Three Courageous Friends

Margie Quinn

The book of Daniel is, as one scholar put it, the most unusual book in the Hebrew bible. The first chapters of the book are “court tales” about a mad King, a fiery furnace, and a lion's den. The second half of the book reveals strange visions and wild dreams of beasts from the sea and the like, that are so fantastical it’s hard to make sense of them. It’s an apocalyptic book just like the book of Revelation. But apocalypse doesn’t mean “doomsday” or “end of the world” in this case. It means “unveiling or “uncovering.” It simply reveals what already is. 

Many scholars think that a few of these stories are folklore, told around a campfire as a way to orally preserve stories of faith and resistance. So, let me tell you a little faithful, fiery folklore this morning. 

In the third chapter of this book of unveiling, we meet the mad King Nebuchadnezzar, the conqueror of Jerusalem, the man who is responsible for the destruction of the Temple, who forced many of God’s people, the Jewish people, to live in exile under military occupation. Exile for the Israelites was an experience of military defeat, deportation and oppression in a new and strange land, which ended their days of independence. 

In the same year that the Temple, the true place of worship for God’s people, comes down, this mad monarch wants to erect a golden statue as a new symbol of worship. We’re not quite sure what the statue was of, some scholars think it was of King Neb himself, but it doesn’t really matter: the King had the economic and political power, (and a particular kind of pride that derives its prestige and privilege from the suffering of others) to do whatever he wanted. This statue is set up in the plain of Dura, meaning that the politically occupied people, the colonized people, would have to walk by it every day, constantly reminded of their inferiority in this strange land. 

Isn’t that what colonialism does? We’ve seen it before– settlers take over land that is not theirs and build statues symbolizing their conquests, their inventions, their victories, and their heroes, making sure that the people striving for a kin-dom of God know that this is the kingdom of Babylon. 

Why does he demand the golden statue? Because he can. He’s rich enough. He has enough gold. And not only that, he has enough people in government who hang on his every word, his minions, with whom he can demand obedience. We learn in verse 2 that he sends for all of these leaders, the highest officials of government who represent Babylonian power, to gather around the statue. They have been called by the King to attend his little statue dedication party. When they’re all there, they learn that every time they hear a particular musical ensemble or anthem, if you will, they should fall down and worship this golden statue. And, as verse 6 tells us, “Whoever does not fall down and worship shall immediately be thrown into a furnace of blazing fire.”

DUN DUN DUN….are you seeing the set up here? 

Enter Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. Which aren’t even their god-given, Hebrew names but the names that the King has forced upon them. Their Jewish names, Azariah, Hananiah, and Mishael, are taken from them, their identities stripped and changed to fit into the language of conquest. Sound familiar? 

The King has changed their names, because as history shows us, the best way to enslave the minds of oppressed people is to take away their cultural identities, change their names, change their hair and their clothes and forbid them from speaking their native language. 

The first thing we learn about these three friends is that they won’t bow down to his object of gold. You see, a group of people come up to King Neb and alert him to the fact that certain “foreigners” living under his imperial control are disobeying his command. These three courageous friends, who were actually given leadership positions to oversee Babylonian affairs, who have already tasted a little bit of what it feels like to be among the political elite, throw a wrench in the King’s plan. The narrative of “whatever Neb wants, King Neb gets,” stops here. 

These three courageous friends, these lowly Jewish exiles, stand in faith before the King as he asks, “Is it true…that you don’t serve my gods or worship my statue?” Giving them one more chance to change their minds, he states again, “Now, like I said before, if you’re ready, when you hear the anthem, fall down and worship…but if you don’t, you’ll be thrown into a furnace of blazing fire, and who is the god who will deliver you out of my hands?” 

I hate spoiler alerts but spoiler alert: we know who this God is who will deliver them out of the King’s hands. This is the God who delivered the Israelites from Egypt, who gave Esther the courage to stand up to the mad King Ahasuerus, the same God who likes to do some of his best work in burning bushes and fiery furnaces. I digress. 

These three courageous friends stubbornly refuse to compromise their faith, even in the face of royal wrath and terrible threats. In fact, they double down, despite knowing that their faith has consequences. 

These three courageous friends let him know that they don’t need to get into an argument with him about their Deliverer. In fact, they don’t state that God will definitely deliver them. Instead they say, “ If our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the furnace of blazing fire and out of your hand, O king, let him deliver us. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods and we will not worship the golden statue that you have set up.” Even if their God doesn’t deliver them, they still won’t obey the King’s commands. Imagine having that kind of faith, that kind of courage, to resist the powers that be even if you don’t know the outcome of your actions. 

Still, their faith has consequences–it leads them right into the fire. The King orders that the furnace be heated up to 7x its normal temperature and gets his strongest guards to bind them and throw them into the furnace. They are bound and thrown in and because the fire is so overheated, the flames kill the King’s own guards who lifted the men into it. The rage of the King is so great, it results in the senseless loss of some of his own officials. 

The three friends fall down, bound, into the furnace of blazing fire. King Neb is watching the whole thing. “Wait a minute,” he asks his minions, “didn’t we throw in three men?” “True, O King,” they reply.  “But I see four men in there, unbound, walking in the middle of the fire…and they aren’t hurt…and the fourth has an appearance of a god.” 

He immediately approaches the door and says, “Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, servants of the Most High God, come out! Come here!” Did you pick up on that? He recognizes that the God who delivers them is not a god of gold but the most High God, their God. 

So, they come out of the fire. And all of the minions gather and see that the fire “had not had any power over the bodies of those men. The hair of their heads was not singed, their tunics were not scorched, and not even the smell of fire came from them.” 

King Neb blesses them for their courage and admits that an angel of their God has delivered them because they trusted their God. This is, what we would call, a plot twist. All of the sudden, this King who tried to culturally and spiritually assimilate these men by tempting them with power and prestige, recognizes that their God has delivered them. In the big ending of this story, King Neb is humbled enough to give them credit for disobeying his command and “yielding up their bodies rather than serve and worship any God except their own. “The humbling of the mighty emperor,” Daniel Christopher-Smith writes, “was instigated by the civil disobedience of three who lived by another reality, because they served another Sovereign.” Another reality. Another sovereign. 

As people of faith, we have a lot to learn from these three courageous friends. As people of faith, we will inevitably find ourselves in opposition to dominant culture and idolatrous patriotism. As people of faith, we will find ourselves resisting a culture based on military conquests and economic abuse of conquered peoples. 

And we have two choices. Will we fall on our knees to worship the symbols of worldly power in all of its religious expressions or will we refuse to be moved by the music of national interest, unwilling to bow before the golden statues of the people in power? 

We must be willing to walk through the fire, not alone but with courageous friends, knowing that there is an angel of God who walks with us every step of the way. 

We may be afraid, the road may seem long, and it may be very daunting to resist what the King offers. But the most High God beckons us to step into a radical faith, not the Babylon-poisoned faith of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego but the ancient, bold faith of Azariah, Hananiah, and Mishael. 

Amen. 

The Wailing Women

Margie Quinn

There is a group of women in Seattle who call themselves the Women in Black. They stand vigil on the streets of Seattle for one hour any time a homeless person dies from exposure or violence. I remember working with people living on the streets of Seattle. I remember the first time someone from the street that I knew died. His name was Dylan and he was just a kid. He died by a lamp post not far from our office. I know this because on my way to work, I saw a group of youth I recognized from the streets, gathered around the lamp post. They told me what happened. Their dear friend, Dylan, had died. Dylan’s death wasn’t in the news. He didn’t get an obituary, his death went unnoticed for the most part. But the Women in Black noticed, were made aware and grieved for him. 

The Women in Black collect the names of our unhoused neighbors, hold signs with them, announce to the public that one of God’s children has died from the elements, exposure, even street violence. They held vigil for Dylan and still today, they hold vigil for those in King County, cutting through the statistics on homelessness to name the people behind the numbers.
The Women in Black is actually an international organization, standing vigil all around the world when injustice and senseless violence takes lives. They have stood vigil for the 40,000 people who have died in Gaza, and will surely stand vigil for Sonya Massey, a Black woman who was shot and killed by a police officer on July 6th after calling 911 for help. Did you know her name? These women do. 

We often refer to Jeremiah as the Weeping Prophet. His eyes are a fountain of tears, he weeps for his people day and night. He weeps with God throughout the book because of the hurt of God’s people. God’s people have disregarded God’s law and followed Baal’s law. There has been a series of attacks on the Judeans and a significant number of them have been forced into exile by the Babylonians. Violence and destruction overrun the city and the temple. And there is a lot of death. In chapter 9 verse 21, Death is personified as creeping through the windows, entering the palaces, leaving its mark on all. Suffice it to say, there is very little hope for liberation in the book of Jeremiah. 

All of this death and destruction makes God angry. Even before we arrive at Chapter 9, we see the indignation of God as she takes in this chaos. In Chapter 5, God urges Jeremiah, “Run to and fro the streets of Jerusalem, look around and take note! Search its squares and see if you can find one person who acts justly, and seeks truth, so that I may pardon Jerusalem.” 

God’s people, who have eyes, but do not see, who have ears, but do not hear. This God is hurt by the people she liberated from oppression–she is fed up and in the previous verses, declares that she is going to “give them poisonous water to drink, scatter them and send a sword after them” because they have forsaken the law, not obeyed her voice, stubbornly followed their own hearts and worshiped the false idol, Baal. 

Eventually, though, her rage turns to sadness. God feels the devastation of war in his own self. The highly visible wounds inflicted on the city and his people cause deep-seated suffering for God. But instead of turning away from his people, he enters into solidarity with those reeling from trauma. The same God who wanted to poison his people finally breaks down in tears and, In the only message addressed exclusively to women in the Hebrew bible, God calls for the wailing women.  

Listen to what scripture says: “Call for the mourning women to come, send for the skilled women to come. Let them raise a dirge over us so that our eyes may run down with tears and our eyelids flow with water.” 

Who are these wailing women? They are professional mourners. They have been trained in the ritual of public witness, of vocalizing what the people need to express, of lamenting on behalf of a community that has faced extreme loss. They demonstrate how to react appropriately in light of all of the destruction and death. They understand that grief is meant to be shared, that communal lament is a necessary response in the wake of unimaginable pain. They are God’s chosen grievers. 

And yes, they may have traditionally held very little power in the public sphere, but when they are summoned, they have the power to bring the community together to grieve. 

Their grief is not performative or quick. When they enter the stage, as Juliana Classens writes, there is no “happily ever after” moment that comes out of this. They simply raise their voices in lament to help the community deal with its trauma. God calls on them to show a community how to name what they have lost, something that the people in power do not want them to do.

Walter Brueggeman refers to the people in power as having a “royal consciousness.” “Royal Israel” leads people to numbness about death. It delights in apathy, in our ability to ignore the ongoing suffering in our communities and skip straight to despair, knowing that despair paralyzes us, desensitizes us, makes us bitter and unfeeling. It whispers to us that we should move on quickly.

And yet God knows and the women know that a public expression of grief is the way to subvert this royal consciousness. First, it is therapeutic. It helps people deal with societal grief by naming tragedy without avoiding the pain. Isn’t this how we take the first steps toward recovery and healing? Second, it bears witness. It tells the truth about what has happened, urging the community not to forget but to be brave about naming the people and the pain behind the numbers. Third, it is prophetic. It is a powerful, visible expression to the fact things are not as they should be. 

The wailing women have showed up not just in Judea but in our lives today 

Perhaps you’ve heard of the Black Sash, a group of South African women who opposed apartheid. This group began in 1955, when six working-class white women laid a black sash over a replica of the constitution as the powers-that-be tried to take away the voting rights of people of color. These women continued to wear black sashes in protest over the loss of constitutional rights and over the horrors of apartheid. They organized marches, held overnight vigils and wept for the destruction of their country. Perhaps people heard their wailing in the streets, “How we are ruined!” they may have said. “We are utterly ashamed!” they may have cried. 

The Black Sash and the Women in Black know what the wailing women knew…it is not only up to them to grieve the violence and injustice around them. God says, “teach your daughters to weep, and each to her neighbor a lament.” Professional mourning, the ritual of wailing over devastation, cannot just fall on a group of trained mourners. They must go out and teach others how to show up to funerals, lead congregations in songs of grief or give us the permission to let our eyes flow with tears. 

Mamie Till Mobely, the mother of Emmit Till, knew this, too. When she realized that she wouldn’t be able to get through the incomprehensible murder of her son without calling on her neighbors to lament, she made a decision that cut through the royal consciousness of white America. At Emmit’s funeral, she insisted on an open casket so that the world could “see what they done to my baby.” Over 50,000 people surrounded the church that day, weeping and wailing in the streets, grieving together and in doing so, becoming reinvigorated to fight for justice together. Like Jeremiah, their eyes were a fountain of tears. 

Tears–a way of solidarity when no other form remains. Tears–perhaps the only way out of grief toward hope. Tears that cut through the numbness and ache with God. Tears–that break open our hearts of stone, as Ezekiel says, and expose our hearts of flesh. Tears–that allow people to take back some of their power and to boldly say “No” to the forces of domination and violence.

It is tempting, church, to skip Good Friday and run right to Easter, to skip the haunting stories of Herod, who aimed to kill Jesus, and go straight to Christmas. But we are not a people of a candy theology and cheap hope. We are the children of a God who weeps, a prophet who cries and a group of women who grieve. We need to weep, trusting that those who mourn, as the gospel of Matthew says,  shall be comforted. We need to remember that before our savior rose, he wept, reminding us that only those who embrace and name the reality of death will receive new life. 

We need to weep, church, for the ongoing genocide in Gaza, for the death of Sonya Massey, and for the 181 people who died living on the streets in Nashville last year. We need to weep for the destruction of our precious earth, for the victims of mass shootings, and for the losses in our own communities and families. 

This morning, I invite you to become a neighbor of lament with the wailing women, to allow yourself to be vulnerable enough to have a broken heart and to cry out loudly that things are not as they should be. Weep with Jeremiah, ache with God, wail with the women,  Do not shy away from lament, for in doing so you may numb yourself to the possibility of hope. 

Radical hospitality

Thomas Kleinert

Parker Palmer tells the story about an early-morning flight home. “Our departure was delayed,” he writes, “because the truck that brings coffee to the planes had broken down.” I didn’t know coffee was needed for planes to fly; I thought they ran on jet fuel. I was wrong.

After they had been sitting at the gate for a while, the pilot announced, “Good morning, folks, this is your captain speaking. I’m sorry, but we’re going to take off without the coffee. We want to get you to Detroit on time.” Immediately, the under-caffeinated passengers began griping, loudly and at length, about “incompetence,” “lousy service,” etc.

Once they got into the air, the lead flight attendant got on the intercom and said, with sunshine in her voice, “Good morning! We’re flying to Minneapolis today at an altitude of 30 feet…” A little levity might help reduce the tension, she must have thought. Then she continued, “Now that I have your attention… I know you’re upset about the coffee. Well, get over it! Here’s a thought: That bag of seven pretzels you got on your last flight and put in your pocket? Open it, pass it around. Got any gum or mints? Share them. That morning paper you brought? You can’t read all the sections at once. Offer them to each other!” As she went on in that vein, people relaxed and began doing what she had told them to do, laughing and chatting, and quickly a plane load of grumpy travelers turned into happy campers!

A moment later, as the attendant passed by his seat, Palmer signaled to her. “What you did was really amazing,” he said. “Where can I send a letter of commendation?”

“Thanks,” she said, “I’ll get you a form.” Then she leaned down and whispered, “Loaves and fishes, I tell you. Loaves and fishes.”[1]

The story of Jesus feeding a multitude is the only miracle story told in all four Gospels, and in Matthew and Mark, it’s even told twice. Clearly, it’s a favorite across many streams of early Christian tradition. Believers heard echoes of Israel’s wilderness journey with Moses and of the tales about Elisha, the man of God. Palmer writes,

As far as I’m concerned, that story doesn’t involve any magic. It’s about the miracle of sharing in community, an everyday miracle that anyone with some courage can pull off. [2]

That’s certainly one way to hear the story of the loaves and fishes. I agree that it doesn’t involve any magic, but reducing it to an everyday miracle that anyone with some courage can pull off rips out the heart of the story: Jesus. The first followers of Jesus who told and retold this story had little interest in introducing us to a man who orchestrated the miracle of sharing in community so that we may learn how it’s done. The writer of the fourth Gospel we know as John tells us about Jesus so that we may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing we may have life in his name.[3] He writes, because he wants us to come and see in Jesus what he has come to see, and to find the fullness of life he has found in the company of Jesus.

A crowd of five thousand, a boy’s lunch of five barley rolls and some fish, and all ate as much as they wanted until even the teenage boys in the crowd put their hands on their bellies and said, “I’m kinda full.” The disciples went around and picked up the broken pieces, and they filled twelve baskets. Go ahead, do the math. Five plus two, divided by 5,000 equals fullness for all and baskets of leftovers. That’s kingdom math.

Palmer is right, the story doesn’t involve magic, but that doesn’t mean it’s the first-century version of a how-to video. It’s the testimony of the first witnesses about Jesus in whom they encountered the living, life-giving, truth-speaking, grace-outpouring, fully embodied presence of God. The word of God in human flesh. Grace and truth as tangible as bread and fish, as delightful as wine at a wedding, and abundant beyond imagination.

Passover, the festival of liberation, was near, John tells us. Passover was very near indeed, and not just on the calendar. In today’s reading, echoes of manna in the wilderness and the crossing of the perilous sea touch on ancient promises, memories, and hopes of redemption. Passover was near in the person and proclamation of Jesus.

When he saw a large crowd coming toward him, Jesus said to Philip, “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?” John says it was a test, and that Jesus already knew what he was going to do. It was Jesus who talked about buying bread, and Philip quickly did the math he knew. “Six months’ wages would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little,” he said, no need to mention that none of them had that kind of cash. It was a test, but it wasn’t a math test. Andrew pointed to the boy’s lunch and shrugged, “What’s that among so many people?” Neither went out of his way to offer a solution to Jesus’ question. Neither could see the situation as placing the demands of hospitality on them. They could see themselves only on the edge of the scene, only as bystanders and observers, not at all as capable participants in the banquet of grace.

Jesus took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated; so also the fish, as much as they wanted. He didn’t ask them if they were Gentile or Jew or Samaritan. He didn’t inquire if they were getting their second or third serving. They all ate - men, women, children, rich, poor, left, right, locals, strangers, queer, straight - the whole world; they all ate, as much as they wanted. Imagine the scene at any place you want, at any time - in a camp in Sudan, amid the ruins in Gaza, on a bridge in Paris, under a bridge in Nashville - they all ate, as much as they wanted.

What about the boy? What about Philip and Andrew? The focus has shifted away from them. Jesus did all the work. “Gather up the fragments left over, so that nothing may be lost,” he told the disciples, and from the fragments left by those who had eaten, they filled twelve baskets. Whereas before we may have identified with the boy, or with Philip or Andrew, or anyone in the crowd, now we’re invited to see ourselves holding baskets — not to-go boxes, but baskets full of bread: more than enough for the feast of life to continue.

In John’s story, the people who encountered Jesus and tasted life in abundance, began to draw their conclusions about him. Like any of us, in the framework of their experience, they tried to identify the place where Jesus fit it, and they called him the prophet. And when Jesus realized that they were about to come and take him to make him king, he withdrew. Why did he withdraw? Why wouldn’t he let them crown him? He healed people, so obviously he knew how to make healthcare affordable and accessible! He fed people, so clearly he knew a thing or two about the economy! His character was flawless; there was not even a hint of corruption. Wasn’t he the best man for the job? Why did he withdraw at the precise moment when he was about to be confirmed as king by public acclamation?

We know he is no king in the mold of the Roman emperors who distributed free grain in the capital to keep the people from rebelling. We know he doesn’t conform to our systems of power. We now he subverts our dreams of domination by giving life and the freedom to live as children of God to all. We know he is the healer, the prophet and the king, and that his life has redefined and transfigured all these terms. We know a lot. What we have a hard time remembering is that as those who’ve eaten at his table and have gathered up the fragments as he told us, we now are holding baskets full of bread in our hands. What we tend to forget is that now it’s all about practicing the radical hospitality of God we have encountered in Jesus.

During the bombing raids of World War II, thousands of children were orphaned and left to starve. The fortunate ones were rescued and placed in refugee camps where they received food and good care. But, many of these children who had lost so much could not sleep at night. They feared waking up to find themselves once again homeless and without food. Nothing seemed to reassure them. Finally, someone hit upon the idea of giving each child a piece of bread to hold at bedtime. Holding their bread, these children could finally sleep in peace. All through the night the bread reminded them, “Today I ate and I will eat again tomorrow.”[4]

I love that story. I love the way people responded to the trauma and the needs of these orphaned children with care and creativity. I love the reminder that pieces of bread tell stories of community and promise.

Jesus said, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”[5] Just imagine, will you, a world where we don’t forget that we are holding baskets filled with bread in our hands, for all to eat.

[1] Based on Palmer’s post at https://onbeing.org/blog/loaves-and-fishes-are-not-dead/

[2] Ibid.

[3] John 20:31

[4] Dennis Linn, Sheila Fabricant Linn, Matthew Linn, Sleeping with Bread: Holding What Gives You Life (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1995), 1.

[5] John 6:35

Feeding the Flock

Margie Quinn

I feel like a broken record after preaching on the Gospel of Mark over the last month. I’ve reiterated that it’s a fast-paced gospel. Jesus is on the move, trying to flee from the crowds after healing and preaching so that, well my guess is that he can get a little alone time, but also so that he can continue to spread the good news before his inevitable arrest and execution. It’s a gospel on steroids, a gospel that is out of breath. Jesus calms storms, feeds thousands, walks on water. Most resonant with me, though, is the constant, compassionate way in which Jesus heals the people deemed unhealable, untouchable and unloveable. 

In our passage this morning, we meet the Disciples and Jesus, gathered together after Jesus has sent them out in twos to heal people and share the freeing news of the gospel with them. I can feel their eagerness as the Disciples share with Jesus all of the work they have put in. Perhaps they gathered around him, talking over each other impatiently to relay their experiences: “I sat with a woman who was sick and anointed her head with oil!” “I cured a man of his loneliness by offering him comfort and presence.” “I told a big group about you over dinner the other night.” “I had some challenging conversations with people very different from me, offering hope where they had none.” 

I can imagine Jesus’ beaming face, communicating to them with one look the same sentiment he received from God at the beginning of his ministry, “You are beloved, with you I am well-pleased.” 

We learn next that amidst their comings and goings, the Disciples have forgotten to nourish themselves, even to eat. How many of us get so caught up in the flurry of our days that we forget to feed ourselves, to breathe? I can hear the gentleness in Jesus’ tone as he says, “Come away and rest a while.” 

The tender, loving words of a shepherd who attends to his flock.

Before they can even take a load off in a deserted place, the frenzy of people swarm them, him, once again. There is, as usual in the Gospel of Mark, an urgency with which people pursue Jesus. Why? 

The system has failed these people. In this same chapter, we read about King Herod’s birthday party, in which the political elite serve up John the Baptist’s head on a platter. The people in power continue to spread fear, threatened by the growing whispers of hope. 

These frenzied crowds are people who are vulnerable in a predatory world, voiceless and seemingly ignored when they try to speak up and beg to be made well. Who guards their human dignity? Who fights for their economic stability, access to healthcare, reproductive rights?

 They have gotten too accustomed to fending for themselves. They have grown bitter and calloused, unable to utter the words “hope” lest they be disappointed once again. No wonder they chase Jesus around. They are a flock desperate  to be brought back into the fold. 

They have heard that Jesus, as Matt Skinner writes, “who is a dangerous figure in the eyes of the higher-ups, who claims spiritual authority, challenges the powers that be, who draws people to deserted places, along seashores, in villages and cities and farms and marketplaces,” is giving support to harassed people, feeding hungry people and  healing sick people. 

So, Jesus, when confronted with another crowd, doesn’t shoo them off or send them to voicemail. He “had great compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd.”

Compassion, meaning that Jesus chooses to involve himself in their suffering.  

We know the words commonly associated with Jesus. Messiah, Savior, Redeemer, King of Kings, Bread of Life, Son of the Living God–we read the many words that attempt to describe the fullness of the one who came to liberate and claim spiritual authority. But here, today, we have a new word: Shepherd. Does that give you solace, too?

This shepherd has great compassion on them and chooses to involve himself in their suffering. He sees their longing eyes, hears their desperate cries and as usual, stops what he is doing to teach and heal. 

He devotes himself to healing not just physical wounds, but I believe that he works to ensure the human flourishing of heart, mind, spirit. He restores their brokenness, notices their loneliness, offers provision amidst scarcity. He offers rest, he offers food, he tends to his flock. 

What would it have been like? To experience compassion from this authority figure? I look around at our leaders today and shake my head in resignation. We live among shepherds, who, as Jeremiah states, “use their words to scatter rather than attend to.” Shepherds who destroy and divide a flock that is desperate for healing and hope. Then, I read about this shepherd who brings everyone back to the fold and I rest in the words of Mark. I read God’s promise in Jeremiah, that God will “raise up shepherds over them who will shepherd, and they shall no longer fear or be dismayed, nor shall any be missing.” I take a deep breath and remember: My help, my hope, is in the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth. 

This maker of heaven and earth sent a shepherd to us, whose compassion had consequences. His actions altered economies in households and neighborhoods, transformed relationships, urged people to consider old allegiances. They give people hope. Remember hope? “The thing with feathers,” as Emily Dickson describes it, “that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops at all?” 

And never stops at all. 

Lately, my hope wants to stop, to withdraw, to resign itself into scoffing, mocking, numbing.

Until I read about a healer. A shepherd. In whom I place my hope. Who doesn’t use cynicism and fear to control people, who doesn’t stifle human flourishing, who doesn’t threaten the flock but instills in it a thing with feathers, who calls hope out of hiding. Who sees us as beloved. Who leads us beside still waters, prepares a table for us, who invites us to come away from our bustling lives and panicked outlooks and rest awhile, who offers us goodness and mercy all the days of our lives.

A shepherd who folds us all in, missing no one, healing everyone. Who sees our world, our country, the hopelessness and haggardness, the desperation and despair, and has compassion on all of us. May we rest, knowing that our hope is in the one who attends to us and takes care of us, even in deserted places.  

Amen.

Whose Banquet?

Thomas Kleinert

What a gloomy story that is.  You were hoping for something to feed your soul, weren’t you? Good news of great joy. Glad cries of deliverance. Especially now, when the cultural mood can only be described as ‘gloomy’, no matter how blue the skies are.

Instead we get this tale of a ghastly birthday banquet like something straight out of Game of Thrones: Ambition. Scheming. Seduction. Fear. Brutal violence.

It was Herod’s birthday. This was Herod Antipas, the son of Herod the Great. He loved it when people called him king, because that’s what he dreamed of being someday: the one with the power to make the truth whatever he wanted it to be. The title the Emperor in Rome had given Herod Antipas after the death of his father, was Tetrarch, “ruler of a quarter” in English: rather than trusting one man with the whole realm, Rome divided it between him and his brothers. Antipas got Galilee.

So this was his birthday, and he had invited officials and dignitaries to a banquet at the palace. Course after course of delicious food, prepared and presented to impress, and plenty to drink—before, during, and after dinner. You’ve heard the end of the story, so you already know it wasn’t the kind of party King Charles and Queen Camilla would host on the occasion of the royal birthday. Speaking of the queen, it was common for the women—had they been at the banquet at all—to leave the room after the meal, and then there would be more drinking and after-dinner entertainment.

Herod was in a splendid mood—the wine, the food, the lavish praise of ingratiating toasts—and on a whim he asked the daughter of Herodias to dance for his guests. Herodias was his wife, his second wife, to be precise, but she used to be his brother Philip’s wife, and she wasn’t a widow. No big deal in Roman law, particularly among the leading families, but in Jewish law this kind of marriage was forbidden. John the Baptist, the wilderness prophet, was very clear about it: “It is not lawful for you to have her.”[1] The fact that Herodias was also Herod’s niece apparently was no cause for concern.

Anyway, Herod, not known as a proud supporter of free speech, had John arrested, bound, and put in prison. Mark presents this as some kind of compromise, protective custody, as it were, because Herodias wanted the Baptizer dead. ‘Let him tell his truth to the dungeon walls,’ Herod may have suggested to calm his vengeful wife.

So, after dinner Herod asked the daughter of Herodias to dance for him and his guests. You may imagine a young princess in ballet shoes and a tutu, delighting the guests with a sequence from Swan Lake, but this was not that kind of dance. Let’s just say this was something typically done by professionals, and not the kind of dance your typical dad would want his daughter to perform in front of a bunch of drunk men. But Herod wasn’t your average dad and so he did ask and he watched and he was pleased and he promised on oath to grant her a wish. “Whatever you ask me, I will give you, even half of my kingdom.”

“Kingdom” was a big word, of course, too big, really, but he was dreaming of becoming king, and he wanted to impress not just the girl, but his guests, with his royal generosity, and he may have had a few drinks too many. “Whatever you ask me, I will give you.”

She didn’t ask for a pony. She asked her mother. And she rushed back to Herod, “I want you to give me, right now, on a platter—the head of John the Baptist.” The platter was the girl’s idea.

Herod may have been reluctant to grant the request, but he couldn’t afford to lose face in front of his VIP guests, who had heard him make the foolish promise. Not if he wanted to continue to be the empire’s man in Galilee; not if he wanted to hold on to his kingdom dreams. So he sent a soldier of the guard with orders to bring John’s head.

The death of the prophet was the final course at the palace, and the closing line of this story shows us John’s disciples who came and took his body, and laid it in a tomb.

What do you do with a terrible story like that? Do you find anything resembling life and hope in it? It’s so bloody realistic: the party is over, the prophet is dead. What do you do with a story that ends in a tomb?

Mark, of course, tells us this gloomy tale as part of a larger story, one that encourages us to see beyond the tomb. Mark inserts this tale right after telling his readers about the rejection Jesus experienced in his hometown and how he responded by sending out the twelve two by two. The message I hear, is, Be prepared for rejection when you proclaim the nearness of God’s reign! And the disciples went out and proclaimed that all should repent. And they cast out all kinds of evils that bind and oppress people and they brought hope and healing to many communities. Proclaiming repentance, they did exactly what John had done before he was arrested, and driving out demons, they did what Jesus did, with awesome power—healing, liberating work.

When Herod heard of it, he was afraid: “John, whom I beheaded, has been raised.” Herod worried the fearless kingdom messenger had risen from the dead. He had sent men who arrested and bound John and put him in prison, and he himself had sent a soldier of the guard to bring him John’s head… Mark tells us how Jesus sent the twelve to liberate and heal, and in the next scene he tells us about Herod who sent men under his authority to bind and lock up and kill. Mark wants us to see, in this and every story of his Gospel, the clash between two visions of power: the empire of death and the kingdom of life. He has inserted the gruesome banquet scene as a commentary between the sending of the Twelve and their return: it’s a flashback to what Herod did to John, and a flashforward to what Pilate will do to Jesus. Don’t be surprised, the commentary goes, when the world doesn’t gladly receive the good news of God’s reign as a gift of liberation and new life—don’t be surprised when the world can only see your message and ministry as a threat to its own dreams of greatness and domination. Mark tells you and me and any who wish to follow Jesus as servants of God’s kingdom, “Be prepared, not only for rejection and ridicule, but also for violent push-back from the servants of empire.”

And to the degree that we ourselves have been shaped by aspirations of domination, we do not gladly receive the good news of God’s reign, but can only see it as a threat to our own dreams of ruling. We would be foolish to assume that the line between the servants of God’s reign and the servants of empire can be drawn as clearly between us and others as it was between Herod’s banquet hall and the dungeon down below—the line runs through us.

The real struggle for us who wish to follow Jesus is to faithfully live as servants of God’s reign, to hear the call to repentance, to hear the call to discipleship, to hear the call to mission and service, and to humbly follow that call, again and again, trusting in the faithfulness of God—especially when fear and gloom are swamping the land.

Mark tells us the story of Jesus to help us see beyond the tomb, beyond all that threatens to bury our hope: The murder of the prophet does not stop the truth of God. The crucifixion of the witness does not put an end to God’s determination to redeem all of creation. And the ridiculing  and silencing of the servants of God’s reign cannot prevail. Why? Because justice is not merely a prophet’s demand; and compassion is not merely the wishful dream of the unnoticed, the unheard and unseen; and love is not merely a fuzzy consolation for those who lack power. The ridiculing and silencing of the servants of God’s reign cannot prevail, because justice, compassion, and love are at the heart of who God is.

Verse 30 is not part of today’s reading from the Gospel of Mark, but it’s very much part of the story. Mark tells us the apostles gathered around Jesus, and they told him all that they had done and taught. They told him about their struggle to live as servants of God’s reign in the world, and they did so surrounded by a multitude of people, men and women, children and adults who were longing for life, longing for healing and forgiveness, for new beginnings—so many, they had no leisure even to eat.

And that’s when we hear about the other banquet. That’s when we hear about the birthday banquet of the world to come where all who are hungry eat their fill, and the leftovers fill twelve baskets. That’s next Sunday’s Gospel reading, stretching the contrast between the banquets across the entire work week: The banquet of Herod the wannabe king, and the kingdom banquet of Jesus.[2]

This is the week when we collect bottles of water for our homeless neighbors. ‘What’s a bottle of water when people need housing and healthcare and jobs?’ you may ask. That’s a very good question, don’t ignore it—just don’t let it keep you from making your contribution to the banquet Jesus is hosting. At Herod’s party of bending tables and bottomless pitchers you’re unlikely to have a single sip or morsel that doesn’t leave a bitter taste in your mouth. There you must be willing to swallow the lies, the shameless flattery, the fear, and the violence. But outside the palace, Jesus is hosting the feast of life.

I don’t want to be at Herod’s party and I want no piece of his cake. I want to be where Jesus makes a banquet from five loaves of bread, two fishes, and a few bottles of water. Where will you go?

[1] See Leviticus 18:13-16; 20:21

[2] My assertion about “next Sunday’s Gospel reading” is not accurate. The Lectionary (Mk 6:30-34, 53-56) actually skips those verses, and moves to John 6 the following Sunday.

The Jesus We've Known

Margie Quinn

​​For the past few weeks, we’ve heard about Jesus in the gospel of Mark, a book that one theologian calls the “Gospel on Steroids.” Mark depicts a fast-paced Jesus, who has been on a healing tour in the first five chapters of the gospel. First we see him heal a man with an unclean spirit, then a man with a withered hand, then a paralytic, then a man known as a “demoniac,” who everyone deemed crazy. He continues his tour, touching and healing a leper, a woman who had been bleeding for twelve years who everyone thought dirty and disgusting and healing a girl everyone presumed dead. Jesus has been busy. 

On this tour, people recognize him for who he is. The man with the unclean spirit and the man who everyone thought was crazy, they are the ones who say, “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth?” “What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God?” They know it’s him. And others, perhaps coming from a place of awe or curiosity who may not necessarily recognize him but want to know more, ask these questions: “What is this, a new teaching with authority!” “We have never seen anything like this!” “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”

Do you hear the excitement and curiosity in their voices? They have a faith, a belief that is bold enough to recognize him, seek him out, touch the hem of his robe, or ask him for healing. They act out of a desperate faithfulness. 

Crowds are chasing him, disciples are scrambling after him; Jesus can’t get one moment alone! That is how popular he is. That is how fast the word about him is spreading and then…

He comes home. 

He comes home, and the first thing he does is enter the synagogue. Once there, he stands up to preach. While the gospel of Mark doesn’t reveal the content of his sermon, we know from Luke 4 that this is one of his most challenging, most memorable sermons. He tells the crowd, “...the spirit of the Lord is upon me today, to preach good news to the poor, to release the captives and to free the oppressed.” Perhaps as he preached, he spoke with a newfound confidence after seeing how many people were following after him, curious about what he had to say. And yet:  the questions in his hometown are different from the questions he has heard on his healing tour. 

As he looks out, he sees his siblings, his parents, the people who watched him grow up, who changed his diapers, asked him to make a chair for them, saw him rabble-rousing with his friends. They ask, “Is this not Joseph’s son?” “Where did this man get all of this?” “What is the wisdom that has been given to him?” “Is this not the carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon, are not his sisters with us?” 

What Jesus may have hoped would be a hometown reception quickly became a hometown rejection. 

How could this woodworker preach and heal? 

They can’t let go of the Jesus they’ve known to accept the Jesus they encounter. They can’t believe in his divinity, because of the very human boy with whom they grew up. This is not the Jesus they’ve known. They don’t know what to do with him. 

Perhaps you have felt this too, what Jesus might feel here, when you go back to your hometown or even when you spend time with your family? I certainly regress or start to doubt myself, feeling insecure. I feel the need to prove myself and insist that I have changed and broken bad patterns, that I don’t fit into the old mold. At home, I run into people from high school who watched me sing musical theater in the hallways or get Cs on quizzes. They often balk when I tell them what I do now. “You’re what now? A minister?” I usually shrink or shrug my shoulders, pretending to be just as bewildered as they are, saying, “Yeah, you know what, I guess I am.” As if I haven’t worked for years to pray for, study for and discern this calling! Have you ever done this? Feigned surprise at the person you’ve become because of the person that people have known you to be? 

I wonder if this is what Jesus is experiencing when he returns to Nazareth. 

The people we might expect to grasp our calling, the people who we may have expected to understand Jesus’ significance, Matt Skinner writes, end up failing to do so. Perhaps the insiders are the ones expecting the wrong things of Jesus while the outsiders, the lepers, the bleeding woman, the man with the withered hand, see him for exactly who he is, beg to know more about him and crawl after him in order to be healed. They see and encounter the Jesus in front of them. 

I don’t know how I would react in this situation if I were Jesus’ family. If the little boy I had seen playing with wood blocks stood up here and preached before me, maybe I would possess the same kind of skepticism or disbelief. Maybe I’d wonder, “What kind of son leaves his mom and siblings behind to say and do things that would ultimately lead him and the people following him to trouble? Now he only drops in every once in a while to see everyone before leaving again?” I think his hometown had very relatable responses. 

Like many of the prophets, like Ezekiel, Jesus quickly notices that prophets are often honored in many places but when they come home…not so much. Listen to what we learn next: scripture tells us that Jesus could do no deed of power there. After he has preached, heard the whispers and the questions, after he has seen the lack of faith, perhaps he looks out at the doubt of those around him and begins to doubt himself. Perhaps he looks out at the lack of faith in his ministry and starts to lose faith in himself. He could do no deed of power there. The Son of God! 

He could do no deed of power there except lay his hands on a few sick people and cure them. “And he was amazed at their unbelief.” Perhaps in taking Jesus for granted as Joseph and Mary's son, they took away some of the wisdom and knowledge that he possessed. 

They didn’t have faith in this Jesus because of the Jesus they’d known. Unwilling to accept that we change, evolve and come into ourselves and our calling, unable to believe in that, they turned away from him and in doing so, perhaps he turned away from himself.

When we take people for granted, when we freeze them in time, confining them to the people we’ve known, not the people we know, we miss opportunities to recognize the presence of God working through the people in front of us. We limit ourselves in not believing in the blessings that could come from the very people we are most familiar with: the people in our families, the people at church, the people in our hometown. 

Do we not believe God is expansive, creative and dynamic enough to use the people most familiar to us to bring about the kingdom of heaven here on earth? 

We need to look around at the people in our lives with whom we have underestimated, or don’t believe in, and reevaluate our faith in them. We might be missing the very presence of Jesus right in front of us. 

And for those of us who can relate more to Jesus in this story than to his hometown crowd, let me be clear that we are not responsible for how others perceive our own ministries and gifts. I do not have to shrink or be self-deprecating when I tell people here that “Yes, I was that girl and yes, I am that woman–a minister. Full stop.” We do not have to prove ourselves to anyone, especially those close to home. 

Jesus reveals this to us in the latter part of this passage. He notices that he can’t do these deeds of power on his own and he looks out at the twelve men who have faithfully followed him this far. He commissions the Disciples, sending them out in pairs so that they don’t have to do this work alone. He tells them not to bring anything, just themselves, who they are and who they know themselves to be. “When you enter people’s houses,” he says, “if you feel like they refuse to hear you or are not welcoming to you, shake the dust.” Keep walking. I know who you are. I encounter blessings in you. I see the love of God working in you and through you and that’s enough for me. 

This morning, I invite you and me to continue to spread the love of Jesus, even when we feel misunderstood or taken for granted or underestimated or yes, even rejected. And may we have enough faith that those we have underestimated or belittled, those who we have frozen in time just might be the very people who have a blessing for us. 

May it be so.

Awaken the sleeping Christ

Thomas Kleinert

Some of you would rather be at the beach right now, wouldn’t you? Or perhaps you’re more of a lake person? Fontana Lake is great when it’s in the 90s down here. Or just imagine sitting in the shade by a creek, your feet dangling in the water, and all the mosquitoes are on vacation in Michigan.

Do you know anybody who doesn’t love being in the water, or on it, or at least by it? Splashing around in the pool, zipping down a water slide, doing a canon-ball from a rope swing, soaking in a tub, catching the mist from a waterfall, waiting for a fish to bite, or just listening to the sound of the waves rolling up on the beach – aren’t we all drawn to water like we were all otters once?

When the crowds who gathered to hear Jesus were getting larger, he asked his disciples to have a boat ready for him, just in case, so he could pull away from the shore and teach from the boat.[1] People heard his stories about the sower scattering seed on the ground and birds nesting in the shade of a shrub, they heard these parables of God’s reign with water in the background: the sound of little waves lapping up onto the pebbles and rocks. And they heard them with a view of the lake stretching to the horizon, under the wide canopy of the Galilean sky.

When I imagine that scene by the lake—all of us, young and old, locals and folks from far away, resting by the water’s edge and listening to Jesus telling stories about the kingdom of God—when I sit in that scene, it’s like I’m not just hearing the promise of a better, fuller life together, I’m already living it, body and soul. I hope you too know those moments in the presence of Jesus when you wouldn’t hesitate to declare that the kingdom is already here.

On that day, when evening came, Jesus said to the disciples, “Let us go across to the other side.” Leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat. Most of the people on the beach, I imagine, went home; they had things to do: there were animals to look after, meals to prepare, kids to get ready for bed. Perhaps some of them hung around a little longer, watching the boat go east. Why would he want to go over there?, some may have wondered. Only godless Gentiles over there, idol worshippers, hog farmers, those aren’t our people over there, what business does he have going to them?

Dark clouds were moving in, casting shadows over what had been such a lovely day by the lake. Meanwhile, in the boat, the disciples were enjoying the quiet and the evening breeze—until the wind started picking up, that is, and a storm broke loose. Waves were beating into the boat, and it was filling up fast. The raging wind was whipping the water into a churning frenzy of crashing waves—chaos had been unleashed.

Water is one of our most powerful symbols. It represents some of our deepest needs and comforts along with some of our greatest fears. Few of us are living with a sense that these are days for smooth sailing—too many fears and worries are rocking our little boat, too many unpredictable forces are pushing it every which way. Will we be able to reject the heresy of white supremacy dressed up in Christian symbols? Will we be able to slow the use of violence as a means of dealing with conflict? Will we stop treating our home planet like we had another one in the basement? Will we be able to talk with each other across the growing divide of world views and habits of thought? We can’t name all that has been unleashed and let loose among us, but the wind has picked up and the sea is rising and the waves are crashing against our little boat.

The church has taught us to sing, A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing, our present help amid the flood of mortal ills prevailing. I see a stronghold built on a mighty rock, surrounded by raging seas, waves battering the walls relentlessly, but to no avail: this fortress is a mighty one. And though this world with devils filled, should threaten to undo us—we will not fear. The powers of darkness grim, we tremble not for them; their rage we can endure, for lo, their doom is sure: One little word shall fell them.

One little word. It’s a lot easier to sing bravely against the raging storm from behind the walls of a fortress built high on a cliff than from inside a little boat tossed about by the wind and the waves. And the disciples aren’t singing. They’re looking at Jesus, curled up on a cushion in the stern, fast asleep—a picture of peace amid the chaos.

They wake him up, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” No, they don’t need him to take hold of the rudder or help bail out the boat. They are terrified, and it scares them that he clearly isn’t the least bit troubled. “Do you not care that this little boat is going down and all of us with it?” They are frantic, and the fact that he isn’t, only makes it worse.

Mark paints this scene with the ancient colors of the Creator subduing the forces of chaos. Waking up, Jesus rebuked the wind and said to the sea, “Be silent! Be still!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm.  Jesus spoke, and the sea lay low. The scene echoes words and movements from Genesis 1 and several psalms. He made the storm be still, and the waves of the sea were hushed. He spoke and it came to be.[2] The disciples were filled with great fear and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”

There is a popular reading of this story where Jesus isn’t rebuking the wind and the waves, but rather the disciples for being afraid  and for their lack of faith. According to that reading, we ought to always remember, no matter how high the waves or how violent the winds may be, that Jesus is in the boat with us—and we shouldn’t be afraid, and if we had faith, we wouldn’t be afraid. According to that reading, we ought to tie ourselves to the mast and laugh at the storm, “Bring it on! Is that all you got?” But we are afraid when chaos rages and the unknown threatens to overwhelm us, and feeling guilty for being afraid has never made anyone feel less afraid. So keep in mind: Jesus didn’t rebuke the disciples; he commanded the wind and the waves to be still.

Now is perhaps the moment to remember that the whole trip was his idea. “Let us go across to the other side,” he said. This was no evening cruise to a restaurant on the other side of the lake. He took them out to sea, away from the land and the life they knew, to Gentile lands. Why? Because sin and fear ruled on the other side, and Jesus crossed over to bring forgiveness, liberation, and healing. Idols and demons ruled on the other side, and Jesus invaded their territory to bring the kingdom of God. This was no pleasure cruise, this was D-day. And the storm wasn’t an episode of really bad weather. The storm was and is this very moment when the forces of chaos are doing their level worst to stop that little boat with waves raging and wind gusts blowing from every direction.

Jesus’ life and mission is one dangerous crossing after another. His presence, his words, his entire way of being in the world lead to constant confrontation with all the forces opposed to God’s dominion. The truth is, when Jesus is near, the storms aren’t far. But Jesus speaks the word that brought light and life into being. Jesus speaks, and we hear the One who prescribed bounds for the sea, saying, “Thus far shall you come, and no farther, and here shall your proud waves be stopped.”[3] 

“Who then is this?” the disciples ask—and Mark wants us to know deep in our bones that Jesus speaks and acts with the power of God. Jesus has taken us into the boat with him. The whole trip is his idea. He is taking us with him to the other side in love’s invasion of the world.

We know God didn’t save him from drowning in the chaos of our lovelessness. Jesus did drown in the dark depth of death on a cross, but God raised him from the dead. Fear and sin are all-consuming, but the love that called light and life into being is greater.

We’re in the boat with him. The whole trip is his idea. He’s taking us to the other side, again and again, across all that divides us, in the name of love.

And when it’s all too much? When it’s just overwhelming like it so often is these days? Augustine of Hippo wrote sometime in the early fifth century, “If your faith is dormant in your heart, it is as though Christ were sleeping in your boat, because it is through faith that Christ dwells in you. When the sea begins to get choppy, awaken the sleeping Christ.”[4] I like Augustine’s take on this story. Don’t let anyone tell you that letting Jesus sleep in the stern somehow is an expression of fearless faith. When the sea begins to get choppy, awaken the sleeping Christ.

[1] Mark 3:9; 4:1

[2] Genesis 1:7ff.; Psalm 107:29; Psalm 33:9; see also Ps 65:7 You silence the roaring of the seas, the roaring of their waves, the tumult of the peoples. Ps 89:9-13 You rule the raging of the sea; when its waves rise, you still them…

[3] See Job 38:8-11

[4] Augustine, Expositions of the Psalms, ed. John E. Rotelle, Vol. 4, 342.

Sleeping Gardeners

Margie Quinn

It has been exactly a year since I joined this community and I’ve learned a lot. Some of you take classes in mixed martial arts. Some of you are prolific musicians. Some of you have the hook-up to free tickets to Vanderbilt sporting events. Some of you have gone through yoga teacher training. Some of you are published authors. Some of you have countless flamingos decorating your front lawn. 

One common thread that seems to run through many of your stories is that many of you have found respite here after growing up in a church or attending one more recently that insisted on a dogmatic, authoritarian way of living out your faith. I’ve heard the words “hell, fire and brimstone” tossed around. I’ve heard of the pressures to perform bible exercises, to remain pure, to get saved, and to avoid what some Christians have deemed a “lukewarm faith.” 

What is a lukewarm faith? I read a book in college that described it in a few ways. One quote that stuck with me was, “Churchgoers who are lukewarm are not Christians. We will not see them in heaven.”

No pressure, but according to this line of thinking, those of us who rarely share our faith with our neighbors or who think about our life on earth more than our eternity in heaven, those who equate our “partially sanitized lives” with holiness, or who love our things but rarely give to the poor in a truly sacrificial way…we are lukewarm. 

I had my own season of trying desperately to make my faith more of a “boiling hot” than lukewarm by reading my Bible every day and attending church every Sunday and Wednesday. I sought purity and moral perfection, evangelized to friends, especially Jewish friends with whom I feared wouldn’t get to heaven, and even questioned the holiness of my friends of various sexual and gender identities. I even told my boyfriend at the time that he wasn’t holy enough. My love for others and myself became conditional. My faith life became a rigid practice in avoiding sin for fear of not receiving salvation. “You’re either walking toward Jesus in everything you do,” my pastor said to me, “or you’re walking away from him.” No pressure. 

Call me a heretic, call me a little too reliant on God’s grace, but this understanding of the gospel feels impossible for me to live out. 

This morning in our text, Jesus, a guy who spoke in wild parables that mostly perplexed his followers, speaks to a group who are huddled around him, who ask him about these elusive stories he keeps telling. So he offers them one after the other, trying to describe to them something he keeps calling the “Kingdom of God.” 

And in a parable only found in the gospel of Mark, we get a pastoral account from Jesus. He speaks about farming to a group of fishermen and offers this: the Kingdom of God is like someone who scatters seed on the ground, and then sleeps a bunch. The seed grew and the scatterer doesn’t even know how. The earth “produces of itself,” which in Greek is where we derive the word “automatic.” The earth is worked by God alone, this means, without human effort. The earth produces of itself, the stalk then the head, then the full grain and when it’s ripe, the scatterer goes back to harvest it because it’s ready. 

I read this thinking that the Kingdom of God is like a sleeping gardener, who can put the seed in the ground but can’t do anything about its growing; a sleeping gardener, who trusts in the process of growth rather than tamper with the seed, coming back time and time again to check on it, spraying it with pesticides, drowning it with water. The gardener, who may not understand the process, waits patiently for a growth beyond his control to occur. 

Hearing this parable, I feel a deep exhale. I feel my shoulders sag and my brow unfurrow. I feel, once again, the sting of grace, in which my efforts to “do faith right” only prevent me from witnessing the kingdom at work. 

Perhaps in my eyes, the Kingdom of my God is like a church that implements new programming, and then counts week after week to see if membership increases based on these efforts. 

The Kingdom of my God is like an employee, who refuses to take a sick day for fear that their work will falter, that no one will be able to pick up the slack. 

The Kingdom of my God is like a parent, who monitors their child’s academic or athletic progress, anxiously hoping to prevent their child from mistakes, failure, or embarrassment. 

The Kingdom of my God is like an activist, who posts relentlessly on social media and shows up to every organized event, holding themselves and others in strict expectations for doing justice correctly—not allowing for rest or self-reflection, to let their hearts break before they put their shoes on to march. 

The Kingdom of my God is like a choir in which no one takes a breath in between notes, not trusting that their fellow singers will carry the tune in between their breaths. 

My Kingdom requires so much from me.  That Kingdom heaps on more and more pressure. It tells me that I can’t do anything lukewarm, that I must remain vigilant, watching the seed, scooting it closer to the sun, repotting it, measuring its progress…that I can’t possibly “Let Go and Let God.”

I so often fail to trust God’s grace in my life. I fail to believe that God continues to work in mysterious, unseen ways that don’t depend on my faithfulness or insight. And yet, as A.J. Levine notes in this parable, some things need to be left alone and sometimes, we need to get out of the way. 

Which doesn’t mean that we are exempt from planting seeds. The Kingdom grows only from someone getting up, grabbing the seeds and planting them in the ground. It does mean that we are not responsible for how or when they grow. 

Yeah, that’s the Kingdom–a pure gift that requires us to sleep a little as it flourishes. It’s a Kingdom in which we have so little to do with Christ’s nearness to us that we can actually rest because the spiritual growth and intimacy with God arises as naturally as seeds growing and not by force or perfection. What a relief. 

A sneak peek into the next chapter tells the story of Jesus calming a storm. The storm rages and the boat is swamped with water. The Disciples are freaking out! They look toward Jesus and what is he doing? Sleeping. Resting. Trusting. He gets roused and woken up and says, “Be still now,” and says, “Why didn’t y’all have faith in me?” 

This morning, can you trust that you alone are not responsible for the growth of God’s kingdom? Can you believe that your faith is not dependent on how much you accomplish, how closely you monitor your seeds, how desperately you try to tend to them in the “right” way. Can you notice how God’s grace abounds, that the harvest comes when you are resting? 

 The earth’s got your back. Take a load off. Get some sleep. 

Amen. 

Going home

Thomas Kleinert

The scene in Mark opens with beautiful simplicity: Then he went home. It sounds odd as an opening line; it’s meant to be heard as a transition: Jesus had gone from the synagogue to the lake, and from the lake up the mountain with the twelve, and then, it says, he went home.

Home is a word heavy with notions of comfort, safety, and peace. Home is always a good place to go to; if it’s not, it’s no longer home, or perhaps not yet. Home brings to mind familiar faces and things like a table, a chair, a bed; a window and the way the view changes from morning to evening, season to season; the smell of a blanket; the sound of the rain on the roof; even the distant hum of the interstate.

Where do you imagine Jesus went when it says, he went home? Didn’t he say, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head”?[1] Other English translations of this passage render it, “then he entered a house.” Capernaum was home base for Jesus’ ministry in Galilee, and the house he entered may well have been Peter’s house, across the street from the synagogue. Returning there at the end of a long day of healing and teaching may have felt like coming home — except that again such a crowd came together, as Mark tells us, that they could not even eat. The house sits like an island in a sea of people. They are drawn to Jesus, want to be near him. Word has spread about his teachings, his power to heal.

And then his family shows up: his mother, his siblings; the people who have been with him the longest; the people, presumably, closest to him; the people, presumably, who know him best. Do they? Who knows you best? Perhaps you do, but then perhaps you don’t, because you can’t know yourself the way others know you, unless they tell you in ways you can hear, which is rare, but I’m getting distracted. Jesus’ mother and his siblings show up, and they are convinced he has gone out of his mind. You may be constructing a scene in your mind where they are concerned for his well-being, where his mom is here to say, “Son, have you lost your mind? Come on home now, eat a decent meal, and get some sleep. You’re wearing yourself out.” But that’s not what’s going on here. They have come to tie him up, to restrain him. It’s the exact same word used later in the book when Jesus is arrested.[2] His family are here for an intervention; the plan is to pick him up and take him back to Nazareth, in chains if necessary. They want to take him back to the life before his baptism, back to the familiar routines untouched by the voice from heaven, declaring, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased;”[3] back to the life before the Spirit’s descend and the disruptive proclamation of the nearness of God’s reign. They want to take him home, don’t they?

And they are not the only ones who don’t quite know what to make of his work and words. Scribes from Jerusalem have been watching and listening; they represent the authority and theological wisdom of the temple establishment. Their pronouncement that Jesus is a satanic agent and not a divine one, recognizes power at work in him, but they have determined the power is perverse. It’s the most damning assessment they can offer.[4] I am reminded of Isaiah’s warning cry, “Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter!”[5]

Mark’s readers know from earlier encounters that the demons themselves know who Jesus is: “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God.”[6]

Our life together gives rise to great things, inspiring accomplishments and moving ideas, but also to systemic corruptions and horrific acts of violence. In Mark’s world, such baffling outcomes and the anonymous forces driving them are identified as demonic. They are evil powers, and they are incredibly resistant to being seen and named and driven out. Karl Barth wrote that demons “exist always and everywhere where the truth of God is not present and proclaimed and believed and grasped, and therefore does not speak and shine and rule.”[7] But Mark shows us, or perhaps I should say, the Holy Spirit shows us with Mark’s testimony, how in Jesus the truth of God is present, and how in him this truth speaks and shines and rules.

“Whenever the unclean spirits saw [Jesus],” Mark reminds us, “they fell down before him and shouted, ‘You are the Son of God!’ ”[8] Jesus’ mother and his siblings were not slow or blind, nor were the religious leaders from Jerusalem. Like us, they were living in complicated times, and like us, they wanted to maintain what little normalcy they felt was left. And Jesus was rocking the boat. Without permission, he forgave people. He taught with authority. He freed folk from the powers that were holding them captive, and he did it regardless of who they were or where they came from or what day of the week it was — there was no proper order to it. But there was power in his words and actions, and to some all of it seemed extravagant and reckless, to others, it was frightening. They were not slow or blind; they wanted to protect and hold on to what they knew. And Jesus was too disruptive; to some his power felt like chaos. “He is out of his mind,” his family said. “He’s fighting demons with demons,” the religious leaders concluded. The presence of God, in the life and work of Jesus or his followers, is not unambiguous. What is utterly life-giving and liberating for many, can appear like madness or even the devil’s work to others.

What can we do? Mark paints a scene for us. It’s a house with Jesus in it, and around it a throng of people. It looks like humanity in all of its beauty and weirdness, so many ethnic backgrounds, such curious political convictions, people on their knees, people on stretchers, the wounded and the oppressed, the overworked and the underemployed, all of us with our flaws and our dreams, with our thirst for life for ourselves, for each other, and we’re pressing in at the doors and windows, aching to be near Jesus and to touch the hem of his cloak.

The only ones to remain on the edge of the scene are the ones who already know what’s best for the family and for the people and for religion; in their world, Jesus must be restrained. In their world, the disruptive presence and work of God needs to be kept under control. But is has been too late for that since before they tried.

In his parable, Jesus identifies himself as the thief who has come to plunder the strong man’s house. He has tied up the strong man and now he’s ransacking the place. He’s the burglar who has come to rob the biggest thief of all: Life belongs to God, not to the master of demons. Not to the whispering liar who sows the seeds of lovelessness that grow into thickets of sin where demons thrive.

Jesus has his eyes on the strong man’s house, a house as big as the world, and on us who are tempted to believe that living in the strong man’s house is as good as it gets. Jesus has tied up the strong man, and demon by demon, fear by fear, lie by lie he’s dealing with the strong man’s minions, and leading the captives to freedom.

Mark paints a scene for us; it’s a house with Jesus in it. It was first seen in a village on the western shore of the sea of Galilee, but since then people have found it in communities around the world. It’s where Christ’s power to heal and forgive resides. At times we may be standing outside with those who say he is out of his mind, and there’s truth even to that misperception, because the life of Jesus, in contrast to ours, is entirely in sync with the will of God. And because his life is entirely in sync with the will of God, those who eat at the strong man’s table and worship at the altar of lies have already lost. Jesus never thought of himself outside of his relationship with God. He entrusted himself completely to the flow of love and grace, and he continues to offer what he receives with reckless, disruptive extravagance.

A crowd is sitting around him and pressing in at the doors and windows, aching to be near him, and they say, “Your mother and your brothers and sisters are outside asking for you.” And Jesus looks at all the humanity sitting around him, all of us wounded ones, all of us lost ones, all of us thirsty ones, longing for life that really is life and not just death’s prelude, and he says, “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”

Jesus sits in the midst of those who long for healing and freedom, and where Jesus is present, God speaks and shines and rules. The beauty of his mission is that the closer we draw to him with our desire to be healed by his wholeness, the closer we draw to each other. And the closer we draw to the reality of suffering and longing in each other, the closer we draw to him, and the more fully we participate in doing God’s will.

There’s a house with Jesus in it; it was first seen in a village on the western shore of the sea of Galilee, but since then people have found it in communities around the world. It’s where Christ’s power to heal and forgive resides. It’s a house as big as the world. It’s home.

[1] Matthew 8:20; Luke 9:58

[2] Mark 14:1, 44, 46, 49

[3] Mark 1:11

[4] Matt Skinner https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-10-2/commentary-on-mark-320-35-3

[5] Isaiah 5:20

[6] Mark 1:24

[7] Karl Barth, CD III/3, 529; quoted in Placher, Mark, 66.

[8] Mark 3:11

Made for the Sabbath

Thomas Kleinert

Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God brought you out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore the Lord your God commanded you to keep the sabbath day.

Moses and Aaron went to Pharaoh and asked for time off for their people. “Thus says the Lord, the God of Israel, ‘Let my people go, so that they may celebrate a festival to me in the wilderness.’” Pharaoh said, “Who is this Lord, that I should heed him and let Israel go? I do not know the Lord, and I will certainly not let Israel go.” There were cities to be built, store houses to be erected, bricks to be made. “Why are you making the people slack off from their labor? Back to work!” Pharaoh shouted, and that same day he commanded the taskmasters, “Don’t supply the people with the straw they need to make bricks like you did before. Let them go out and gather the straw for themselves. But still make sure that they produce the same number of bricks as they made before. Don’t reduce the number! They are weak and lazy, and that’s why they cry, ‘Let us go and offer sacrifices to our God.’ Make their work so hard that it’s all they can do, and they pay no attention to these deceptive words.”[1]

In Pharaoh’s mind, talk of rest was talk of unrest; talk of worship and sacred time was talk of wasted time, and slaves honoring any Lord before him or beside him — who had ever heard such a thing? Deceptive words, sprung from idle minds! Crank up production! Keep them busy! Let them gather their own straw, and don’t you lower the brick quotas!

It was the clash of two economies — God’s Sabbath economy and Pharaoh’s economy of oppressive, relentless, and exhausting toil. In God’s economy, Sabbath is the crown of creation, the end and fulfillment of all work. In Pharaoh’s economy, Sabbath is a waste of time. In God’s economy, human beings are made in the image of God, persons of dignity, and partners in caring for creation. In Pharaoh’s economy, human beings are the work force.

Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God brought you out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore the Lord your God commanded you to keep the sabbath day.

The Sabbath is not merely a day off for “recharging the batteries.” The Sabbath is a day of remembering who and whose we are. It is an observance that helps us live into an order of time in sync with God’s own creative and redemptive work. It is an invitation to enter into God’s rest, and to get a foretaste of the completion of creation. “Rest in peace” is what we often write on each other’s grave markers, but it’s more than one final wish. “Rest in peace” is what God does on the seventh day and what we are meant to do, and God will not rest until we and all of creation have been set free from all that keeps us in bondage.

How does one observe the Sabbath, and how does one keep this holy day holy? “Jewish liturgy and law say both what should be done on Shabbat and what should not,” writes Dorothy Bass.

What should not be done is “work.” Defining exactly what that means is a long and continuing argument, but one classic answer is that work is what- ever requires changing the natural, material world. All week long, human beings wrestle with the natural world, tilling and hammering and carrying and burning. On the Sabbath, however, [they’re commanded to] celebrate the created world as it is and dwell within it in peace and gratitude.[2]

The debate over what should and should not be done on the Sabbath began generations before Jesus was born, and people long struggled with how to receive this gift of God. The prophet Amos attests that eagerness to get past the Sabbath is not a recent development. “Hear this,” Amos writes, “you who trample on the needy and destroy the poor of the land, saying, ‘When will the new moon be over so that we may sell grain, and the Sabbath, so that we may offer wheat for sale?’”[3] Why let Sabbath memories disrupt valuable market days? Why let talk of divine purposes and God-given human dignity disrupt the selling  of goods and services to consumers? Again Dorothy Bass, commenting on our own situation,

Work, shopping, and entertainment are available at every hour. As a result, work and family life are being thrown into new and confusing arrangements … as the United States moves steadily toward a 24-hour-a-day, 7-day-a-week, 365-days-a-year economy. Meanwhile, the free time people do have comes as fragments best fit for [screen-scrolling]. It is not the lack of time but rather its formlessness that is troubling in this scenario. One can see human lives becoming ever more fully detached from nature, from community, and from a sense of belonging to a story that extends beyond one’s own span of years.[4]

Fragmentation. Formlessness. Isolation. Exhaustion. “Sundays, once sacred days of worship and rest for Christians, are increasingly crowded with work, home responsibilities, and children’s activities. We need rest but wonder how to fit it in.”[5]

Sabbath in the Suburbs is the title of a book about one family’s attempt at observing Sabbath while balancing two careers, three young children, and the pressures of managing a household. The parents negotiate what Sabbath means to them, and they set intentions for their family’s observance. Rest takes real effort. After their own rules trip them up, the family decides to turn Sabbath into an adverb: if the trip to the grocery store on the Sabbath can’t be avoided, they will do their shopping “Sabbathly,” i.e. slowly and mindfully.[6]

Sabbath is hard, whether you’re a two-career-three-kids suburban family or a single-parent-three-jobs-no-car-high-rent family. Sabbath is hard and vital. The debate over how to keep the Sabbath is not just for religious nerds; it goes to the heart of how we imagine, live, and protect human life.

Jesus insisted, and his good news insists, that the Sabbath is more than a day of religiously observed work stoppage. According to Mark, he began his ministry on the Sabbath, at a synagogue in Capernaum, and folks were astounded, for he “taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes.” A man was there who was possessed by an unclean spirit, and Jesus told it to leave the man alone and get out, and it did, screaming and hollering, but it did. And no one challenged him for driving out unclean spirits on the Sabbath. People were amazed.[7] Some of them began to understand that Sabbath needn’t be about making lists of what to do and not to do, but, above all, about remembering that God wills our release from any forces that enslave, bind, and burden us.

When Jesus encountered in the synagogue a man with a withered hand, his primary concern wasn’t if some of the other people in the room might perceive his actions as Sabbath violations—such things can be, and have been, and will be, debated. The good news of Jesus is about that man, and how he might be drawn into the fullness of Sabbath peace and joy. For Jesus, the Sabbath is more than an observance; it’s a reality into which God invites people, so we know freedom and fullness of life. For Jesus, keeping the Sabbath holy isn’t just about figuring out how to practice resting in peace, but about drawing all of us into that holy rest.

“The Sabbath was made for humankind,” he said to his opponents, “and not humankind for the Sabbath.” Now, this may sound like I’m contradicting Jesus, but I don’t think I am when I say, Humankind was indeed made for the Sabbath, just as all of creation was made for it. The Sabbath is the crown of creation, the seventh day when all living things share in the peace of God.

Humankind was made for the Sabbath, not for observing Sabbath rules. We were made for the Sabbath, and Sabbath rules have been made to help us remember who and whose we are and what we are made for. We were made for the Sabbath, and that’s why we can’t stop thinking about and debating what observing the Sabbath day and keeping it holy might look like for us: anything to help us remember that we’re not here to toil in Pharaoh’s brickyard; anything to help us remember that we’re here to work together in God’s mission; anything to help us remember that Sabbath-keeping is an act of resistance against the dehumanizing pressures of Pharaoh’s economy.

“Make their work so hard that it’s all they can do, and they pay no attention to these deceptive words,” Pharaoh said, and it sounds to me like he’s talking about folks who juggle two or three jobs just to make ends meet, and many months it’s still not enough to make rent and eat. Something withers when you’re forced to live like that. And something withers when you choose to work all the time and chase the numbers as though they actually affirmed your worth as a person.

“Make their work so hard that it’s all they can do, and they pay no attention to these deceptive words,” Pharaoh said. The Lord of the Sabbath is all about “these deceptive words,” and he speaks them with authority, and in his presence our withered lives are reclaimed and restored, because we are made for the Sabbath.

[1] Exodus 5:1-9

[2] Dorothy C. Bass, “Christian formation in and for sabbath rest,” Interpretation 59, no. 1 (January 2005), 29.

[3] Amos 8:4-5

[4] Bass, 32.

[5] Susan Olson, Connections, Year B, Volume 3, 51.

[6] MaryAnn McKibben-Dana, Sabbath in the Suburbs, as discussed by Olson.

[7] Mark 1:21-31