Sermons: August 2011

August 28, 2011
Andrew M. Lisa
Compassion

In considering today’s Old Testament reading, Epistle and Gospel, a central theme seemed to jump out at me – the concept of Compassion. Growing up the son of a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist and the Grandson of a Moravian Minister, I was always a rather sensitive person. When I was old enough to say a prayer before dinner, it wasn’t uncommon for the food to have lost a few degrees of warmth by the time I was done – for I would pray for everything and everyone: family, friends, the earth, the sick and the homeless, animals… I’m sure my parents got a kick out of it!

As a child, while I most certainly identified with sensitivity, I do not think I was capable of understanding compassion. As a young adult, I believe I’m still learning about compassion, its role within our lives, and the importance of compassion within humanity. The word “compassion” comes from the Latin “co-suffering,” but what exactly is compassion? How do we have compassion? How does compassion gives us the ability to follow Jesus Christ? Hopefully by the end of my sermon, I will have answered some of these questions.

            In our reading this morning from Exodus, Moses encounters God via the burning bush. The timing of such an encounter is perfect - the Israelites are being oppressed as slaves within Egypt, and Moses himself has been forced into a life of exile. The children of Israel are at their lowest, and Moses is at his lowest. When Moses encounters the burning bush, instead of ignoring it, he notices something: he notices that the bush is not burning up. It is when he investigates this odd occurrence that he comes into the presence of God, and it is during this encounter where he is exposed to Holy God who also is just, loving and compassionate. Moses originally hides, for he is afraid to see God – possibly because he did not identify God as being compassionate. However, as God speaks to Moses, he begins to understand that God is most certainly compassionate. He hears the cries of the Israelites, he identifies with their anguish – in essence, he is suffering with the Israelites, and he constructs a solution to their plight.

When I was preparing for this sermon, I did some research online to give me a better perspective – in fact, to lead me in the right direction I googled “Exodus 3:1-15” and the word “compassion.” After doing a quick skimming, I came to a sermon written by Kevin Hahh of the New City Church of Los Angeles, in which Hahh explains the connection between Moses’ situation and compassion. There’s a specific portion of his sermon which hit me like a thunderbolt:

Moses had to go over and see in order for him to have this encounter. In the same way, we have to go over and see in order to have this encounter. You have to go over and talk to that person who shared Christ with you. You have to go over and investigate who God really is. You have to go over and open your mind, and see. Maybe Christianity is not what you thought it was at all. It’s not some right wing fundamentalists protesting at a military funeral with the banner: God hates fags. It’s not a religion of intolerance you thought it was. It’s not even about morality or family values. Maybe there is a lot of more stuff you don’t know.

It is when you go over and see, you have an encounter with God.

            How does Hahh’s message translate into our daily lives? We need only look at our Epistle reading for the day. In his letter to the Roman’s, Paul is laying the guidelines for what it means to be compassionate. Paul instructs for us to “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.” Weep with those who weep. He doesn’t say have pity on those who weep. He doesn’t say to find out why they are weeping. He asks us to weep with those who weep. This is the very core of compassion – it is to truly identify with the suffering of another, to not only recognize such suffering, but to suffer with those who do so, for it is when we truly identify with our brothers and sisters that we are able to “love one another with mutual affection” as Paul instructs. I believe Hahh is trying to say that it when we are willing to and make an effort to go outside of our comfort zones – then is when we encounter God. Just as Cathy Bader asked a few Sunday’s before – what is our willingness? What is our willingness to leave our comfort zone and talk with the stranger? What is our willingness to offer some of our own meal to the homeless person begging for a meal? What is our willingness to lend a helping hand when a car breaks down on the side of the road?

            In today’s Gospel reading, I don’t think Peter was all too willing to allow his comfort zone to be rattled when Jesus spoke of his need to go through great suffering and crucifixion. Peter, being somewhat like a child in some ways, was quick to defend that which was comfortable, and that which was easy. It was easy to want for Jesus to live out His life in relative peace. It was easy to think that the Disciples wouldn’t need to face challenge, nor fear, nor the eventual martyrdom which would befall virtually all of them. The concept of Jesus’ suffering and death was an alien concept to Peter – was it that Peter lacked compassion at this moment? Was he unable to open his heart to what Jesus was trying to tell him?  I would also wonder if Peter saw the foreshadowing of the tough times ahead for the Disciples. That would most certainly explain Jesus’ reply: “Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling-block to me; for you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.” If nothing else, it is apparent that Peter was not seeing the big picture. He did not understand how Jesus’ suffering was to equate to God’s ultimate compassion for humanity, for it was through God’s own suffering that He became the lamb of God, completely identifying with human suffering.

            We face the challenge of compassion each day, as individuals, as a community, as a nation and as the world. As individuals, we face daily obstacles which challenge our ability to be compassionate. How many people do we come into contact with each and every day where we seek them out? For me, this is a personal challenge. I try and be helpful when individuals come up to me for assistance, and on occasion, I will seek out the less fortunate – the sick, the needy, the downtrodden. The real question is – should we be waiting for these opportunities to come to us before we become compassionate, or should we be seeking the concept of compassion itself, thereby opening ourselves up to those we might not otherwise wish to associate with? If as individuals we can alter our behaviors to be more like Moses – to be inquisitive when we see something that doesn’t fit in the normal molds of our society, to go to that which we aren’t familiar, then maybe we can truly understand the concept of compassion.

I believe it is essential that as Christians, we should fully embrace the concept of suffering together, for it is through compassion that we can identify ourselves as equals, regardless of the circumstances. It is then that we as a community might move towards such behaviors, and in turn influence others throughout the world. Being compassionate is not feeling pity or sympathy for those we know, it is identifying with those whom we do not know. Compassion is putting oneself in a vulnerable position by immersing themselves within another’s plights – asking the question, “If I were in this person’s shoes, how would I be feeling?” Compassion is recognizing the touch of God in everyone. I challenge each of you to go outside of your comfort zones, investigate something alien to you, explore your own feelings if you were in another person’s situation. Allow your heart to be open, and rejoice with those who rejoice. Weep with those who weep – I think Jesus will be smiling.        


The Hands of God
Pentecost 10
August 21, 2011
Year A, Proper 16, RCL

Isaiah 51:1-6                   Psalm 138

Romans 12:1-8                  Matthew 16:13-20

This past week was a bad one for me—until Thursday.

I found out Tuesday that Hebrew Bible, a course I really like to teach and was very much looking forward to this Fall, got cancelled because of low enrollment.

Big deal, one course. Right?

But most of you know that the state budget passed this summer was mostly smoke and mirrors, denial and wishful thinking, predicated on increased state revenues—in the midst of a recession.

If those increased revenues don’t happen, triggers kick in in January with huge budget cuts. Last month California had a $500 million shortfall; projections are that August may be worse.

If the state pulls the trigger—which seems likely unless things miraculously turn around—it will not be a .22 that the pistol shoots but rather a fusillade of machine-gun fire: social programs will be disemboweled and the universities may well be eviscerated. My one cut course will be a scratch compared to the sucking chest wound inflicted on the poor and the prostrate universities.

No wonder I was taking extra Prozac this week.

From what I can gather, my malaise mirrors that of many people today. Things look pretty grim not only at the universities but in K-12 education.

And that’s just the microcosm. Macrocosmically, it’s a disaster out there: horrible famine in East Africa, every single day dozens getting blown up in Iraq and Afghanistan, the stock market an inebriated circus bear careening on a clown-driven hayride to hell.

So . . . why am I dumping all this on you? Partly because I’m pretty sure some of you have similar feelings; in our present grim climate, it’s OK at times to feel like shit.

But mostly I’m grousing to you like a solo drunk at a bar because, unlike that drunk, I am blessed with your deep friendship and community. Knowing that this week helped me in part to swim back to the surface, where oxygen filled my strangled lungs and sunshine worshipped my face.

And that brings us to Thursday. At Thursday’s book group, what Patricia and Susan shared moved me; and as Eric contributed his thoughts and, with his voice his feelings, it moved me even more deeply.

Sitting there, I experienced the realization, or revelation, that each and every one of us--each and every one--has subterranean blight and moonlight—rivers, lakes, caves, valleys, and mountain ranges; and whole civilizations, some in ruins, others reaching ever upward for infinity, most fully known only to God.

Each and every one of us with so much God-given mystery and magnitude that the ancient gods of Mount Olympus could only look on with awe, wonder, and envy.

Given these depths and, let us not forget, the depth charges we drop, I’d like to share with you what today’s Psalm taught me this week while I was standing too long, or too enjoyably, in the manure pile. Something I am prone to do.

Listen again to today’s Psalm:

Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you keep me safe;
you stretch forth your hand against the fury of my enemies;
     your right hand shall save me.

The LORD will make good his purpose for me;
O LORD, your love endures for ever;
     do not abandon the works of your hands.

Today’s psalmist, like many of us these days, feels assaulted by “the fury of [his] enemies.”

Despite this—or maybe because of it—the psalmist still declares:

The LORD will make good his purpose for me;
O LORD, your love endures for ever;
     do not abandon the works of your hands.

One of the surest principles to apply to the Bible is this (and please forgive the scholarly jargon): “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” The more strenuously Leviticus forbids something, the more you can be sure the Israelites were doing the exact opposite; the more Paul commands his congregations to do something, the more you know they’re not.

In today’s psalm, when the psalmist cries out “do not abandon the works of your hands,” you can be absolutely sure that’s exactly what he fears most: abandonment.

By God.

If you’ve ever felt abandoned, abandoned especially by God, then you know in your gut of guts what the psalmist is feeling.

What’s most striking here—and, I think, truest to our human condition—is that the psalmist’s fear of abandonment comes after he ever-so-blithely asserts his full confidence in God, whistling past the graveyard:

Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you keep me safe;
you stretch forth your hand against the fury of my enemies;
     your right hand shall save me.

The LORD will make good his purpose for me;
O LORD, your love endures for ever;

Ah, isn’t that sweet?

But then comes the unexpected haymaker, the unforeseen right hook:

do not abandon the works of your hands.

The psalmist has built his house of faith on the surest foundations he knows, only to fear deep down that that foundation may be sand (1).

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire; the house is in danger of burning down.

Where the psalmist is, there we are.

Like the psalmist, we have the protection of God’s hands:

you stretch forth your hand against the fury of my enemies;
     your right hand shall save me. . . .

do not abandon the works of your hands.

Fearful, meager, beleaguered, the psalmist sometimes hopes, sometimes knows, that he has the safety and security of God’s hands. God will not abandon us because, the psalmist says, God’s love endures forever.

Love.  The word that has launched thousands of train wrecks.

What does “love” combined with “God” mean here?

In her book The Case for God, Karen Armstrong observes that “love” for the ancient Hebrews did not mean what it does today: “When [the priestly writer] spoke of ‘love’ he did not mean emotional tenderness     . . . In Middle Eastern treaties, to ‘love’ meant to be helpful and loyal and to give practical support” (2).

I don’t know how the understanding of “love” evolved in later Israelite and Jewish thinking, but I do know as a Christian that in Jesus we have not only God’s help, loyalty, and support, we also have emotional tenderness. Look, for example, at the icons of Mary that bless this chapel.

Given God’s love for us, God’s covenant and kiss, why, then, should we be fearful? Afraid sometimes, yes. Fear is a natural instinct. Fearful, no.

Being constantly fearful, worrying, and anxious reveals both a lack of faith and a faith of self-indulgence. A lack of faith because we don’t trust God; self-indulgence because instead of looking to God or to helping others, we’re fixated on ourselves, what’s going to happen to poor ol’ me. Me, me, me.

At Thursday’s book group, that great theologian, Jackie Cooper-Glenn, showed us the antidote and prophylactic to malignant me-ism.

Many of you have observed that when receiving Communion, Jackie and a few others at Grace put their hand on the shoulder of the person in front of them.

I admit, when I first saw this at Grace it gave me the heebie-jeebies: “Oh, no,” I thought, “there’s some of that charismatic voodoo from All Saints’.”

But then, guess what? I came to know Jackie and Greg; I discovered that not only are they wonderful people, they are people of deep and wonderful faith, tirelessly giving of themselves.

So I had mostly forgotten about the hand thing until this past Thursday when Jackie explained why she does it. As she touches that other person, Jackie said, she will pray for that person if she knows he or she has a particular need, an aching hurt, or a wound that needs binding.

OK. That’s cool. The frozen chosen part of me can warm to that.

But then she blew me away. Oftentimes, Jackie said, she will place her hand on the person in front of her and simply give God thanks for the love and goodness this person has brought to Grace and to her.

She places her hand on the person in front of her and simply give God thanks.

In that moment, at that re-creation of the world, Jackie’s hand becomes the hand of God:

you stretch forth your hand. . . ;
     your right hand shall save me. . . .

Which means every one of us, at any time—not just Jackie, not just the saints: every one of us—can not only have, but be, the hand of God. Amen.

NOTES

1.     See Mt. 7:26.

2.    P. 42.



August 14, 2011

Gospel Matthew 15:21-28

I can’t believe he said that. Jesus called that woman, that woman whose daughter was possessed, that woman who was frightened, and worried, and helpless, that poor woman, a dog.  I don’t know about you, but that Gospel jars me every time I hear it. It’s so disturbing! It makes me feel repulsed and shocked. A dog. He called her a dog! Could he have meant that? It seems Jesus’ humanity is showing.

Any of you who have been in book club with me know of my fascination with perception - with how we perceive, view, experience our lives and the events of our lives. Perhaps this fascination comes from my counseling background. Maybe it comes from moving so often - at last count, 56+ times. Maybe it’s just my nature. Whatever. I just know that  one of my truths is understanding how perception interacts with my life and my relationships.

So, what do I mean by that? Well, perception is not what we see - it’s how we see - and I don’t mean with our eyes (although that whole process of reflection, refraction, light, and electrical impulses is totally miraculous) I mean - through what filters are we looking when we “see”?

Here’s an example -

What do we see in this room?  People, chairs, icons, the trappings of ritual - but, let’s just focus on 1 thing - What about the altar? What do we “see” when we look at the altar?

The majority of us can see the dimensions, the color, the shape. We can even extend our seeing by touching the wood, fingering the cloth. Yet, do we all perceive the same altar?

I would say, “no.” No, we don’t.

Some of us may look at the altar and see the history, the story that takes us back to our Jewish ancestors.

Others might see the altar as the site of sacrifice, not just the ancient tradition of Jewish sacrifice, but the Great sacrifice of God’s son.

Perhaps others see the altar as a big dining room table from which a communal meal is served.

And others may see the altar as simply the site of the central action of our Liturgy.

So what’s the point? Or as one of my former college professors used to say, “So what?”

Well, here’s the point - our perception is skewed by our filters, by our previous experience, by our beliefs, our biases, our prejudices (and we all have them, minor ones - San Francisco GIANTS RULE, or major ones - San Francisco GIANTS ROCK. We like to carry them around with us in suitcases, large and small, pulling them out as we need them). There really is nothing  - in this room, in the courtyard, in this town, in our lives - that is truly viewed as it actually is. Instead, we see everyone and everything through a cloud, through a cloud of our own making and maintenance.

You may be asking, why do I bring all this up? Well, it seems even Jesus occasionally viewed the world around Him through cloudy eyes, eyes filtered by old beliefs, ancestral biases, cultural prejudices.

So, here’s the scene - and please forgive my literary license -

Jesus is exhausted. So many demands, so little time. The Pharisees are badgering him, crowds are following him, even his disciples are getting on his last nerve. Earlier in the Chapter from Matthew, where today’s Gospel is found, Jesus is confronted by Jewish leaders. “Why do your people not follow the rules? Why don’t they wash their hands before meals?” We are told Jesus proceeds to give them a lesson in hypocrisy. “It’s not what enters the mouth that is the problem”, He tells them. It’s what comes out of the mouth that defiles one, “for from the heart come evil thoughts, false witness, blasphemy… - Matthew 15:20” With that admonition, Jesus leaves Gennesaret and heads out to find some peace and quiet in the region of Tyre and Sidon. You can certainly sense his frustration and his need to get away. But, it seems a woman (from the crowd perhaps, maybe a local), a Gentile, a Canaanite, ancestral enemies of the Jewish people, pursues him and his disciples. Not only does she pursue him, she pesters him, calling out “Lord, Lord, have pity on me!”  He ignores her. You can almost hear his thoughts, “How long has she been following me? Is she from Gennesaret? Is she from Tyre? Who is she?”

This Canaanite woman persists, “Have pity on me, Lord, Son of David!”

Jesus keeps his pace, maybe even speeding up, continuing to ignore, continuing to avoid.

“Don’t look at her. She’s a Canaanite, a woman! Turn the other way. Avoid eye contact at all costs. Maybe if I walk faster,” he thinks.

And still she calls out, “Son of David! My daughter is tormented by a demon!!!”

Yet, Jesus still gives no response. Now his disciples, who have probably been wondering what he is doing, I mean, after all, he talks to everybody, begin to question and make demands. “Talk to her! Send her away! She’s bothering us!!!!”

What does Jesus do? Does he stop, or maybe he yells over his shoulder, “I’m not here for you. I’m only here for the ‘lost sheep of Israel’.”

“What?” he thinks. “Did I just say that? But, it’s true, I am here to save the lost sheep, not some random Canaanite woman.”

Somehow, she manages to catch up with him. We can imagine her throwing herself at his feet, pleading, “Lord, please help me”.

Even now, face-to-face, with this woman’s eyes beseeching him for help, he replies with, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

“Oh, no. I just called her a dog. A dog? What am I thinking? Wait, she is not one of us. To us, she is a dog, a person of the worst kind!”

He has stung her. She recoils in shame. It’s as if he has slapped her. She hangs her head. But, still her love for her daughter, her belief in him, in his goodness, in his ability to heal, spurs her on. One last plea, “Yes, Lord,” she agrees, “yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.”

Now he recoils. “What have I done?” he thinks. “In my blindness, I have done just what I told all those people in Gennesaret not to do. It is what comes out of the mouth that defiles and harms.”

This woman, a Canaanite, an enemy, has used his flawed argument against him. She has broken through the cloud that prevents him from seeing her as she is - a loving mother, a faithful believer, a child of God. A miracle has happened. A change in perception has happened. “Woman, great is your faith.”

I have come to believe that the greatest miracle of life is a change in perception, that true healing comes from a shift in how we see. Our lives are never the same once we see differently.

How often do we find ourselves stuck in old patterns, in seeing through cloudy vision, reverting to ways of behaving that defile us, and harm others?

This past week, I had occasion to speak with all 3 of my sisters. This is quite momentous, actually, because I am estranged from 2 of them. My younger brother had a stroke last Saturday, and “those 2 women” are the ones who were able to get to the hospital to find out how he was/is. The conversations with Jackie and Mary were odd, and yet so familiar. We quickly fell back into our old patterns, Jackie being in charge and, well, bossy, and Mary, being informative, and, aloof. I, being the middle child, had my role as well. We had several conversations over the course of 48 hours, mainly because they were the only source of information about Michael. My perceptions about my sisters have changed over time. I believe my understanding about them, my perception of them, is still cloudy. Definitely not as cloudy as it was when I was younger, but still not clear. I do love them, yet, I feel more comfortable being distant, a safe distance, from them.

But what does all this mean to us? Do we ever become sunny, and cloud free, or is this what God does for us? It seems apparent that it was insight, and vision from God that moved the clouds in front of Jesus’ eyes.

Are we capable of that kind of insight, that openness to possibility, to being able to see all and everything exactly as it is - holy and of God? If we believe, and we say we do, that God is Omni-present, then God is in everything and everyone we see. God is in every event. God is in every moment. We just don’t see clearly yet. Our job, our responsibility, is to be open, aware, and willing. I believe willingness is the key. Willingness - a big word, a powerful word, a challenging word, and a vital word. Willingness - a way of being that opens hearts, heals relationships, and brings redemption. How willing are you? How willing am I? Can we begin by being willing to see differently? Will you join me?

Amen.