Tag Archives: Samaritan

Sermon – John 4.5-42, L3, YA, March 15, 2020

19 Thursday Mar 2020

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Today’s gospel lesson is one of those lessons that can be so full of intrigue that we miss what is happening in the text.  Most of us have heard this lesson hundreds of times, and have probably lingered on the part of the conversation where Jesus calls out the woman for living with someone who is not her husband, after already having had five husbands.  The conversation sounds straight out of Jerry Springer or Dr. Phil, where in the next scene we expect the other husbands to arrive, and a fight to break loose.

The problem with that kind of reading is we have the tone all wrong.  By narrowing in on what sounds like a “gotcha!” statement from Jesus right in the middle of about 40 verses, we forget all of the words and actions surrounding this event in the middle.  We have clues all along in the reading:  Jesus going through Samaria (when most Jews avoid Samaria); a woman appearing at a well at noon (when most of the woman have come and gone); Jesus (a Jew) talking to a Samaritan woman in broad daylight (a triple no-no); disciples appearing and engaging in conversation that sounds like The Three Stooges; talk of prophets, messiahs, disciples, and evangelism.

When we step back and take the broad view of this lesson, we are able to not be distracted by the sweep of the narrative, the scandalous and the absurd details, and the confusing stream of thought.  When seen broadly, we find a story that illuminates what having an incarnate God really looks like.  Too often, when we talk of the incarnation, we think of the baby Jesus, or the bodily, gruesome crucifixion.  But we sometimes forget the everydayness of the incarnation:  the fact that Jesus is thirsty and needs something from another, namely this Samaritan woman; the fact that Jesus initiates an intimate relationship, where two people can talk about the pain, suffering, and societal rejection of a widow and/or divorcee, who is simply trying to get by in a community that ostracizes her, even from drawing water from the well in the cool of morning; the fact that Jesus understands barrenness and empowers her to instead birth new believers.[i]  As Karoline Lewis says, says, “To take the incarnation seriously, to give it the fullest extent and expression, demands that no aspect of what it means to be human be overlooked.  To do so would truncate the principal theological claim of [John’s] Gospel.  At stake for the fourth evangelist is that Jesus is truly God in the flesh and every aspect of what humanity entails God now knows.”[ii]

I find this reading immensely meaningful today, because we are living in a moment when being flesh and bone is particularly precarious and unnerving.  A pandemic has gone all over the world and landed in our schools, our churches, our gathering places, and our homes.  Our lives have been upended by the threat of the Coronavirus, knowing the vulnerability of some in our community, and understanding suddenly how intricately intwined our lives are, even at a time when we have opined about how socially distanced we are.  This is a time when we feel very fleshy and vulnerable and here is Jesus talking to a vulnerable woman about his own fleshiness.

I don’t know about you, but I find this strange, circuitous conversation very comforting today.  In a time of anxiety, fear, and upheaval, Jesus is right there, in the midst of everyday messiness, and saying, “I feel you.  I understand.  I, your God, am incarnate, and I see and know you.”  And in response, the woman who is seen, known, and heard in turn goes to her community and becomes Jesus for others.  As Lewis says, “The woman at the well is not only a witness.  She is Jesus, the ‘I AM’ in the world, for her people.”[iii]

This is our invitation today too.  In the midst of upheaval, of disorientation, of anxiety, we are invited to be fully enfleshed Jesuses for others – to see their pain, their suffering, their uncertainty, and offer solidarity, comfort, and encouragement.  Even in a time of physical separation, we are invited into intimate relationship with one another, into relationships that honor the holy in one another, and help us all move forward.  This is what the Messiah does for us.  This is what we can do for one another.  Amen.

[i] Karoline M. Lewis, John:  Fortress Biblical Preaching Commentaries (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2014), 64.

[ii] Lewis, 55.

[iii] Lewis, 65.

Homily – Luke 10:25-37, P10, YC, July 13, 2019

17 Wednesday Jul 2019

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Last Sunday, a group of parishioners gathered to watch Won’t You Be My Neighbor, the documentary about Fred Rogers.  There were countless things I could tell you about this film, but one thing that really grabbed my attention was toward the end.  The film documented a criticism of Mr. Rogers as raising up a generation of people who feel and act entitled.  You see, one of the primary lessons from Mr. Rogers is he loves each individual, just as they are.  No changes are necessary; no fault is too big.  Mr. Rogers loves you just as you are.  You can hear the words of God in Mr. Rogers’ words – God too loves us unconditionally, and certainly loves us better than any human ever could.  However, Mr. Rogers’ critics would argue if everyone is loved just as they are, then surely they do not need to improve, or earn respect, or work hard.  But the film asserts something quite different.  The film asserts without being recipients of unconditional love, individuals cannot be givers of unconditional love.  In other words, to respect the dignity of every human being, one must first learn how sacred one’s own dignity is – one must be shown how she or he is a person with dignity to be respected in order to know how to respect the dignity of others.

That sense of each person having profound, sacred dignity is one of the main lessons of our gospel today.  The Good Samaritan is one of those stories that is so widely known all I need to do is say, “the Good Samaritan,” and we likely already know the story.  We might automatically recall, “Oh, that’s the story Jesus uses to tell us to be like the Good Samaritan – to be kind to others.”  In one sense, our recollection would be true – at the heart of Jesus’ story is a message to be kind to all.  But what that simple summary misses is the finer details to this story.

You see, those two people who separately pass the victim along the road, are a priest and a Levite.  These two people are not just people of faith – they are keepers of the faith.  They know the laws better than most people of faith.  You may have heard over the years the logic that priests or Levites could not risk being defiled by touching the body of the victim, and so that is why they went around the victim.  But the truth is, their avoidance had nothing to do with defilement – they were heading away from the temple and therefore were not in need of ritual purity, and any good priest or Levite knows they were expected to check on this victim; should he be dead, they should help bury him, and should he be alive, they should tend him.[i]  Basically, these are good, trained people of faith, not fulfilling their duty to love their neighbor as themselves.

But perhaps even more significant is the identity of the Samaritan.  The story does not say, a priest and Levite passed, but another faithful Jew came to the victim’s aid.  The story says, a priest and Levite passed, but a man whose people are mortal enemies of people of faith – who has persecuted, defiled, and subjugated people of faith – is the one who helps.  Saying “The Good Samaritan,” is like saying, “The Good Murderer.”[ii]  That this typically hated man is the one who shows mercy, kindness, and love is shocking.  The hearers of Jesus’ story are shocked, and our ears need to be similarly shocked.  Asking us to respect the dignity of every human being is already a monumental task; respecting the dignity of every human being is inconvenient, is humbling, and involves a willingness to be wrong about others.  Respecting the dignity of every human being means being willing to see how the best of the faithful fail at kindness, and how sometimes our worst enemies are better people of faith than we are.

Today we are baptizing a child of God.  Her parents, godmothers, and our community will make promises today – to raise her in the community of faith, to show her to love and respect, to fight for justice and peace, to share the word of God, and to repent when she messes up.  We say those words today as we reaffirm our own baptismal covenants; but sometimes we forget how revolutionary the covenant is.  We are agreeing to teach Selah to live a revolutionary life.  When we say we will teach baby Selah to respect the dignity of every human being, we are saying we will teach her the hard work being inconvenienced and humbled in order to care for others.  When we say we will teach her to love her neighbor as herself, we are saying we will teach her that even her greatest enemies are worthy of love.  When we say we will teach her to repent when she sins, we are saying we will teach her to be willing to admit when people who we have deemed unworthy of love and care show us what true kindness really looks like.

Today, when we hear Christ’s words to “go and do likewise,” we can be encouraged that Jesus empowers us to make some promises.  Today we look at Selah’s precious, innocent face, and we promise to walk with her as she discovers how hard this work of being a faithful follower of Christ really is.  Today, we promise to confess to Selah the times when we have failed to love our neighbors as ourselves.  Today, we promise when those we despise, those who hurt us, those we cast out because they are not like us, those we can no longer see humanity in ask us, “Won’t you be my neighbor,” we will say with Selah, “Yes.  You are my neighbor too.”  Amen.

[i] Amy-Jill Levine, Short Stories by Jesus (New York:  Harper One, 2014), 99-102.

[ii] Levine, 105.

Sermon – Luke 17.11-19, P23, YC, October 13, 2013

17 Thursday Oct 2013

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I have never been what I would call physically expressive with my faith.  I remember the last time I worshipped at my mother’s church, I was so uncomfortable with the raised hands and utterances of praise, that I found my arms tightly crossed and my eyes glued to the screens to avoid looking around me.  I remember walking an outdoor labyrinth with a priest friend of mine, who upon reaching the center of the labyrinth raised her arms and her head silently to God and just stood there for a long time.  My pace slowed dramatically as I began to panic about how I would never feel comfortable in such a stance, even if I was all alone.  I remember in the multi-cultural church where I worshipped in college watching parishioners stomp and clap as the choir led a spirit-filled song.  I managed to eek out an “Amen,” or maybe even a quiet, “Yes,” but I was drowned out by the boisterous praise around me.

As Episcopalians (or as many call us, “God’s Frozen Chosen”), I imagine that many of us in this room do not see anything strange about my aversion to physical manifestations of praise.  The most physicality we like to show in worship is through our active alternating between standing, sitting, and kneeling.  But my aversion to praise lately has not simply been physical.  I have noticed that the lack of praise has been missing from my words and actions lately too.  Lately my prayers for the parish have become a long litany of people who are hurting or suffering or who simply could use a sense of God’s presence in their lives.  Rarely do I lift up an equally long litany of things for which I am grateful for in this parish and in your lives.  I am not really sure how I got to this praise-lacking place.  Part of me wants to blame my lack of praise on the endless bad news in our world – the recent government shutdown, the economy, shootings, natural disasters, injustice and oppression, and wars.  But I think a larger part of the lack of praise has to do with something missing in my relationship with God – a focus on what needs work in my life as opposed to a focus on what ways my life is so blessed.

I guess you could say I sympathize with the nine lepers who do not return to Jesus when they are healed.  Of course, those lepers do nothing wrong per se.  In fact, they follow Jesus’ instructions to the letter.  Jesus tells them to go and present themselves to the priests and that they will be healed along the way.  And so, the nine lepers obediently follow directions, and in doing so, live life faithfully.  But when Jesus asks the Samaritan leper where the other nine lepers are, we notice immediately that there might be more to our spiritual journey than simply living life faithfully or following the rules.  The contrast between the lepers is so vivid that you can almost see the story in colors.  The nine lepers who are healed and follow Jesus’ instructions to go to the priests might be depicted in beige or taupe.  They do not lack color, but their color is pretty neutral.  Much like their actions are mundane, so are the colors they merit.  Meanwhile, the Samaritan leper might be depicted in vibrant reds, oranges, and golds.  His return to Jesus and his physically dramatic praise that includes prostrating himself at Jesus feet makes him more vibrant in the story.  He is the man raising his hands in praise, standing in wonder before God in the center of a labyrinth, or stomping his feet and shouting at the top of his lungs in worship.  Of course our eyes might be drawn to the vibrant colors of the Samaritan, but we would rarely pick such vibrant colors ourselves – or if we did, we would only use those colors in accessories – a vibrant bag or pair of shoes, but certainly not an entire vibrant outfit.

What the Samaritan leper shows us is that faithful living is more than just following rules or being relatively well-behaved.  Faithful living is more than trying to be a generally good person, or occasionally dropping a few extra dollars in the offering plate if you have some to spare.  The Samaritan shows us that true faithful living is not a quiet or mild experience.  Faithful living is expressive, passionate, and full of wonder and gratitude.  The Samaritan shows us this reality because not only does he perceive his blessing, he articulates his blessing.[i]  This is what sets the Samaritan apart from the other lepers.  Surely they perceive or see their blessing too.  But the Samaritan then articulates or gives word to his blessing.  We see what this double action of seeing and speaking does – the Samaritan is blessed by Jesus.  All ten of the lepers are healed.  That work is done and given without strings attached.  All are healed.  But the Samaritan gains more.  By articulating his thanksgiving, his blessing is doubled.  His gratitude overwhelms him, which seems to overwhelm God into more blessing.  What a fantastic cycle!

David Lose says, “Gratitude is the noblest emotion.  Gratitude draws us out of ourselves into something larger, bigger, and grander than we could imagine and joins us to the font of blessing itself.  But maybe, just maybe, gratitude is also the most powerful emotion, as it frees us from fear, releases us from anxiety, and emboldens us to do more and dare more than we’d ever imagined.”[ii]  The practice of gratitude changes things.  “When Christians practice gratitude, they come to worship not just to ‘get something out of it,’ but to give thanks and praise to God.  Stewardship is transformed from fundraising to the glad gratitude of joyful givers.  The mission of the church changes from ethical duty to the work of grateful hands and hearts.  Prayer includes not only our intercessions and supplications, but also our thanksgivings at the table.”[iii]

Gratitude is something we have been talking a lot about these past couple of months within the Stewardship Committee.  Today is our official kickoff of stewardship season, and you will be hearing a lot about gratitude over these coming Sundays.  A long time ago, before Scott and I were even married, we talked about the model of stewardship with which I had grown up.  Though United Methodists do not use “pledge” language, they do talk about giving and more specifically about tithing.  Growing up, my family always committed to tithing and talked about that practice regularly.  I always knew money was tight, but no matter what, that ten percent was going back to God on Sundays.  I saw how deeply tithing impacted my parents’ spiritual lives, and Scott and I agreed early in our relationship that we would take on that same spiritual discipline.

So you can imagine my amusement then when I first experienced stewardship in the Episcopal Church.  I heard people making the invitation to give and they used a phrase called the “modern tithe.”  Apparently the modern tithe was the phrase used for giving a percentage of your income to the church – a percentage that you could determine yourselves.  I almost laughed the first time I heard about the modern tithe.  The modern tithe idea sends the message that gratitude is important, but we should decide how much of the tithe we want to give.  The whole idea seemed like a slippery slope to me.  The reason I found the idea strange was because I had lived with the ten percent notion my whole life.  And what I learned about ten percent is that sometimes that ten percent is easy and feels great to give, and sometimes that ten percent feels like it could send you into poverty and despair.  But that is what is great about a sacrificial discipline.  No matter where you are in life, that practice of always giving that percentage is a way of saying, “Lord, this does not feel good right now, but I know you to be faithful and full of blessing, and so I give this to you grudgingly, hoping you can infuse my heart with the gratitude I have felt so many times before.”

I tell you that the Andrews-Weckerlys tithe ten percent not because I want to guilt you into doing the same.  I tell you about our tithing because I want my story to help me reclaim some of that joyful gratitude that the Samaritan has and that I have had at many times in my life.  I confess that lately that monthly pledge check has been hard.  More often I write those numbers with a deep sigh of resignation than with a song of praise.  My hope is that in telling you my story of how I feel like one of the nine lepers, that you might encourage me to be like the one Samaritan leper.  My hope is that in sharing my struggles, you might begin to ponder where you are in your spiritual walk with God and whether your financial giving is a reflection of the deep gratitude you have toward God or instead is the obedient, but joyless following of expectations.  My hope is that in offering up my challenges, we might all have more open, honest conversations at home, with one another, and with God about where we are and where we want to be.  The invitation of that bright, loud, boisterous Samaritan is there for all of us.  Blessings await.  Amen.

[i] David Lose, “Second Blessing,” as found on http://www.workingpreacher.org/craft.aspx?post=2796 on October 11, 2013.

[ii] Lose.

[iii] Kimberly Bracken Long, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Word, Yr. C, vol. 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 168.