Week 5: Love fulfills the law of God

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
   Texts:  Romans 12:1-3; 13:8-10; John 8:2-11

Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

There’s no question this woman did wrong.

Let’s be clear. There’s little defense when you’re caught in the act, whether it’s adultery or taking a cookie from the jar.

It’s also clear the scribes and Pharisees aren’t interested in this woman’s fate. They want her stoned to death, since by law her sin deserved that. But they’ve got bigger fish to fry. They want to expose Jesus as a fraud.

So they haul her into the Temple grounds – this is no street corner – and stand her before Jesus as he teaches.

Here’s another clear thing: Jesus lives out of a reality and awareness radically different from this woman and her accusers. He neither attacks her nor falls for their trap.

Instead, he completely changes the question. Here’s a humiliated, vulnerable woman, and a harassed and slandered rabbi. With a few drawings on the ground and an offhand remark, suddenly the accusers become the uncomfortable and embarrassed ones.

This was supposed to be the woman’s trial. And also Jesus’ trial.

But in this story we realize neither of them are on trial.

Jesus kind of proves the leaders right, so he skips his trial. He doesn’t seem to care that she broke God’s law. (He actually does, but that comes later.) He mostly cares that they want to judge and make an example of her. So he avoids putting her on trial, too.

It turns out the leaders are on trial. That means things are about to get uncomfortable and embarrassing for us, too. Because unless we can relate to being publicly humiliated for a bad sin we have done, there’s one obvious role for us in this story.

We’re the leaders, and we’re also on trial. We come to Jesus with the sins of other people, certain we’re right, and he says, “What about you? How are you handling dealing with sin in your life?”

What, then? Don’t we ever get to judge others?

If people do sinful things, we’re just supposed to ignore that?

Jesus doesn’t say that. He just asks the judgers about their sinfulness, exposing them. They really don’t care about sin here, or they wouldn’t have stopped with her. Remember, this woman was caught “in the very act” of adultery, it says. Not to be indelicate, but someone else was there and involved. Why wasn’t he dragged into the Temple grounds?

They’ve got an agenda to prove Jesus can’t be from God because he doesn’t follow God’s law. They judge this woman to see if Jesus will, too. If not, he’s illegitimate.

If we were honest, we’d admit we often have another agenda, too. We pick and choose, as they did, whom we judge. Some people get a free pass. Others don’t.

If what Jesus thinks matters to us, we might ask, whenever we want to judge someone else, “why this one and not another? And what sin will Jesus see in me when I judge this person? Could I stand before him, stone in hand, confident in my judgment?”

Instead of judging our neighbor, Jesus seems far more interested that we judge ourselves.

Jesus also seems more concerned about how we love each other than about individual sins.

We may want further conversation with Jesus about whether there are any appropriate times we can say, “this isn’t right.” He likely would say sometimes that’s a thing his followers should do.

But when it comes to our relationship with our neighbor, he’s clear: to fulfill God’s law, (which we presumably support when we judge), loving our neighbor is the only way. Paul agrees in Romans: “Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law.”

These Lenten Wednesdays we’ve considered the many ways we in Christ are called to love those who are not us, our neighbor. Most of the situations we’ve seen – poverty, different faith, our own discomfort with connecting with people, sickness, hunger – are challenges to us to love, but aren’t sinful things our neighbor is doing.

Today, the sin is without question. And our Lord Christ still says it’s not relevant to our call. We love our neighbor, even when our neighbor is sinful.

Well, that’s not going to happen unless something changes in us.

The only way we can follow Jesus is if we enter into his reality, his world, his way of being. If we become like him.

 “Be transformed by the renewing of your minds,” Paul says, “so that you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.”

Jesus’ radical way simply doesn’t fit in our world as our world is built. We can’t live or understand it in our minds as they normally think and process. The only way we can live and love like Jesus is if we become Jesus.

If we’re transformed, changed by the Holy Spirit into the Christ we are called to be. There’s no other way to get our minds and hearts around this radical love of neighbor that is the heartbeat of following Christ.

Then we become people who finally, simply, consistently love God and neighbor with all our heart, soul, mind and strength. Who don’t argue with God about this, or test God about this, or petulantly try to preserve a tiny piece of our self-righteousness. We become new creations.

This episode in the Temple turned out to be our trial, our test.

If you’re like me, you probably failed it. Or have failed it. Or will fail it.

Let’s be clear about that. We’ve been caught in the act of being unloving, of judging our neighbor. There’s no defense if you’re caught with your hand in the cookie jar.

Which means we get to change roles in this story, and hear Jesus’ last words: “Neither do I condemn you. Go your way, and from now on, do not sin again.”

When we’re the guilty ones, that’s the answer of the Son of God. I do not condemn you, either. Go, and from now on, don’t sin anymore. Let me transform you. Let me make you new, so you are like me.

No surprise, the best place to be when you’re caught red-handed is in front of the Son of God, whose love cannot be stopped even by death. Because there your new life begins, like the rising of the sun, and the love of God fills you to the core.

And whatever you might imagine that woman felt as she walked out of the Temple grounds that day, that’s our Lord’s gift to you, to me.

And we are transformed.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

Week 4:  Do you with your favoritism really believe in Christ Jesus?

Vicar Anna Helgen
   Wednesday, 9 March 2016; Texts: James 2:1-17; Luke 16:19-31

Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace to you and peace, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“Good fences make good neighbors.” Have you heard this phrase before? It was a popular colonial proverb that Robert Frost used as an expanded image in his poem Mending Wall. It has a charming sentiment, but I wonder about its truth. “Good fences make good neighbors” seems to imply that in order to have a good relationship with our neighbors, we need to have clear boundaries on our space. We must know where one property ends and where another begins. We must maintain our own space, and thus keep ourselves at a distance from our neighbors.

In Frost’s poem Mending Wall, the narrator meets his neighbor to walk the stone wall that separates their property. Each year they take this walk together to make repairs on the wall. And as they walk, the neighbor insists that good fences make good neighbors, but the narrator seems unsure. He reflects that there are no animals, like cows, that need to be enclosed. Instead their properties are sprinkled with apple trees and pine trees. The narrator also notices that nature wants to resist the wall. As the ground swells, boulders and rocks fall to the ground for no apparent reason leaving behind large holes in the wall–holes that they must fix each year as they walk the wall together. The narrator wonders to himself, “Before I built a wall I’d ask to know / what I was walling in and walling out.” The poem ends unresolved and we are left to hear the neighbor’s declaration once again, “good fences make good neighbors.”

Frost wants us to consider that question seriously. Do good fences really make good neighbors? Are borders necessary in order to maintain relationships among people? Or might there be another way, a different way? These are questions that Jesus invites us to consider as well in the parable of the rich man and Lazarus.

This parable sets up an immediate distinction between the rich man and Lazarus who are separated by a wall–both a physical wall that keeps them at a distance from one another as well as a metaphorical wall that separates them based on their economic class. The rich man is dressed in purple and fine linen and feasts sumptuously. Outside of his home, and beyond the wall, lies Lazarus, who sits at the rich man’s gate, starving and covered in sores.

The wall around the rich man’s home is what separates these two characters. It serves to show the contrast between them. It keeps people like Lazarus at a distance. It protects the “haves” from the “have nots.” While the rich man likely knows of the poverty that surrounds him, he chooses to stay within the comfort of his home, within the wall, and ignores the needs of his neighbor Lazarus.

We build walls, too, and happily live within them. We drive pass the person on the street asking for money because we’re separated by the wall provided by our vehicle. In middle school, we build walls of disdain between ourselves and classmates who are less cool, less affluent, or less athletic. We might even wall ourselves away from noisy, messy neighbors by building high privacy fences.  One of my friends has mentioned before how automatic garage doors wall us from our neighbors–because you no longer have to get out of the car to open the garage door and shout a hello to the neighbor in the yard next door!

Several days ago I saw a video clip from a rally for a presidential candidate who has plans to build a wall between Mexico and the United States. During the rally, the crowd began chanting together, “Build the wall. Build the wall. Build the wall,” the chants growing in volume and enthusiasm.

Are we really so afraid!? Why do we feel the need to keep others out? To make distinctions among people? Especially those in poverty, those who are victims, those who live on the fringes? This “out of sight, out of mind mentality” is dangerous. It’s what leads to the rich man’s eternal torment. Do we want to create more walls? To build our neighbors out of our lives? Is that what Jesus calls us to do? Even in Robert Frost’s poem we see that nature works to erode the wall that divides the neighbors. Could it be that God is at work in the world to do the same?

This parable gives me some hope for us. After Lazarus and the rich man die, their fates are switched. The rich man is buried and Lazarus is carried off into heaven by angels. While in torment, the rich man longs for a drink of water. Lazarus, on the other hand, sits comfortably at Abraham’s side. The wall that once separated them in their previous life has now morphed into a great chasm and has become fixed, and no one can pass from one side to the other.

The hope for us today is that we don’t live in that reality. We live in the here and now. Walls exist and they separate us from others, but they are not fixed. We have the opportunity to change them, to deconstruct these barriers, to see beyond that which separates us. And so we can take the instructions from James seriously and Christ’s commandment to us: to love your neighbor as yourself.

To love our neighbors requires that we break down the walls that divide us–both the physical and the metaphorical walls. It requires that we make space. That we imagine a reality where there is nothing in place that puts us at odds with one another. Nothing that sets us against one another as “haves” and “have nots.”

Jesus shows no partiality. God makes no distinctions. God’s new reality disregards privilege, stereotypes, wealth, and all social barriers. God’s Spirit is at work in the world now, removing the barriers and walls that separate us, and helping us to see one another as God sees us–as beloved children, created in the image of God, members of the same body of Christ. As we begin to see as God sees us, we become closer with our neighbors, and we build relationships with them. The lines that once separated us become blurred, and it’s no longer possible to tell where one person ends and the next begins.

Good fences don’t make good neighbors. People make good neighbors. May God’s love embolden you to break down the walls that divide us and to see all people as God sees us.

Amen.

Week 3:  “Who is my neighbor?”

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
   Texts: Romans 14:7-19; Luke 10:25-37

Sisters and brothers, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

“We do not live to ourselves and we do not die to ourselves.”

We’re so familiar with these words; we read them at nearly every funeral. Our lives are bound up in Christ our Lord and when we face death, this promise is our lifeline: whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s.

But Paul uses these words in a very different way.

Paul is exhorting against people in the community judging one another. There are arguments over feast days, meat-eaters judge vegetarians as weaker, some drink wine while others abstain. Worst of all, people are stumbling in faith over these judgments.

To this Paul says, “We do not live to ourselves and we do not die to ourselves. Whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s.”

This isn’t comfort at the death of a loved one. This is a declaration of a central, non-negotiable reality of Christian faith.

We do not live to ourselves and we do not die to ourselves. Faith is not a personal possession.

We forget this. We make faith private and individual. “What do I have to do to inherit eternal life?” the lawyer asks Jesus. That’s the question we’ve been taught to ask most of our lives. How do I make sure I’m going to heaven? Even for Lutherans, who believe God gives eternal life freely, it’s still usually individual: do I believe I’m saved in Christ?

But faith in Christ Jesus has never been an individual affair. Jesus called individuals, yes, but he always called them into community. Christian faith is only lived in community with others, caring for others as Christ, receiving the care of others as Christ.

The lawyer knew the answer to his question: love God, love neighbor. He asked “who is my neighbor?” hoping he might have kept this commandment already. But Jesus opened up the idea of neighbor far beyond what he imagined. Our relationship with our neighbor is the center of what it means to follow Christ.

Jesus says “Stop asking how to get into heaven and get into that ditch and start a relationship.”

But relationships are hard.

We talk about this here at Mount Olive when our neighbors who are in need come for help. The easy answer is to give them enough to make them go away.

But if we’re really going to be Christ, we’re going to have to have a relationship with them.

That’s the hard thing. Getting to know a person, a neighbor, getting into a relationship with them, means we’re obligated, invested. We can’t shut off our care once we know someone. Having relationships with people as people, instead of giving care to anonymous faces, costs.

That’s partly why the first two in Jesus’ story walked by. It’s not just that they didn’t want to help the man in the ditch. They could see it wouldn’t be a quick fix. It would mean doing what the Samaritan did. It would cost to stabilize him, it would take time to get him somewhere, and they’d have to pay for his care.

They’d have to get to know him. It would start a relationship.

So it’s easier to walk by on the other side. Once you’re in a relationship with your neighbor, you can’t do that anymore. You just get that first chance to avoid connection.

For Christ, relationships are more important than theology, too.

The priest and Levite might have also had theological and ritual reasons for not stopping. If the man was dead, for example, they’d be unclean for service.

Paul says, “who cares?” Don’t let your theology get in the way of Christian love. If you read this whole section, Paul doesn’t say which point of view on feast days or alcohol or vegetarianism is right. He just says “don’t let your theology cause someone else to stumble.” Don’t injure your brother or sister over right and wrong.

Imagine what the history of Christianity would look like if our passion had been loving our neighbor, as Christ asks, loving our brothers and sisters in the faith, rather than fighting over doctrine or claiming individual salvation.

We might look at Jesus’ parable and Paul’s words as not taking theology and right and wrong seriously. But the last 2,000 years would suggest we should have listened to them from the start.

“We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves.”

That’s the heart of it all. We live and die to the Lord. Our lives in Christ are centered on Christ, who then binds all others to him. In a profound way, we can’t have a relationship with Christ without having one with everyone else whom Christ loves and to whom Christ joins.

We love our neighbor, look out for our sisters and brothers, even those with whom we disagree, because Christ loves them, looks out for them. If we want a relationship with Christ Jesus, everyone else gets to come along. Love of God and love of neighbor not only sum up all God’s commands to us. They are inextricably linked with each other.

Which means there’s still hope for us and for the Church.

We do not live to ourselves and we do not die to ourselves. We are the Lord’s. And the Holy Spirit is still given to us to move our hearts and minds, and change our actions and lives.

Every time we hear Jesus say, “if you did it to the least of these, you did it to me,” we have a chance for the Spirit to change us. Every time Jesus says, “who o you think was a neighbor,” we have a chance to let the Spirit make us a neighbor, give us a relationship. Every time Paul says, “quit fighting about things, because you’re hurting your sister’s faith, your brother’s hope,” we have a chance to be open to the Spirit’s wisdom and change our priorities.

 “We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves.”

That’s our hope for now and for the life to come. It’s the center of faith in Christ.

It’s also our great challenge, it frightens us, and it’s something we’ve resisted often over 2,000 years.

God give us the grace to learn this, and live it in the Spirit, so all might know God’s love in us.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

Week 2:  So that they would search for God

Vicar Anna Helgen
   Wednesday, 24 February 2016; Text: John 4:1-42

Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace to you and peace, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” God loves the world. And this story, the story of Jesus and the woman at the well, is a story about that world. It is a story about God’s love becoming embodied in the world. A story that comes to life in a conversation between the most unlikely pair: a Jew and a Samaritan. A story that names for us what eternal life in Christ looks like. A story in which we, too, are invited to participate.

As Jesus sets off on his journey from Judea to Galilee, we learn that he had to go through Samaria. If you take a look at the Greek, however, you’d find that this sentence would be better translated, “It was necessary that he go through Samaria.” But it wasn’t necessary, at least geographically speaking, that he go through Samaria. So why? Why did Jesus take this route? While it may not have been geographically necessary that Jesus travel through Samaria, it was theologically necessary. Because God loves the world. All of the world. And that includes places like Samaria. God’s love cannot be contained by lines on a map or by boundaries that we create. God’s love is for the entire world.

Before we get to the story, it’s worth noting some of the history here to understand why Jews do not share things in common with the Samaritans. While both groups trace their lineage back to Abraham, the Samaritans saw themselves as descendants of the northern kingdom. The Jews and Samaritans disagreed over the proper place to worship God–or what we might call the religious center. The Jews worshiped in Jerusalem, whereas the Samaritans worshiped at Mount Gerizim.

This backdrop sets the stage for the conversation that ensues between Jesus and the Samaritan woman. Now, again, Jews do not share things in common with the Samaritans, so the fact that this man Jesus, a Jew, is talking with this unnamed woman, a Samaritan, alone in broad daylight, without any other people present is quite a big deal. Serious boundaries are being crossed!

As the conversation begins, we notice that there is a mutuality present in the dialogue. Both parties need something from the other. Jesus is tired and hot from his journey, and he needs water to drink. The woman has a bucket and she can provide water for him. She can meet his need. Jesus shares with the woman about the living water that he can provide and she quickly becomes curious about this water. He can inform her curiosity. This mutuality is important because it helps to propel the dialogue forward.

Jesus learns some more intimate details about the woman’s life and she responds by calling him a prophet and speaking of Jacob as “our ancestor,” noting the shared ancestry for both Jews and Samaritans. As the conversation continues, both Jesus and the woman come to understand more about one another. Jesus shows in this conversation that God’s love is available to those outside of his religious center. And the woman begins to further understand Jesus’ identity–the last person that we’d think would recognize him as the Messiah! The question of where to worship God is discussed, and soon after, Jesus confirms the woman’s suspicions and reveals himself as the Messiah. Isn’t it interesting that dialogue is what leads Jesus and the woman into deeper understanding? It doesn’t involve research or writing a detailed plan, but jumping in and making conversation.

The disciples return and the woman decides it’s time to be on her way. She leaves her water bucket behind, returns to the city, and invites her friends to come and see, to come and meet this man Jesus who has spoken truth to her. She knows what it means to be in relationship with Jesus, and so she invites others to have their own encounter. I love how she invites them, “He cannot be the Messiah, can he?” It’s like she doesn’t yet fully understand who he is. She remains uncertain, and yet that does not end her relationship with Jesus, but encourages her to invite others to experience him.

And many of these Samaritans do come to meet Jesus! They have their own encounter with him and then invite Jesus to stay with them for a few days. The verb “stay” is better translated as “abide.” In John’s Gospel, the language of abiding is the language of relationship. To abide means to take up space with somebody. It might mean living in the same space, sharing a meal, having a conversation, or simply noticing another person. But in that space, hearts and minds are opened, stretched, and made into God’s image. In that space, we come to see one another as God sees us.

What might this story mean for us today? This story teaches us about what eternal life looks like. It looks like relationship right now–in this time and place–with God and with others. But it requires dialogue! Because dialogue leads to understanding and understanding leads to relationship. Talking with our neighbors is the first step in building a relationship. And with a relationship comes opportunities for appreciation and recognition.

We live in a religiously pluralistic culture and world. It can be easy for us to talk about loving people on the other side of the globe, but sometimes it can be more challenging to love our closest neighbors–like the Muslim woman you ride the bus with, or the Jewish man you run into at the grocery store, or maybe even the teenager with neon hair who sees faith differently than you do. We can be afraid of those whose rituals, customs, language, and history are different than our own.

But are we really so different? Should we be so afraid? Or should we reach out, say hello, and be open to the possibility of seeing God in the face of all our neighbors?

With the woman at the well, I invite you. “Come and see.”

Amen.

Week 1:  Christ is in the least of these

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
   Wednesday, 17 February 2016; Texts: Matthew 25:31-40; Deuteronomy 24:14-15, 17-22

Sisters and brothers, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

This parable is almost too familiar to us.

We can recite it all. We know what Jesus says. We’re to care for those who are hungry, thirsty, naked, sick, imprisoned, strangers. When we do, we do it to Christ.

Except we’re missing something. These first ones, blessed by the King, didn’t know they were doing anything special or significant. In caring for “the least of these,” they were doing what was normal for them. When they saw hungry people, or had strangers show up, they welcomed them. They fed them. Had they known it was their King, it wouldn’t have changed their behavior.

That’s the powerful thing. Could we be so shaped that we know and act instinctively as if all people are our responsibility? Our political landscape is so dominated by people pandering to Americans’ self-interest, it’s stunning to realize how central the opposite view is to Christ.

We shouldn’t be talking about people in need as if we don’t know what’s right, or discussing the problems of society as if we can debate whether we should care or should act. If our priorities were aligned with Christ our King, they’d be set already. It would simply be a matter of deciding what action would actually accomplish them.

When we criticize other Christians, we’re missing the log in our own eyes.

Rather than bemoan all the Christians who seem to delight to exclude pretty much everyone on Christ’s “least of these” list, we need to look more critically at ourselves. Are we sure we live like those in the first group? Remember, it came naturally to them. They cared for people because that’s who they were.

If we want to be them, we need to have our “normal” changed. We need to learn new patterns. We begin, according to Deuteronomy and Jesus, by remembering who we are.

Remember you also were aliens, the “other,” Moses says.

The people are on the verge of the Promised Land. They’ve wandered in the wilderness forty years, aliens, exiles. And now, in the laws they are given in the Torah, they are told dozens of times that in the Promised Land they’re to care for the aliens among them, and the widows and orphans.

Why? Because: that’s who you were.

Israel is commanded to live with a perpetual remembrance of their wilderness wandering, to hold in their minds their nomadic life, their flight from slavery, their rescue by God. To remember forever they were unwelcome. We’re a nation of immigrants, but every immigrant group seems to forget that once they’re settled. That’s what Israel’s warned to avoid.

But the vulnerable are also part of Moses’ command. The “widows and orphans” are included with the aliens dozens of times, those on the fringes with no protectors, and no room for error.

How many of us have ancestors, or people we know we can call to mind, who once struggled this way, unwelcome, poor, hungry, alone, rejected? How many of us have struggled, needed help, wanted someone to look to us and make a difference? Moses says we can’t be who God desires us to be as long as we forget we also are people who have needed others’ help in more ways that we can count.

Second, remember you are followers of the king, Jesus says.

Everyone in this parable follows Christ the King. Some care for “the least of these.” Some do not. But all, all, want to serve their King.

Hearing this calls to mind our true identity: we are made into Christ, children of God, we belong to our Lord and have committed to follow him. We see here people who didn’t know how to act into their identity and people who acted simply because it was their identity.

If we need our normal changed, if we need our identity transformed, we need the grace of the Holy Spirit.

When the Spirit changes us, we see differently, act differently.

Filled with the Spirit, we see God’s anointed in those in need, those different from us, those who struggle.

Living in our true identity, we can no more ignore the cries of the poor than we can turn away from our God. We can no more pretend the disgrace of our nation’s prisons isn’t our problem than we can pretend we’ve never heard of Jesus. We who love Christ will clothe those who need it because that’s who we are, care for those who are sick because that’s who we are. That’s who the Spirit makes us.

There is another mystery in this, too.

When we serve others in love we serve our King. When we look into the eyes of another we see Christ. We see Christ.

So we can expect they will bless us as Christ in return. Knowing the other, the stranger, the hungry, the thirsty, the imprisoned, the sick, the naked, is knowing Christ. So they will be Christ to us. What if we lived in the world as Christ expecting to see Christ and be blessed as well?

It’s good Moses and Jesus remind us of our core being, who we were – beggars before God – and who we are – children of God.

They cut through the rhetoric and tell us it’s all very simple and always has been: God cares for the vulnerable, the weak, the lost, the frightened, the oppressed. If we, as God’s people, shaped by the Spirit, want to be with God, that’s where we’ll be.

Because when we see Christ in others, we get to see Christ. What greater joy could we hope for?

In the name of Jesus.  Amen