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UJCCM Ecumenical Service Sermon – Matthew 5.17-19, Deuteronomy 4.1-2, 5-9, March 6, 2024

15 Friday Mar 2024

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This sermon was preached at Our Saviour’s Lutheran Church in Norge, VA as part of a seven-week pulpit exchange between ecumenical churches during Lent.

I do not know what your experience with Holy Scripture has been.  I grew up in the South where Scripture was meant to be memorized, and at the very least you needed to know the Ten Commandments by heart.  As someone who is pretty terrible at memorizing scripture, you can imagine how tortured my childhood was.  When I was in grade school our Sunday School teacher quizzed us for weeks, making sure we were memorizing the Ten Commandments.  I vividly remember that dreaded day when each of us had to stand up in front of our peers and recite all ten.  My friend Nathan went before me and recited them perfectly.  My hands started to sweat, and I was fidgeting in my chair.  I could only imagine the whispers around church when everyone found out the minister’s kid (yes, I’m a preacher’s kid!) could not remember all of the Commandments.  I felt like a failure before I had even begun.

For those of you in parishes that follow the Sunday lectionary, you likely heard the Ten Commandments this past Sunday.  The scripture lessons appointed by the lectionary today continue the conversation about the commandments.  In Deuteronomy, Moses is preparing the people of Israel for the Commandments he is about to enumerate in the next chapter.  Meanwhile, in Matthew, Jesus proclaims that he comes to fulfill the law and that whoever breaks the least of the commandments will be least in the kingdom of heaven.  In the verses following the ones we heard tonight, Jesus goes on to describe some of those Ten Commandments more fully. 

But Jesus’ harsh standards about those Commandments are unnecessary really.  All we need is a slow reading of the Ten Commandments, or the Decalogue as they are often called, and we realize how woefully unfaithful we are.  Any deeper dive into the commandments probably has our hands sweating like that little kid in Sunday School.  Likely the only commandment most of us have avoided is the murdering, although we have probably wished we could murder someone at least once.  But all the others sneak in and tempt us.  We may not have stolen something large, but we have probably taken home a pen, paper clip, or notepad here and there from work.  If we have not committed adultery, we have certainly coveted someone else, which the Commandments say is equally bad.  We may think we have avoided creating idols, but when we realize the centrality of money in our lives, we discover that money has become a god for us.  And keeping the Sabbath – forget about it!  We are lucky if we make our way to church three out of four Sundays.  And even when we make it to church, we immediately whisk ourselves away to our busy schedules afterwards – even if those schedules are only packed with watching games or hanging out with friends.  We rarely take a true break in our week for a full day with God.  We prefer Jesus’ summary of the commandments much later in Matthew’s gospel to, “love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and mind, and your neighbor as yourself,”[i] because his summary allows to avoid thinking about all the specific ways we sin against God and our neighbor.  In our minds and in the minds of many, “the Ten Commandments have somehow become burdens, weights, and heavy obligations.”[ii]  We sense their burdensome weight on our shoulders, and we feel like our bodies and our spirits are being physically pushed down by God.

What may help us tonight, then, is to take a step back and look at those troubling commandments and laws that Jesus came to fulfill.  The Decalogue does not start out with the preface, “Here are ten rules that you will obey.”  Instead, the commandments begin with a “breathtaking announcement of freedom: ‘I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery.’”[iii]  God is not the overbearing parent who is saying, “You will do what I say because I am the boss.”  Instead, God is saying, “Remember that you are free.  Remember that I brought you out of a terrible place and now, you are free, my beloved ones.”  As a freed people, God is simply reminding them of how freed people live – in relationship with God and in relationship with one another. 

Jesus’ summary of these commandments later in Matthew is helpful, especially in that the summary reminds us of how we are to attend to our relationship with God – which is presented in those first four commandments, and how we are to attend to our relationship with people – what those final six commandments teach us.  But Jesus’ summary can allow us to forget how interrelated these two relationships are.  As one scholar argues, the Commandments teach us more specifically that, “having ‘no other gods before me’ means that money, sex, and power will not wiggle their way into the altars of our lives, and thus will not be used to exploit others.  Keeping the Sabbath is a reminder that all of creation is a gift and we have a responsibility to be wise stewards of it…‘you shall not murder’ suggests that others are gifts who bear the image of God for us.”[iv]  Those Ten Commandments show the people of God how life should be structured as a freed people, and how that life is an intertwined life of relationships between God and one another.  Out of those commandments comes a way of being.  Out of those commandments comes a full understanding of liberation.  Out of those commandments comes the path of life – a life that reminds us that not only does Jesus come to fulfill the law, but as Stanley Hauerwas argues, “…our discipleship of Jesus entails our fulfillment of the law.”[v]

Several years ago, a hoopla arose around an Alabaman judge who wanted the Ten Commandments posted in his courthouse.  In response, many Alabamans posted small plastic signs in their yards with the Ten Commandments written on them.  I remember visiting my family in Alabama and seeing the signs everywhere.  At the time, I rolled my eyes.  I could not imagine what good posting those rules up all over neighborhoods could really do.  Were they meant to teach others about being a person of faith, or were they meant to be a way of flaunting their Christian identity (and yes, in Alabama, those posting the Ten Commandments were Christian, not Jewish)?  At the time, they seemed to me to be self-righteous or at least condescending.  But as I have been thinking about those silly signs this past week, I have begun to wonder if there is not something to them.  What if instead of being a finger-wagging at the neighborhood, the posted signs are a way for each resident to claim on which path they hope to live – what law they are trying to fulfill through their own life.  What if instead of saying, “You all need to live like this,” the signs say, “I need to live like this.”  What if the signs are a way of saying, “I am liberated by God and want to try to live on the path of life.  Help keep me on that path – and join me if you like!”

Our liturgy tonight in some small way is doing the same thing that those signs had the potential of doing.  Our liturgy tonight, both in our prayers and in our scripture reading, invites us to remember that we are liberated by God, that we have been given the path to life, and that we can rejoice in those gifts tonight.  Our liturgy tonight invites us to shrug off our perceived burdens and to step into the warmth and love of the law and commandments.  Our liturgy tonight invites us to create our own metaphorical plastic yard sign that will remind us to live on the path of life, to do the work of fulfilling the law, and to invite others along the path through our witness of Decalogue-living.  Amen.

[i] Paraphrase of Matthew 22.37-38.

[ii] Thomas G. Long, “Dancing the Decalogue,” Christian Century, vol. 123, no. 5, Mar. 7, 2006, 17.

[iii] Long, 17.

[iv] Craig Kocher, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2008), 78.

[v] Stanley Hauerwas, Matthew: Brazos Theological Commentary on the Bible (Grand Rapids:  Brazos Press, 2006), 66.

Sermon – Luke 16.1-13, P20, YC, September 18, 2022

05 Wednesday Oct 2022

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About a month ago, President Biden announced a plan to offer student loan relief for low- to middle-income earning borrowers.  The reaction has been all over the place.  Those owing thousands of dollars have expressed tremendous gratitude and relief, often chained to an albatross of debt with no hope of financial stability.  Critics have argued that taxpayers should not bear the financial burden of funding what is essentially seen as privilege and access to financial advancement that is only accessible to a few.  Supporters have pointed to the fact that the cost of college has tripled since the 1980s, even accounting for inflation, while things like Pell grants, which once covered 80% of college costs now only cover 33%.[i]  Meanwhile, I have heard critics say, “I had to pay all my student loans back myself.  So should they!”

What has struck me in this debate, and quite frankly any debate about money these days, is we tend to take a very individualist view of the issue.  We debate and argue about what is fair to me personally, why one individual should be privileged over another, or why he or she gets more or less than me.  But what we rarely question is the financial system within which we operate, the very structure surrounding and shaping our relationships that gives no regard for you, or me, or her, or him, or them. 

That is what our tantalizing gospel lesson is all about.  A wealthy man’s manager is accused of mismanaging funds and is facing termination.  In the face of the threat, the manager sneakily collaborates with the rich man’s debtors to reduce their debts – anywhere from 25-50% of what they owed.[ii]  And when the boss finds out, we all hold our breath, waiting for the wealthy man’s wrath.  But the story goes sideways.  The owner compliments the manager for his shrewdness – instead of anger, he has the owner’s admiration.  And then, as if to keep us disoriented, Jesus says the enigmatic:  make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth. 

When we tell stories in Godly Play, like our kids are hearing today in the Narthex, the last thing we imagine is a lesson where the teacher says, “Okay, kids, today I want to teach about how to be manipulative and sneaky in case you get into trouble.”  So, what is going on in this parable?  Our first problem seems to be in the title of the parable, “The parable of the dishonest steward.”[iii]  Perhaps if this parable was called, “The parable of the corrupting power of money,” we might be in a better place to understand what Jesus is trying to teach us.  You see, Jesus is living in “…Roman-occupied Galilee in the first century.  Rich landlords and rulers [are] loan-sharks, using exorbitant interest rates to amass more land and to disinherit peasants of their family land, in direct violation of biblical covenantal law.  The rich man…along with his steward or debt collector, [are] both exploiting desperate peasants.”[iv]  To Jesus, this is not a story about an individual behaving badly, but about a system that is failing to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God.[v] 

So, what is this “make friends with dishonest wealth” stuff?  What Jesus is saying is wealth has the power to corrupt and shape an unjust system for all.  Our primary responsibility as followers of Christ is to love our neighbors.  We are not likely to be able to dismantle entire economic systems.  But we can tend to relationships with others, not seeing that I get fairness personally, or even that I get testy about what one person has over what I have, but seeing that we are responsible for one another.  In our relationships with one another – the wealthy, the poor, and everyone in between – and for that matter, those who go to college, those who do not, and everyone in between – our relationships with one another and our ability to see one another’s humanity and beloved status before God is our work. 

Now, loving each other (even those people we do not particularly like) does not mean that we suddenly get to wipe our hands free of money.  In fact, one scholar argues this, “We not only are entrusted with the vision of the kingdom of heaven; we are given the treasures of the King!  Even in the present age, with the imperfect treasures of this world, we are stewards of God.”[vi]  We cannot escape the power of money.  But we can prioritize our care for one another, carefully and shrewdly showing the world how we can use the sometimes-corrupting power of money for good.  Our invitation this week is to hold on to the disorientation of this parable, examining how our relationships with others are being pushed and pulled by the power of money – and how we might more shrewdly use that power of money for good – for you, for me, and for everyone in between.  Amen.

[i] “FACT SHEET: President Biden Announces Student Loan Relief for Borrowers Who Need It Most,” The White House, August 24, 2022, as found at https://www.whitehouse.gov/briefing-room/statements-releases/2022/08/24/fact-sheet-president-biden-announces-student-loan-relief-for-borrowers-who-need-it-most/ on September 17, 2022.

[ii]  Barbara Rossing, “Commentary on Luke 16:1-13,” Working Preacher, September 18, 2016, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-25-3/commentary-on-luke-161-13-2 on September 17, 2022.

[iii] The idea of renaming this parable comes from Matt Skinner on the podcast, “#862: 15th Sunday after Pentecost (Ord. 25C) – September 18, 2022,” September 5, 2022 as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/podcasts/862-15th-sunday-after-pentecost-ord-25c-september-18-2022 on September 17, 2022.

[iv] Rossing.

[v] Micah 6.8

[vi] Helen Montgomery Debevoise, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, Vol. 4 (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 96.

Sermon – Genesis 7.1-5, 11-18, 8.6-18, 9.8-13, UJCCM Lenten Series, March 9, 2022

25 Wednesday May 2022

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This Lent, we as an ecumenical body in Upper James City County are retelling the “salvation narrative” – or at least that is the fancy phrase we use to describe the body of stories that show us time and again God’s saving deeds in history, and how those stories inform how we understand what will happen on Easter Sunday – how the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus will bring the fullness of redemption.  We started last week with the story of creation – the ways in which God lovingly called the created order good and made us in God’s image.  Tonight, we shift to another of the legendary stories – the story of the flood.

This is a story we know and love:  we use Noah’s ark as artwork in babies’ nurseries, I have Noah’s ark in the form of Christmas ornaments, we even sing songs about how God told Noah to build an “ark-y, ark-y” made of “bark-y, bark-y.”  I think we love this story so much because of the good news at the end.  But before we get to the end, we have to wade through a whole lot of a horrible beginning and middle.  You see, despite the goodness of creation, of the ways in which we were made in God’s image, we humans fall into sinfulness.  We do not hear much of that part of the story tonight.  Despite all the verses we did hear, what we do not hear is how horribly sinful humanity has become in Noah’s time.  This sinfulness grieves God so very much that God set God’s mind to do a terrible, awful thing[i].  Those waters out of which God formed the earth – those waters that God used a dome to separate – separate the waters from the waters, God uses to destroy the beautiful creation God has made.  God removes the dome, and the waters came down from the skies and the waters rise up from the ground.[ii] 

From the beginning of this horrible decision, God makes a choice – a choice to save some life instead of recreating life again[iii].  And so, on that ark that Noah builds, floats the people who will repopulate the earth, and the animals that will restore the created order.  We hear very little in scripture what those days are like[iv]:  the panic of rising waters, the death all around them, the solitude and silence of watery chaos, the noise of a bizarrely filled boat.  We have only our imagination to fill in what those desperate days may have been like. 

In some ways, I think Lent is a lot like those days on the boat.  There is the obvious forty days connection, but more telling is the stark reality of sinfulness and judgment.  Imagining the depravity of those days that would drive God to destroy most of creation is not as hard as we might like to think.  Sometimes, I wonder if God is not similarly grieved by us today.  Here we are after two years of a pandemic where our own country spent more time arguing over the supremacy of personal freedom over the call to love one another.  Here we are, for likely the millionth time debating whether there is such a thing as a just war as we watch civilians and children slaughtered in Ukraine.  Here we are divided by political party, divided by socioeconomic status, divided by race, divided by theology into denominations and faiths.  Here we are, refusing as individuals to love all our neighbors as ourselves, and love the Lord our God.  Lent is our season to float in the lapping waters of our sinfulness, wondering whether we should be on that boat or not.

But here’s the funny story about the flood.  This story is not about you.  This story is not even really about Noah, or the animals God saved, or even the rainbow at the end of the story we like to cling to so desperately.  This story is not about our sinfulness and brokenness and inability to live into the image of God in which we are created.  No, this is a story about God.  Everything in this story that we value, that makes this story a “salvation narrative,” is about God’s actions.  The reason we do not hear all the gory details about the lead-up to the flood – the details that even movies have been made about – is because this is a story about salvation, not judgment – on what God does to preserve creation.[v]

One of the exercises I have done with young adults is to talk about images of God.  We create a safe space where we can talk about those images – not just the ones the church likes us to see – of the shepherd caring for the flock, even at times with a lamb on his shoulders, or of the saccharine-y Jesus’ we hang around that look more like an American Jesus than a Middle Eastern Jesus.  Instead, we try to get real with the youth.  The images they often have are of a foreboding man on a throne, an intimidating father figure, or a judge behind a bench.  And when we adults are honest, our images are pretty similar.  But the images of God in this story, as one scholar writes are “striking:  a God who expresses sorrow and regret; a God who judges, but doesn’t want to, and then not in arbitrary or annihilative ways; a God who goes beyond justice and determines to save some creatures, including every animal and bird; a God who commits to the future of a less than perfect world; a God open to change and doing things in new ways; a God who promises never to do this again.  The story reveals and resolves a fundamental tension within God, emphasizing finally, not a God who decides to destroy, but a God who wills to save, who is committed to change based on experience with the world and who promises to stand by the creation.”[vi]

That’s the funny thing about this story.  The flood seems like a story for Lent because we find ourselves as sinful as Noah’s world, and we know we need to change our ways.  Lent is all about repentance after all – a turning from our sinfulness and returning to God.  But here’s the thing: even after the flood (and let’s be honest, even after this Lent), the people will keep going back to sinning.  I mean, we’re just in chapter nine of Genesis:  there is a whole lot more sinning left in the Old Testament for us to read.  Scholars argue, “The flood has effected no change in humankind.  But [the flood] has effected an irreversible change in God.”[vii]  This salvation narrative tells us more about God than ourselves.  God establishes the covenant with humanity and creation to never flood the earth again.  Certainly, there may be judgment again, but never the kind that annihilates the earth.  That rainbow that we love is not meant to remind us of God’s promise, but to remind God of the covenant – the restraint God promises to keep in the midst of well-deserved judgment.[viii]  Every promise God makes, all the salvation narratives we will hear the rest of this Lent, are made possible by the foundation of the promise God makes to Noah.[ix]

So, if this salvation narrative is not about us, does that mean we get a free pass for Lent?  Not exactly.  The real question for us tonight, based on everything we just learned (or remembered) about God, is “So what?”  Professor Patricia Tull argues, “Scripture says that a good and wise God created us good.  We’re capable of great evil, as the flood story says and as we know every day.  But God means for us to be transformed, just as the flood transformed God’s intentions.”[x]  Lent is our opportunity to mirror God’s transformation of intention.  What in your life this year needs transforming?  What have you been holding on to – a grudge, a hurt, an anger, a self-righteous indignation – needs to be released?  God learned in the flood that God could not change humanity – but God could change God’s relationship with humanity.  Our invitation this Lent is not necessarily to change ourselves, and certainly not to try to change others (which never goes well), but to transform our relationships – our relationship with God, our relationships with others, and even our relationship with ourselves.  Use the watery chaos of this Lent to listen through the noise of animals around you to hear the promise of the rainbow come Easter.  Amen.

[i] Leander E. Keck, ed, The New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. 1 (Nashville:  Abingdon Press, 1994), 394.

[ii] Keck, 392.

[iii] Keck, 394.

[iv] Keck, 389.

[v] Keck, 389.

[vi] Keck, 395.

[vii] Keck, 395.

[viii] Keck, 400.

[ix] Keck, 401.

[x] Patricia Tull, “Commentary on Genesis 7:1-5, 11-18; 8:6-18; 9:8-13,” April 15, 2017, as found at https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/vigil-of-easter-3/commentary-on-genesis-71-5-11-18-86-18-98-13 on March 9, 2022.

Sermon – Luke 5.1-11, EP5, YC (Annual Meeting), February 6, 2022

25 Wednesday May 2022

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As we reflect back on a year of ministry here at Hickory Neck, we see two realities.  On the one hand, we are tired.  After almost two years of a pandemic, I like to say we have been pivoting so much there is a significant divot in this sacred ground.  We have been in and out of in-person worship, in and out of tightened and lessened restrictions, we have had moments of renewal where it felt like things were getting close to normal, and then moments where the rug was snatched out from under us, and we felt like we were back to square one.  We miss our friends, we want to get back to the work of ministry that has fed us in the past or that drew us to Hickory Neck as a newcomer, we want to experience deepened relationships that come from coffee hours and parties and crowded worship spaces.  We are weary emotionally, physically, and spiritually.

I think that is why I love our gospel lesson so much today.  Jesus and the disciples have been out on the boat all day and night, and the disciples have been working through the night to catch fish to feed their merry band of followers.  When they catch nothing, Jesus says to Simon Peter, “Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.”  Now what Simon actually says is, “Master, we have worked all night long but have caught nothing.”  But what I like to imagine is Peter’s tone – or even what Peter was really saying in those eleven words.  In my mind, what Peter is really saying is, “Look, sir.  I get that you are trying to help, and I get that you are wise enough for us to be following you.  But I am the fisherman, and I think I know a little bit more than you on this one.  And quite frankly, I’ve been at this all night.  I am exhausted and weary, and not really interested in your next big idea.”  Of course, what he says instead (with I suspect not only skepticism but also a bit of insincere, sarcastic, feigned respect) is, “Yet if you say so, I will let down the nets.”

We have all slipped into Peter’s attitude at times in the last year.  Sure, we’ll keep meeting on Zoom.  Sure, we will put the masks back on.  Sure, we’ll wait to schedule the funeral, or the baptism, or the wedding.  Sure, we’ll keep watching online worship.  That sense of frustration is totally normal and we’re lucky if it doesn’t happen more often than not.  But what that frustration can do is blind us to abundance.  If Peter had held his ground and not put down the nets, he would have missed the brilliant thing that happens next in the story.  After trying all night long, using all their gifts and talents and finding nothing, they had no logical reason to say yes to Jesus – to follow Jesus’ invitation to try again.  But when Simon Peter and the other disciples do, they catch so many fish their nets almost break.  Saying yes to Jesus leads to shocking, life-giving abundance.

That is the second reality of this past year for Hickory Neck.  As wearying as this last year has been, there have been so many incredible moments of overflowing abundance.  Whether when we tasted communion for the first time after a long hiatus, whether we were able to sing together after months of silence or lonely singing with a computer screen, whether we were able to safely embrace for the first time in a long time, or whether we were able to see someone’s face on Zoom – hearing the sound of their beautiful laughter – those moments have been abundant.  That deep divot from pivoting on this sacred ground has meant that we have reached isolated aging church members online, by phone call, or by card.  That deep divot has meant that people we had never met before the pandemic have found us online and come to know us in person, bringing us the gift of joy and renewed community.  That deep divot means that we have reconnected with Jesus, being confirmed, received, and reaffirmed by our Bishop.  That deep divot means that even with restrictions we have celebrated lives lived, consecrated new marriages, and baptized babies and toddlers.  That deep divot means that families in our neighborhoods have come to learn that Hickory Neck loves them and understands how hard being a parent and a student is right now.  That deep divot means those who are hungry and homeless have come to know comfort.  That deep divot has been filled to the brim with the abundance that we can only know by answering the call of Jesus over and over again – even when we are weary and want to tell Jesus to back off.

That is our invitation for 2022.  When Simon Peter and the disciples get back to land, they don’t take all those fish and eat a big feast.  They do not sell the fish and take the saved treasure for whatever might come.  No, they leave the overflowing abundance behind, and they follow Jesus.  The abundance was not simply a reward for good, faithful service.  The abundance was a reminder of what life with Jesus is all about.  That is our invitation today too.  When we look at that deep divot of 2021, seeing the ways that deep well overflows with the goodness of this past year, we are invited not to linger by the well of comforting abundance, hoarding it for ourselves.  We are invited to see the abundance and walk confidently into another year, knowing that continuing to follow Jesus will lead to more divots and much, much more abundance.  I could not be more excited to see how Jesus will use Hickory Neck for goodness this year.  We are emboldened today by all that God has done thus far in these hard times.  And now, we are asked to trust that the Holy Spirit has many more good things in store as we seek to care for one another and as we seek to care for those outside our walls.  Our invitation is to trust God with boldness and follow Jesus into this next year with Hickory Neck.  Amen.