Go and learn what this means, Jesus says, “I desire mercy;” saved by God’s grace alone, that is our identity, our way, our life, and our lives are made in Christ to be mercy as we look at others in the world.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The feast day of St. Matthew, Apostle and Evangelist, Sunday, September 21, 2014
   texts:  Ephesians 2:4-10; Matthew 9:9-13

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

Let’s get one thing clear from the start.

Matthew was, in fact, a tax collector.  We can assume, given what such folks did, he probably cheated his neighbors while collecting taxes for the Romans.  No one in the Gospel denies who Matthew is, what he’s done.

The rest at dinner were also either tax collectors or, in a simple catch-all, “sinners”.  Again, this is not in dispute.  We don’t have to think too hard to imagine what kind of sin got a person the public label “sinner”.  But once more, let’s be clear.  No one has ever claimed that these people with Jesus weren’t who they were, weren’t people who’d done things wrong.  In fact, they specifically had done things wrong that attracted public notice, public comment.

What’s troubling is that this encounter doesn’t seem to matter to us.

We’re comfortable criticizing the Pharisees for criticizing Jesus.  We’re even happy to talk about following a Savior who hangs out with sinners, not holier-than-thou types.  We fail to realize that in such attitudes, we are the Pharisees.

Jesus is addressing us today.  “Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’  For I have come to call not the righteous but sinners.”  He’s quoting Hosea, who says no worship, no temple sacrifice supersedes mercy, literally, “steadfast love,” for others.  He’s sending the Pharisees away, telling them they have biblical homework to do.  They need to go and learn something, bring it into their lives, their actions, their thoughts.  Go and learn what this means, “I desire steadfast love, mercy.”

He is speaking to us.  We’re pretty good at the theoretical, the head stuff.  We know all sinners can be forgiven; we can list all sorts of sins and admit that yes, God can forgive them.  But we act as if our heart’s in a very different place.  We have become a people, a culture, who live and breathe the Pharisees’ judgmentalism.  Somehow we’ve convinced ourselves it’s not the same for us, though.

Really? Jesus says.  Go and learn what this means, I desire mercy.

We don’t make people wear a scarlet letter identifying their sin anymore, as Hawthorne famously related.  But we are the same people who did.

When our ancestors wanted to publicly address certain sins, the identified sinners would sometimes be put into stockades in the public square, for taunting and the throwing of abuse both verbal and physical.  You needed to know who the real sinners were.

Now we do it on Facebook.  We do it at coffee, over lunch, at dinner in our homes.  We do it at office water-coolers.  We declare someone to be worthy of judgment, worthy of mockery, worthy of shaming, certain we are right to do so.  They are food for our conversation and our thought.  We “tut tut,” and we “oh my,” and we “did you hear that?”

This week we had one close to home, a beloved local sports figure accused of hurting his child.  Having once idolized this person, the public now demonizes him, our favorite game with public figures.  People smugly post opinions on Facebook, share photographs, titter or are indignant with family members and friends about the scandal.  This isn’t new.  There will be another in a month or so; there always is.  Because that’s truly the kind of people we are.

Now remember, the question is not about the sin, not for Matthew, not for today.  In this case, the state of Texas and the state of Minnesota are doing their duty to sort out if laws were broken and what punishments should apply.  They are doing what they should do to protect the child and make sure it doesn’t happen again.

But what kind of people are we to believe we can sit over anyone, as our entertainment, our small talk, our judgment, our every day life?

What does that make us?  I don’t just mean this case, I could give you a dozen other recent examples.  Is it so we feel better about ourselves?  Are we better for it?  Whatever good this person may or may not have done in his life, there are many who, from this point on, will think only ill of him, for this one thing.  It’s a bad thing, that’s why an indictment was handed down.  But when we do this to anyone, label them in our minds and in our hearts as “sinner,” how are we not the Pharisees?

Most examples of this are public figures; sometimes we justify our judgment on those grounds.  They should live up to higher standards, we say.  Is this the kind of people we want to be, people who feel it is our right to set people up or tear people down?

What of the other people in our lives to whom we do this who are not public figures, where their mistake, their problem, becomes the thing we think of when we think of them, the thing we talk about?  When they become the someone we mock, judge, or use to entertain others with our wit?  My sisters and brothers, as your pastor in Christ I tell you I have seen this among us, between us, and beyond, against family and co-workers, against brothers and sisters here.  Again, I’m not disputing wrongs are done.  I’m wondering about our self-righteous smugness.

Go and learn what this means, Jesus said.  I desire mercy, steadfast love.

Perhaps true mercy begins with self-examination and honesty.

Is there anyone here who would like to take their worst moment, photograph it, and have it publicized for the world to see?  Their worst moment as a parent, a partner, a friend, a human being?  Who would like themselves to be identified forever after not as the person they are but as that sinner?  Would we want that to be what people thought whenever they looked at us?  I can think of enough moments in my life, enough negative characteristics, bad judgments, wrong actions, that I would be crushed if people saw any of them as the defining truth about me.

Could we learn mercy by first recognizing our own need for it?  Recognizing that each of us lives moderately good lives but with plenty of moments to regret, be ashamed of, even fear that others might discover?  Plenty of things we, and God, call sin?

I came to call not the righteous, but sinners, Jesus said.  Could we begin to learn mercy by realizing how good it is to know that about Jesus?  How important to our very lives it is that he looks at all people, including us, and sees us, not our sins?  That he looked at Matthew and saw a potential disciple, not a cheater?

This is the gift of the Son of God, that he came for all, sinful as all are.

Paul’s beautiful song of grace in Ephesians is also stark and honest.  Like Jesus, he doesn’t deny that sin exists in us, he names it.  He says it is like death to live with such a weight of sin in our hearts.  To live in fear we’ll be judged not by our good but by our wrongdoing.  That we’ll forever carry the label “not good enough,” “sinner,” “bad person.”

You have been saved by God’s grace, Paul says.  Not by your doing.  Not by carefully denying the bad snapshots of your past, or erasing them from existence, or doing enough good to overbalance them.  You are loved by God in Christ Jesus, and in his dying and rising from death have been given new life.  A new identity, “forgiven child of God”.

But notice Paul’s plurals: “you all have been saved”, he says, not just you individually.  God “made us alive together with Christ.”  “We are what he has made us.”

I came to call not the righteous but sinners, Jesus said.  All of them.  All of them.  Together.

What does that mean for our lives?  Does it change us?

We are made for good works to be our way of life, Paul says.  We have been saved by grace so that we are people of grace and mercy, not people of judgment.  Does it matter if the person we’re judging smugly is public or private, guilty or innocent?  Isn’t the real question, what kind of person did Christ Jesus make us to be?  How does he call us to love?

What if mercy became how we lived?  If we studiously worked at learning the mercy of Christ, the steadfast love of God, and held ourselves to that standard?  That we would try, and we would pray God’s Spirit to help us look at others and see them as who they are, not identifying them by what bad they might or might not have done.  That we would seek the Spirit’s grace to close our mouths and open our hearts, so that we’re not passing gossip or judgment or mockery or shame on anyone.

Because God so loved the world he sent his only Son, to save it, not to judge it.  Go and learn what that means, Jesus says.

Go and learn how that is your life, your path.  You want to talk about the way of the cross?  This is it.  If we truly desire to be who we are made to be in Christ, that is, to be Christ, we have some learning to do.  Our hope and our promise is that the Holy Spirit is ready and willing to be our teacher, strength and guide.

God is showing steadfast love and mercy to all the people of this world, who have been made alive together with us.  Let’s go learn, together, what such mercy means.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

The way of the cross is only foolishness if we truly see it as our way, our path, not as a sign of dominance and power over others, or a mark of our rightness, our correct faith; Christ’s cross saves us and the world by calling us to the same giving up of power in order to love.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The festival of the Holy Cross, Sunday, September 14, 2014
texts:  1 Corinthians 1:18-24; John 3:13-17

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

“The message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.”

In 312, the Roman general and tetrarch Constantine, fighting a civil war to consolidate his sole imperial rule, looked into the sun and saw the sign of the cross.  That night in a dream, God told him that with this sign – “in hoc signo” in Latin – he would defeat Maxentius the next day in battle in the city of Rome.  His soldiers won that battle with the sign of the cross painted on their shields.

There is much of legend to this story.  What is not in dispute is that Constantine began a whole new era for Christianity.  Under his rule, Christianity became the state religion of the empire, and very quickly developed a taste for power, military might, control.  A once marginalized group of believers following an executed Savior, who shared things in common, who consistently held that Christians could not take up arms, could not kill, who had allegiance to God alone and to no earthly ruler, became the power behind and in front of one of the greatest empires the world has known.  Rules for just war replaced committed peacemaking.  Seven centuries later, Christian knights with the cross painted on their shields and emblazoned on their surcoats laid a path of destruction and death across Europe and the Near East in holy wars.

“We proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles.”

The world doesn’t think it foolish to bear the cross as a symbol of power over others.  If you’ve got something that gives you power, wield it, use it.  The Church has justified its shared bed with military and political power for centuries, sometimes saying it is God’s will, sometimes as a practical way to preserve the institution, sometimes because we like having power and might, being winners.

The proclamation of Jesus’ cross was a stumbling block to Jews because they couldn’t imagine the one true God so debased, so lowly as to assume human form and be tortured to death.  It was blasphemy, horrific.  Their theology couldn’t permit God to do such a thing.

The proclamation of Jesus’ cross was foolishness to Gentiles because they would see it hysterical that this pathetic group of believers were following someone who didn’t have enough sense to avoid a humiliating public execution. Their philosophy couldn’t permit such ridiculousness.

To the extent that we can’t see the stumbling block of the cross to our theology and understanding of God and God’s will, to the extent that we can’t see how foolish it is compared to the way we work in the world, to that extent we are no longer hearing the message of the cross.

“Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?”

How can we tell if we live by the wisdom of the world, are bound to our view of God?  If we find ourselves always needing people to adjust to us, find it difficult not to think of our own needs before those of others.  Or if we cannot conceive of faith in a God who does not bless our every move, or in a God who would ask us to let go of things we think give us security.

If we believe everything we have is ours, and deserved, and if we feel gracious and good, we might share a little.  Or if, when anything bad happens, we blame God for not preventing, not protecting properly, as if we are entitled to good because we believe in God correctly.

If we seek security in providing for ourselves what we think we need, wealth, protection, barriers to those in the world we fear.  Or if we expect God’s primary job is to ensure we never have to worry about losing anything.

That’s how we can tell.  We don’t need to carry shields with the cross on them to act as if being a Christian somehow entitles us to the best of everything, without fear of tragedy.  We don’t need to carry a sword to live with a world view that we should be in charge because we belong to Christ Jesus, and that way we will impose on our families, our community, our world.  We don’t even need a cross on our flag, because we’ve found a way to wrap the American flag around the Christian faith and march it into the world as if we really don’t hope for an eternal life yet to come; this country is God’s greatest dream.

Maybe we’re not always so extremely bad off.  But is there anything about how we practice our Christian discipleship that others can mock as foolish or naïve?  Is there anything about how we believe in God that challenges a hope in God as a divine vending machine of favor?

If our way of Christian discipleship starts making sense to our culture, starts sounding like every other get rich scheme, every other way to dominance, we know we’ve lost our path.  If we say things like, “that’s going to cost us,” or, “won’t we be taken advantage of,” we’ll know we’re on the right path.

“The Son of Man must be lifted up, that whoever believes in him might have eternal life.”

This is how we know we’re on the path of true discipleship: if it leads to the foot of the cross, to where we look up and see our Lord lifted up for the life of the world.  Not lifted up as a triumph over all the wrong people.  Lifted up, as he will say later, to draw all people to himself.

The way of the cross is opposite to the way of the world, but it will save the world.  Because as those who see him lifted up allow themselves to be lifted up, cut down, walked on, for the sake of others, then the world of power over others, of domination and might, will start to crumble from below and eventually fall.

Do you now see the stumbling block?  We don’t get to tell God what to do and what not to do, we only get to decide if we’re going where God has already gone, into disreputable places and places of loss.  We’re often unwilling to lose even with those we love most, in our families, to say nothing of the world.

Do you now see the foolishness?  We stop caring about protecting our institution of the church, our congregation, ourselves, even God.  We lose interest in winning arguments or proving that we’re right or forcing others not to mock us.  This path doesn’t lead to an impressive, powerful institution people have to respect or fear.

But given that any good Christians have done in the last 2,000 years has come from believers willing to lose all for the sake of the other, and most evil Christians have done in the last 2,000 years has come from believers trying to work by the world’s rules of power and might, by a theology of a dominating, crushing God, does that tell us anything?

“When we eat of this bread and drink of this cup, we proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.”

The cross marks our lives, our worship, our faith precisely as a reminder of Jesus’ death, and ours.  It’s not our prize to wave in the world’s face.  It is our life, it is our salvation.  But Jesus makes abundantly clear it is also our path.

So when we bow as the cross is carried before us in procession, is it to a magic talisman, a sign of our triumph and rightness?  No, it is in humble recognition of the path it lays before us.  It is a sign of our willingness to walk this path.

When we mark ourselves with the cross with our own hands is it some sort of protective charm, hope of God’s favor?  No, it is drawing on our very bodies the shape of the life we are called to live, so we don’t forget.

When we proclaim at every Eucharist the death of Christ Jesus is it some morbid obsession?  No, it is our way.  Regular reminder is the only way to continually focus ourselves on the path we walk with Christ, a path of loss and death.

“The message of the cross is foolishness . . . but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.”

We seek power in losing power, because that’s what God does.  We see strength in weakness, because that’s how God works.  We see victory in losing, because that’s how God wins.  It’s foolishness.  But this foolish, stumbling block truth about the way the Triune God really works in the world is life.  We know because we have seen it.  Felt it.  Been moved by it.  Perhaps only in little glimpses, in moments of clarity, or in seeing it lived in another person.  But in those glimpses we saw truth and life.

What we need is for God to help us get beyond our longing to be like the world and go where our heart knows we belong.  To make the death of Christ not be our insurance card but, in the resurrection, a life from God that shapes us from within into cross-people like Christ.  So we can foolishly and eagerly walk the path of life for the sake of the world.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

The way of the cross is only foolishness if we truly see it as our way, our path, not as a sign of dominance and power over others, or a mark of our rightness, our correct faith; Christ’s cross saves us and the world by calling us to the same giving up of power in order to love.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The festival of the Holy Cross, Sunday, September 14, 2014
texts:  1 Corinthians 1:18-24; John 3:13-17

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

“The message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.”

In 312, the Roman general and tetrarch Constantine, fighting a civil war to consolidate his sole imperial rule, looked into the sun and saw the sign of the cross.  That night in a dream, God told him that with this sign – “in hoc signo” in Latin – he would defeat Maxentius the next day in battle in the city of Rome.  His soldiers won that battle with the sign of the cross painted on their shields.

There is much of legend to this story.  What is not in dispute is that Constantine began a whole new era for Christianity.  Under his rule, Christianity became the state religion of the empire, and very quickly developed a taste for power, military might, control.  A once marginalized group of believers following an executed Savior, who shared things in common, who consistently held that Christians could not take up arms, could not kill, who had allegiance to God alone and to no earthly ruler, became the power behind and in front of one of the greatest empires the world has known.  Rules for just war replaced committed peacemaking.  Seven centuries later, Christian knights with the cross painted on their shields and emblazoned on their surcoats laid a path of destruction and death across Europe and the Near East in holy wars.

“We proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles.”

The world doesn’t think it foolish to bear the cross as a symbol of power over others.  If you’ve got something that gives you power, wield it, use it.  The Church has justified its shared bed with military and political power for centuries, sometimes saying it is God’s will, sometimes as a practical way to preserve the institution, sometimes because we like having power and might, being winners.

The proclamation of Jesus’ cross was a stumbling block to Jews because they couldn’t imagine the one true God so debased, so lowly as to assume human form and be tortured to death.  It was blasphemy, horrific.  Their theology couldn’t permit God to do such a thing.

The proclamation of Jesus’ cross was foolishness to Gentiles because they would see it hysterical that this pathetic group of believers were following someone who didn’t have enough sense to avoid a humiliating public execution. Their philosophy couldn’t permit such ridiculousness.

To the extent that we can’t see the stumbling block of the cross to our theology and understanding of God and God’s will, to the extent that we can’t see how foolish it is compared to the way we work in the world, to that extent we are no longer hearing the message of the cross.

“Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?”

How can we tell if we live by the wisdom of the world, are bound to our view of God?  If we find ourselves always needing people to adjust to us, find it difficult not to think of our own needs before those of others.  Or if we cannot conceive of faith in a God who does not bless our every move, or in a God who would ask us to let go of things we think give us security.

If we believe everything we have is ours, and deserved, and if we feel gracious and good, we might share a little.  Or if, when anything bad happens, we blame God for not preventing, not protecting properly, as if we are entitled to good because we believe in God correctly.

If we seek security in providing for ourselves what we think we need, wealth, protection, barriers to those in the world we fear.  Or if we expect God’s primary job is to ensure we never have to worry about losing anything.

That’s how we can tell.  We don’t need to carry shields with the cross on them to act as if being a Christian somehow entitles us to the best of everything, without fear of tragedy.  We don’t need to carry a sword to live with a world view that we should be in charge because we belong to Christ Jesus, and that way we will impose on our families, our community, our world.  We don’t even need a cross on our flag, because we’ve found a way to wrap the American flag around the Christian faith and march it into the world as if we really don’t hope for an eternal life yet to come; this country is God’s greatest dream.

Maybe we’re not always so extremely bad off.  But is there anything about how we practice our Christian discipleship that others can mock as foolish or naïve?  Is there anything about how we believe in God that challenges a hope in God as a divine vending machine of favor?

If our way of Christian discipleship starts making sense to our culture, starts sounding like every other get rich scheme, every other way to dominance, we know we’ve lost our path.  If we say things like, “that’s going to cost us,” or, “won’t we be taken advantage of,” we’ll know we’re on the right path.

“The Son of Man must be lifted up, that whoever believes in him might have eternal life.”

This is how we know we’re on the path of true discipleship: if it leads to the foot of the cross, to where we look up and see our Lord lifted up for the life of the world.  Not lifted up as a triumph over all the wrong people.  Lifted up, as he will say later, to draw all people to himself.

The way of the cross is opposite to the way of the world, but it will save the world.  Because as those who see him lifted up allow themselves to be lifted up, cut down, walked on, for the sake of others, then the world of power over others, of domination and might, will start to crumble from below and eventually fall.

Do you now see the stumbling block?  We don’t get to tell God what to do and what not to do, we only get to decide if we’re going where God has already gone, into disreputable places and places of loss.  We’re often unwilling to lose even with those we love most, in our families, to say nothing of the world.

Do you now see the foolishness?  We stop caring about protecting our institution of the church, our congregation, ourselves, even God.  We lose interest in winning arguments or proving that we’re right or forcing others not to mock us.  This path doesn’t lead to an impressive, powerful institution people have to respect or fear.

But given that any good Christians have done in the last 2,000 years has come from believers willing to lose all for the sake of the other, and most evil Christians have done in the last 2,000 years has come from believers trying to work by the world’s rules of power and might, by a theology of a dominating, crushing God, does that tell us anything?

“When we eat of this bread and drink of this cup, we proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.”

The cross marks our lives, our worship, our faith precisely as a reminder of Jesus’ death, and ours.  It’s not our prize to wave in the world’s face.  It is our life, it is our salvation.  But Jesus makes abundantly clear it is also our path.

So when we bow as the cross is carried before us in procession, is it to a magic talisman, a sign of our triumph and rightness?  No, it is in humble recognition of the path it lays before us.  It is a sign of our willingness to walk this path.

When we mark ourselves with the cross with our own hands is it some sort of protective charm, hope of God’s favor?  No, it is drawing on our very bodies the shape of the life we are called to live, so we don’t forget.

When we proclaim at every Eucharist the death of Christ Jesus is it some morbid obsession?  No, it is our way.  Regular reminder is the only way to continually focus ourselves on the path we walk with Christ, a path of loss and death.

“The message of the cross is foolishness . . . but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.”

We seek power in losing power, because that’s what God does.  We see strength in weakness, because that’s how God works.  We see victory in losing, because that’s how God wins.  It’s foolishness.  But this foolish, stumbling block truth about the way the Triune God really works in the world is life.  We know because we have seen it.  Felt it.  Been moved by it.  Perhaps only in little glimpses, in moments of clarity, or in seeing it lived in another person.  But in those glimpses we saw truth and life.

What we need is for God to help us get beyond our longing to be like the world and go where our heart knows we belong.  To make the death of Christ not be our insurance card but, in the resurrection, a life from God that shapes us from within into cross-people like Christ.  So we can foolishly and eagerly walk the path of life for the sake of the world.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

None of us can love another to the fulfillment of the law. We owe our neighbors love. And we are all in debt. Through the grace of God, we are forgiven, and we are deeply loved and capable of loving.

Vicar Meagan McLaughlin
13th Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 23 A
   Texts: Ezekiel 33:7-11, Romans 13:8-14, Matthew 18:15-20

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ, in the name of the Father and of the + Son and of the Holy Spirit.

“Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.” What an amazing statement Paul makes in his letter to the Romans! Take all of the law encompassed in the Old Testament, and it can be fulfilled by simply loving one another. Rather than attending to what can seem to be an endless list of rules, we can trust that if we love our neighbor, we are doing God’s will, because as Paul says a few verses later, “Love does no wrong to a neighbor.” For those of us who can get bogged down in details, this is truly liberating. The only thing we need to do is love one another.

It is not always as simple as it seems, however. In the time of Jesus, faithful Jewish leaders debated hard and long about the statement “Love your neighbor,” asking who their neighbor was. Jesus was part of these faithful discussions, and as we have seen time and time again, Jesus often presents us with a challenge to view things from a different perspective. During one such conversation, Jesus shared the parable of the Good Samaritan, which forced his listeners to see the Samaritan, a hated enemy of mainline Jewish people, as the neighbor who saved them from the ditch. Jesus calls us not only to love, but to love without distinction.

The question of who we should consider to be our neighbor, who is worthy of our love, is still debated today, and the truth is we are often, without realizing it, tempted to draw a line defining who is and who is not our neighbor. Many Israelis and Palestinians would not include each other in their definition of neighbor. Many in the United States wrestle with how to respond to our neighbors from the south who come to this country illegally out of desperation. Police officers and community leaders of Ferguson, Missouri, are separated by thick walls of hate, and fear. Closer to home, we may find it hard to see as neighbor the person who brings violence to our community, the fellow church member whose political beliefs seem to go against our core values, even the family member with whom we have never been able to get along.

This call to love one another in fulfillment of the law doesn’t sound so simple when we understand that Paul was talking about loving those that are difficult to love. In Matthew, Jesus says that if a neighbor who has sinned against us will not listen even to the church, we are to consider them to be a tax collector or Gentile. This text has often been used to justify shunning or excommunicating someone who doesn’t measure up to standard, but if we are to understand what Jesus is really saying here, we need to remember that, far from separating himself from tax collectors and Gentiles, Jesus often found himself the center of attention for doing precisely the opposite. Jesus talked with them, listened to them, ate with them. Jesus loved them as they were, and called them to the fullness of life.

We are called to love not only when it is convenient for us, not only when our neighbor is someone we like and approve of, but to love everyone we meet, without condition. We are called to love the person who cuts us off in rush hour traffic, the person who brings a cart with 20 items into the checkout lane clearly marked “12 Items or Less,” the family next door who turns up their music at 10 p.m. Even more unthinkable, perhaps, we are called to love those who have hurt us—those by whom we feel betrayed, or misunderstood, or abused, even in those circumstances where, for the safety and health of ourselves and our family, we need to maintain boundaries and distance to prevent additional physical and emotional harm. Love one another. What does that look like? Is it even possible?

The truth is, if our one primary directive, the fulfillment of all the law and commands of God, is to love one another, to owe no one anything but love, we all fall short. None of us can love another to the fulfillment of the law. And yet, there it is. “Owe no one anything, except to love one another.” We owe our neighbors love. And we are all in debt.

We see evidence in the readings from Ezekiel and the Gospel of Matthew that God understands our plight, knows our indebtedness. In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus offers a guide for how to handle directly, and with respect and dignity, the conflict that inevitably arises among humans who struggle to love one another. In the verses immediately following this passage, Jesus tells his disciples that we are to forgive “seventy times seven times” when our neighbor asks forgiveness. When—not if—we fail to love, Ezekiel tells us we are to invite each other back to God, and remind ourselves of who we are called to be. God says to Ezekiel, “I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that the wicked turn from their ways and live.” We are all in debt. And the God of love knows this, and promises forgiveness, and life, no matter how far we fall.

And it is precisely where we fall that God steps in. When North Minneapolis resident Mary Johnson’s son Laramiun was shot by Oshea Israel, another teenager in the neighborhood, in 1993, forgiveness and love was the last thing on their mind. In an interview with People magazine in 2011, Mary and Oshea shared their experience. Mary said, “At the trial I hated Oshea. I thought he was an animal and deserved to be caged. I was so angry when the judge charged him with second degree murder, instead of first degree.” For his part, Oshea felt that Laramiun was to blame for the shooting, and that if Mary had raised him better the conflict that led to Laramiun’s death and Oshea’s imprisonment would not have happened. As time went on, Mary’s anger and depression and grief led her to become a recluse, and ultimately she knew she needed God’s help to forgive the man who had killed her son. After 12 long years, and countless hours of tears and prayer, Mary visited Oshea in prison, and as they shared their pain with each other, God transformed them, and love and forgiveness became possible in the midst of anger and grief. Mary founded From Death to Life, a program that offers hope and reconciliation to others who have lost children to violence through support groups, prayer walks, and community gatherings that celebrate life and forgiveness. Oshea was paroled in 2010, and today, Mary and Oshea live next door to each other, and share their story of healing from podiums and pulpits around the world, offering hope to many who have experienced the same grief. Oshea, having recognized his own guilt and responsibility for Laramiun’s death, said, “I caused her pain, but we are loving our way through it.” [1]  It is precisely where we fall that God steps in.

This is a dramatic example that may seem out of reach, but it is no less miraculous when a man extends forgiveness to the one who abused him, a minister offers care and love to the young church member who accidently hit him with her car in the church parking lot, or a daughter reaches out to the parent from whom she has been estranged. We fall, and God steps in. For us as humans, on our own, loving to the fulfillment of the law is not possible, but with God miracles of love and healing are possible, and they happen every day. Where can God’s love work in and through you to heal brokenness in your life, your family, your community?

It is the love of God revealed in Jesus that redeems us from our debt. The love of God in Jesus enables us to love our neighbors, even when it is difficult. God’s love in Jesus empowers us to care for and protect ourselves and our families in a spirit of love. And when we fail, as we humans will, Jesus’ love for us gives us the grace to offer forgiveness when others hurt us, and the grace to receive forgiveness when we hurt others. We are all in debt, but through the grace of God, we are forgiven, and we are deeply loved and capable of loving.

“Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.” God calls us to fulfill the law by living in God’s love today, for we are redeemed by God’s love for each of us, today and every day.

Amen.

[1]  Margaret Nelson Brinkhaus and Lorenzo Benet. “How I Forgave My Son’s Murderer.” People Magazine, September 12, 2011, 84-86.

None of us can love another to the fulfillment of the law. We owe our neighbors love. And we are all in debt. Through the grace of God, we are forgiven, and we are deeply loved and capable of loving.

Vicar Meagan McLaughlin
13th Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 23 A
   Texts: Ezekiel 33:7-11, Romans 13:8-14, Matthew 18:15-20

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ, in the name of the Father and of the + Son and of the Holy Spirit.

“Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.” What an amazing statement Paul makes in his letter to the Romans! Take all of the law encompassed in the Old Testament, and it can be fulfilled by simply loving one another. Rather than attending to what can seem to be an endless list of rules, we can trust that if we love our neighbor, we are doing God’s will, because as Paul says a few verses later, “Love does no wrong to a neighbor.” For those of us who can get bogged down in details, this is truly liberating. The only thing we need to do is love one another.

It is not always as simple as it seems, however. In the time of Jesus, faithful Jewish leaders debated hard and long about the statement “Love your neighbor,” asking who their neighbor was. Jesus was part of these faithful discussions, and as we have seen time and time again, Jesus often presents us with a challenge to view things from a different perspective. During one such conversation, Jesus shared the parable of the Good Samaritan, which forced his listeners to see the Samaritan, a hated enemy of mainline Jewish people, as the neighbor who saved them from the ditch. Jesus calls us not only to love, but to love without distinction.

The question of who we should consider to be our neighbor, who is worthy of our love, is still debated today, and the truth is we are often, without realizing it, tempted to draw a line defining who is and who is not our neighbor. Many Israelis and Palestinians would not include each other in their definition of neighbor. Many in the United States wrestle with how to respond to our neighbors from the south who come to this country illegally out of desperation. Police officers and community leaders of Ferguson, Missouri, are separated by thick walls of hate, and fear. Closer to home, we may find it hard to see as neighbor the person who brings violence to our community, the fellow church member whose political beliefs seem to go against our core values, even the family member with whom we have never been able to get along.

This call to love one another in fulfillment of the law doesn’t sound so simple when we understand that Paul was talking about loving those that are difficult to love. In Matthew, Jesus says that if a neighbor who has sinned against us will not listen even to the church, we are to consider them to be a tax collector or Gentile. This text has often been used to justify shunning or excommunicating someone who doesn’t measure up to standard, but if we are to understand what Jesus is really saying here, we need to remember that, far from separating himself from tax collectors and Gentiles, Jesus often found himself the center of attention for doing precisely the opposite. Jesus talked with them, listened to them, ate with them. Jesus loved them as they were, and called them to the fullness of life.

We are called to love not only when it is convenient for us, not only when our neighbor is someone we like and approve of, but to love everyone we meet, without condition. We are called to love the person who cuts us off in rush hour traffic, the person who brings a cart with 20 items into the checkout lane clearly marked “12 Items or Less,” the family next door who turns up their music at 10 p.m. Even more unthinkable, perhaps, we are called to love those who have hurt us—those by whom we feel betrayed, or misunderstood, or abused, even in those circumstances where, for the safety and health of ourselves and our family, we need to maintain boundaries and distance to prevent additional physical and emotional harm. Love one another. What does that look like? Is it even possible?

The truth is, if our one primary directive, the fulfillment of all the law and commands of God, is to love one another, to owe no one anything but love, we all fall short. None of us can love another to the fulfillment of the law. And yet, there it is. “Owe no one anything, except to love one another.” We owe our neighbors love. And we are all in debt.

We see evidence in the readings from Ezekiel and the Gospel of Matthew that God understands our plight, knows our indebtedness. In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus offers a guide for how to handle directly, and with respect and dignity, the conflict that inevitably arises among humans who struggle to love one another. In the verses immediately following this passage, Jesus tells his disciples that we are to forgive “seventy times seven times” when our neighbor asks forgiveness. When—not if—we fail to love, Ezekiel tells us we are to invite each other back to God, and remind ourselves of who we are called to be. God says to Ezekiel, “I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that the wicked turn from their ways and live.” We are all in debt. And the God of love knows this, and promises forgiveness, and life, no matter how far we fall.

And it is precisely where we fall that God steps in. When North Minneapolis resident Mary Johnson’s son Laramiun was shot by Oshea Israel, another teenager in the neighborhood, in 1993, forgiveness and love was the last thing on their mind. In an interview with People magazine in 2011, Mary and Oshea shared their experience. Mary said, “At the trial I hated Oshea. I thought he was an animal and deserved to be caged. I was so angry when the judge charged him with second degree murder, instead of first degree.” For his part, Oshea felt that Laramiun was to blame for the shooting, and that if Mary had raised him better the conflict that led to Laramiun’s death and Oshea’s imprisonment would not have happened. As time went on, Mary’s anger and depression and grief led her to become a recluse, and ultimately she knew she needed God’s help to forgive the man who had killed her son. After 12 long years, and countless hours of tears and prayer, Mary visited Oshea in prison, and as they shared their pain with each other, God transformed them, and love and forgiveness became possible in the midst of anger and grief. Mary founded From Death to Life, a program that offers hope and reconciliation to others who have lost children to violence through support groups, prayer walks, and community gatherings that celebrate life and forgiveness. Oshea was paroled in 2010, and today, Mary and Oshea live next door to each other, and share their story of healing from podiums and pulpits around the world, offering hope to many who have experienced the same grief. Oshea, having recognized his own guilt and responsibility for Laramiun’s death, said, “I caused her pain, but we are loving our way through it.” [1]  It is precisely where we fall that God steps in.

This is a dramatic example that may seem out of reach, but it is no less miraculous when a man extends forgiveness to the one who abused him, a minister offers care and love to the young church member who accidently hit him with her car in the church parking lot, or a daughter reaches out to the parent from whom she has been estranged. We fall, and God steps in. For us as humans, on our own, loving to the fulfillment of the law is not possible, but with God miracles of love and healing are possible, and they happen every day. Where can God’s love work in and through you to heal brokenness in your life, your family, your community?

It is the love of God revealed in Jesus that redeems us from our debt. The love of God in Jesus enables us to love our neighbors, even when it is difficult. God’s love in Jesus empowers us to care for and protect ourselves and our families in a spirit of love. And when we fail, as we humans will, Jesus’ love for us gives us the grace to offer forgiveness when others hurt us, and the grace to receive forgiveness when we hurt others. We are all in debt, but through the grace of God, we are forgiven, and we are deeply loved and capable of loving.

“Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.” God calls us to fulfill the law by living in God’s love today, for we are redeemed by God’s love for each of us, today and every day.

Amen.

[1]  Margaret Nelson Brinkhaus and Lorenzo Benet. “How I Forgave My Son’s Murderer.” People Magazine, September 12, 2011, 84-86.