One of the earliest Christian symbols for the church was the boat. Rooted in either today’s gospel or in the saving ark built by Noah and his family at the time of the great flood, the boat keeps the church safe upon the rough waters of the worldly sea with Christ at the helm. This symbolism led architects to construct the cathedrals of Europe and even the humble churches of the US in the form of boats turned upsidedown. A long center aisle between rows of pews, with the ceiling coming to a point at the top, the way the bottom of a ship does. Timber along both sides of the worship space, like the curved joists spaced evenly inside the bottom of the ship ensuring structural integrity. Just like our own worship space here at St. John’s. The technical name of the space in which we sit at this moment is nave, from the same Latin word where we get the word “navy.” For two thousand years, we Christians have worshiped in boats—upsidedown—with Christ at the helm.
But in today’s gospel, Jesus is just in the boat sleeping on a cushion. All around him, chaos reigns. The wind roars. Waves swamp the boat. The disciples panic. I can just imagine them flinging buckets of water out of the boat, desperately holding onto the edge to steady themselves in the midst of raucous waves. Historians tells us that, for whatever reason, fishermen of this era and location didn’t usually know how to swim, and this was long before life jackets. Though accustomed to the Sea of Galilee and its dangers because of their profession—being fishermen, the disciples are in real peril here. And what is Jesus doing? Sleeping on a cushion. No wonder they wake him to accusingly ask: “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” He apparently does care because before he even answers the disciples’ question, Jesus commands the wind and the waves, “Be silent! Be still!” And they listen, the wind and the waves, that is. The wind ceases, and a dead calm follows. All is well. Except instead of being relieved and grateful, the disciples are now even more terrified. Jesus stands among them, one who is able to tame even the wind and the sea. Who is he, exactly, they must wonder. Like Jesus and the disciples, we have lived through storms, and maybe, we’re in one right now. A storm can take the form of cancer or chronic disease, the devastating death of a loved one or broken relationships. Accidents, natural disaster, and sometimes even work stressors can feel like storms. In a world changing at breakneck speed, change itself can feel threatening. And when someone in our family or we ourselves are struggling with our mental health, all we can see are gray skies. But among the St. John’s community, I get the sense that we are deeply rooted in family and church family and in the network of relationships that make up our lives. I get the sense that we know Jesus is in the boat with us, near enough to us that we need only shake him awake, confident he will still the wind and waves. I get the sense that, even when tragedy occurs, we surround one another and lift up one another, making tragedy bearable. I get the sense that, even in day-to-day stressors, we know the peace of Christ which passes understanding. Am I wrong? The congregation assured me I was correct. 😊 Thanks be to God! In case you didn’t know, this is not how everyone experiences life. For many, life is lonely, and some individuals don’t have a single supportive friend. When everything looks good on the outside of someone else’s life, sometimes, that’s not the whole story. Not everyone has a family they can trust or a community around them to support them in the inevitable storms. And so, what strikes me this morning is the very beginning of our gospel story, the part of the story I had always ignored, until this week. Before the sea begins to roil, before the wind starts to blow, Jesus gets in a boat with the disciples, but there are other boats. There are other boats on the water, scripture tells us, and like the boat Jesus is in, these boats and their occupants are also threatened by the storm. They too become swamped. They too are at risk of drowning. We don’t know what the occupants of these boats say or do, but we know the risks are as real for them as they are for the disciples. And the others do not have the luxury of a sleeping savior resting on a cushion in their boats. But when Jesus silences the wind and the waves, every boat on the lake recovers. What Jesus does is not for the disciples alone but for all those battered by the storm. There’s something good going on here, friends. This community, St. John’s of Cedarbrook, brings life to us. What we do here together makes a difference in each of our lives, helping us recover from all the storms of life. And it’s too good to keep it to ourselves. What God is doing here is not for us alone but for all those battered by the storm. The boat in which we sit this morning, this nave, is big enough to welcome others, to expand beyond the circle of long-time members. With Christ at the helm, this church exists not only for the sake of those already in the boat but for those outside. It's so easy to forget or ignore the fact that, when Jesus calms the wind and the sea, he calms it for everyone, not just me, not just us. But for everyone. That all might know the peace of Christ which passes understanding. For that, we can say: Thanks be to God! Amen.
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We all know the story of hard work. My story of hard work took place over the 4 years I attended seminary. Full-time school with hundreds of pages of reading per week, part time jobs while still relying mostly on student loans, contextual education throughout the year, a summer intensive to learn chaplaincy, a full-year internship of 55 hour weeks, interviews and psychological testing and plenty of 10-page papers. When I got done with seminary, I’m not kidding, my first call felt like a vacation. I had a whole day off each week!
We all have these stories of hard work, and maybe we’re still living ours. For many people, these stories are harder than mine, stories involving boot camp or combat, stories of hardship, stories of birthing and raising children. While exhausting, hard work can also feel satisfying. We can look back at the challenges we have encountered and overcome, and we can feel proud and grateful about where we are now. Today, Jesus tells parables about the kingdom of God, comparing the kingdom to a fully sprouted grain and a mustard seed grown into a great shrub. In the first parable, an ambiguous someone scatters seed on the ground. The person sleeps and rises, night and day, and the seed sprouts and grows, they do not know how, Mark tells us. In Greek, the phrase “they do not know how” is actually one word, the word automate, and it’s exactly what it sounds like: automatic. The seed of the kingdom of God sprouts and grows automatically, no work required. In the second parable, Jesus waxes poetic about the mustard seed, which is the smallest of all the seeds, wait, it isn’t the smallest of all the seeds. An orchid seed is far smaller. But go on, Jesus. When the mustard seed is sown, wait, it’s not sown because, in the Middle East, mustard is a weed. No one sows mustard in the Middle East; it would be similar to sowing dandelions in Minnesota. But go on, Jesus. The mustard seed becomes the greatest of all shrubs, wait, it’s not really great. While mustard expands quickly underground by shooting out roots and while it’s hard to uproot it and while it can take over a garden from the underside, above-ground, mustard is just a bush. Let me see if I have this right. The kingdom of God grows automatically, like a sneaky weed, underground. We don’t even see it taking over the garden. To us who value hard work, digging in, scrimping and saving, the growth of the kingdom of God makes zero sense. If this were my garden at home, I would be figuring out the right time to plant, digging out the old roots, mixing in compost, tilling the soil, and ensuring my seeds saved from previous gardens were still viable. I would be watching the weather, assessing the soil’s need for water, weeding and thinning, and caging my tomatoes and peppers. But in God’s garden, the kingdom of God, beyond scattering the seed, there’s nothing I or we need to do. We are seed-scatterers, nothing more. Everything else happens automatically, by the grace of God. Once planted, it’s hard to uproot the kingdom, so we can’t even accidentally uproot it by sin, disobedience, or just carelessness. And so, we scatter. We scatter seeds of love—caring for people just because. No reciprocity required. No expectations. We scatter seeds of grace—letting go of others’ behavior that seems strange or offensive. No gossip. No judgment. We scatter seeds of faith—praying for others and inviting them to worship. No demands. No pressure. We scatter seeds of hope—encouraging others and supporting them in difficult times. No false optimism. No covering over difficulty. We scatter seeds, but we let go of the results. We let go of the results, recognizing they are beyond our pay grade, as it were. We let go of the results knowing that God is on it, growing the kingdom here and now. We let go of the results, humbly aware that God is the one actually in charge. Several years ago, because of two divorced, feuding parents, a confirmation student didn’t have a ride to weekly confirmation classes. Exasperated, I told his parents I would pick him up each week and drive him to the church for confirmation class. Each week, I would knock on his door, he would get in my car, and I would ask: How was school? He would say: absolutely nothing. Not even: Fine. Because I am always interested in what youth think about world events, I would turn on the news, and we would listen. Every once in a while, I would ask a question, what he thought of the wars and famines and political intrigues of the day. And he would say: absolutely nothing. He was remarkably consistent in his silence over the course of those weekly 25-minute car rides. Then, one day near the end of the academic year, after 8 months of silent car trips, this time, when he got in my car, he blurted out: Pastor Sarah, you won’t believe what happened at school today! And he described the events, and when we listened to the news, he shared his thoughts. And so it was until he was confirmed at the end of the next year. We are seed scatterers, and underground, the wild mustard tree grows. We will scatter seeds of something regardless, so let them be seeds of love and grace, faith and hope—because with seeds of love and grace, faith and hope, behind the scenes, God grows the kingdom in ways we won’t necessarily see. Until one day, surprised, we find a shrub large enough to support life. I wasn’t exactly surprised, but I was moved when, this past Thursday morning, Graig Burt sent me photos of neighbors helping a neighbor, church family helping church family. The Wednesday evening storms that ripped through this area left trees down at the Baumanns’, just a day after Lance had shoulder surgery. But that evening, neighbors responded, with chain saws and a bobcat and muscle, chopping toppled trees and clearing away branches. I spied a few of you in those photos and maybe a dozen or two more. Seeds of love and grace, faith and hope were scattered, and God grew the kingdom among us, perhaps without any of us noticing until, eventually, we discover: a community coming together to help each other. We discover loving, engaged kids. We discover a congregation that can tolerate change and conflict and even 5 years of interim pastors and still flourish. I love the hard work too, but the growth of the kingdom of God is all God. And for that, we can say: Thanks be to God! Amen. To put it simply, the scribes—who teach and interpret religious law—want to have their cake and eat it too. They declare Jesus is possessed by a demon—which enables him to cast out demons. In response, Jesus says: Uh-uh. If I were possessed by a demon, I could not cast out demons for a house divided cannot stand. Or in other words, if Jesus has the capacity to cast out demons, he will cast them out of himself first.
The scribes are not alone in their accusation. When the scribes announce Jesus is demon-possessed, the verse just before the snippet we read tells us Jesus is at home, with his mother and brothers. Like the scribes, Jesus’ mother and brothers are concerned that Jesus has gone out of his mind and go to restrain him. After Jesus has words with the scribes, his family calls to him, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, Jesus looks around at the crowd who has been there the whole time, the crowd who has followed him since he and his disciples were gathered at the Sea of Galilee earlier in chapter 3, the crowd who had streamed to Galilee from Judea, Jerusalem, Idumea, Tyre, and Sidon. Jesus looks at this great crowd gathered at his family’s doorstep and asks, “Who are my mother and my brothers?” and then declares, “Here are my mother and brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.” If we thought the part where Jesus and the scribes trade ideas about demon possession was complex, the way Jesus talks about family is even stickier yet. In the first century Mediterranean world, the kinship group—the family—almost completely defined individuals. As in, you know how the Kellermans are. OR watch out for those Dotzlers! OR those Larsons and Hasskamps, what a great work ethic. When individuals brought shame or honor on themselves by a particularly righteous or particularly corrupt action, they simultaneously brought that shame or honor upon their whole families. In our small town where we are familiar with the long histories of many families, we probably understand this kind of shaming and honoring better than most in our contemporary culture. Jesus’ family believes that Jesus is out of his mind, that the scribes are correct that Jesus is possessed by a demon. In addition to their concern about his health and well-being, they call to Jesus and go to restrain him because he is bringing shame upon them. And then, to add insult to injury, Jesus ignores his family’s sensible call and desired restraint and scandalously widens the definition of family. Instead of limiting family to biological and marital ties, Jesus defines his family as all those who do the will of God. Have you ever noticed all the “family” language used in the New Testament and across the Christian tradition? At baptism, we welcome the newly baptized into God’s family and are declared children of God—in accordance with numerous references throughout the New Testament. We call on God as Father just as Jesus did and speak of Jesus as God’s Son as seen in the stories of Jesus’ baptism and transfiguration. Like the Apostle Paul did, we consider each other sisters and brothers in Christ, and in some churches, mostly black churches, members refer to one another as Sister or Brother as titles, such as Sister Sarah. The books of 1 Peter and Ephesians speak of the household of God, and Romans 8 refers to us as heirs of God. If nothing else, Christian community is a family. When we consider early Christian history, it’s clear why this family language was used. After the day of Pentecost, as the disciples and Paul built the church, they encountered some obstacles, not just infighting about the color of the carpet in their house churches or the church finances. During the first three centuries of Christianity, Christians were persecuted in the gnarliest of fashions: stoned, crucified, and thrown to the lions. Still, still, people joined house churches in secret and risked their lives to share in Christian community, but it was not uncommon for families to be divided, some family members following Jesus with other family members retaining their Jewish or Greek religious practices. Because of the importance of the kinship group at this time in history, Christians who broke off from their family’s religious practice brought shame on their families which led to the alienation of Christian family members…meaning those who followed Jesus needed a new family to call their own, a new family to belong to. Jesus looks around at those who follow him and says: Here are my mother and brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother. Those who crowd around Jesus and those who hear his words are the people needing healing and exorcisms, the ones desperate enough to follow this seemingly demented man through the countryside, the ones hopeful enough to believe that following will make any difference. When Jesus calls those who do the will of God family, he’s not talking saints with halos who never miss a step. He’s talking about people who put one foot in front of the other, trying to love and forgive, trying to listen and show compassion, trying to practice generosity. He’s talking about us. We are Jesus’ family. We belong to God. And he’s talking about everybody who shows up here, everybody trying to do the will of God, everybody trying to love and forgive, to listen and show compassion, to practice generosity. And again, it’s less a choir of angels and more a motley crew. A crew we don’t pick, a crew whose actions we don’t judge to see if they measure up, a crew not defined in any way by us—only by Jesus. Biology, marriage, or intimacy may define for us the people with whom we share our lives, but God’s family is much bigger. Some of Jesus’ family members believe he is demon-possessed. We don’t really know the reason for their concern or for the scribes’ declaration. Perhaps it is that, in the short time of Jesus’ ministry up to Mark chapter 3, Jesus has shown a remarkable disregard for keeping himself pure and undefiled. Right out of the gate, he hangs out with people who are sick and demon-possessed. He calls fishermen and tax collectors as disciples. He touches people he shouldn’t touch. Though a righteous, honorable, God-fearing man, Jesus’ ministry doesn’t make sense. While everyone else is concerned about keeping the wrong people out and the right people in, Jesus seems to be doing the very opposite. Who are the mother and brother and sister of Jesus? You. Me. All those who do the will of God. We are all part of God’s family. Thanks be to God! Amen. In my past life, on Sunday mornings, the contemporary worship would begin in the midst of chaos. Held in the same large fellowship hall as the weekly pancake breakfast, people were usually still finishing their pancakes and sausage, coffee and orange juice at the tables just beyond the worship space. From the adjacent kitchen, worshipers could hear the church groups who had served the breakfast cleaning up. Conflict would sometimes bubble up between folks who had come for the breakfast, sparking instant response from bystanders who put their bodies between those who wished to hurt others. Volunteers insisted on dust mopping the floor as worship began and loudly rolling racks of folding chairs into the storage room. In addition to friendly, pre-service chatter among those gathered. Despite the many signals that worship had begun—dimmed lights, singing people, A-frame signs outside announcing worship was in progress—throughout the first half of worship, people would filter in and find a seat, get up to use the restroom or skip out the back door, or snore from the front row. Just prior to the sermon, I would say, “If you think you will need to get up for any reason in the next 10 to 12 minutes, please do so now.” Despite the warning, at least one person would always get up mid-sermon, and then, there was this sweet woman. Liz. Once in a while, she would arrive for worship in the middle of my sermon, and she liked to sit in the front row to my right. Down the center aisle she would walk, a beautiful smile across her face. When she reached the front of the worship space, where I was actually in the act of preaching, she would make a pitstop to give me a hug. “Love you, Pastor Sarah,” she would say. The first time she lovingly greeted me this way, I was taken aback. Doesn’t she realize I’m in the midst of preaching? I wondered. She’s obviously a life-long churchgoer. She knows it’s inappropriate to hug the preacher while preaching. I mean, I can roll with the punches with the best of them, but Liz’s mid-sermon hug was a branch too far. It’s so distracting for the other worshipers, I thought. But it clearly gave her great pleasure, to hug me and be hugged. Given Liz’s life circumstances, my guess is she didn’t hug many people. And so, upon reflection, I decided, when Liz hugged me mid-sermon or any time mid-worship, I would just hug her back. I would return her words of affection. I would forgo all common sense and do what allowed life to flourish—for me and Liz and even for the congregation. To make space for love whenever it arrived.
Today in the gospel reading from Mark, it’s the sabbath, the day of worship, the day of rest, like our Sunday. In that day’s common religious practice, observant Jews refrained from cooking on the sabbath, refrained from curing on the sabbath, refrained from any manner of work on the sabbath. And certainly, sabbath rest is commanded in scripture—though not in the detail demanded by the Pharisees, the most devout of all the ancient Jews. On this particular day, the disciples are hungry, so as they walk through the grainfields, they pluck heads of grain. Later on that same day, Jesus heals a man with a withered hand. The Pharisees, in their desire to preserve religious tradition, watch closely as Jesus and his disciples disregard what is sacrosanct. They watch closely in order to accuse Jesus, scripture tells us, and at the conclusion of our reading, they go and conspire with others to destroy Jesus. Jesus and the disciples flout religious law, there’s no doubt about it, but to illustrate his perspective, Jesus recalls a story from the Old Testament. When King David and his companions were hungry, David didn’t just ignore sabbath observance; he ate the bread of the presence, the bread only the priests were meant to eat from the holiest of holies. Because they were hungry. And so, Jesus implies, their disregard for another religious practice was allowable, even necessary, because eating that holy but off-limits bread brought life. The sabbath was made for humankind, Jesus teaches, not humankind for the sabbath. Or in other words, the sabbath and all religious observance is meant to be a gift to humanity, is meant to help life flourish, not wither. It’s probably not difficult for any of us to understand the Pharisees’ perspective. In our devotion to God, we each likely have a mental checklist of dos and don’ts associated with church and, in particular, Sunday mornings. The trouble is when we impose our dos and don’ts on others, especially the ones that don’t correspond to Jesus’ dos and don’ts. At one congregation I served, concerned members of the congregation came to discuss with me how teenagers were wearing baseball caps during worship. I understood that, for these members, keeping a hat on during worship was deeply disrespectful, but the kids didn’t grow up with that tradition. They were not being disrespectful, and of course, the only biblical instruction we could arguably turn to for guidance on anything close to this subject matter was about how women should cover their heads in worship. What I told my concerned members was that I was just glad the kids were coming to church! I personally don’t care to hear people’s cell phones ringing during worship. What is it for you? What are your dos and don'ts? How do you identify with the Pharisees this morning? Crying children? Particularly slow or fast music? Uncovered tattoos or piercings or other personal grooming choices? We may find life in particular dos and don’ts, but that doesn’t mean others do. How easy it is to distort the intent of religious observances! In calling out our neighbors, even internally, our sin is masked as virtue, our unrighteousness masked as righteousness. Jesus was Jewish. He too observed and valued the sabbath, just as the Pharisees did. He took that law as seriously as every other observant Jew of his day, perhaps even more seriously for he was recognized as a rabbi. But he was angry and grieved when the Pharisees’ sabbath observance led them to deny hungry people food and sick people healing. Perhaps to our dismay, religious observance cannot be black and white, right or wrong, without regard for context. For at its core, the religion practiced by Jesus, the Pharisees, the disciples, and us was and is meant to foster life, not diminish it. I’m so glad Liz came walking down the center aisle, hugged me, and told me she loved me. Mid-sermon. Our communal sabbath-keeping, with space enough for love, fostered life. Thanks be to God! Amen. |
AuthorPastor Sarah Stadler shares her sermons from the previous Sunday. Archives
June 2024
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