Sermon: Jesus Grabs Us

A Sermon preached in 

Christ Church, Grosse Pointe, Michigan
by The Reverend Vicki Hesse, Associate

The 10th Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 14, Year A)
13 August 2017

Listen here.

Lord, take my lips and speak through them; take our minds and think through them; take our hearts and set them on fire with love for you.

A few winters ago, my partner and I went dog sledding in Minnesota. The morning of our first run, our small group gathered together and learned how to harness the dogs, how to lead them (on their back legs), and how to call out GEE and HAW to steer the rig down the path.  As we talked inside, the 35 anxious dogs outside howled, barked, & pulled their chains in anticipation. Once we went out, all we could hear was a cacophony of canines. Pick Me! Pick Me!  the dogs cried, only fueling our anticipation for the upcoming adventure.  

Battered by the sound of barking, fingers frozen from 40-below temps, we wrestled the harnesses on the dogs, slid across the icy path toward the sled, spilled dogfood bowls, called out to each other. With frantic, barking, jumpy dogs hitched, the guides yelled and we jumped on board, released the sled tether and yelled “Hike Hike!”  

At once, the dogs pulled with the speed and strength and agility of an American Ninja Warrior, and we heard….nothing. The sound of sheer silence. Just barely audible ~ the sound of satisfied breathing, cantering paws padding through snow and the edge of the sled’s runners cutting through the ice.  

Today’s gospel text sets a scene of chaos with a mix of fear and anticipation. For the disciples’ boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land and the wind was against them. When they saw Jesus walking out to them, the power of their fear intensified.  The wind roared, the rig of the sails clanked back and forth, the disciples yelled, the overturned buckets and unleashed stays and clips banged on the deck. The wind howled in the hoods of their rain jackets. At last, Jesus yelled, “take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” 

At the invitation of Jesus, Peter got out of the boat, trying out a new authority conferred upon him.  He started walking on the water with the speed and strength and agility of an American Ninja Warrior and he hears…nothing. The sound of sheer silence. 

But then Peter noticed the wind, barely audible at first, and it crashed into his silent bubble – the strong wind, the noise, the chaos around him became his reality.  Peter was overcome by fear[1]. He cried out, “Lord, save me!” His fear was justified; it was a storm that fumed powerfully enough to sink the boat and drown the whole crew.  Peter had good reasons to be afraid.

And so do we (have good reasons to be afraid.) The fear is palpable: the clanging noise of North Korea and US escalating threats, the empty harvest buckets and record famine in Africa, the roar of climate-change-fueled storms sweeping across North America, the shroud of 1967 Detroit banging on the deck of our sense of identity, while a hurricane of fear storms through the state of Virginia as extremist groups gather in Charlottesville and clash violently with counter-protestors; all while, the waves of change seem to crash on the shore of our congregation in the midst of personnel departures.

We can be overcome by our fear. That fear can be debilitating, paralyzing us. The power of fear robs the family of God’s people of the abundant life that God intends.  We cry out, “Lord, save me!”

But that’s not the whole story, because immediately, Jesus reached out his hand and caught Peter. When Peter saw the conflict of the storm and heard the persecution of the wind, he began to sink under the power of fear. Jesus immediately reached out and grabbed him, saving him and restoring him to his vocation. The wind ceased. The fear relented.

In the grip of Jesus, the disciples recognized that the power of God’s promise of flourishing life and steadfast love was the antidote to fear. “Truly you are the Son of God.”

Today, Jesus reaches out his hand and grabs us. Jesus makes the first move, grabbing us out of the chaos– not depending on us, not giving up on us, not waiting on us. Fears are often real. Fears are understandable. Fears are also debilitating.  

And Jesus grabs us, as his disciples, and demands we use the authority conferred on us at our baptism: to pray for peace and to be the embodiment of God’s love and justice. 

• That means speaking out against bigotry and hatred (and the violence that occurred) in Charlottesville. 
• That means denouncing white nationalism and white supremacy, both an affront to the Gospel born under the power of fear. Because racism is a sin. 
• That means praying for those injured or died in the violence and the safety of all who live in Charlottesville. 
• That means persevering in resisting evil, hatred, violence and prejudice in any form.
• That means taking measurable steps to build bridges and to be agents of our Lord's mercy, grace, truth and love.

For our story is not over – the future is open! For God is with us and for us And God is not done with us yet. Jesus catches us today and restores us to our vocation, calling out to us to do God’s work in the world, untethered from the power of fear and under the full sail power of God’s promise. 

Long Pause

Over the last three months, I have said goodbye to many people, places and things around Christ Church.  The fear of finality that comes with saying that is palpable.  Goodbyes are tough for me and this transition is no different, doling out an overdose of emotions that defy words.

Dr. Ira Byock, a palliative care physician, has coined a phrase[2] to help with goodbyes, “the four things that matter most.” These are: Please forgive me. I forgive you. Thank you. I love you. Dr. Byock reminds us, “When we say the four things that matter most – or when we say goodbye, in whatever form – there's going to be real work involved.” Why? because these eleven words – they are not words. They are entry points for sacred connections.  They are admissions of our humanity. They are words made flesh of our incarnate God.

So, today, here are four things that matter most.

First, please forgive me.  In today’s Gospel, Jesus laments having to catch Peter, “you of little faith, why did you doubt?” He’s not rebuking, he is lamenting. The disciples had so much going for them, yet there in that boat without Jesus for the first time, they doubted, which grieved Jesus. This week, I felt convicted for the various ways that I have doubted the power of Love; how I might have gotten in the way of the gospel. 

Please forgive me for speaking in haste, for not meeting your expectations, for fostering a misunderstanding that still might not be resolved, for singing out of tune, for not speaking more prophetically, for “things done and things left undone.” 

God forgives me, this I know. +

Second, I forgive you.  I forgive you for any times that you might have doubted Love; for serious and for simple mistakes; for petty squabbles; for your outrageous hopes, expansive dreams, & brazen humanness; for challenging me to imagine greater, to love quicker, to grasp lighter; for things done and things left undone. God forgives you, this I know.+

Thirdly, Thank you. Thank you for being The Church. For gathering and sharing in each other’s company at times of joy and times of sorrow; for caring for each other with home communion, intercessory prayer, and listening with the ear of your heart; for risking looking weird by walking the labyrinth or praying spontaneously by candle light in Miller Hall when the power went out; for planting seeds of hope to invite/welcome/connect our community; for drenching me with profoundly moving Anglican choral music, for coming directly to me when we disagreed, for telling me your name at least three times before I got it. And so we especially thank God for calling us to serve together in this place, for this season.

And the fourth thing that matters most: I love you. I love you for being disciples on a journey with me. I love your for being my Christian sisters and brothers who love deeply and yearn to know God. I love you because Jesus loves you.  And that love knows no bounds.  That love arises from the One who loved at the dawn of creation.  That love moves in our tears and catches in our throat and spills out through our smiles. I love you.  God loves you.

Even when we doubt, and even when we say goodbye and even when we don’t have the words. Please forgive me. I forgive you. Thank you. I love you.

So be at peace with each other, be forgiving of each other 

and be extravagant with God’s love.

Amen

---

[1] Portions of sermon inspired by David Lose, “In the Meantime…” cited here on August 8, 2017.

[2] From November 2013 Interview by Krista Tippett, OnBeing, titled, “Contemplating Mortality” at this site: https://onbeing.org/programs/ira-byock-contemplating-mortality/

 

Sermon: Go and Do Likewise

The Eighth Sunday after Pentecost

A Sermon of The Rev. Vicki K. Hesse

Christ Church, Grosse Pointe, MI

RCL Proper 10, Year C
10 July 2016

Listen here.

"Lord, surely this commandment that you have commanded us is not too hard for us, for you promise that the word is very near to us; it is in our mouth and in our heart ..." Amen

The great 20th Cty theologian Karl Barth

is often quoted that one should preach

with the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other. 

Turns out, he never said that exactly,

but he did say something close[1]

…and what he meant was, read both,

but interpret newspapers from the Bible.'"[2]

Interpret newspapers from the Bible.

And so, today, we’ll start with the news and interpret it from the Bible.

The news, well, you all know.

It has been awful.

More black men[3] killed by police officers.

More police officers killed by civilians.

I am heart broken, feeling woefully inadequate

to describe the news, let alone interpret it.

Yet, I rest in the promise that

the word is very near us,

in our mouth and in our heart. 

Karl Barth encourages me as today’s gospel collides with our context.

Today’s scripture offers a passage so familiar

it is almost dangerous. 

After the lawyer sought to test Jesus

by asking him to clarify who the “neighbor” is,

Jesus said: “A man was going down

from Jerusalem to Jericho,

when he was attacked by robbers.

They stripped him of his clothes, beat him

and went away, leaving him half dead.

A priest happened to be

going down the same road, and

when he saw the man,

he passed by on the other side."

My sisters and brothers:

We, here, the priesthood of all believers,

we cannot pass by those black men

– Alton Sterling and Philando Castile –

And what they represent for our society.

These are just two of the 136 black people

killed by police this year.[4]

That is the question to ponder:

what this represents.

Like you, I sometimes feel

trapped in anger and fear,

and paralyzed by an inability

to know what to do next,

wondering if this situation

has become more than a parable

for our church. 

Today’s gospel: The familiar

Parable of the Good & Compassionate Samaritan.

We might think we know the moral already:

Love your enemies and help the one in need.

And there is more:

Jesus calls us to go further within our context.

Who is our neighbor?

Who do we see as our neighbor?

I wonder if our sight is part of the problem.

Who is our neighbor that we don’t see,

or don’t want to see

because it is inconvenient?

Can we relate to the priest in the parable, reacting to the one in need by withdrawing

to the opposite side of the road,

so as to preserve religious purity?

Can we relate to the Levite in the parable, reacting to the one in need by seeing them

but still passing by,

so as to avoid someone who might tarnish?

Last week, three times, I found myself

passing by a motorist

whose car had broken down in an intersection.

Did I stop to help? No, I kept driving. 

I had some place “important” to be. 

It was “inconvenient” for me to stop.  Inconvenient for me to see the one in need;

they were invisible.

In 1952, Ralph Ellison wrote a book called Invisible Man.

It tells about the social and intellectual issues

facing African-Americans early in the 20^th cty. 

The narrator begins by saying that he is an "invisible man, not because of his physical condition—he is not literally invisible—but “…because of

the refusal of others to see him.”[5] 

This perspective begs the question:

who do we see as our neighbor

and whom do we overlook?

Perhaps, like the priest and the Levite,

we overlook and avoid those who are in need

because of our intolerance for “inconvenience.”

But when we allow our hearts to be

“moved with pity,”

we know that we have no choice. 

“We move from

‘what will happen to me if I help’ to

‘what will happen to the person if I don’t help’”[6]

We realize, it’s not inconvenient. 

Can we relate to the Samaritan in the parable, reacting to the one in need by seeing them,

by being moved with pity,

by doing compassion?

For that is where we find God.

And that is where God finds us.

God show up when people act like the Samaritan. 

This is what it means to accept

the Lordship of Jesus Christ:

that we do “down to earth compassion”[7]

for anyone in need, even an enemy or

even one whom we have been taught is

“not” our neighbor.

“For Jesus, compassion was

a badge of discipleship

and not merely a religious amenity.”[8]

Biblical Scholar A.T.Robertson once remarked,

“This parable of the Good Samaritan

has built the world’s hospitals,

and if properly understood and practiced

would remove race prejudice,

national hatred and war.”[9]

The Samaritan offers us clues

for our life,

for our community bound together by our shared need and

for our own vulnerability. 

For here is what we believe: 

God is Love,

and God serves as our Samaritan,

our only salvation in this midst of this news

and our conviction

in the face of these scriptures. 

Jewish theologian Elie Wiesel taught,

"The opposite of love is not hate,

it's indifference."

Indifference because of inconvenience

is the opposite of love. 

Indifference to a pattern of societal racism

is the opposite of love.

Indifference to our neighbors

Alton Sterling and Philando Castile

is the opposite of love. 

God continues to work

through so many Samaritan-like people

who have cared for us until now.

God wants still to meet our needs

through others

(and sometimes through those we would least expect or want to help us.)[10]

And, with God’s grace,

we will not be indifferent

to the societal sin of racism. 

on Sin and Redemption>

We must look directly at it

and begin the conversation, for the words are very near us.

With conversations grounded in “I” statements,

we can touch that place in our own lives

sharing our personal experiences of racism. 

With these conversations,

we can examine our lives

and confessionally express our need

for each other. 

And we can touch God’s presence

in the intimacy of our vulnerability. 

God’s mercy, which lasts forever,

inspires us to do compassion.

God’s compassion, which endures all things,

saves us from indifference. 

God’s Love, the source of all that is yes,

calls us into discipleship. 

Compassion:

God’s original response to humanity.

Go and do likewise.

Amen

---

[1] Close to it, such as "Der Pfarrer und die Gläubigen sollten sich nicht einbilden, dass sie eine religiöse Gesellschaft sind, die sich um bestimmte Themen herum dreht, sondern sie leben in der Welt. Wir brauchen doch - nach meiner alten Formulierung - die Bibel und die Zeitung." ["The Pastor and the Faithful should not deceive themselves into thinking that they are a religious society, which has to do with certain themes; they live in the world. We still need - according to my old formulation - the Bible and the Newspaper."] Cited on Princeton Seminary’s blog at http://www.praytellblog.com/index.php/2015/05/09/ars-praedicandi-preaching-with-the-bible-in-one-hand-and-the-newspaper-in-the-other/ on July 9, 2016

[2]Cited on Princeton Seminary’s blog at http://www.ptsem.edu/Library/index.aspx?menu1_id=6907&menu2_id=6904&id=8450 on July 9, 2016

[3] According to The Counted, a project of The Guardian, 136 African Americans have been killed by police so far this year. Alton Sterling was number 135. Philando Castile was number 136. The Police officers were Brent Thompson, Patrick Zamarripa, Michael Krol, Michael Smith and Lorne Ahrens.

[4] Cited at The Counted: http://www.theguardian.com/us-news/ng-interactive/2015/jun/01/the-counted-police-killings-us-database on July 9, 2016

[5] Cited at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Invisible_Man on July 9, 2016

[6] Portions excerpted from Martin Luther King’s Good Samaritan Sermon cited on July 9, 2016 at https://www.biblegateway.com/blog/2012/04/why-didnt-they-stop-martin-luther-king-jr-on-the-parable-of-the-good-samaritan/

[7] Peter Rhea Jones, The love command in parable: Luke 10:25-37 from “Perspectives in Religious Studies,” 6 no. 3 Fall 1979, p. 224-242 on ATLA0000779569

[8] Ibid, p. 240

[9] A.T. Robinson, Word Pictures in The New Testament, cited at http://www.biblestudytools.com/commentaries/robertsons-word-pictures/luke/luke-10-37.html on July 9, 2016

[10] Inspired by David Lose, “Who is my Neighbor” from July 8, 2016.