Heavy Burdens

Matthew 11:16-30

Jesus must be pretty angry.

“What can I say about this generation?!” he says. “These people are like a bunch of children, arguing and complaining, ‘why won’t you play the way I want to play?!’ ”

"All these places where I have been hard at work," he goes on, "teaching and healing and revealing miracles and wonders – and you just sit there, you won’t recognize what I’m telling you about the kingdom of heaven,

you don’t want to change and grow and take God seriously!"

Yes, Jesus is angry, and probably frustrated. 

And that’s what pretty much everyone in my Facebook feed has been saying this week, too:

What’s wrong with you people?   Jesus wouldn’t do that! You can’t really be Christian – you just want to have it all your own way!!

Of course the people in my Facebook feed aren’t talking about Chorazin and Bethsaida and Capernaum – the places that got Jesus so riled up.  They’re talking about Hobby Lobby, and the US Supreme Court – and their friends, family and neighbors. I’ve been witness to a number of vivid and fairly personal online arguments about what’s Christian and godly this past week.

The issues are actually pretty similar, though – the ones in Bethsaida and Capernaum and Chorazin, and the ones among my Facebook friends. Jesus is on to something when he comments on how much the attitudes on display make us look like children who are whining because they want to play different games and no one will play according to my rules and whims.

Hobby Lobby wants to change the current rules of employment economics that our country has agreed to play by – for now at least.  I respect the reasons why they want to change those rules – but it’s true that they want to play by the rules that favor them – just like the cities that got Jesus steamed up. 

Many of my online and local friends have spent the past week offering their own sets of preferred rules, and complaining about the rules others play by.

And the Supreme Court is busy bending rules into pretzels to suit their appointed notions of how the game is supposed to be “officially” played.

So nobody – not the self-appointed defenders of “Christian” principle, not the official deciders of the rules, and not the people arguing with one another about it all – me included! – none of us are listening to Jesus point out that none of us get to make the rules of the game. 

And that, in fact, when we get so wound up in trying to choose the rules, we’re missing the game – we’re missing real and abundant life – entirely.

No wonder Jesus thanks God for giving wisdom to infants – not the sophisticates and scholars (and lawyers)! No wonder he makes a point of praying publicly in thanksgiving for relationship – the familial, intimate, trusting relationship between himself and God the Father.  And no wonder he’s trying to offer that trusting, intimate relationship to all the most heavily burdened, those most in need of a rest from the self-interest of the world.

Because self-interest is a heavy burden; it’s an exhausting way to live together, and relationship is what we need most. Relationship with one another, and above all, intimate, trusting relationship with God, our Creator, our Father and Mother.

That’s not “easy” in many senses, since one true thing about relationship is that you can never have it all your own way. But that’s exactly the yoke that Jesus is offering, and calling “easy.”  Relationship is a lighter burden than rules – but it binds us tighter and insists that we stick together and depend on one another when we’d much rather take our toys and go home.

You don’t get into a yoke to go your own way, after all. You get into a yoke because together we’re stronger than we are apart, and in a yoke you let someone else drive, even when it’s inconvenient to  you.

To be in that yoke, in that trusting, intimate, unbreakable relationship with God, with Jesus, is to know – not think, not believe, but know with your gut and heart – that the kingdom of heaven, God’s loving care for the poor, oppressed, and friendless – is more important than any rules we want to live by.

The kingdom of God is not represented by even the best of United States laws or court decisions.

It’s not represented by closing your stores on Sundays, or any particular stand on abortion, birth control, or health insurance.

The kingdom of God is represented by, and made real because of, our individual and community actions to care first for the lost, “the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” 

The kingdom of God is made real in our day and time by a sense that God calls us to change, repent, and renew that relationship with God that stands above all others, and to let go of our personal sense of right and proper and normal.

That’s worth remembering this weekend – the weekend we have spent celebrating this nation’s independence; celebrating the promise of lighter yokes that make this country so attractive. 

And it’s especially worth remembering when the news media, major corporations, the agents of government, and thousands of individual self-appointed righteous persons around us get caught up in arguing about the most attractive interpretations of religious liberty and Christian freedom.

It’s worth remembering that laws and rules don’t make us free, or even right.  Even, or especially, the laws and rules that work best for me. 

So it’s especially appropriate this morning that Jesus calls us to remember that his light and binding yoke goes well beyond the best that a nation can do.

Because nations make rules.

And God makes relationships.

And you and I are called to pay more attention to the relationships, any time we’re tempted to get caught up in the rules. 

We’re called to yoke ourselves to God, to God’s vision for the world, and all the self-denial, compassion and abundant joy that relationship demands.

It’s an easy yoke, though, Jesus promises.  Easier in the long run than self-interest.

Because even though that yoke, that relationship, holds us tighter than any rules, and directs us to places we wouldn’t have chosen for ourselves, it is always as light and strong as love.

More Christian?

Genesis 22:1-14; Matthew 10:40-42

You might notice a contrast between two of our scripture stories this morning.

The first story we heard is called the akedah, the “binding,” in the Hebrew tradition.  God instructs Abraham to take his beloved son to Moriah, and offer him on the altar on the mountain.  And Abraham does it! 
He goes off to the mountain with Isaac, binds his son on the altar and reaches for a knife to kill Isaac before (finally!) God interrupts, and provides a ram for the offering.

There’s no disguising the fact that this is a scary and very disturbing story.

And then we come to the gospel, where we hear Jesus’ talking to his disciples as he sends them out to preach and teach and heal:

Anyone who welcomes you welcomes me. And those who welcome a prophet, or a righteous person, or even one of the nobodies, receives a reward.  

Welcome everyone!  It’s rewarding!

Now tell me honestly, which of those stories sounds more like being a good Christian to you?

The binding of Isaac?

Or welcome everyone?

Well, there’s good news and bad news about the results of this little poll: you’re all wrong. Or equally, you’re all right, including those of you who had a hard time deciding.

You see, even though they sound so different, both of these stories are about putting God ahead of absolutely everything else.  Putting God ahead of our love, our convenience, our hearts, even our faith!

I am absolutely certain that God never approves of child sacrifice – the prophets warn Israel and everyone else against it – and that God definitely doesn’t want any of us to get ideas about killing our children.

It helps to remember as we read Isaac’s story, that even though God tells Abraham to offer Isaac on the altar, God has already made sure that Isaac will never be in actual danger.

But Abraham really does have to trust God even more than he trusts himself. 

He has to trust God even more than he loves and values his son (and that’s a lot!).

God has to trust Abraham a lot, too, because God could lose both Isaac and Abraham by inviting them to this heart-breaking altar – if Abraham doesn’t actually trust God that much.

But there’s evidence of Abraham’s trust throughout the story.

When Isaac asks about the missing lamb for the offering, Abraham answers “God himself will provide the lamb.”  (It’s the only time in the Bible when we actually hear the familiar phrase “God will provide” – and when you use it, remember it’s a high stakes trust, here!)

And earlier in the story, when they leave Abraham’s servants behind, Abraham tells them to wait because we – both he and Isaac – will return.

It takes a powerful, painful, gut-wrenching kind of trust to bind your own son and reach for a knife, still trusting that God will provide. 

And thank God, God doesn’t ask that of you and me.

But God still demands some pretty powerful trust from us.  

There’s evidence of that in the gospel story.

You see, welcoming people the way Jesus means it is not about being nice, polite, or friendly. Welcoming people is actually about extra and unusual effort to treat people as God would treat them. 

To proactively, intentionally, seek out the opportunity to make people at home in your community; to show guests that they are valued and served and cared for just as you would care for God.

It may mean giving up privacy and familiarity in your home to welcome someone God needs you to care for.  It may mean going way out of your comfort zone to greet strangers, pray in public or in your workplace, because we’re called to welcome God’s people who aren’t ready for or interested in coming through our church doors.

We’ve been talking about welcome in Vestry this year.  You’ve heard us talk about “Refresh, Renew, Revive,” and about how we want to change up our entryway and our fellowship space to make our building more welcoming, encourage conversation, and put physical form on our hospitality.

But we also remind ourselves in those conversations that to welcome a prophet, or a righteous person, or a “little one” – Jesus’ term for “no account” people, the people who clearly don’t matter – to welcome any or all of those people is about a lot more than furniture and name tags.

The building is the easy part.  Advertising and seriously inviting people from outside – face to face is harder – it’s the sort of things that make Episcopalians squirm. 

But what Jesus is talking about is even more.

Jesus is asking us to work on our hearts – on looking actively and intently for ways we can incorporate people into our life together, ways we can help others see that their whole selves are welcomed by God, even if they seem “different” than us. 

It means paying more attention to inviting, involving, and serving others than to whether we’re comfortable or happy in worship. 

It means going even further than we do now to put kids and people with walkers ahead of our sense of proper space and normal worship.

It means being excited about the challenges of changing our assumptions; embracing differences that make people with different colors, cultures, food, music, and ways of celebrating just as much at home at Calvary as you or I could be.

To do all that we have to trust God more than we care about our own comfort, or our families, or friends.

That’s not being “nice” at all.

That’s being gut-wrenchingly Christian.

Which brings us right back to Abraham and Isaac, and to trusting God.

Trusting God so much that you don’t fear the loss of whatever you hold most dear, even in the moment that you’re preparing to sacrifice that darling to God.

Trusting God so much that you’ll go far out of your way to do what God wants – even though you have serious doubts about whether it will make you happy.

Trusting God so much that you’ll consciously try to welcome when that means uprooting unconscious habits or comfort.

Geez, that’s a lot of trust!

And that is exactly what being Christian – being “Christ-like” – is  all about. 

About trusting God so much that we can embrace discomfort, doubt, and fear – just like Jesus did – to offer up what’s dearest to us, and go out of our way to welcome others as we would serve and honor God.

That trust means ongoing work; it’s not a one time deal.

You don’t have to be nice to people (you can, though), you don’t have to sacrifice your children, but you do have to trust God above even the things that are closest to your heart.

You and I have already been invited to that nerve-wracking altar.  Even welcomed by God. 

Now we’re called to trust beyond trust, and to welcome others.

Jesus promised us that it’s rewarding – that’s important to remember.

And God’s waiting with us – just like with Abraham – to see what happens.

What do you think it will be?

Mystery

Genesis 1:1-2:4; Matthew 28:16-20

I love the Genesis story we heard this morning.  It’s a long story, but a good one.

I love it for the poetic way that God brings life and beauty out of chaos, out of the “formless void.”

I love it, because it gives meaning to the way we experience our world, telling us that we share the resources of the earth with birds and “creeping things that creep upon the earth” and everything that breathes; telling us most of all that all of creation: light and dark, water and land, trees and snails and vultures and zebras and dogs and stars and people, all of creation is good.

Very good.

And I love it because the delightfully concrete details like the provision of “plants yielding seed and trees bearing fruit with the seed in it” as food for everything that breathes don’t obscure the sense of mystery, of wonder and joy, at the miracle of creation.

It’s a story that tells important truths but still knows it doesn’t have all the answers. And it’s a story whose truths and meanings we humans are still trying to figure out.

Just look at the interest and conversation generated by the recent Fox series “Cosmos,” where my personal hero, Neil DeGrasse Tyson, a brilliant physicist with a sense of humor, takes viewers on beautifully designed tours of what we know of the universe, from DNA to stars, from tectonic plates to atmosphere, and much between and beyond, and shows us the questions that haven’t been answered.

Both the ultra-contemporary “Cosmos” and the ancient creation stories of the Bible remind us that the appeal of both science and theology is to ask and answer questions like

“How did we get here?”

“What is the world like?”

and the perennial mystery, “Why mosquitoes?”

(why, oh God, why??)

Science and theology take somewhat different approaches to how we answer those questions, but there’s still a lot of overlap in the mystery and in the questions.

I’m particularly glad we read that biblical mystery story today, because today is the day the Church calls “Trinity Sunday.”  It’s a perfect day for mystery and wonder and questions, because today is the day we celebrate what we know – and even more, what we don’t know – about who God is.

Technically, we are celebrating the church’s long proclaimed truth that three “persons,” Father, Son and Spirit; Creator, Redeemer, and Sanctifier; are all one God, a mathematical and logical impossibility that reminds us how much mystery there still is in our relationship with God.

We know God is one.

That’s actually the radical truth that our Genesis creation story proclaimed when it was first told – in a world where most people told creation stories about struggles between multiple gods.

We know that God is one.

And we also know that Jesus was God, walking around on the earth in one human body and talking to God in heaven, calling God, “Father,” – but still, Jesus was God.

So we know that God is two.  But still one.

And we’ve been talking about the Spirit of God ever since the beginning; the Spirit who hovers over creation, who fills us with the presence of God in daily inspiration, sent to us and the world by the Creator, or by Jesus, or both…which makes three, if you’re still counting.

But we still know that God is One.

Makes perfect sense, right?

Well, it’s not supposed to make logical sense.  But it’s all truth.

Just like the Elephant.

Do you know the story of the Blind Men and the Elephant?

One famous version of the story explains that six scholars, all blind, wanted to really know what an elephant was like.  So they found an elephant to observe (very scientific of them!).

One touched the trunk, and knew that an elephant was like a snake. Another embraced a leg, and knew the elephant was like a tree. One fell against the elephant’s side, and recognized a wall; another felt the ear and knew it was like a fan.  The final two felt the tail – obviously like a rope, and the tusk, sharp and solid, like a spear.

In some versions of the story the scholars argue and disagree.  In other versions, they pool their knowledge, ending up with a bigger picture.  But the blind men never get to “see” the whole elephant, a being greater than the sum of its parts.

It’s a perfect metaphor for our own descriptions of God, and even of God’s creation and action in the world.

We never get to see all of God or God’s actions for ourselves. We can only tell the truth of what we experience and what we already know; and listen to what others experience.

We can talk about the experiences we have of God as Creator when we marvel at the wonders of nature, or of human beings; God as Redeemer when we celebrate our salvation; God as  Sanctifier when we feel the presence of God within and among us. We can talk about God as Father, Son and Spirit; and we do, in scripture and sermons and conversations and song and prayer.

But we can’t gain a complete picture of God, except by saying that all these ways we know God are truths – but not the whole truth – of one undivided God.

Which brings us back to mystery.

Mystery which permeates the stories of creation that both scientists and theologians tell.

And sometimes mystery itself is enough truth to go on with, when we don’t know it all; even enough to help us live our lives, and grow in our relationship to God.

Mystery – of creation, of the Trinity – means that our relationship with God requires a life-long willingness to explore our hopes, our questions, our experience, and even our doubts.

And it means that we have to tell the truth of what we know before we know the whole truth. We have to share our experience of the fan and the tree and the rope, our experience of God the Creator, God the Savior, God the Counselor and Guide, so that everyone can see more of the elephant, more of God, than any of us can alone.

That’s the last instruction Jesus left with his disciples, after all. We heard it in today’s gospel story: after the resurrection, the disciples are gathered around Jesus, hearts full of both worship and doubt. And that’s when Jesus says, “Go, and make disciples among all peoples, teaching them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

The disciples certainly didn’t know the whole truth, but they knew God the Son, so they knew God the Father, and the Spirit.  And Jesus sent them out to tell what they knew.

That’s an invitation – not just to the disciples so long ago, but to us today – to delight in the mystery, to seek out many different experiences of God, and to share them, so that we know God, even when we don’t know it all and never will. Because the truth isn’t defined by answers, but by our experience of God from the moment of creation, and our willingness to wonder, and to embrace the mystery.