, Paul Tillich, went commented on
Luther’s insight like this:
In
becoming small for us, He left us our freedom and our humanity. He shows us His
heart so that our hearts could be won. When we look at the misery of our world,
its evil and its sin, especially in these days which seem to mark the end of a
world period, we long for divine interference, so that the world and its
daemonic rulers might be overcome. We long for a king of peace within history,
or for a king of glory above history. We long for a Christ of power. Yet if He
were to come and transform us and our world, we should have to pay the one
price we could not pay: we would have to lose our freedom, our humanity and our
spiritual
dignity. Perhaps we would be happier; but we should also be lower beings, our present
misery, struggle and despair notwithstanding. We should be more like blessed
animals than men (and women) made in the image of God. Those who dream of a
better life and try to avoid the Cross as a way, and those who hope for a
Christ and attempt to exclude the Crucified, have no knowledge of the mystery
of God and humankind (at this moment in history.)
And
so we join Jesus in the desert – once again – searching for humility,
practicing our hospitality and promising to follow the Lord in hope as those
who trust the Lord in all things.
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