When The Saints Go Marching In - B.B. KIng

"Here I Stand" given 10/30/16

Suppose I were to ask you to name the some of the most influential Scripture passages, in the History of Christ's church. How many of you might answer the Twenty-Third Psalm? Hands please. How many might suggest the Beatitudes? The Sermon on the Mount? John 14? Luke's Christmas Story? Any one of the Passion or Easter Narratives? How about I Corinthians 13? Any others? No? How about Galatians 3:23-29?

Not many votes for that last one, were there? And yet a case could be made for this rather obscure example of Paul's theologizing. Not because many of us have known and loved it through the years. Not because it has touched more lives or converted more unbelievers or comforted more people in times of trouble. No, the tremendous influence of this passage had was on one man. And the effect of it came about because of the actions he took out of his sense of faithfulness to the insight this passage contains.

The man was Martin Luther. And this simple text was to become the Theological and spiritual heart of his break with the medieval church. Those of us in the Wesleyan tradition have sometimes tended to ignore or at least under-rate Luther and his significance. It's true that our heritage is tied more directly to the Wesley Brothers and their attempts to reform the Church of England some two hundred years later. But justice to the facts insists that we need to see Luther, if not as a spiritual father, at least as a spiritual grand-father.

On October 31st, 1517, in Wittenburg, Germany, Martin Luther, a Parish Priest and University professor, upset over the excesses of the church of his time, nailed to the door of his Church a set of arguments intended to spark debate among professional Theologians over these practices he found so objectionable.

These propositions were later to be known as the Ninety-Five Theses (or “arguments”). Because of this action, and the consequent reaction of the established church, Luther was to end up becoming the human spark that ignited the fires of Protestantism.

Luther was by no means the first to protest against the church of that time. Others reformers had preceded him—The Cathars in Germany and France, John Hus in Bohemia, or John Wycliffe in England for example. But they ended up executed and their movements wiped out for their efforts. It fell to Luther to be the first successful Protestant. He succeeded first of all in building a movement that would carry on his work. And secondly—he didn’t end up burned at the stake.

Historians attribute Luther's success to the rise of nationalism in Europe, to the invention of the printing press, to the breakdown of Feudalism, and the rise of the middle class. Others might say that he was just the right man at the right place at the right time. You and I would simply call it the work of the Holy Spirit in the world. However it happened, Luther got away with it.

One of the great moments in human History occurred when he stood before Cardinal and Emperor at the castle of Worms and boldly proclaimed.

"I cannot, I will not recant. Here I stand. I can do no other. God help me."

Without Martin Luther and the stand he took, who knows what form the modern church might have taken? Without the successful example of the Lutherans in Germany, Would the Calvinists broken with Rome in France and Switzerland? Without these precedents, would Henry VIII have founded the Church of England?

And unless he had been influenced by the German Protestant Pietist tradition and been a Priest in an Anglo- Catholic Church, independent of Rome, would John Wesley have found the impetus to launch the Methodist movement? It was after all, at a Bible study group reading Luther's Commentary on the Book of Romans, that John found his heart "strangely warmed".

All of us, Catholic and Protestant, owe a debt to Luther. It was in response to his valid criticisms of the Catholic church that inspired a renewal of faith that shaped the very face of today's Roman Catholic Church. In the nailing of those Ninety-Five Theses to the church door, Luther performed an act that, as much as any other, signaled the end of the Middle Ages and ushered in our own Modern Age.

But what was the dispute all about? What does this morning's Epistle Reading have to do with all this? Was it all merely, as Pope Leo observed, no more than a "row due to the envy of monks"? Luther had become incensed by more than one practice of the medieval church—but one in particular--the selling of indulgences. These were literally certificates from the Pope that forgave a particular sin and shortened the purchaser's time in Purgatory for that sin. You could also purchase them for someone else-- even for someone already dead and in Purgatory. That's what most of us would call a thoughtful prezzie!

This was a widespread fund-raising gambit in the Middle Ages-- as widespread as Bingo or church suppers today. What bothered Luther wasn't so much the crass commercialism of the practice, as the Theological perversion it represented. To sell indulgences, in effect made Grace into a commodity that could be bought and sold, and made the acts of human beings greater than the Will of God.

Admittedly, I'm simplifying here. There was an elaborate Theological argument attached to the practice. But at the heart of it was that an act of human beings-- even a basically good act such as giving to your church-- could justify us before God. This is what came to be called the “Faith versus Works” debate. For Luther, the issue was clear. From his reading of Paul --from his lecturing and preaching and study and prayer life came his stand.

"We should be justified by faith". And, as he later underlined it, "by faith alone".

That's a point that still eludes many of us today. I can recall as a small child getting the idea that God had a big book up in heaven. And in that book was a page with my name on it. There was a big black line down the middle of that page. And when I was a bad boy, God-- or maybe it was St. Peter-- would make an entry on the minus side of the page. And when I was a good boy, an entry on the plus side of the page was entered. Then, when I died, I would go up to the pearly gates and St. Peter would be waiting there with the book. He would look up my name, turn to "my page", total up the plusses and the minuses and....

The implication was of course that if I had been good more than I had been bad he would say "Come right in, Dan." But, if I hadn't been good enough I was going to be in for a hot time in the old town tonight. Ironically enough, during those grade school years, I attended Lutheran Sunday School. Now, perhaps this teaching inspired me at times to be a more well behaved child. But the plain fact is that it certainly did nothing to make me into a Christian in the real sense of faith.

Because, to tell the truth, I was also taught that Santa Claus had a big book, and kept track of when I was good or bad. I won't say that this works theology can cause us to mix up Santa Claus with God. But, back around 1977 I happened to overhear an argument between two United Methodist “PK”s..

They were both around eight and they were debating the existence of Santa. One was sure that Santa doesn't exist and the other took the opposite position. They went at it hot and heavy until in very real anger the one little girl finally declared,

"Well, if you can't believe in Santa Claus, you might as well not believe in God!" To which Bethany replied in a shocked voice,

"You're going to go to Hell for saying that!"

It's understandable that the girls mixed them up. After all, most paintings show both Santa and God with long white beards. Both of them live far, far away. Both keep big books and reward the good and punish the bad.

The major difference would appear to be that when Santa punishes bad children--it's coal in the stocking time. When God punishes bad people however--it's a lot worse than a sad Christmas morning-- it's a sad forever. In effect, Santa promises us justification by works.

This way of looking at God makes our Creator into some kind of a celestial big brother-- a traffic cop in the sky watching to see if we can earn our way into paradise.

Certainly God is aware of all that happens in our lives. Certainly God cares about us. But nothing you or I can do will earn our way into Heaven-- nothing that is, on our own. If admittance into Heaven-- whatever that will be like-- were to be based on our being good enough to come up to God's standards, nobody human would ever make it in

We tend to think of sin in terms of particular acts-- murder, theft, coveting, libel, and so on. Such acts are certainly always wrong, in and of themselves. But capital “S” Sin is really the spiritual state behind the acts--not the acts themselves. It is the state of mind and heart in which we cut ourselves off from God and neighbor.

Is there a wall between you and some other person? Have you cut off the possibility of God acting in your life by that barrier of unresolved anger or hurt? God never builds such a wall. Only human beings can build a wall like that. In the making of barriers that exclude others from our lives, we also exclude God from our lives. We place ourselves in a state of alienation-- apart-ness-- in a word, we sin.

Thus, Sin is no more and no less than my placing of that wall between me, and my God and my neighbor. Because of that wall I may very well engage in acts that are sinful. I may steal, lie, kill--do anything so long as I can justify to myself. Without God, I have nothing inside me--no moral center, no hope, nothing that gives meaning to my existence. Without God, I have nothing outside me by which I can objectively tell right from wrong.

That means nothing you and I can do on our own will be good enough. Our forgiveness can't come from good works. We can’t buy our salvation. Heaven is not a celestial Walgreen’s. It might be nice if there were one, but there is no ticket booth at the “Pearly Gates”.

Our justification, the forgiveness of our sins, the making right of our wrongs, the putting right of our lives, the cessation of our alienation, the healing of our broken, wounded spirits—all of these can only come to us as an act of Divine Grace-- the free gift of unmerited favor from our Maker.

And all you and I need do is repent of our sins, humbly recognize our powerlessness, and out of faith, ask God’s forgiving Presence. Justification by faith begins when I say to my Creator "Holy One, help and forgive me in my alone-ness and my wrong." It is my making the first move-- my attempt to tear down the wall. Justification is a simple process. We must honestly wish to sin no more. We must sincerely wish to return to fellowship with our Creator. We must acknowledge that we cannot accomplish this--we cannot break down the wall between God and ourselves alone. We must humbly ask that this be done.

The forgiveness of my sins means that the wall has come down. By the grace of God I am made whole, reformed and renewed, my life has a center and a purpose. My existence has been put right. My alienation has been vanquished and it is no more. I am on the road to Salvation. My Justification is not the beginning of the journey—it is the journey itself.

After we have been forgiven, we will want to take is to break down the other wall-- the wall we have erected between ourselves and other people-- by approaching them and asking for their forgiveness. It's a simple process-- but not necessarily an easy one. But if the desire is genuine and the effort is real, the strength will be there.

It is not necessary that those we have wronged forgive us. If they cannot the burden is no longer on us, but on them. All of the forgiveness, all the strength, all the grace that you and I can possibly need will always come from our Maker-- provided that we ask in sincerity and truth.

That’s when good works come about. They are a natural and inevitable consequence of our joy and gratitude for this gracious gift. And that is when you and I can and will one day find ourselves, led by faith and conscience, saying “Here I stand.”

Standing on the scaffold-- standing against the popular view that we know is wrong, opposing warmongering acts by our own or any other Government, being willing to fight City Hall, standing up for unpopular beliefs that are nevertheless right, refusing to laugh at the racist or sexist joke, voting for a candidate from “that other party”, donating our “mad money” to a cause that desperately needs it, helping out a stranger, befriending a homeless person, going places and doing things we never would have imagined. Why? Because, God help us—we can do no other.

That's what Paul meant by Freedom in Christ. That's what Luther meant by Justification by Faith Alone. These things are simply too incredible to believe in by any rational standard. We can only even believe in such things—much less live them out--by the grace of our God.

Martin Luther was right 499 years ago. Salvation is not for sale. Redemption is not earned. Forgiveness, Sanctification, Justification, Spiritual Wholeness, Eternal Life-- whatever we choose to call it-- comes to us from our God. It is a gift of faith. For that let us thank God. Amen.

"Two Went In to Pray" given Oct. 23, 2016

They were a nice enough young couple who’d approached me about performing their wedding. I don’t require couples to join my church before I’ll marry them. Still, non-member couples will often swear to me that they’re going to start coming to my church after the wedding. Maybe four couples in over thirty years in the local pastorate have actually done so.

Fred and Ethel were one of those couples. I was surprised when they actually began attending after their honeymoon, but of course, appreciative. After they joined the church, Ethel volunteered to become chairperson of the Worship Committee, and Fred taught the Jr. High Sunday School Class. They were younger than most of the people in that church, but they had a lot of energy and everybody welcomed them.

Fred and Ethel were both short people—she was only about five three and he was maybe five six. Fred in particular was what my grandma used to call big-boned. He looked like he was almost as wide as he was tall. But he had a lot of muscle under his bulk. I don’t recall if he was from Canada or not, but he’d grown up playing little league and High School Ice Hockey . A lot of the very best Hockey players are fairly short. He still played every Tuesday night in a league at a local ice rink. He was, not surprisingly a goalie.

After a while, Ethel talked her sister into attending my church. She ended up joining the church as well. I guess that must have roused Fred’s evangelistic spirit because he promptly began working on getting one of his hockey buddies to attend.

So one Sunday, I came in the front door of the church and there in the lobby stood Fred and Ethel and Her sister along with another young man—the hockey buddy. He wasn’t quite as short and stocky as Fred, but he looked pretty rangy and tough.

We stood around chatting for a while—and all of a sudden, somebody said something—I honestly don’t remember what it was—but Fred’s ire was roused against his buddy—or maybe it was the other way around. As I mentioned, these guys were serious ice hockey players. Y’all know what ice hockey players do when they get irate with one another don’t you? Before I knew what had happened these two were swinging at each other in the lobby of my church.

I’ve done a lot of foolish things in my life. Usually I’ve done them for myself. This particular foolish thing however—I like to think I did for Jesus. Before I realized what I was doing, I had waded in between these two brawlers and thrown my arms around the buddy, trying to physically separate the two brawlers Meanwhile Ethel and her sister grabbed Fred from behind, pining his arms to his body. . I recall yelling at the two of them,

“This is God’s house. You two take your fight somewhere else.”

````` A the exact moment I began carrying Fred’s buddy out the front door, the President of the UMW and the Chair of SPRC walked into the lobby I wasn’t trying to evict the guy from the church, just remove him from Fred’s presence. Before I could say anything, however, he broke loose from me, growled something about settling with Fred next Tuesday night and stalked off.

I walked back through the door, and before I could explain what had just happened, it was time for church to begin. If I’d had time to reflect about what had happened, I no doubt would have been shocked, disappointed, angry and embarrassed. Embarrassed? Yes! After all, I had brought this nice young couple into the congregation. I thought that Fred’s rowdiness reflected badly on me, as Pastor.

Was this any way for my church members to act? In my church? You see, in those early years, I was self-centered enough to assume that I was responsible for anything and everything that happened in the church. In the end, it was after all, all about me. If the church didn’t grow, it was my fault. If it did grow, I took the credit. (It took a looonng time for the Holy Spirit to knock that particular sinful attitude out of my head.)

But by having to move right into the service, all those feelings didn’t have a chance to take root. In the quietness and beauty of the sanctuary, I was able to put aside what had just happened. Then we came to the offering. I gave the offering invitation, turned around and walked up to the Altar, took the plates in my hands, walked down to where the ushers stood waiting, and handed one of the plates to—you guessed it—Fred. There he stood—one of his eyes starting to blacken, his shirt pulled half out of his pants, his collar torn and his hair askew, with a sheepish look on his face, right there in front of me, God, and everybody.

The nerve of the man! Didn’t he have any self-respect or shame? Can you imagine having the sheer gall to stand up in the front of the Sanctuary less than fifteen minutes after trying to punch out his so-called friend in the church lobby? Didn’t he have any pride?

Jesus also told a parable to some who trusted to themselves that they were righteous and despised others.

Two men went into the Temple to pray—one a Pharisee and the other a Publican—a tax-collector. The Pharisee stood and prayed thus to himself—

“I thank you O God, that I am not like other men—extortionists, thieves, unjust, adulterers, brawlers, or even like that this tax collector. I fast twice a week. I give a tenth of

all that I get. Thank You God for making me, me.”

But the tax-collector stood in the back of the Sanctuary, would not even lift his eyes up off the floor toward heaven and prayed--

“God have mercy on me—a sinner.” Then Jesus added--

“I tell you, this man went home justified—rather than the other.

Luke says that Jesus told the Parable of the Pharisee and the Publican “to those who trusted in their own righteousness and despised everybody else.” Who might that be?

“Two men went into the Temple to pray. They go for the daily 3 PM Sacrifice—a regular, scheduled worship service. So we know this parable is a story about worship—a story about people who pray.

The two men are at the same service—but they pray and worship in very different manners. The Pharisee “stood with himself” Jesus tells us. Presumably he was in a prominent place—yet alone—not too close to anyone else—not too close to any sinners. As was the custom, he was standing, praying aloud, but under his breath.

Listen to his prayer. First he lists all the sins from which he refrains. Then he reminds God of all his good deeds. It was not required that he fast twice a week, but he does—possibly even offering intercessory prayers for others as he fasted. He tithes all that he buys—so as to make absolutely sure that he makes use of nothing that has not previously been tithed. He’s a double tithing, ‘second mile’ giver. Notice that Jesus does not condemn this man’s piety or question his goodness. The Pharisee is a good man—a very good and generous man. (His big problem is that he wants everybody to know it.)

His prayer is a prayer of honest thanksgiving—a perfectly appropriate response to God. The Pharisee is thankful for all the blessings he has received and all the virtues he has. He understands that all that he is and all that he has is a gift of grace from God. That tax collector over there is possibly a lot more prosperous than the Pharisee, but he wouldn’t change places with such a sinner for all the money in the world.

Unlike a lot of our prayers, the Pharisee doesn’t bother God with a string of petitions. He asks for nothing for himself. He only wants to give thanks. (And maybe gain a little respect in the community for his visible piety.) He is grateful that he is well off, that he was born a pious Jewish man and not a sinner or a Gentile or a woman.

On the other hand, the Publican stands afar off—in the back of the Sanctuary. And well he should. As a tax-collector he has had ample opportunities to squeeze and defraud his own people. He is a lackey of the Roman occupiers of his country. No wonder he dares not lift up his head to God. It’s a wonder that he would even dare to enter the Temple.

The nerve of the man! Didn’t he have any self-respect or shame? Can you imagine having the sheer gall? Didn’t he have any pride?

He beats his breast and bows his head. He can’t even repent. According to the Laws of Moses, for him to truly repent his sins he would have to abandon his wicked profession and make amends to all he has cheated plus another 20%. He can’t even recall all the people he has cheated over the years—much less how much.

That tax-collector was not a good man. He was a sinner. He was a man without merit. He was a man without hope. His breast-beating humility isn’t a virtue that you and I are called upon to emulate—it was simply his own realistic assessment of his own wretchedness. The only thing that can be said for him is that he was honest. He was a sinner and he knew it,

It’s hopeless. He can’t even really pray. All he can do is cry out,

“God have mercy on me!” The cheating tax collector claims nothing—but asks for everything. Lacking anything to offer God, all he can do is beg for mercy.

Then Jesus tosses us a curve ball at the end of the Parable.

“I tell you that this Publican, this notorious sinner, this fraudulent tax-collector went home justified—made righteous—blessed with God’s favor—not the Pharisee.”

Two men—two prayers. One man was a good, Bible-believing, faith-practicing, worship-every-Sabbath, double-tithing Pharisee. The other was a money-grubbing, immoral, collaborating tax-collector. And Jesus tells us that it was the Publican who went home atoned for, forgiven, justified, blessed, and saved. The Pharisee wasn’t.

What’s Jesus’ point? OK everybody, let’s all get out there and be humble! In the play Richard III, there’s a moment when this most evil, dastardly scumbag of all Shakespeare’s villains turns to the audience and with a straight face, proclaims “I thank God for my humility”

No. There’s more than enough forced, faked phony humility in this world. Have you ever tried to be humble? The truth is, if you have to try, or remind yourself to be humble—you aren’t being humble at all. You’re just acting humble. If you honestly think you’re humble—you aren’t. And if you are truly humble, you aren’t even aware of it.

A believer either is humble, or she isn’t. True humility comes upon us uninvited and unexpected. It sneaks up on us when we honestly look at who we are—and realize how far we are from being the person God calls us to be—and pray “God have mercy on me.”.

The opposite of humility is of course, Pride—a.k.a. Vanity. In the movie “The Devil’s Advocate”, Al Pacino plays Satan— who is, what else? A modern day—high priced, high-powered Manhattan attorney. The Devil sets his sights on an honest young small town lawyer played by Keanu Reeves. He has successfully defended a pedophile—knowing the man was guilty.

This is all the opening Satan needs. He invites the young man to join his law firm and tries to corrupt him—sex, power, money, glamour—none of them work. The young lawyer turns it all down in the end. In the last scene we’re back in the small town replaying the trial of the pedophile. This time, the young lawyer refuses to defend him, and the pedophile goes to prison.

In the men’s room after the trial, a reporter for a national news outlet congratulates him and asks for an interview. Realizing this publicity could make his career, he agrees and leaves the restroom. The reporter’s face changes into that of the Devil-- who looks into the mirror and says, “Vanity is definitely my favorite sin.”

Pride or vanity can take lots of other forms.

“God, I thank you that I don’t make a big deal of my religion and pray lots of showy prayers like those hypocrite televangelists.” “God, I thank you that I know my weaknesses and I admit them, not like that Pharisee.” “God, I thank you that you have used me to save so many souls.” “God, I thank you that my candidate is a good Christian—not like that other guy.” “God, I thank you that my own politics are correct—not like those people in the other party.”

Just like the Pharisee in the parable, it’s easy in our prayers to slip from thanksgiving into self-congratulations. Just as our acts of charity can easily slip into acts of self-aggrandizement--meant to make us look good, rather than to truly help someone in need. “God, I thank thee for me.”

Just like the Pharisee in the parable, if you and I don’t seek God’s mercy in our prayers—we will rarely find it. If we come to the Lord with hands full and clenched, it’s understandable that we go home empty handed. You know the old saw—be careful what you pray for, you just might get it. The hard truth is that if we don’t ask for God’s presence in our prayers, we won’t get it.

Neither the Publican nor the Pharisee is the hero of the parable. The only difference is that the Publican knows he’s sinning. Some sinners steal from others. Other sinners pray “I thank you God that I am not like other people.” But both sin. Both come to worship with unclean hands—and worse with unclean hearts.

Jesus is telling us a parable about prayer, about worship, and ultimately about ourselves. At any worship service, anywhere, we’ll likely find contemporary Pharisees and Publicans. Few of us are totally one or the other all the time. But most of us are some of each—some of the time.

There are times when you and I enter the Sanctuary as good, Bible-believing, righteous Pharisees who ask nothing—and consequently get nothing. We’re so content with ourselves, so complacent, so well-fixed. Yet how often we go home to Sunday dinner with a gnawing emptiness inside—because we were so full of ourselves when we came.

And maybe we decide to start church-shopping so that we can feel “fed”.

But then there the other times. There are the bleak times when we enter the Sanctuary to worship as Publicans—empty, needing so much, lost and without hope. And surprise! We return home with more than we dared to ask—forgiven, accepted, encouraged, empowered.

We have no idea, no way to know which will happen to us on a given Sunday. Will we go home “made righteous”? All that we know is that righteousness does happen sometimes, and that this was the place where it did—and so we keep coming back—we keep at it.

“The wind blows where it will” Jesus told Nicodemus. Righteousness, atonement, justification, mercy—all those are gifts of God’s Holy Spirit. Grace is a gift. And a gift isn’t really much of a gift if it’s expected, is it? Sometimes it’s there for us, and sometimes not.

Why? Jesus doesn’t answer that one. The gift is God’s to give at God’s own time and place—a gift of God’s mercy. You and I don’t go home righteous because we’ve prayed the right words, or stood in the right place, or taken a sufficiently humble attitude.

If and when we are justified, atoned for, saved, blessed—it is a gift of God’s love. God’s mercy is without bounds—extended to sinners of every stripe—despite how well or poorly said are their prayers. It’s only through that mercy that unmerited favor that any of us return home any different than we were when we came.

No Fred. I wouldn’t have been caught dead up there in front of the Altar, before God and all the righteous saints after indulging in a slug-fest fifteen minutes earlier. You see, I’m too good for that sort of imprudence in worship. It’s bad form. I have to keep my distance. I have too much pride to come to God’s altar with my shirt half out of my pants, smiling sheepishly and holding my still bruised knuckles out as if I was expecting to receive some gift. Unlike you Fred, I have my pride. I have my pride.

Two men went before the altar to pray two prayers on a Sunday morning. The first was a Methodist preacher. The other was a loud-mouthed, quick-tempered, rowdy. The latter went back down to his home justified, not the former.

"Prayer and Persistence" given Oct. 16, 2016

 There's not much question as to the meaning of this parable of the widow and the unjust judge. There's not much question because Luke tells us why the parable is important before he tells it and then remembers Jesus-- offering his own interpretation-- after he finishes telling it. This is a story about persistence in prayer and God's compassion and responsiveness. It is...isn't it?

There is this judge, says Jesus. We know about judges in Israel. We know their role was to maintain a reasonable harmony in the community and to adjudicate disputes fairly, impartially. It is particularly worth remembering that Jewish law, the Torah, described a particular responsibility for such judges when it came to protecting the rights of the poor - of widows and orphans and sojourners in the land.

Then Jesus says: there is this widow. And therein lies the plot. There is this widow. The choice of character automatically raises the stakes for the judge, because any God-fearing jurist would feel obliged by theTorah to take especially good care of her.

The problem is that this jurist is not God-fearing and not especially interested in justice at all. And so he tries to ignore the widow's pleading. But the widow is not going to take "no" for an answer. She keeps coming back to him day after day, resolutely pressing her case, until finally the judge has a conversation with himself.

Luke describes other such internal conversations elsewhere - the rich fool, the prodigal son, the dishonest steward - all of them talk to themselves. But this judge figures that if he doesn't grant the widow's petition, she will wear him out and may even give him a black eye - either figuratively or literally. So, eventually, despite his callousness and his lack of integrity, he gives the woman what she wants.

The progress of this parable is known as an argument from the lesser to the greater - if a wicked judge will finally relent and hear the woman's case, how much more will God. The point is that God is full of compassion, willing and ready to hear the prayers of the poor and oppressed. And the counsel is thus to be persistent in prayer, knowing that God will answer the prayers of God's children. It's an unclouded parable and a neat conclusion. And it is unbridled good news for those who pray day and night for justice, for it promises that their prayers do not go unanswered—some day.

and by the way to spiritual disciplines—such as meditation, fasting, journaling, devotions and study of Scripture—which are all forms of prayer.

Of course, if that's the point - and it seems to be - then we have a dilemma, if we are honest with God and ourselves. The dilemma is that nearly two millennia later the poor and oppressed are still calling out for relief and, for the most part, don't seem to be appreciably closer to a world of justice and compassion than they were when Jesus first told the parable.

If we read this parable as it has always been read, it is a counsel to relentless prayer. But there's a problem with prayer. When we pray, we are putting our belief on the line.

“Is there really Someone listening?” “Does that Someone really listen and care and respond?” “What about my unanswered prayers?” There will be some element of doubt, at least sometimes. There will always seem to be some lack of evidence that our prayer really makes a difference. Remember the old preacher's cliche' “God always answers our prayers, but sometimes the answer is no”? That does make God sound like an unjust judge—or worse a capricious one..

But wait! There's more! Maybe Jesus is talking about deferred compensation - the kind of "pie in the sky by and by" vindication that many Christians resist - then, frankly, the claim for persistence isn't very convincing...or at least not always.

Don't get me wrong. I believe persistent prayer is very important, even when such prayers are not answered in the ways we think best. It is important to be unrelenting in our prayers...and the truth is most of us are a long way from that standard. Every Sunday worship, Grace at every meal, and “now I lay me down to sleep” every night is still a long way from Jesus' call “ to pray consistently and never quit”.

No, the purpose of persistent prayer is not to nag enough that we change God's mind—God already has our best interest at heart. God is not the unjust judge. Our persistent, prayers and spiritual disciplines do change God or God's mind. We are the ones who are changed. The purpose of of disciplined persistence in prayer is for the changes such prayers can work in you and in me. It can put us in the right frame of mind or give us a new determination. More than that, it can open our hearts to the touch of the Holy Spirit. It can open our our ears to Jesus' call to follow. It can open our spirits to growth in faithfulness and deep compassion. And when we truly pray for others, it motivates us to reach out to them.

As Frederick Buechner said years ago, persistence is a key,

"not because you have to beat a path to God's door before [God will] open it, but because until you beat the path, maybe there's no way of getting to your door.”

Hmm. Maybe there's more to this parable than we have usually seen. What if Jesus offered this parable not only as a call to prayerful persistence but also as a reminder to the church of the importance of persistently seeking justice for the poor and the oppressed in our midst?  Alan Culpepper says,

"To those who have it in their power to relieve the distress of the widow, the orphan and the stranger but do not [do so], the call to pray day and night is a command to let the priorities of God's compassion  reorder the priorities of their lives."

What if we stand this parable on its head and hear it as a testimony to the persistence of God-- who wants us to work and pray in order to bring about peace and justice and abundance to God's chosen ones. You know—the chosen ones--the broken and oppressed who cry out day and night? The homeless, the emotionally and physically challenged, the enslaved and oppressed. The little ones Jesus called “the least of my bothers and my sisters?”

Might this parable speak to the resolute, persistent, unrelenting, determined One who keeps knocking on our door, challenging us to respond, pressing us to accept God's claims, urging us to work for the good of neighbors in need?

All through the Scriptures we can trace God's unwavering claim on God's people - the covenant with Abraham, the giving of Torah  to set forth a way of faithfulness and integrity and righteousness. Then, when God's children rebelled and fell into selfish ways, the sending of prophets to press God's claims and to call for justice and fairness. And finally when the people ignored the prophets, in the fullness of time,God sending the Christ into the world to demonstrate once and for all the character of God's grace and love toward all of God's children—most especially the poor and the outcast.

"Behold," said Jesus, "I stand at the door and knock." That persistent knock is the sound a conscience makes in the life of the faithful.

A few years ago there was a film called, Hotel Rwanda, the difficult story of what happened in Rwanda in 1994, when that African nation descended into madness, with the powerful Hutu majority beginning a systematic slaughter of the Tutsi minority. One writer would later call that massacre "the fastest and most efficient killing spree of the 20th century;" in one hundred days, the Hutus killed 800,000 Tutsis. The film tells the story of that horror through the person of Paul Rusesabagina, a hotel manager in the Rwandan capital, a Hutu who made a promise to protect his Tutsi wife and the family he loved and ended up finding the courage to shelter and save over 1,200 people by hiding them in the luxury hotel he managed.

As the horror built, Paul the hotel manager initially protested that there was nothing he could do, but his reticence was challenged by the steady beating of truth upon his door. What was it Alan Culpepper said?

"To those who have it in their power to relieve ... distress ... but do not, the call to pray day and night is a command to let the priorities of God's compassion reorder the priorities of their lives." Paul began to see the horror and experience the shame. It was a truth he didn't want to admit; but in the end, his conscience prevailed and he acted to save as many lives as he could.

But Paul was not the only one to hear the beating on the door and to experience the need to reorder his priorities; it happened also to many viewers of the film. About midway through the story, as the slaughter of the Tutsi people escalated, Western reporters began to capture scenes of the genocide on tape. Paul the hotel manager was heartened a bit, because he assumed the broadcast of such images would prompt immediate Western intervention.

When a skeptical Western reporter expressed doubt, Paul was dumbfounded. "How can they see that and not intervene?" he asked. But the reporter had seen it all before. "More likely," he responded, "people will see the footage, say 'Isn't that horrible?' and then go right on with their dinners." It was a particularly disturbing moment in a deeply disturbing film. And you and I know he was right. Who could see and hear that exchange and not feel shame?

And yet shame could be our full-time preoccupation. Across the span of our lifetimes we have experienced a steady drumbeat of news reports of injustice after injustice, perpetrated by one group or another. And what has been done? In this country, of course, some civil rights laws were established. And they have brought some progress, though such progress more often seems to follow the path of a pendulum than of an arrow.

We have seen some of the worst offenders elsewhere being brought before international tribunals and tried for crimes against humanity. We've watched celebrities who have staged worldwide concerts to raise awareness and to try to end poverty in our time. But many of us, seeing such things, have spoken our laments and then have gone right back to our dinners or whatever else it was we had been doing.

So, I wonder: if this parable offers a mirror for our lives, then maybe the face many of us will see when we peer into that mirror is the face of the judge who, as Jesus said,

"neither feared God nor had respect for people." Isn't that who we are in this story?

It's not very flattering to read the parable that way, to be sure. Who wants to be an unjust judge? But, then, in the parable the judge does eventually reach the tipping point. Then even if not for the best of motives and more from self-interest, the judge does grant the widow what she wants.

All she's been asking for, is justice--a fair shake. The very same thing that the outcasts and oppressed of this world want. And you and I know very well-- from reading the Torah, and from the prophets, and from listening to Jesus-- that's what God wants for them as well.

And when oppressed peoples and nations do not receive that faiir shake, what is their alternative? We see the answer in the world around us. They turn to fanaticism, militarism, terrorism, even. genocide

Maybe the good news in this story for the non-outcasts - for the rest of us - is that God is like the widow - unrelenting, persistent, assertive. God hasn't given up on us, even when we have acted as though we "neither feared God nor had respect for people."

So maybe there's hope, not only for the widows and orphans and sojourners of this world, but for us. Maybe there is hope that we will open our hearts to the shame we feel, and allow it to break through our resistance. Maybe we'll allow it to press us to open doors to those who knock persistently. Maybe there is hope that we will hear their pleas at last and use our voices, and the gifts God has given us, along with our persistent prayers, to help shape relief and reconciliation and fairness in this world.

Maybe you and I can form groups that will gather together to support one another, and pray for one another and for others. Maybe we can petition, and write letters, and lobby, in order to push our leaders and legislators to programs that truly can relieve hunger and want—or even bring justice to oppressed nations and people. Maybe we can inform ourselves and vote our consciences instead of staying home, or reluctantly voting for the least of two evils. Maybe we can give financial support to charities and relief efforts that reflect our values. Maybe we can volunteer, tutor, foster, clothe and shelter those we keep praying for. Maybe we can contact visit shut-ins and invalids we know of.

Maybe there is hope for us. I pray there is. I believe there is. More importantly, I believe God believes there is.

"Behold," says the Christ, "I stand at the door and knock." Maybe one day we'll press our governments, and open our livess and pocketbooks, and open our hearts, and open the door. Maybe even today. Maybe. And what a good day that would be...for everyone!

O Lord, let that day come. Let it come. Amen.

Blowing In The Wind (Live On TV, March 1963)

Bob Dylan The Times They Are A Changin' 1964

"Under My Skin" given Oct. 9, 2016

"Can it be?” asked Jesus, with a straight face-- knowing perfectly well that the answer was, "that no one has come back to give praise and thanks to God? Can it be?"

He'd been walking in the border region between Samaria and Galilee. Luke says that Jesus was on his way to Jerusalem—where he would meet his Passion and Death. Getting to Jerusalem from Galilee by way of Samaria is a fairly straight shot South. But most Jews of that time preferred not to pass through Samaria. Instead they would choose to cross the Jordan into pagan lands in order to make the trip—which is about like traveling from Chicago to St. Louis by way of Rockford.

Jesus must have been in a hurry, or he was there because it was a place where he felt his ministry might be needed most. The border between Galilee and Samaria was a place where ethnic and religious differences were bitterly felt. It would be roughly equivalent to Jesus walking the streets of Aleppo today, or the scariest neighborhood you can imagine in Chicago or Milwaukee, or even Jerusalem’s West Bank. Come to think of it, those might well be exactly the sort of places where you'd expect to find Jesus today.

In any case, while they were traveling through that turbulent region, Jesus and his disciples were accosted by a group of beggars-- lepers to be exact-- nine of them Jews and one a Samaritan.

Leprosy and a number of other related skin diseases were the curse of the ancient world. Nobody knew how you got it. Nobody knew how to cure it. All anybody knew was that once you got it, fingers and toes and noses and eyelids, would literally rot off your living body. The only merciful thing was that before that happened, you would have lost sensation in those extremities, so it didn't hurt.

The scary thing was that it was contagious. We know now that it's only contagious at certain points in the progress of the disease. But they didn't know that in Jesus’ time. All they knew was that if you were exposed, sometimes you'd get it and sometimes not. That probably made it even more terrifying.

All this made lepers into the outcasts of the ancient world. People hated and feared lepers. Surely, went the reasoning, such a terrible disease must be a curse from God.

Since telemarketing hadn’t yet been invented, lepers couldn’t work for a living, and they weren't allowed to live near anybody else. They weren’t even allowed to be within a certain distance of anybody else. The attitude that we call NIMBY, Not in my back yard, was invented around the issue of leprosy. I wonder if any of us can think of a disease that parallels leprosy in our modern world?

The account we read of this encounter in Luke's Gospel is very true to life. Those ten unfortunates would indeed have had to spend their lives on the edge of town, the edge of society, the edge of human relationships. They would have had to depend for their survival on the pity, and the long distance charity of others.

So the ten of them stood there that day, nor just ritually unclean but physically maimed—scary and feared. Luke says they kept the prescribed distance, in accord with the Law. They must have had to shout at Jesus, cupping their withered fingers around what was left of their lips in order to be heard.

"Jesus! Jesus! Help us Jesus! Help us! Please!"

Jesus. didn't approach or touch them-- though we read in the Gospels that he did touch other lepers on other occasions. This time, Jesus replied to them from a distance. He told those pathetic outcasts to go and show themselves to the priests at the temple. Because of the fear of leprosy, according to the Law, only priests could declare someone healed, and thus re-admit them not just to the Temple, but to the community at large.

When Jesus told them to do that, all ten of that motley group turned around and headed off. I say that it was a motley group because it was made up of ten people who would normally never associate with one another. Nine Jews of varying tribe, social class, profession, gender and background. And one Samaritan. Ten men and women who would not normally have lived together, worked or played or worshipped with one another, or even necessarily communicated with one another.

The ten of them were together only because they had no place else to go, no one else to associate with. They'd been expelled from their families and communities. They were united only by the tragedy of their illness. They were united by their common misery. They were united only because like Jesus, they were on their way to death.

Before, they had probably hated and feared and discriminated against one another. Before, they had probably seen the other as inferior, as blasphemers, as stuck-up, as dirty, as lazy. At best, they would have seen one another as someone likely to lower their property values if they moved next door. But all that changed for them when fate and disease swept them together into that strange and pitiful group of ten.

That sort of thing happens all the time in life. Disaster strikes and barriers are suddenly broken. A group of strangers are riding the bus, or a plane. They sit silently apart, aloof, each alone. They aren't willing to speak because of the apparent differences of color, race, tongue, dress, or origin. But let the bus overturn, let the plane make an emergency landing, and things change. People will scramble out, trying to rescue one another, holding one another's hands, embracing one another in relief and joy of their mutual survival.

In all those camps and gyms and tents where displaced people must find temporary shelter from Hurricane Matthew or some other natural disaster, I doubt anyone worried that the color of the person in the next cot was going to lower their property values. I doubt it anyone working at “Ground Zero” in Manhattan in 2001 cared about the color of the skin of the person laboring by their side—much less the color of the skin of the bodies they were trying to recover.

Throughout history, people of diverse color and background and race and culture have time and time again found themselves able to come together in a united front to face shared danger, shared misery, shared disaster.

And this can be just as true within the community, or the family. I've seen, and you've seen, adult sisters and brothers and cousins who fight and squabble like cats and dogs unite in shared prayer and grief at the deathbed of a beloved parent. The trouble is, of course, that once dad or mom has finally been laid to rest, when the disaster is over, when the homes have been rebuilt after the natural disaster, we go right back to our old, familiar ways of hating and envying and squabbling.

When Jesus spoke, the ten lepers turned around in obedience to His word and began to walk to the Temple to show themselves to the priests. They weren't cured yet, but never the less, they complied with Jesus’ instructions. They went, and while on their way, they each found themselves healed. One after another, they found themselves walking on firm feet, with hands that were made whole, faces and bodies that were covered with healthy, taut, restored skin.

And they must have looked at one another, and known that their shared misery was over. No doubt they did indeed report to the priests in order to get that precious certification of ritual cleanliness. And then, maybe, they turned to one another.

"Well, can't honestly say it's been fun. But it's been a slice. Look me up sometime. We really gotta keep in touch. Hey, don't be a stranger. Let's do lunch sometime." And then, no doubt, they parted. All nine of them.

The tenth, the Samaritan, Luke tells us, wasn't with them. Oh, he'd been healed. But he couldn't go to the Temple to receive his certification of cleanliness. The priests weren't going to certify him as clean so that he could re-enter the community. He wasn't a part of the community in the first place.

He was a Samaritan. Sick or well, he was an unclean outcast in their eyes. All ten lepers had been united on their way to death. But they could not be united on their way back to life. Rather than heading straight back home to Samaria, the tenth leper, in his gratitude, first headed back to Jesus.

All ten lepers had been touched by Jesus. But clearly, only their skin, only the surface of their bodies, only the surface of their lives had been changed. Inside, they remained the same. Only the cursed Samaritan came back to offer praise and thanks to God for this miraculous healing. Only the despised foreigner, the heretic, the blasphemer came back to throw himself at Jesus’ feet in simple, honest gratitude.

Luke records Jesus’ reaction as being that of astonishment. Personally, I think that Jesus had his tongue planted firmly in his cheek. "You were ten. All of you were healed. Yet only one of you has returned. Can it be that no one else has returned to praise God except this outsider? (Jesus didn’t invent sarcasm, but he wasn’t above using it to make a point once in a while.)

And Jesus said to the Samaritan, "Stand up. Go on your way. Your faith has saved you." He was saved. Not just on the surface, but inside-- in his heart. Not just on his skin, but under his skin-- in his spirit—in his deepest heart. Not just healed, but saved--made whole.

A lot of preachers think that this story is a lesson in thankfulness. I’ve preached on it a couple of times on Thanksgiving Eve, myself. And it is about gratitude, on the surface-- just as the nine were cured on the surface. A lot of scholars think this is a message about the universality of the Gospel. Like is concerned in making the point that a foreigner—a despised goyim praised God while nine Jews took their healing for granted. And the story can be seen that way, on a slightly deeper level.

On a deeper level yet, however, I think the story of the ten lepers is a story about Salvation. Sisters and brothers, for you and for me, this story is about our responding with

grateful faith and a commitment of open-handedness to all of the surface gifts that our God has given us. And as a consequence, it is a story about us being blessed below the surface---blessed at the very deepest levels of our existence with salvation, and wholeness, and joy, and purpose and peace.

Nine lepers were healed. The tenth was saved. Nine returned to their homes, families, businesses, trades, and places in the community. The tenth found his Redeemer. Nine re-found their old lives. The tenth found new and abundant life.

Sisters and brothers, we read how Jesus touched these lepers. In one way or another, all of us here this morning have been touched by Jesus as well. Otherwise we wouldn't be here. How deep did his touch go? Skin deep? Or under our skins, all the way to our hearts? Are you and I like the nine, or are we like good old number ten-- the Samaritan?

The nine were tested in their old world, according to the old rules and laws of the Talmud. They were declared clean and healthy on the surface of their skins. And they promptly returned to their old lives, their old prejudices, their old pettiness, their old ways of living and being. The Samaritan was tested in a new world by Jesus, who told him,

"You're healed and you're changed." Number ten must have never been the same after that—whether or not he ever returned to his old way of life. Six or seven hundred years after this story took place, an English monk known as Bede the Venerable wrote that in this story "it is not only confession of faith, but also the doing of the works that follow faith which makes whole those who believe and give glory to the (Eternal Parent) who is in heaven."

Immediately after this episode in Luke's Gospel, Jesus gets into a discussion with a bunch of Pharisees. He gives them a teaching which can really be translated either of two ways. Usually verse 20 is read: "The coming of God's Realm cannot be observed." But it is just as accurate, and perhaps even more to the point of this story to translate that verse, "The Realm of God does not consist solely in observance."

Friends, observance by itself consists of many good things, like regular church attendance, faithful stewardship, even uopright personal morality. Observance is important-- but it is in the end, only surface religion. Outward piety--rules and regulations, customs and traditions on their own will not earn our way into God's coming Realm. Surface commitment to the Gospel will not get us a place at the Lord's Table in the Heavenly Banquet.

Scrupulous practice of “fire escape” religion is in the end, only skin deep. It can make us feel relieved that we aren’t going to hell. It can make us feel really righteous, even possibly heal our wounds, but it will never make us whole. It can never on its own save us—never help us to grow and be transformed on that deepest level that Jesus spoke of to the tenth leper—“your faith has saved you.”

If our faith is under our skin, bone deep, anchored in our hearts and guts, it will lead us as a matter of course to seek God’s Will for our lives. We’ll find ourselves weeping over all the injustice and pain we see around us and one day even start to do something about it. We’ll find ourselves gradually becoming color-blind and class blind and culture blind and gender blind. We’ll find ourselves giving joyously without hesitation or counting cost—like Scrooge on Christmas morning. We’ll yearn with all our hearts to be part of Christ’s Coming Realm. And once you and I really begin to pray for and begin to live out the Divine Will—new life will be born within us--those deepest blessings will flow like living waters into very lives.

Certainly prejudice, discord, hatred, racism, and whining to get our own way have no place in God’s Reign of Shalom and Salaam. Christ’s Body on earth—the church isn’t

meant to be built on nostalgia or any well intentioned sentiment, or on our own personal preferences, or our own comfort or our own wills.

Neither will Christ's Kingdom be built upon grudges or imposed truce between antagonists. No, that New Jerusalem that you and I are praying for, working for, waiting for, walking towards, in our hearts and lives, on earth as it is in heaven will ultimately be built on one thing and one thing only. Just one thing—Our Lord’s love for all humanity, and our own joyous, spontaneous response of open-handed gratitude and love for Him—and by the way for one another. And nothing else.

Let us pray.

Lord Jesus, Can it be that we live our lives so devoid of gratitude for all the gifts you've given us? Can it be that we forget to praise you so often? Can it be that your faithfulness will persevere, even in the face of our unfaithfulness? Can it be, Lord, that are so self-absorbed that we have forgotten how to love, to share, to give, to reach out, to touch? May we recall your touch in our lives-- that touch that first brought us into your Church. May we feel again that touch, and open our hearts and our lives up to let it go deep within us. May we allow your touch to heal and transform and make us whole. May your touch empower us to new levels of open-handed, cheerful giving of our time, our service, our resources, our love.