Devotions--Sermons

Recent devotions and sermons from our Pastors :

 

Reclaiming Revelation—All Saints Sunday, 11/2/08 

            For years our state had a bumper sticker proclaiming, "Virginia is for lovers."  Based on how some use the last book in the Bible you could easily have one that says, "Revelation is for whack jobs."  When the survivalists bunker down in Waco or some isolated compound in Idaho, they invariably see their violence as part of the great end times struggle, spouting verses from Revelation to justify bizarre actions.  Those paranoid people who think the scan code on a box of broccoli is the "mark of the beast" take their script from a strained interpretation of John's apocalypse.  And all those sweaty preachers on cable TV, thundering about America's coming confrontation with the whore of Babylon (which they variously identify with everything from Bill Gates to Iran), are using the Bible's last book as a holy Ouija board to predict the immediate future.  With fans like that the poor book doesn't need critics.

            But it has had some.  Revelation was the last book to enter the New Testament canon, almost missing the cut.  Martin Luther had little use for it.  He opined that a Revelation should be more revealing and rendered his blunt verdict,

"I miss more than one thing in this book, and it makes me consider it to be neither apostolic nor prophetic...I can in no way detect that the Holy Spirit produced it... they are supposed to be blessed who keep what is written in this book; and yet no one knows what that is, to say nothing of keeping it.

 

            Many find the book simply offensive.  Filled with gory, bloody images which glorify violence, it seems to delight in the prospect of God's vicious vengeance on those who are not among the chosen.  On its face that seems far from the spirit of Jesus, who lived nonviolently and prayed for his enemies at the hour of his death.

            But perhaps most troubling of all is that those who most love Revelation seem to hate life.  Looking to the prospect of eternal bliss on the heavenly shore they often give up on making the planet on which they live a better place.  When they see the agony of a broken world they seem to think Revelation calls them to provoke Armageddon, so that the day of the Lord will come sooner rather than later.  Such interpretation reduces Christian discipleship to something akin to working in a sewer:  you grit your teeth, hold your nose, and wait until quitting time and a payday beyond the stench.  For what its worth, I'm with Luther; Revelation has never been one of my favorites either.

 

            And yet....and Revelation is in the Bible.  This book gives us some of the most memorable and joyous language in our liturgy, "This is the feast of victory for our God, for the lamb who was slain has begun his reign."  From Revelation we get the vivid image of heaven as paved with streets of gold and  the confession that Christ is the alpha and the omega.  In bereavement mourners cling to the book's promise of a time when God will wipe away all our tears.  Despite its faults, in times of crisis generations of Christians have found consolation and courage in this book.

            If we look carefully we realize that it is not the Revelation which is the problem; it's the boneheaded and fear-filled interpretations of the text.  At its core Revelation is a bold assertion of hope in the midst of struggle and an admonition to hold firm when it appears that God is absent.

            Too often we have reduced Christian faith to nothing more than religious fire insurance, as though following Jesus is only about getting your ticket punched for the holy Amtrack to Heavenly Acres.  That is an escapist mistake which robs faith of any relevance to our daily lives.         But future hope is an important part of Christian faith.  The saints through the ages have lived and died sustained by the confidence that the difficult path of discipleship finally does bring us to God's perfect presence.  It is just as much a distortion to make Christian faith nothing more than social justice and ethics as it is to reduce it to "pie in the sky bye and bye."  So on this All Saints Sunday, as we remember those who have labored in the faith before us, let's pause to reclaim some of Revelation's message which has enlightened and sustained believers through the centuries.

 

            One of the reasons people respond to Revelation is its brutal honesty about the nature of life and discipleship. Some hysterically claim martyrdom when their efforts to impose a narrow brand of Christianity on society are frustrated.  But, in fact, it has been a very long time since Christians in our country experienced anything worth calling "persecution."  For 99% of us the only thing that keeps us from worshipping each week is a preference for sleeping in an extra hour and then enjoying a leisurely breakfast with the Sunday paper at Starbucks.  In our cozy world, it's easy to think that, except for a little inconvenience and a few bucks, there is no cost of discipleship.  John knows better and his apocalypse is unflinching in its assessment. 

            In the little snippet of Revelation which is our second lesson there is great joy and celebration around the throne of God.  But those rejoicing are those who "have come out of the great tribulation, who have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the lamb."  There is metaphor here, to be sure, but it also refers to the persecution which the church was living daily.  John wrote to a community whose members had seen the very real blood of their friends, siblings, parents, and children splattered because they dared to confess the way of Jesus.  John had no illusions:  The world does not welcome a Jesus who really wants to change injustice.  The world reacts violently when a church stands up for the vulnerable.  The empire, whether Rome or latter day power structures, does not take kindly to any challenges to its authority.

            John gave voice to what his community was going through, candidly admitting that there are times when God seems far away and faith a fool's folly.  He refused to sugarcoat the demands of discipleship; "Yes," he says, "following this Jesus may cost you dearly, you have to be prepared for that." 

            Oddly enough, that hard, but honest word has given strength to Christians through the centuries.  In Roman prisons, during Reformation debates, on the streets of Selma and Birmingham, and in Central American congregations decimated by death squads, the saints have heard the words of Revelation and remembered that they are not the first or the last to be called to painful faithfulness.  In reading this old story, the besieged have felt less alone.

            Our call to faithfulness will not be so dramatic as facing lions in a Roman coliseum, but we should at least realize that truly serving Jesus means swimming against the stream.  These are days when nativism and appeal to prejudice win elections, when economic anxiety makes it hard to be open-handed, when choosing commitment over instant sexual gratification is derided as quaint, when it is easy to fear the stranger in our midst.  Taking Jesus seriously has always inspired strong opposition.  We can expect no less.  When we feel the pressure against us it is good to remember those who have stood firm through the centuries.

 

            Yet Revelation does more than look to the past; it is most of all a confident glimpse of the future.  By that I don't mean John's witness is a coded prophecy, an allegory which neatly matches up to this morning's headlines.  Read the book yourself.  John makes it perfectly clear that his book is a vision, a dream, a pulling back of the veil, or as our liturgy puts it, "a foretaste of the feast to come."

            Some years ago I spent about six weeks of a sabbatical at Holden Village, a remote retreat center in the Cascade Mountains of Washington state.  I did a lot of reading and thinking, but I also did a lot of walking.  Virtually every day I hiked out of the village into the wilderness.  By the end of my time at Holden I had ticked off just about every destination within a day's hike of the village.  But there was one distant alpine lake I had not gotten to.  Everyone told me it was perhaps the most beautiful and pristine place in the area, but it was high in the mountains.  Even though it was early June, the word was that the end of the trail was covered in snow so deep that you could not hike it without snowshoes.  But my time at Holden was almost over; I did not have time to wait for the summer melt.  So I browbeat my friend Anne into heading out with me on the chance that we could get through. 

            What a magnificent day it was.  The early hours went quickly as we walked along a creek in the valley.  Then we turned up the mountain and sweat poured down my face.  On we plodded until three things happened:  the trail grew faint to the point of disappearing, the snow appeared and grew progressively deeper, and the sun began to inch toward the horizon.  Standing in snow up to our thighs we had to make a decision.  We were already tired and had a long hike back to beat sunset.  We really did not want to be bear bait in the dark.  How much longer could we go on?             

            Anne had already made her decision and was turning back when I saw a brief flash through the dark forest cover.  I took ten more steps and realized that the faint flash had been the late afternoon sun glinting off the lake.  We struggled the last 100 yards and were rewarded with magical moment on top of the world.

            I shudder to think how close I came to missing that view.  Every reasonable instinct told us to turn around, but one little glimpse of what lay ahead made the difference.  One tiny sign that it might all be worth it put strength in our legs and joy in our hearts...You see where this is going.

            The book Revelation is a glorious glimpse of where the holy hike of history is going:  Beyond the pain, beyond the uphill climb, beyond the doubts that you can take one more step is beauty and serenity you can hardly imagine.  In a word, the struggle to follow Jesus on the rugged path is worth it.

 

            Cynics will say that John's vision is all wishful thinking or, more malevolently, that the whole gospel proclamation is a fairy tale the church has told adults to keep them placid and passive in the face of crushing injustice:  "Just accept your wretched lot because God will make it up to you in the sweet hereafter."   To its shame the church has sometimes been an unprotesting party to oppression of the poor, selling its benediction for power and influence.

            Yet let's be clear.  Neither Jesus nor John of Revelation suggests that we abandon our world just because we live in the confident hope that death and destruction are doomed.  Just because we trust in the reality of heaven; it need not follow that we care nothing about our earth.

 

            And the people who most persuade me that hope in the future does not have to mean contempt for the present are the folks we remember with special thanksgiving this day, the saints who have completed their earthly journey and rest with Christ.  During the past few weeks I attended the funerals of two congregational members, Dorothy Wiss and Sylva Stoevner.  A lot of things were said about them at those services, but this is what I most remember:  Both lived in a deep and confident hope of the life beyond the grave, yet each was deeply involved in giving of herself as long as she had breath to do it.  Hope in the resurrection did not cause them to abandon life in the here and now; quite the contrary, it seemed to energize them, to free them from self-pity and fear to enrich all those around them.

            If you think for just a moment I am sure you will call to mind others who were for you a living testimony that hope in the future gives joyous power in the present.  Christian faith is more than hope in life after death—but it is not less.  So on this day, let us give thanks for the faithful saints who have endured all manner of suffering and struggle, and now hand on to us the witness of service and joy in Christ.  May we, glimpsing the glint on the far off lake, keep ascending the trail of discipleship, filled with hope and thanksgiving for God's presence beside us every step of the way.  AMEN

   

Golden Bull—Past and Present, Exodus 32, 10/12/08

            Strictly speaking I suppose my first Bible was a little white New Testament someone gave my mother right after I was born, but the one I remember as my Bible was a Christmas gift from my grandmother when I was eight years old.  It was a King James Version, with a black leatherette cover, red letters where Jesus was speaking, and a zipper.  And it also had about eight color plates illustrating Bible stories.  Since then I've pondered how someone decided which stories to feature—Why did David and Goliath, Noah and the Ark, Samson pulling down the Philistines' temple, and Daniel in the lion's den get a picture, when most of the New Testament missed the cut? But that's the way it was; I guess the editors thought those stories were the most visually exciting.

            Today's Old Testament lesson, a relatively obscure story, also rated a picture in my Bible.  There Moses was, looking a bit like God the father on the roof of the Sistine Chapel, angrily smashing the stone tablets of the law.  In the background you could see the golden bull surrounded by frenzied dancers.  One of my Sunday school teachers thought Moses was upset because they were dancing (this was a conservative Baptist church after all), but most folks agreed that the golden calf, not the dancing, was the real problem.

            And to tell you the truth, the story never made a lot sense to me.  The first 31 chapters of Exodus are all about how God delivers Israel from Egypt.  God defeats Pharaoh's army, feeds the children of Israel in the wilderness, and leads them to Mt. Sinai.  But then, just because Moses is gone for a few days, the people melt down their jewelry, make a statue, and start dancing.  I figured you'd have to be dumber than a sack of slugs to trade the track record of YHWH for a literally homemade god.  Even an eight year old could see this was idolatry, plain and simple, and that it was not going to come out well for Israel. 

 

            But this week as I revisited this story I realized that it's deeper than we might suspect at first glance.  To be sure, there is little danger that we're going to replace bread and wine with a golden bull on our altar, but this story tells us something about the subtle nature and danger of idolatry.  And for that reason it is worth our attention.  Idols come in all shapes and sizes and this ancient story is as current as a text message on your cell.

            Let's start by being clear about what we're discussing.  As long as we think of idols as something from an Indiana Jones movie, stone relics of dead civilizations, it's hard to see how the topic has much relevance to us.  But an idol is simply what we treat as our God; some look like statues, most don't. In his Large Catechism Luther lays it out clearly, "A god is that to which we look for all good and in which we find refuge in every time of need.  To have a god is nothing else than to trust and believe him with our whole heart.  As I have often said, the trust and faith of the heart alone make both God and idol."   

            So the issue is not whether we bow down before a carved figure; its what we trust at crunch time, what we look to for direction when we are confused, what we serve with our energy, time, and resources.  Idolatry is simply giving our trust to anything less than God, and we tend to do that when we get scared.

            Last week Lisa and Josh, a couple of LSM alums, were back in town for a visit, and they brought Lydia, their 10 month old baby.  As we sat talking in a circle over in the campus center, we passed Lydia around and she was as mellow as could be, giggling and smiling without a care in the world.  Just before heading down the road, Josh and Lisa decided to use the facilities and so they handed their bundle of smiles to me.  Lydia was fine for a few seconds, but then you see her thoughts in the suddenly wide eyes, "Whoa!  I am all by myself with this strange man and his cheesy mustache.  I don't see Mom.  I don't see Dad.  I am on my own.   Houston, we have a problem."

            And it's just this anxious dynamic which we see in today's lesson.  As long as Moses was around the people kept their fears at bay. Moses was a reminder of all that God had done, that through the tough times, God had been dependable.  But then Moses went up on the mountain and they were afraid.  Left at the bottom of the Mount Sinai they had to trust that the wild, untamed God who had led them through the Red Sea was still there.  "But what if God isn't really with us for the long haul?" they asked, "What if we're on our own now?"  And so they asked Aaron to give them a tangible sign of divine presence, something they could look at and hold in their trembling hands. 

            We can relate can't we?  It's fairly easy to trust God when things are going well and each day feels like a fresh vindication that we are God's favored children.  But when our retirement account goes into free fall we are likely to value stable annuities over the assurance of God's love.  It's fine to confess trust in God in the safe confines of this nave, but when we feel besieged by terrorism we are likely to trust big guns and intrusive surveillance more than assurances that God will be with us come what may.  We grasp for the symbols of obvious power and control to deny the sense of vlunerability.  We do that even as we know deep in our gut that none of these things are going to make for true security, that these idols we create with our own hands are frail deities indeed. 

            Most scholars believe that the golden calf in our story more precisely refers to a young bull, which was a common symbol of power and virility in ancient fertility religions.  How excruciatingly poetic then, that some of the television stories documenting the financial crisis this past week included a shot of "Charging Bull" the iconic statue which represents unbridled Wall Street optimism.  The idol in which so many had trusted could not guarantee security after all.

            Please don't think I am taking some perverse pleasure in the failures on Wall St; too many people are suffering for anyone to find such satisfaction.  But there is a parable here, an important truth which we disregard at our peril:  whether at the foot of Sinai or in lower Manhattan the bulls inevitably can't deliver.  We grasp for something which seems unshaking and discover that life is just too uncertain to trust in anything less than God.  Faithfulness is finally about letting go of idols and resting in God's care.

 

            But notice, resting in God's care is not primarily trusting God to provide our desires; rather, it means making God's priorities our own.  Our text says the people came to Aaron and said, "Make us gods who shall go before us."  It's easy to miss the significance of those words.  To this point it is YHWH who has gone before the people, God who has led the way and determined the direction.  This is a god as free as the desert wind; God leads, the people follow.  But now the people want a god they can domesticate, a god they can control, a god they can carry into battle like a secret weapon, a god they can trot out and attempt to use for their own benefit. 

            This is the fundamental difference between faithful devotion and idolatrous religion.  One seeks the will of God, the other attempts to domesticate the language and reality of god for a lesser loyalty.  Devotion follows wherever God leads, whether the way is easy and attractive or not.  Idolatry charts a path and expects God to smooth it out.  And what makes it so difficult is that sometimes it is hard to tell the difference.  Nobody consciously sets out to serve the golden calf, but our fears and longings muddle our thinking until we may subtly betray our God. Notice, Israel did not simply reject God; they added an idol to what looked like their normal devotion to YHWH.  It's easy for us to do the same.  Let me give you an example.

 

            "God—bless—America."  That's a phrase we have heard a lot during this political season.  Candidates use it; the words punctuate most major speeches like an "amen" at the end of a sermon.  But let me ask you, when that phrase is spoken, how do most speakers intend it and how do you hear it?  Is it a humble petition:  "May God find this country worthy of favor and pour out blessing upon it that we may be a holy people and signs of God's mercy and care to all the world."  Is it a statement: "God must surely bless this nation because we are especially virtuous and deserving of reward."  Or is it dangerously close to a demand, "My country right or wrong, and I expect you, God, to bless it."  I suggest to you that only the first meaning is worthy of a Christian and yet most of the time the words are used as a statement or demand of god, which is to say in a way which betrays an idolatrous attitude.

            I love our country as much as anyone, but as Lincoln famously observed in the middle of the Civil War, the critical question is not whether God is on our side, but whether we are on God's side. The moment we attempt to treat God as the "stepin fetchit" servant and guarantor of our comfort and priorities, rather than saying to God, with the prophet Isaiah, "Here am I, send me," we are one step from dancing around the golden bull.

 

            And that is why I've had us thinking about idolatry this morning, because it's such a seductive temptation in scary, disoriented days.  When the world seems complex we long for simplicity.  When the world seems dangerous we seek scapegoats.  When the pie is shrinking we are not sure we can afford the luxury of compassion for the stranger.  Most of all we are not sure we dare serve the god whose face we see in Jesus.  That god bids us love our enemies, do good to those who persecute us, give generously to the poor, and seek first to do righteousness, trusting that all else which is truly needful will come.  How much easier it is to retreat to our private bunkers and give devotion to the greatest idol of all, "Me first."

            My friends we sit here less than a month from a very important election.  In contrast to some preachers in the news last week, I am not going to give you a party or candidate endorsement from the pulpit (not that it make a great difference if I did).  But I will urge you to ask what it means to serve the God of scripture as you vote.  I will invite you to make the life and witness of Jesus Christ the center of your discernment. I will ask you to think about what golden bulls you are tempted to worship when you feel insecure.

            Politics will not solve our deepest problems; to believe that it will is to substitute yet one more idol for God.  But if we are serious about discipleship then our politics—just like our prayers, and marriage, and job, and friendships—will reflect our Lord's vision. 

            But more than that, we, the people of God, have a tremendous word of hope to offer our nation in these uncertain times.  If we dare we can speak the same word Isaiah spoke in behalf of God to a very scared people during Israel's exile, "Do not fear, for I am with you, do not be afraid, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my victorious right hand." 

            That is the word which comes to us this day, that is the word we are called to speak to all who tremble when Wall St. quakes.  That is what we offer the world instead of golden bull.  AMEN

 

Christian Care and Repair, Matthew 18:15-20

             What's your favorite type of joke?  Some people enjoy knock-knocks; others prefer "How many whatever's does it take to screw in a light bulb?  I like "I am, you are, he is" humor.  For example:

• I am a man of principle, you are rather rigid, he is a stubborn jackass.  Or....
• I am a fashion trendsetter, you are rather quirky in your clothing choices, she is a walking thrift store bargain rack. Or...
• I am an edgy entrepreneur, you are a crafty businessman, he is a crooked greaseball.

             Such ironic humor reminds us of the tendency to judge others much more harshly than we judge ourselves.  Our perceptions are always clouded by the filters and assumptions that we bring to human interactions—chief of which are our own ego needs. We do well to remember that bias when we are tempted to come down heavy on someone else.  A certain holy reticence to condemn is seldom out of place.  Still, there are times when you do think another person is clearly in the wrong, times when you are deeply hurt and feel the need to confront someone with your disappointment.

            Of course, it's the relationships we care most about which cause us the greatest pain.  The more emotionally invested we  are with someone, the more they know our soft spots, our vulnerabilities—and the more bitter the anger when the relationship goes south.  It's unfortunate when an acquaintance says or does something hurtful, but it's excruciating when we feel abused by our spouse, betrayed by a friend, or slandered by one who shares the Lord's Table with us.  At those times the atmosphere easily grows toxic, punctuated by increasingly rancorous exchanges.  That's why Matthew records the words in today's gospel concerning reconciliation.

 "If another member of the church sins against you, go and point out the fault when the two of you are alone. If the member listens to you, you have regained your brother. But if you are not listened to, take one or two others along with you, so that every word may be confirmed by the evidence of two or three witnesses. If the member refuses to listen to them, tell it to the church; and if the offender refuses to listen even to the church, let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector. 

Matthew here lays out a process for dealing with conflict within the community of faith, but I want us to expand our thinking to how Jesus' words might apply to all our relationships.

             Before we think about what this process is, we need to be clear about what it is not.  Some years ago a unit in which I was working had a problem with one of its employees.  Brenda was taking inappropriate leave, not doing her job, and creating a tense workplace atmosphere.  Her supervisor decided she needed to go, so he systematically began to build the case against her.  He meticulously documented her failings until he had satisfied the legal requirements for termination—and  then he cut her loose. 

            What bothered me at the time was not so much the injustice of the outcome—virtually everyone in the office agreed that Brenda was both incompetent and lazy—but the unfortunate spirit of the process.  The procedure was followed to the letter, yet the goal was never improving Brenda's work or the relationship to her coworkers.  The intention was always termination, not restoration.  Brenda's humanity was less important than crossing all the legal tees.

            At first glance it may look like the process in our text is straight out of a corporate Human Resources manual, a hard-nosed blueprint for justifiable termination of a relationship.  But if we focus on the legalism we are missing the point.  Jesus is not giving us a means of easy self-justification, a pat procedure which allows us to say, "Well, I tried everything"...but then wash our hands of the other.  From beginning to end the point of the process is reconciliation with those who offend us and restoration of the relationship.  This whole text pivots on that intention; it's less the precise steps than the spirit which is important.  Even so, what does Jesus teach us about dealing with offensive people and situations?

             One teaching of this text is that we have to take sin seriously.  Maybe that sounds a little harsh; we resist talking about sin.  Some ever find the word itself a little dark and antiquated.  In our culture we are more prone to speak of different choices, of giving people space, of letting others do their own thing.  Cultural diversity makes it increasingly hard to speak of absolute values which we all share.  Add to that the fact that most of us find it very hard to confront another person and it's easy to see why we find it difficult to say to another, "I think you are wrong.  I think what are doing is hurtful.  I think you need to change."  Many outside the church already consider Christians rather intolerant; we are loath to add to that image.

            But in fact the process which Matthew lays out begins with two assumptions:  that there are times when people act destructively and part of true concern is saying so.  It is not loving to see a friend habitually drunk or sexually exploited at downtown bars and say nothing.  It is not loving to harbor resentment over an unfortunate remark and say nothing.  It is not loving to stand silent while the strong abuse the weak.  The Hebrew prophets, Jesus, and the letters of Paul agree:  there is nothing holy in keeping silence before that which hurts and destroys the community.  It is no virtue to be insipidly nice if the cost is our brother or sister's wellbeing.

            To be sure speaking is not easy.  It takes courage, for the response may well be, not appreciation for our effort, but rage and contempt.  It takes humility; more knowledge could prove our judgment wrong.  It takes gentleness; genuine concern may be heard by those we confront, arrogant self-righteousness almost never is.  But finally such honest but caring speech is like lancing an angry boil—sometimes risky, often painful, but it creates the possibility that healing can begin.

 

            But if that healing is to be a reality we must do everything within our power to resist the urge to do violence in the guise of doing justice.  The great Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann observed that the way you can tell the true prophet from the false prophet is that the true prophet always delivers his harsh warning with a tear in his eye.  The great prophets, Amos, Hosea, and Jeremiah took no delight in speaking an often brutal word of judgment on Israel; they were in anguish as they announced the dire fate of their disobedient nation.

            Thus, if we find ourselves perversely looking forward to speaking a word of confrontation, we do well to ask whether we are not indeed part of the problem.  There is a world of difference between honesty and ill-temper, between compassionate calling to account and merely venting our spleen. 

            Notice how the process in our lesson proceeds; the goal is not winning, but creating reconciliation as early and with as little rancor as possible.  The first approach is one on one, just you and person whom you think in the wrong. 

            If that doesn't work then you take a couple of more folks with you, not to gang up, but to get multiple perspectives on the situation.  Sometimes when we bring in another person to help in the mediation we discover our own blind spots. 

            If that doesn't make peace or produce a change, then you take the concern to the larger church.  Perhaps that last step sounds a little strange to us, and part of that has to do with differences between the polity of the church in Matthew's context and our own.  But the central point remains—the people of God are called to deal with conflict honestly, face to face, and with reconciliation, not winning being the driving hope.  Every step of the way we strive to keep the little hot spots which inevitably breakout  from setting the whole community aflame.

 

            Now, if the truth be told, a lot of this is not terribly distinctive to Christians. You can hear essentially the same approach at most seminars on conflict resolution.  Does the fact that we confess Jesus as our Lord make any difference in how we deal with conflict?  It seems to me the difference comes when all seems to have failed.  When you've worked the process and nothing has changed the text says, "let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector. 

            At first glance that seems to suggest that we get to the point where we can in good conscience kiss off the stiff-necked offender.  In Jesus' world gentiles and tax collectors were often distained and generally excluded from the Jewish communal life; these were people who did not honor the Torah and felt no great duty to live according to the commandments of God.  To be sure, some Christian sectarians have taken these words as the warrant for "shunning," literally casting out members of their community and treating them as if they are dead.

            Yet the critical question is this:  How did Jesus treat gentiles and the tax collectors?  If we are to treat stubborn sinners as "gentiles and tax collectors," what was our Lord's example to us for dealing with those whose religious and moral sensibilities are different from our own?

            I think "The Message" translation nails it when it renders verse 17 this way, "If he won't listen to the church you have to start over from scratch, confront him with the need for repentance, and offer God's forgiving love."

 

            There are times when we need to back away from deep involvement with someone else.  For example our Lord's call to seek reconciliation does not demand that a battered woman stay in an abusive marriage.  We will never succeed in being on good terms with every single person.  Sometimes reconciliation is not within our control and we are not called to emotional or physical suicide.

            But disengaging is not the same as rejecting.  The moment we decide we can no longer be in a healthy relationship with a friend, co-worker, or fellow Christian is the moment when we begin again to discern whether there is any way to work through the barriers which separate us from that person.  Jesus never let hate or acrimony be the last word in his relationship with someone else, and neither should we.  Whatever the attitude of the other, we are called to be the embodiment of God's loving care for all persons.

 

            I dare say that everyone in this room has unfinished business with someone.  Each of us has talked trash in the parking lot after a meeting, sent poisonous e-mails, passed on hurtful rumors, feared to speak a word of concerned challenge to someone on the path of destruction, or stood silent while some slandered another.  The point is not obsessing about our guilt or wallowing in shame for past mistakes.  The point is that we need not be captive to our bitterness and cowardice.  In Christ God has shown us a way of love.  In Jesus we have seen gentle courage which speaks boldly but compassionately.  That is the alternative to tit for tat violence which our Lord embodies.  This week and always let us follow the way of Jesus, take the initiative to heal old wounds, and break down the barriers which divide.  Amen.