The Hornet's Nest

A sermon delivered at the Bound Brook Presbyterian Church

Palm Sunday, April 13, 2014

When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, 

asking, ‘Who is this?’ The crowds were saying, 

‘This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.’

Matthew 21:11

It is that time in the annual life of the church when we slow way down and focus in on one week of biblical time … looking at one extended story.  We examine it every year, over and over again, from every angle, every character, because it gets our attention.  It is like an accident on the highway.  Everyone who drives by slows way down to get a good look.  We are biblical rubberneckers this week as we walk with Jesus into Jerusalem, through the crowded streets, swollen with the frenzy of Passover preparations.  We are rubberneckers when we follow the story to the steps of the Temple, and to the table in the upper room, to the Garden of Gethsemane and courts of the Chief Priest, to the residence of Pilate and to a hill called Calvary where were can’t take our eyes of the man, Jesus, dying on a cross. 

This story still gets our attention.  We can’t help it.  We are attracted to uncommon acts of bravery, courage, self-sacrifice … in the face of injustice or violence or both.  When tragedy happens especially in the face of the struggle for righteousness … goodness … the pursuit of justice, we take notice.  We want to know more, more about those who have denied fear and chosen to take a stand, or take a bullet, or risk their lives to save a life.  We are attracted to that stuff.  We want to know what they were thinking, how they made their decisions and managed their fear.

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In 1950’s a twentysome year-old Martin Luther King Jr. took his first church in Montgomery, Alabama. He chose that church because he wanted a quiet little church where he could finish his doctorate.  As soon as he finished writing his dissertation and had sent it in, Rosa Parks took her seat in the front of a Montgomery city bus and suddenly King became the pastoral voice of the Montgomery Bus Boycott, a protest which lasted over a year.  The response to the boycott, as you well know was not a good one.  It had stirred up a hornet’s nest.   One night, at home, he received a phone call … “We’re tired of your mess,” the caller said, “and if you aren’t out of this town in three days, we’re going to blow up your house and blow your brains out.”

King was not just a pastor at that time, he was also a husband and father to an infant daughter.  That phone call shook him.  He stayed up late at night and prayed and wrestled with what he should do next.  That could have been the end of his civil rights work.  He was considering packing it up and leaving town to keep his family safe.  But as he tells it in a sermon, he heard another message that night … a divine message … audible or internal, I don’t know, … but he heard the message loud and clear … “Stand up for righteousness.  Stand up for justice.”  In that moment he had a clear sense that God was with him and he would not be frightened out of what was right.  He would not be run out of his home.  Three days later his home was bombed, the debris just barely missing his sleeping infant daughter. 

That is another story we can’t stop looking at, the courage and bravery of all of those who risked, and some who lost their own lives, to take a stand for racial equality … for civil rights.  We want to know where that courage came from … we want to know about the prayers said, and the voices heard, because we are asking ourselves every time a story like this is told … WHAT WOULD WE DO?  Would we dare to sit in the front of that bus, or stay in our home under the threat of a group of violent bullies?  Would we still speak out, or would we pack it up and head out of town?

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I was talking to a group not too long ago about Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem and the question was asked, why did he go there?  Why celebrate Passover in Jerusalem if he knew how dangerous it was, what a hornet’s nests it was?  Matthew’s gospel says, “…the whole city was in turmoil.”  Why did he take that risk?  Surely there were plenty of other people in other places who could have benefited from his healing touch, or profited from his teaching or storytelling about loving thy neighbor and the Kingdom of God.  And if the gospels are to be believed, it appears that Jesus knew what awaited him in Jerusalem … so why did he go?  How did he decide?  How did he manage the fear of the consequences? 

You have to know as the story unfolds that not only does Jesus know how dangerous the situation is, he behaves in a way that eggs it on.  He knows that riding into town on a donkey is going to stir things up.  He is mocking Pilate and the power structure of Rome, and that will get you the kind of attention that will lead you to a cross … yet he does it any way.  Why?  And of course we are asking in part because we know that in his action our inclinations are being judged.  We look at Jesus and we see our own fear.

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I was watching a TED talk the other day online. TED TALKS are presentations by variety of speakers on a variety of subjects.  Their tag line is … ideas worth spreading.   The one I watch was by Ash Beckham.  She is an equality advocate and she is a lesbian.  Her TED Talk has been viewed well over a million times.  In it she talks about closets, a subject she knows a something about.  But she is quick to say her talk isn’t about just about being gay.  She says instead ...  "EVERYONE HAS A CLOSET.  A CLOSET IS JUST A DIFFICULT CONVERSATION."  It is that one truth which you, or I, fear to tell, because the potential consequences are too great.   We know that if we open the door and let that truth out, we can’t control what will happen next … who will hate us and who will love us … who will leave us and who will stay.  Who might hurt us and who will help us.  But we do know that there will be people on both sides.  Fear is what keeps our secrets in the closet.  It is what keeps our heads down and our mouths closed.

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The crowd in Jerusalem gathered around the spectacle of a grown man riding on a donkey … and according to Matthew’s gospel, Jesus rides not only on donkey, but also on a colt, the foal of a donkey … simultaneously he rides them both.  I am not sure how that is possible, but the point is perhaps the absurdity of that picture in light of the Roman Governor’s parade on the other side of town.  Pilate rides into Jerusalem escorted my armor-clad soldiers on horses with weapons drawn.  His point is to dissuade rebellion through intimidation.  Pilate, you can well imagine, is received in silence.  Jesus received with cheers, and palms, and coats thrown down before him.  And some in the crowd were asking, “who is this?”

And the answer that Matthew records is this … “this is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth of Galilee”.  This is a prophet.

Prophets are called by God to live outside their closets … to have in public difficult conversations on behalf of God … to be truth tellers, without regard to the consequences.  Their job description includes … standing up for righteousness and standing up for justice.  The truth they tell is God’s truth not their own.

Jesus was a lot of things … healer, teacher, Messiah, Son of God, but today, on Palm Sunday he is a prophet.  He is telling God’s truth.  In his actions that day and moving forward through the week the inclinations of Rome were being judged, the inclinations of the religious elite were being judged, the inclinations of a corrupt temple system were being judged.  And throughout history from then on, moving forward to the present, we find our own inclinations being judged … our societies, our culture, our power structures. 

Jesus came parading into a hornet’s nest of corruption, injustice and oppression because he had a truth to tell.  God’s truth to tell.  And that truth was more important than the consequences …  more compelling than the fear of those consequences.  It was, in short, the right thing to do.

What was that truth?  It was a truth which honored the inherent and equal value of all human beings as children of God.  It was a divine truth that denied Caesar, and by extension Pilate, and by extension all those power structures in all places and in all time, the right to use fear and violence to intimidate and manipulate people into submission.  It was the truth that there is, by God’s design, enough for everyone, if greed would only be exchanged for generosity.  It is a truth, which no human being can bend to their own will.  And to live short of it is to live to outside of the abundant life we were design by God to live.

That is why he came … into Jerusalem, at Passover, when the city was packed with every sort of humanity, a hornet’s nest ready to explode.  No place needed that truth more.

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The question we can’t avoid in light of this story … is what is our Jerusalem?  What truth are we called to deliver?  And what closet must we exit?  What difficult conversation must we have?   We may not be prophets … but every human voice has a divine piece of the truth to tell.  And we have all been faced with and/or bore witness to injustices: personal, corporate and structural … at home and at work, in world, in the community and even in the church. 

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I am wearing this scarf as stole today as a part of difficult conversation … that has become a hornet’s nest within church.  I am speaking of the larger church … churches of all sorts, all over the country and even the world.  This scarf was knit for me by the Compassion-Knit group … we often refer to them as the Prayer Shawl Ministry.  I received it last year at Christmas.  It came with a note written by Val Yacik.  If ever you need help finding the words for special note you need to write … call Val.  She is an expert note writer. 

Her note with this scarf reads in part …

Merry Christmas from your friends in the Compassion-Knits who took turns knitting on this rainbow scarf for you.  In the struggle for gay/lesbian equality in the Presbyterian Church, the rainbow scarf represents God’s love for all of God’s children.  We knit this scarf for you in recognition of your personal struggle in your professional life AND in gratitude for your leadership, especially with the youth, affirming God’s awesome LOVE for each of us. 

That’s a great note, isn’t it?  And this is a beautiful, colorful, extremely meaningful scarf that speaks to an injustice that I know personally.  I am a lesbian.  That is not news.  I have known it for years.  It is also by the way, not the most interesting thing about me.  Nor is it the lone defining characteristic of who I am.  And I have not hidden it here at BBPC.  It was on the table when I was hired in 2001.  Most of you know this about me. Maybe all of you know this about me.  The youth know it.  Their parents know it.  The session knows it.  I come with a partner, now of almost 16 years, and a blended family that is very much a part of this congregation … a congregation, which has become our home.  

But outside these doors, not in the world, but in the world of Christendom, in the world of the larger church … it is problem.   It is a closed door in my face.  It is welcome withheld.  It is a non-negotiable that makes living out my calling as a pastor almost impossible.  I came here almost 13 years ago as your Director of Christian Education because there was nowhere else for me to go as a pastor.  I was unemployable.  I am so grateful for the welcome I have received here and all the fun we have had, and continue to have doing ministry together, I am not going anywhere … as far as I know … in part that is really up to you.

But I share this with you today because a couple of weeks ago World Vision, a Christian relief organization that this congregation has supported heavily over the past 10 years to the tune of over $100,000 in child sponsorships and deep-water wells in Zambia, announced a change to their hiring policy that would allow for the hiring of gays and lesbians who are in marriages.  It was not so much theological issue as it was a conscious decision to allow gays and lesbian Christians to join with them in the work of making the world a better place for children … World Vision announced the change and a HORNET’S NEST EXPLODED! 

Sure there were those who’s applauded their announcement and the apparent courage it took a Christian organization to make it, but there were more voices that were angry and damning.  Vitriolic voices of self-described lovers of Jesus tossing our words like “hell” and “depravity,” pulling their sponsorships by the thousands … taking food and fresh water, school fees and medical care from children and their families in need throughout the world, rather than let a gay or a lesbian person like me join them in their efforts to make the world a better place.   Really, I am not kidding.  The reports of cancelled sponsorships is somewhere between five and ten thousand.

So dramatic was the response against World Vision’s policy change that they reversed their decision within two days … with long apologies and groveling, aimed at placating the angry voices of so called disciples of Jesus Christ.

That makes me so angry I don’t know where to put it all.  It is an injustice disguised as righteousness.  Nowhere in scripture does God deny anyone the privilege of doing right, extending aid, helping a child or a family or a community, because of who they love … not who they hate … who they love.  

This is just a piece of a larger and even more difficult conversation, you and I know that …  but I can’t sit here any longer, under the umbrella of our welcoming and inclusive statement, tucked unobtrusively in our weekly bulletin, and pretend that the whole church is like this church.  It is not.  As a member of the larger Christian community, I have to speak my truth.  I have to stand up for what is right and what is just.  I can’t keep my head down and my mouth closed under the threat of ecclesiastical consequences.  God alone is Lord of my conscience … and your conscience too.

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What is your truth?  What piece of divine truth do you have to tell?  What difficult conversation must you initiate?  What fear must you overcome?  What hornet’s nest will you risk stirring up in order for this world, our world, to look a little more like the Kingdom of God … a little less broken, a little more kind? 

Jesus, the one who rode into Jerusalem on a donkey and hung from a cross five days later, said, “If anyone wants to be my followers, let them deny themselves, take up their cross and follow me.  For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”

Hear what the Spirit is saying to us. Amen.   

Here I am with one of my sponsored children in Zambia in 2007!

POSTSCRIPT: My family sponsors three children through World Vision in Zambia, and we will continue to sponsor them.  If you sponsor a child, I would urge you to do to continue your sponsorship too.  The work World Vision does is good.  Those who desperately need the help that World Vision provides ought not to suffer in the midst of these theological and social justice squabbles.  If you would like to sponsor a child I would be happy to help you, or you can follow the World Vision link on the right.

Pixie Dust

Reflections on Isaiah 11:6, Matthew 17:20-21 & Romans 8:28

“… and a little child shall lead them.”

On Tuesday nights youth gather in the basement of my church, in an area we call THE CAVE.  They come to share a meal and to hangout, maybe do homework or play pool or even study the bible. This week some youth came with whole families in tow.  There are many families throughout New Jersey and New York who are still without power as a result Hurricane Sandy.  Tuesday was day eight of no power, no lights, no heat, no technology, for some no water.  Temperatures inside those homes were registering in the 40s.  It was getting old as well as cold. The church was warm though.  Its power had been restored on Friday (day 4).  So our Tuesday night gathering was a chance to warm up, charge phones and iPods and share a meal … in the light!

While many of us were eating manicotti and swapping lights-out stories, seven-year-old Lila was gathering pixie dust.  She had found a handful of old Halloween confetti on the floor of a small storage closet.  She carefully scooped it up without attracting any attention and began quietly handing it out to those seated around the kitchen bar.  When she got to me, she tapped me on the arm and unfurled her hand, inviting me to take a look.  I saw Halloween confetti, but Lila saw pixie dust, magic pixie dust.

She invited me to make a wish, but not at the bar.  I had to sit in a magic chair that she had positioned under a recessed light.  I was not familiar with pixie dust etiquette, so Lila explained that I needed to sit in the magic chair, while she sprinkled the dust on the top of my head.  My job was to silently make a wish.  So I did.  When my wish was made, I shook my head and let the pixie dust fly, then I went back to the bar to finish my dinner.

Lila invited a couple of others to make wishes and it was no mystery what those silent wishes were.  Everyone was wishing for power.  Not magic power or financial power or even political power (it was election night), we were all wishing for electrical power, for life to return to some sense of normal.

“For truly I tell you, if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there’, and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you.”

Life in the Cave went right back to normal.  Making wishes to satisfy the exuberance of a seven-year-old was fun and cute, but came without expectation or any renewed sense of hope.   We all returned quickly to conversations about generators, gasoline and electric companies and Lila moved on easily too, ditching the pixie dust for a princess puzzle.  But then the cell phones began to ring; first one call, then another.  Power had returned for Michele at her home and then Kira got the call and Kyle.  There was an instant change in mood in the room and all eyes began to turn to Lila.  Silent wishes were revealed, all having been granted via a handful of confetti and the faith of a child.  Call it coincidence or luck or serendipity, whatever your want, but the circumstance and the timing were pretty wonderful.  The only one who was unmoved, who was not surprised, was Lila.  With the nonchalance of certainty, she simply responded to our amazement with the matter-of-fact reasoning of faith; “I told you it was magic.”

Pixie dust and mustards seeds aren’t magic and Halloween confetti can’t turn on the lights, but faith can move mountains.  And faith, it appears isn’t surprised when the mountains move.  Faith expects God to act.  Faith trusts that our hopes and our wishes matter of God.  Faith knows that with God all things are possible.  Faith also frees us to let go, once the wish is made, allowing us to move on to other matters, other puzzles, knowing that our prayers are resting in God’s merciful hands and while all might not be resolved quickly or even exactly as per our request, the assurance that God works all things together for the good is enough.  Faith is the light that makes living in the dark possible.

“We know that all things work together for the good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.”

   *Please know that this in no way seeks to make light (no pun intended) of those who lost so much more than power as a result of Hurricane Sandy.  There is no magic pixie dust that can bring loved ones back or repair a home that has been swept way by the ocean.  But faith tells us that life does not end with death and the story, our stories are not yet fully written.  God has more to do and we are never without hope that better is on its way.  My prayer for all those who are still suffering is that God will bring good out of loss and frustration … maybe by way of a miracle or a stranger or by the power of community.  May this storm bring out the best in those whose hope is in the Lord.  Amen.   

  

A True Hallmark Moment

Reflections on Matthew 13:44,45 & Isaiah 11:6

Every God-fearing Christian family ought to have a family bible, but we did not have one.  The local Hallmark Store had one, but my mom was not interested and I couldn’t afford it. In the eyes of my twelve-year-old self, it was beautiful and awe inspiring, and necessary for gaining God’s benevolent attention.  A large, white, leather-bound volume with an embossed gold cross and gold-gilded pages that crinkled when you turned them, and of course a page in the front of the bible for your family tree, as if to say … our family is rooted in God.  I was certain that we needed to have one, for by having one it would be so.  We would be safely root in God’s good graces.  But alas, my mother was not interested and I could not afford it.

The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in field, which someone found and hid; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.

We were familiar faces at the local Hallmark Store and with every visit, I asked the store clerk how much that bible was.  Every week it seemed the price was lower, but never low enough for a six grader’s allowance no matter how long I saved.  Weeks had past and with each visit, I feared that the Bible would be gone, sold to some other God-fearing family.  

One bright sunny summer day, we had yet another occasion to return to the Hallmark Store for yet another greeting card.  While my mom shopped up and down the isles of cards, I searched the shelf next to the front counter.  A rush of relief washed over me when I found that the bible was still there.  I could not help thinking that this bible was meant for my family.  It was waiting for me, for us.  At twelve, I was not in any way outgoing or even comfortable with strangers, let alone store clerks, but I had to ask one more time;  “How much is that bible?” 

The kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls; on finding on pearl of great value, he went and sold all that he had and bought it.

The clerk, who had been asked that question by me many times before, hesitated for a moment and then responded to my question with a question; “How much money do you have?”  My heart sank, because I knew I didn’t have enough, but I told her anyway.  She nodded, and with a hint of a smile, simply said, “sold.”

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I miss that twelve-year-old.  I miss the naiveté and simplicity of faith that longs to be found in God’s good graces and is willing to give all that one has to receive it.  While her theology makes me cringe just a little, there is something that still rings true.  God’s grace, while by its very nature free, is best received when we are willing to give all that we have, or better yet all that we are, to experience it. 

The kingdom of heaven, the very kingdom whose coming we were taught to pray for, is worth investing ourselves in fully.  And whether we believe that we have a lot to offer or very little, it is always enough.  What is expected of us isn’t more than we can give, but only all we have to give.  Adulthood has made that truth hard to grasp and even harder to live.  We are jaded and risk adverse and poor judges of our own value.  That makes God’s grace seem too good to be true and the kingdom of heaven too impractical, too impossible, to fully embrace.  What then are we to do?

The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and fatling together, and a little child shall lead them.

Perhaps every God-fearing adult ought to be led into the kingdom of grace by the hand of a young child.   

Bologna Sandwiches

Reflections on Luke 22:14-20 and Ephesians 2:14

When I was a kid, my bologna had a first name.  If you are in your forties or fifties, then I bet yours did too.  O … S … C … A … R, right?!  It came from the Oscar Mayer bologna commercial, because back then bologna was cool.  My mom packed it my lunch regularly.  If I close my eyes and focus just a little, I can still remember the smell of bologna and mustard on white Wonder Bread as the plastic wrap is pulled away.  Sometimes for dinner, my mom would put it in a skillet and make fried bologna sandwiches.  That was a treat.  But somewhere between the early 1970’s and today, bologna fell out of favor.  It has become the Spam of lunchmeat in these post-modern times.   

When the hour came, Jesus took his place at the table, and the apostles with him.

A few years back, I was working with several other adults and eight high school youth to repair a home for a family in the Tennessee Appalachian Mountains.  We were volunteering with the Appalachia Service Project on our church’s summer youth mission trip.  The home was a trailer that had been abandoned for several years, before the Jones family laid claim to it and set up home in it.  It was in major need of repair and we would be but one of many crews who would work on the home over the course of that summer.  Our assignment was to replace the floor and walls, run new plumbing and install a new toilet in the trailer’s only bathroom and to build a front porch from scratch, so that the front door would be accessible.  The adult leaders, myself included, were novices.  We were totally in over our heads, doing work that we believed was totally beyond us, but the Jones family believed we could get it done.  They watched us scratch our heads and conference with the youth and the ASP staff. They overheard us mumble sentences that almost always started with, “I have no idea, but maybe we should ...”  They greeted us each morning with smiles and encouragement and trusted us to do right by their home.

On Thursday the weather was really hot and humid.  We were making progress, but our tempers were getting shorter with each other and the work.  We had seen enough progress to know that we were capable, but not enough to assure us that we would be able to finish our projects by the end of the day Friday.  By noon, some of our team had already stopped working, hoping that a lunch break would soon be called, while others refused to quit.  It was then that Melinda Jones called us all to the front porch.  We had completed enough of the porch to be able to gather there.  Even those who found it hard to put down their hammers and saws stopped what they were doing to heed her call. 

Then he took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them and said, “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”

Lunch on Melinda's porch.

Throughout the week we had brought our own lunches, sandwiches we had made back at the center where we were staying.  Nothing special, just peanut butter and jelly.  But Melinda wanted to do something special for us.  In an act of enormous generosity, for this family was truly just getting by, she wanted to surprise us with a lunch made just for us … all twelve of us.  She didn’t have a table to call us to, so we gathered on her new porch, a porch in progress, where we sat on coolers and toolboxes while she served us bologna and tomato sandwiches with freezer pops for dessert.  It was one of the best lunches I ever had. 

This act of kindness was sacramental.  Its effects were tangible.  As we sat and ate, the tensions that were building between us began to dissolve.  Eased with laughter and vulnerability.  Stories were told.  Funny stories and poignant stories and stories of struggle and stories of survival.  They were Melinda’s stories.  She opened a window for us into her life with her husband and young son.  It was a gift given to us and we understood it to be an honor to receive it.  We were sitting in the midst of true communion.  Something special, something spiritual was happening in our midst.  In that moment, we knew that we were part of something bigger than ourselves.

For Christ is our peace, in his flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us. 

This Sunday, October 7^th, is World Communion Sunday.  On this Sunday, Christians of all stripes and flavors, will be called to gather around communion tables all over the world and break bread together.  Some will come in great faith and others in barely no faith at all.  Some will come in abundance and some in dire need.  All will be feed with the simplest of elements, a little bread and a sip of wine or grape juice, while the real meal is a story so big that it has the power to heal us all … the power to break down all the barriers we have built to divide us … the power to dissolve all the differences that we use as reasons to separate … the power to remind us that we are all welcomed, all loved, all children of a loving God.  Our communion celebration reminds us that we are indeed part of something much bigger than ourselves.

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Today, if I were to give bologna a first name, it would be G … R … A … C … E.