A Sermon for the Salem United Church of Christ or Harrisburg, PA
by Rev. James Eaton, Pastor
Christmas Eve • December 24, 2025
Luke 2:1-20
Since the beginning of December, we’ve been on an Advent journey, visiting the places the built the hope of God’s coming. The candles of the Advent Wreath mark the steps we’ve taken and the spirit of the time is captured by the ancient Advent carol, “O come, O come Emmanuel”. Emmanuel: God with us. Since ancient times, since the prophet Isaiah, our people have hoped and prayed for Emmanuel to come, for God to come. Christmas is that moment and it is the moment in which we stop wondering when God will come and ask whether we will come. For Christmas Eve is all about coming to Christ.
Mary and Joseph are coming. Imagine the journey they’ve made. There is the physical journey: eight and a half months pregnant and riding on a jouncing donkey, day after day. Many of us have made Christmas journeys, we know what that’s like, how the traffic is more frustrating, breakdowns more heart breaking.
Their journey is also emotional and spiritual. From the moment the angel first comes to Mary, telling her, as angels do, not to fear, through the announcement of the child to come, Mary has been on a journey of her own. Her body has changed from the lithe girl she was to a woman round and carrying God’s purpose. Perhaps her spirit has changed as well. She sings a song of brave resistance to the culture of plunder so much a part of her time that concludes, Joseph also has had to make a journey, from his traditional expectations to embracing the new way in which God has chosen to come to the world. Mary and Joseph have come a long way to this Christmas moment.
Others are traveling as well. Somewhere out East, a group of high-powered astronomers, the ones we call Wise Men or sages are already traveling, perhaps with a caravan. They’re not sure of the destination. They have no address to plug into the GPS, no point from which they can measure the distance when someone says, “How much longer?” They’ll go to Jerusalem and ask the way to the birth of the baby. And there, the politicians will have to confess: they have no idea what’s going on. Still, even if they don’t know where they are going, the wise ones are coming.
The shepherds are coming. Just like Mary, an angel has told them not to fear and promised them a good time in Bethlehem—“tidings of great joy”. What would be tidings of great joy to you? We run past this part but think: there must have been something powerfully enticing to get the shepherds moving. What would it take to move you? Would it need the word “free” in front of it? Would simply real joy be enough? The shepherds are walking at night, in the darkness we never experience in the city, the darkness you only get out in the Appalachian Mountains or the Adirondacks or on Lake Michigan or somewhere lamps are never lit. I’m sure they’re scared, aren’t we all when we walk in darkness? But they’re coming.
All these are coming to a special light. We all know there is a legend of a star that shone brilliantly over the stable. But we don’t have to believe every legendary detail to know this is true, true in the way wall deep things are true, true because it has happened to us. Aren’t we here, hoping to see the light of Christmas? That’s why we gather tonight, to sing the songs of Christmas but even more to light the lights, the candles that symbolize that light.
Christmas is God’s invitation, and it’s marked with a phrase Jacquelyn taught me, something from her Texas childhood: the phrase, “Ya’all come”. Christmas isn’t meant to be just a moment when Mary and Joseph come, when just the shepherds come, when just the wise ones come. It is “ya’ll come.” We are meant to one to the children of God, the ones our country cages, the ones who will wake up to a present tomorrow you gave through the Christmas missions here. We are meant to come to the children of God, and who are these children? The ones hiding in darkness from bombs; the ones who appear to be adults but feel lost, everyone who wanders in darkness, as scripture says.
Ya’all come: come to Christmas, come to the light of Christmas, For when we together come to Christmas, when we light the candles of Christmas we are really saying what God says at Christmas: the light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it. Here is your invitation: ya’ll come, come and light the candles of Christmas.
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet; / So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d, / Retain that dear perfection which he owes / Without that title.
Juliet has a problem: she’s fallen in love, deep, hopeless, the way adolescent girls do, with a boy who’s from a family her family hates. She famously points out that it’s his name that’s the problem, not he himself. So, just like a favorite football player, traded to a new team, putting on a New Jersey, she suggests he simply get rid of the name.
Names are the first things we get, and they often reveal something about who we are. Romeo’s last name is Montague, and he’s the enemy of the Capulets, Juliet is a Capulet, and the families are enemies. Names often carry meaning, honoring someone like a grandparent or a friend. I was named after my dad’s best friend when I was born. He played trumpet in the University of Michigan band. Later, they had a disagreement, so I haven’t seen the man I’m named after since I was about six. Some names show affection or are private. Jacquelyn is from Texas, and when we became a couple, she brought that southern spirit home. She calls me “Preacher man,” and no one else is allowed to use that name, and no one does. It’s her private name. All three of today’s scripture readings encourage us to name our savior. They challenge us with different names and invite us to experience him in various ways.
To understand the section from Isaiah, we need a bit of background. King Ahaz’s Judah is caught between Egypt to the south and Assyria to the east. Some local kings have allied with the Egyptians and want Ahaz to join them, so the kings of Damascus and Samaria are at war with him, fighting around Jerusalem. He’s unsure of what to do, and when he turns to the prophet Isaiah, he’s told to rely on God. Isaiah invites him to ask for a sign from God, but Ahaz refuses. So, Isaiah tells him what sign will be given: a child who will be named Immanuel. ‘Immanuel’ means God with us; it comes from the Hebrew word for God—El—and the Hebrew for ‘with us’. Isaiah is teaching Ahaz this fundamental fact: God’s permanent presence. He wants him to make a difficult choice: to rely on God when Ahaz only sees the armies of his opponents.
Isn’t it interesting how we all approach tough decisions? What’s the first thing we do? Do we crunch the numbers, jot down the pros and cons, or maybe just rely on a well-worn saying or some online advice? What if we really considered God’s presence in that moment? What if we turned to God in prayer, asking for less of a direct answer and more of God’s hope? What if we called God Immanuel? How would that shift our perspective? How would it transform our church?
I used to go to a gathering of clergy every April and I had a lot of friends who were older ministers. One year, a discussion leader asked us to talk about what we actually did during the week. For me then, it was mostly researching the scripture, preparing a sermon, so I said that; most of the people in the group said the same. One of us, a man I had come to respect a great deal, said, “Every morning I go in the office, look at the calls, say hi to my secretary and then I take the church directory in the sanctuary and I sit and pray for each person in the church.” I was stunned. I certainly prayed for people but usually just the ones who were in the hospital or sick or had asked for prayer. I’d like to say I went home and started doing this and I did for a couple of days but then things got in the way and it slipped away. Years later when I faced a difficult conflict at the beginning of COVID, though, I was so frustrated that I began to do it again. It didn’t solve the conflict but it did quiet me so I stopped being angry. I began to be less angry and more able to be a real pastor. I regularly do that now: I pray for each of you, I pray for our church. I see it as my most important job. I wonder: what if every day, every one of us simply asked God to help us be a more faithful, vibrant, loving church?
I’m eager to move on to Matthew and his account of the advent. He begins with a genealogy that traces 14 generations from Abraham to Joseph. He wants us to understand that this birth is a part of God’s enduring relationship with these people. Some of the names are truly remarkable. Rahab, for instance, was a prostitute who aided the Jews in capturing Jericho; Bathsheba famously had an affair with King David. Ruth, on the other hand, isn’t a Jew; she’s from Moab, which means she comes from a completely different family. Finally, we arrive at Joseph, who is distantly related to King David and, therefore, to God’s promise to David that his line would always be with him. This story is all about Joseph; if you’re interested in Mary, come back on Christmas Eve, when we’ll read Luke’s story, which is all about Mary.
Joseph and Mary are engaged, which is a much more serious commitment than our engagement today. It’s been publicly recognized, and there might even be a contract. Now, Joseph has discovered that Mary is pregnant and immediately assumes she’s been unfaithful. He’s a good person who follows the Torah, and the Torah in Deuteronomy suggests that he should end the marriage. He knows this will be incredibly difficult for her, and he truly cares about her, so he does what we would do: he takes his time, considers the situation, and comes up with a plan to get out of the marriage without hurting Mary too much. “Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to divorce her quietly.” [Matt 1:20] But then, an angel appears to him in a dream. The angel begins like all angels do, saying, “Don’t be afraid,” but then says something that doesn’t quite make sense: “Don’t be afraid to take Mary as your wife; she’s going to have a child, and you’re going to name the child Jesus.” Well, the angel doesn’t actually say ‘Jesus’; he says ‘Yeshua,’ which is Hebrew for Joshua. Later, it gets translated into Greek, which doesn’t have that ‘sh’ sound, so it becomes Jesus. It’s a name that means, “God saves.”
So, that’s what he does. Now, there’s the tricky part of Mary being a virgin—or not. Early on, Christians linked the Isaiah passage we read with this one. In Greek and later Latin, a Hebrew word meaning ‘young woman’ was translated as ‘virgin’ because it wasn’t really about the body but more about young women in general. The church really took hold of this. Today, it’s a big deal for some, but a stumbling block for others. If it helps you, that’s great; if it doesn’t, that’s okay too. It’s important to remember that we focus on the biological details here in a way that no one in Jesus’ time would have. They had lots of stories about virgin births. Some people even believed that Emperor Augustus was born of a virgin, and there are other similar stories. It’s a way of saying that in this person, God has come to humanity in a special way. And the reason for this coming, this advent, is specific: salvation.
What does salvation mean? For some, it’s about an emotional experience; for others, it’s a quiet, internal feeling. Generally, it means understanding that God isn’t just everywhere, but with you, personally present. When we feel God present, we often feel a sense of our own inadequacy, our own sinfulness. I know this feeling; I stand here and talk about loving my neighbor, but when that neighbor is driving poorly near me, I can get pretty angry. Still, I know God is with me, present, sometimes disappointed, always forgiving and inviting me to grow up a little, act on what I believe. Calling the baby Jesus is a marker: God is not just present in history, but right here, in this person, and as that person grows up, God is providing a class in how to live a Godly life, even when that life ends in a cross.
This brings us to Paul and his letter to the Romans. Unlike many of Paul’s letters, this time he was writing to a church he hadn’t gathered, to people he didn’t know. The section we read comes from the beginning of the letter. He’s introducing himself, and he does it by calling up names. “Paul, a slave or servant of Christ Jesus, called to be an apostle.” There’s a lot to unpack in this simple sentence. First, he’s added another name to Jesus: Christ. Christ is the Greek word that translates “Messiah.” Messiah means “the anointed one” or “the chosen one,” chosen by God. The job of the Messiah is to redeem God’s children. Now, we already know Matthew has given us a long list of the family of God’s children; Paul is going to explain to the Romans and to us that we also are part of that family, adopted into it. And in that family, there are no distinctions. We’re all invited equally, invited by God, made into one family by God.
He names himself an apostle, someone who has seen the Risen Lord, and then he says that he is a servant or a slave of Jesus Christ. He’s giving us a rule about how we stand in relationship to Jesus: not as equals but as servants and members of the kingdom he preaches. He’s going on and talk about what it means to live as part of that kingdom but right here, right from the beginning, he’s inviting us in.
That’s really what all these names are: doorways into the meaning of Christ for us. So today’s scriptures give us three names, three doorways, into the meaning of Christ for us. We started with Immanuel, God present with us. We went on to Jesus, God saves. Now we are given a new name: Christ, the anointed one, the chosen one of God. You probably have different names too: husband or wife, son or daughter, dad or parent or mom. If you work, you have a title at work. And you have your own private sense of self. What name does God call you? What name will you call God?
I once lived in a 120 year old house and the floors in that house had a paint build-up a quarter of an inch thick: gray paint, and three or four layers down white paint and way underneath, if you dug in, there was red too, but when someone finally came in and sanded those floors all the way down to the wood, it turned out they were even better with no paint at all. Thanksgiving is like that. It’s overlaid with so many customs and traditions that it’s hard to see the original event for what it was.
Yet in that original event there is a peculiar beauty and inspiration. The people we call ‘the Pilgrims’ began as a little group of radical non-conformists who refused to be satisfied by the standard worship of their time. Their lives were formed by Elizabethan England: the England of the Spanish Armada, of Shakespeare, of great advances in arts and letters. It was a time of soaring hopes. Whole new worlds were just being explored, physical worlds across the sea in the Americas, spiritual worlds as the Reformation took hold, intellectual worlds as the beginnings of modern science emerged. It `was a time of extremes: great theatre and bear baiting; impassioned theological debate and men appointed to be pastors who never saw the inside of their church and simply collected the salary.
They were called Separatists, because wished to separate from the Church of England. They began with a simple idea: to worship within the circle of a small, committed group of men and women, not in the state churches. They wanted to hear the Bible and understand it; they wanted to pray from their hearts, not from a book. Many, many early separatists were imprisoned and died for this faith. Finally, one group left England for Holland where there was more tolerance. But problems there and a foreign culture led them to decide to try another solution. That solution was found in planting a new colony in America. So, after considerable negotiation, planing, and overcoming obstacles, a company of 102 people set out for Virginia on the Mayflower and the Speedwell.
Only a little less than half were committed Separatists, or Saints as they called themselves. The rest were called Strangers (they were mostly called this by the Saints!). After turning back twice and leaving behind the leaky Speedwell, they finally arrived on Cape Code in the fall of 1620, settling at the area they named Plymouth in November, 1620. They missed Virginia by hundreds of miles. For a long time they remained aboard ship, sending out exploratory parties. November in New England is a cold, harsh month, with more cold to follow. They had a poor diet, cramped quarters and little in the way of cleanliness. Many sickened and died, so many that they took to burying their dead in unmarked graves for fear the Indians would realize how small their band was. In April, the Mayflower left for England and the band was on their own. Despite their best efforts which included pilfering Indian corn storage, they almost starved that first year. They were mostly tradespeople and trades people. They knew little about farming and their crops did poorly. They had not brought the right equipment for fishing, so the great bounty that gave Cape Cod its name went unused. At the end of their first year they held an eight hour prayer meeting, a time they described as of solemn humiliation. Their ration consisted of about 14 pounds of corn a week per person and occasional game.
Gradually they adapted; they learned. They found fast friends in two Indians who had learned English from contacts with fishermen. These taught them how to plant and fertilize corn. They learned to find the oysters and clams in which the coast abounds. They learned to set snares for game. They made friends with local Indian leaders and they generally treated them well; sometimes those leaders took pity on them and helped feed them. They built lean-to’s and shelters and a meeting house where they could worship Still, their little community was always on the edge of starvation, always just a hairsbreadth from being wiped out.
By 1622 they had a better harvest, though they were still eating some of the grain brought on the Mayflower. They decided to throw a party. Think of their situation: more than half of the original group dead and buried, a ration of moldy grains and a little corn, hard, unremitting work every day just to stay alive. Would you have felt thankful? These people did. They felt they had reason to rejoice together. The woods were safe because of their wise policy of making peace with the native people. The sickness of the first months had abated and the company was free of dissension and quarreling. So, they gave a party and they gave thanks.
The first Thanksgiving was not what we imagine. First of all, it was not an afternoon dinner, it was a three day feast. There is no record that turkeys were served at all, although they may have been. Cranberries were probably not used yet, although they were present in droves in the bogs of Cape Cod. And the first mention of pumpkin in English only goes back as far as 1647, so no pumpkin pie. There weren’t any cows in the community so there wouldn’t have been any whipped cream for it anyway. They did have ducks and geese, clams, oysters, succulent eels, white bread, corn bread, leeks and watercress and something called salente herbs. They invited a local sachem, or chief, of the native people named Massasoit, who brought 90 braves with him. Seeing how this would stretch the food, the braves went out and got several deer, so there was venison. They had games, a military review, and lots of wine, both red and white. There was also considerable beer. Wild plums and berries formed the dessert.
The celebration was a great success and the Pilgrims held another the next year, and gradually it became customary to hold an annual celebration. The custom spread through New England and entered other states as well. Different areas celebrated on different days, however, until 1863, when Abraham Lincoln set the fourth Thursday in November as a national day of thanksgiving. That’s the way it’s been ever since, except for 1939, 1940 and 1941, when Franklin Roosevelt changed the date to the third Thursday in November to make more shopping days before Christmas. It wasn’t one of the successful New Deal experiments and so the date was changed back.
So much for the story of the holiday; it really isn’t much like our celebration at all, is it? No advertisements, no going to the store, no Turkey, no cranberry sauce, no stuffing, no pumpkin pie, no football game, no traveling hundreds of miles to be with friends. Then what connects us to this Pilgrim celebration? I think it is just this: that for a day out of the year we, like the Pilgrims, see, really see, our blessings. And anyone who really takes a look at his blessings is most likely going to feel like doing just what William Bradford said the Pilgrims decided to do: after a “more special manner,” to rejoice together.
Of course, seeing your blessings is not automatic; it begins with the sort of person you are and choose to be. There is a story of a psychologist who wanted to study attitudes and behavior. He took put two boys in special rooms to compare their reactions. One was a very dour, pessimistic guy and the other was a very optimistic, hopeful, bubbly guy. He put the pessimistic boy in a room filled with wonderful toys: remote controlled cars and Lego blocks and every single Nintendo game ever made. He hoped to cheer the boy up. He put the optimistic boy in a room filled with piles of horse manure, hoping to teach him a lesson about how rotten the world can be.
But when the psychologist came back, he discovered something strange. The pessimistic boy was sobbing, really crying his heart out. And when the psychologist went in and asked him what was wrong, the boy said, “All these wonderful things, I’m so afraid I’ll break something. The psychologist, feeling a little remorse about his experiment now, hurried to the room with the horse dung. He expected to find the optimistic boy in tears as well, but instead he discovered him laughing and shoveling the manure energetically. When the psychologist asked what he was doing the boy replied, with all this manure, there’s got to be a pony here somewhere!
Seeing is not automatic. The Pilgrims were not uniquely religious or hardy or suited to be colonists. They simply had this one strength: an unbending determination to see what they believed were God’s blessings. They came to a hostile, unknown place and died of strange sicknesses. Some simply starved. Yet, gradually they opened their eyes, and discovered there were fish and shellfish and deer and corn and berries and everything needed right around them. These things didn’t suddenly appear; they had been there all along. It just took the seeing, the determination to keep looking out for them, to make them out. And they did and they gave thanks and the thanksgiving sustained them, because it reminded them that these were blessings.
So what have you seen? Deuteronomy has rules for a thanksgiving offering; we read them earlier. Their offerings were grains and fruits and it wasn’t enough to give them; you had to look in a mirror and remember where you came from.
‘A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; he went down into Egypt and lived there as an alien, few in number, and there he became a great nation, mighty and populous. When the Egyptians treated us harshly and afflicted us, by imposing hard labor on us, we cried to the LORD, the God of our ancestors; the LORD heard our voice and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression. The LORD brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with a terrifying display of power, and with signs and wonders; and he brought us into this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. [Deut 26:5-9]
It’s easy to live where you have what you need and assume you have a right to it. This is a reminder that our lives and all the things that sustain them are a gift and that’s a reason to be thankful.
Today is Thanksgiving Sunday but it’s also Reign of Christ Sunday. We read the lessons for Thanksgiving Sunday but there are also lessons for Reign of Christ. In those lessons, the gospel is Luke’s description of Jesus on the cross. There he is, whipped, tortured, dying. What does he see? He sees two others also crucified; two men who are children of God. This is the greatness of Jesus Christ: that he saw every one of us as children of God. Even on the cross, he’s gathering them in; he tells them that they will be with him in paradise.
So what have you seen? Thanksgiving is really about vision. It is being able to see what is a gift, what is a blessing, that connects us to the authentic spirit of Thanksgiving, not what we eat or how we celebrate. It is our ability to have Thanksgiving Vision. What have you seen? The opportunity of Thanksgiving is to open your eyes. It is to see the possibilities in your situation. It is to see the blessings that sustain you and know they are God’s gifts. And then finally, when you are done with the special rejoicing, when the wishbone is dry and the pumpkin pie is gone, to decide: what are you going to do about it?
“I want a do-over.” I was standing in the cockpit of my boat, trying to back out of the slip. There were two things different about this time. First, we had an audience; some friends had come over to say goodbye. Second, it had gone totally wrong. Jacquelyn cast off the lines at the front perfectly. I put the boat in reverse, all 17,000 pounds started to move backward, and then it stuck and swung the wrong way. Everyone hurried to help, but the boat didn’t respond. Finally, I figured out that I had left one of the lines on the stern tying us to the dock connected; as soon as I untied it, we were fine. But I looked ridiculous and created a dangerous situation and all in front of our friends. I wanted a do-over.
“I want a do-over.” The first time I remember hearing the phrase was from my son. We were playing with a basketball; some game where we took turns throwing it at a basket, trying to get to a score. He would miss and say, “I want a do-over” and come up with some excuse, some reason: he was off balance, the ball had slipped: something. Later on, I came to the same feeling on my own, mostly as a parent. No one prepared me for the fact that parenting was so arbitrary, s make-it-up-as-you-go. There were so many times I wanted a do-over. Have you ever felt that way?
I wonder if that is how God feels about the world: “I want a do-over”. In English, we have “Behold I make a new creation” but the Hebrew really says, “Look at me, I’m making a new heaven and earth.” The truth is, we don’t want a new creation and a new earth; we don’t want things to change. We want everything the way it is and has been but better, cheaper, more. I’ve spent most of my life working with churches that said they wanted to grow and what I’ve learned is that we don’t want to grow; we don’t want to change. We don’t want a new heaven and a new earth and a new church; we want what we remember because it’s comforting. What if we did get a new heaven and a new earth? What if we got a new church? What if we became a new church?
We have to understand the setting to which Isaiah brought the word we heard this morning. God’s people had been disastrously defeated 80 years or so before, a defeat that shook their souls as well as destroying their nation. Thousands became refugees and many were taken into captivity in the foreign city of Babylon. Ever since, God’s people have listened to their grandparents tell them, “In Jerusalem, the gardens were better…in Jerusalem, the weather was better…in Jerusalem, the temple was better”. Now the Persian king has released the Jews and some have returned to Jerusalem. But they’ve gone home to something like Berlin in 1945 or Gaza today: a wiped out city with ruined buildings. That’s the present; what is the future?
God is offering a vision here of where we are going. I’m making new heavens and earth and this is what it’s like: you’re going to enjoy it, you’re going to build houses and live in them, have a vineyard and enjoy its wine. It takes a long time for vineyards to bear fruit, but you’ll still be there. I’m going to be there, and I’m going to anticipate your every want. The wolf and the lamb are going to lie down, there is going to be peace, even the natural world is going to be at peace. That’s where we’re going; that’s what the do-over is for: that’s our destination. Don’t worry about the trip: God knows where we are going.
What is our ultimate destination? We have this Word from the Lord, and it’s about where we’re going. I’ve lived most of my life along the great parallel defined by I-90, a road that begins in Boston, runs through New York, loops south to take account of the Great Lakes, runs through Pennsylvania and Ohio, Indiana, Chicago, up through Wisconsin and Minnesota, then across South Dakota and Montana, where it rises into the mountains and snakes through the passes of Idaho before it flows out into the desert of Eastern Washington, jumps the Columbia River and ends in Seattle. I’ve lived in Seattle, I’ve lived in Boston, and no matter which I was in, I never forgot the one at the other end. I knew the road had a destination; I knew where it was going.
The same faith flows through what Jesus says in the reading from Luke. Jesus is a rural person and so are most of his followers. Think how they must have been dazzled by Jerusalem; think how the big buildings, the sights, the sounds, the smells must have impressed them. They must have felt this was a permanent place. Yet now Jesus tells them it’s all going to be destroyed, desolated: “the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.”
Just 35 years or so after Jesus said this, it came true. Luke was written about 20 years after the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans. Like the shock of Pearl Harbor or the towers falling on September 11, they are living in a moment of shocked grief when it must have seemed, as the poet Yeats said,
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
He goes on to warn them about the immediate aftermath: violent times, demagogues, false
preachers, persecution. All these things have happened in the life and experience of the Luke’s
audience. Yet at the end Jesus invites them to this one faith: that in the love of God, there is permanent place: “…not a hair of your head will perish. By your endurance you will gain your souls.”
So: we know where we are going—what about now? What do we do now? Because we know it’s not like that now. The wolves and lambs are not lying down together now. What we are doing is living between the past and that vision. These readings have two ideas about what to do now. The first is to work here and now toward that vision. Someone said the Puritans were so effective because they believed everything depended on God but they acted like everything depended on them. They believed God’s faithfulness; they lived faithfully to God.
Our future is in God’s hands. Our mission remains the same: to sustain here a community of care, where God’s love is evident in the embrace of people who have been embraced by Christ. The Rabbis say: if the Messiah comes, still finish your Torah study for the day. Work is the creative activity by which we are carrying out God’s will in the world. So we are called to work now, we are called to work here, for justice, for the embodiment of peace. We have been hearing this fall about the world changing effect of forgiveness. We have been hearing this fall about the world changing effect of finding the lost. We change the world when we do this now.
The second thing to do is witness. Luke is writing about 15 years after everything he says in this section has already happened. The temple is already destroyed; people are already being arrested for being Christian. What Luke understands to be our job in the present is to witness. Don’t worry about how you do it either, Luke says. This part always makes me smile at books on how to witness. How do you witness? Live your life: that’s your witness. Live your life in a way that allows Christ to make a difference. A number of social researchers have looked at Christians and others in terms of their behavior; what they find is being Christian often makes little difference. Your witness is to let Christ make a difference in your life now.
Because Christ can make a difference, in good times, in bad times. In 1945, just before his execution by the Nazis for resistance, a German soldier wrote these words to his mother.
Dear Mother: Today, together with Jorgen, Nils and Ludwig, I was arraigned before a Military tribunal. We were condemned to death. I know that you are a courageous woman, and that you will bear this, but, hear me, it is not enough to bear it, you must also understand it. I am an insignificant thing, and my person will soon be forgotten, but the thought, the life, the inspiration that filled me will live on. You will meet them everywhere— in the trees at springtime, in people who cross your path, in a loving little smile. You will encounter that something which perhaps had value in me, you will cherish it and you will not forget me. And so I shall have a chance to grow, to become large and mature.
God’s work in the world through people who endure in faith is amazing.
The people that went into exile in Babylon did return and rebuild Jerusalem but they did something far more significant. While they were in exile, the stories, the teachings, the books we know as the Hebrew Scriptures were brought together and given their final form. The kings and armies and politics of that time are just obscure footnotes read by historians today. The scriptures they brought together have inspired three great faiths and people ever since.
The little group, not as many as are here today, who heard Jesus and endured in their faith in him and his teaching and his vision of God’s reign saw the temple fall, experienced persecution, but they endured. They kept his memory; they became his body. Through all our stumbling history, that faith continues today and we are their inheritors. In our lives, in our witness, it has, as the resistance leader said, “…a chance to grow, to become large and mature.”
Where we are is not where we are going. Where we are going is in the hands of a God, beyond our vision of greatness or defeat. When we grieve, we should not do it as people without hope, as Paul says, but as people who have put their hope in the God who doesn’t fail. The creative God who when all seems dark still can say: “I’ll have a do-over: behold, a new creation.” Let us give thanks to God as we work, as we witness, as we wait for God to make the new creation.
Isn’t it good for us to gather here this morning? The Book of Job imagines all the angels of the Lord gathering one morning; I think it was just like this.
One day the angels came to present themselves before the LORD, and Satan also came with them.The LORD said to Satan, “Where have you come from?” Satan answered the LORD, “From roaming throughout the earth, going back and forth on it.” [Job 1:6f]
Well, none of you are Satanic but you’ve been out in the world. How was your week? What did you see that made you angry? What did you see that uplifted you? What was troubling? What made you smile? You’ve had to answer some questions: what’s for breakfast? What are we doing today? Why is that guy standing in the middle of North Third?
Here’s one you probably didn’t spend any time on this week: “How many angels can stand on the head of a pin?” What do you think? Supposedly, this was a big theological question in the Middle Ages. Actually, historians now find almost no evidence anyone worried about this until after the Reformation when people began to make fun of it. The answer depends on whether you think angels have substance. If they don’t, then an infinite number can stand on the pin; if they do, then just one. There: out of all the questions you’ll have to answer this week, that one is settled. You can go onto more interesting questions like what are we doing for dinner.
I bring all this up because today’s reading from Luke is about a question no one is really asking, just like the angels on the pin. Last week we left Jesus going to dinner at Zaccheus’ house; we’ve jumped ahead of the whole Palm Sunday story and Jesus is in Jerusalem where he encounters a group of Sadducees. It’s the first and only time we hear about the Sadducees in the Gospel of Luke. They’re a group centered at the temple who were generally more well to do than the Pharisees we’re used to hearing about. They’re actually opponents of the Pharisees. You see, the Pharisees have accepted the prophets and some books lie Job called ‘the writings’ as God’s Word—holy scripture. The Sadducees, on the other hand, are purists; they only accept the first five books of our Bible, the Torah.
“Why are we talking about obscure first century Jewish theology?”, I hear you wondering. Hang in there with me; we need to understand this question Jesus is being asked. Now, The prophets speak of God resurrecting the people of God. Ezekiel, for example, says
[God] asked me, “Son of man, can these bones live?” I said, “Sovereign LORD, you alone know.”
Then he said to me, “Prophesy to these bones and say to them, ‘Dry bones, hear the word of the LORD!
This is what the Sovereign LORD says to these bones: I will make breath enter you, and you will come to life. [Ezekiel 37:3-5]
This ability of God to resurrect and make new is central in the prophets. So the Pharisees are preaching this. But as I said, the Sadducees don’t accept the prophets, so they don’t accept resurrection.
Jesus is preaching resurrection. He tells his friends that he is going to be killed in Jerusalem but God is going to raise him up again after three days. So, the Sadducees have come to confront him about this and that’s where we pick up the story in Luke. Do you ever ask a question without really caring about the answer? My dad did this: “What do you think you’re doing?” I’ve done it. “What’s all this mess?” That’s what the Sadducees are doing: they’re asking a question without really wanting an answer; the answer they want is Jesus saying, “Wow, I don’t know.”
So they’ve come up with a rule from Deuteronomy. This is the rule.
If brothers are living together and one of them dies without a son, his widow must not marry outside the family. Her husband’s brother shall take her and marry her and fulfill the duty of a brother-in-law to her.
The first son she bears shall carry on the name of the dead brother so that his name will not be blotted out from Israel.
However, if a man does not want to marry his brother’s wife, she shall go to the elders at the town gate and say, “My husband’s brother refuses to carry on his brother’s name in Israel. He will not fulfill the duty of a brother-in-law to me.”
Then the elders of his town shall summon him and talk to him. If he persists in saying, “I do not want to marry her,” his brother’s widow shall go up to him in the presence of the elders, take off one of his sandals, spit in his face and say, “This is what is done to the man who will not build up his brother’s family line.”
That man’s line shall be known in Israel as The Family of the Unsandaled. [Deuteronomy 25:5-10]
Now, there are some things where our common sense can lead us astray when we put them back in the Bible. One of them is the whole concept of a widow. Throughout the Torah and the Prophets, God shows a particular care for widows. But who are these women?
They are women in a patriarchal society. They couldn’t own property; they couldn’t function in regular economics But if they can’t own property and can’t earn money, how will they survive? Add to that is the fact that many women were widowed when young. When we say ‘widow’ we often think of an older woman who has lost her husband late in life. But Israel had to consider how to care for young women. So they did what many societies have done; they provided a way to marry them off.
Israel also had a particular concern about biological descent. God’s blessing was understood to be carried on this way. So it’s important that each family be continued. This rule takes care of both problems. Who’s going to marry a widow? I’s not a matter of romantic attraction; there’s a rule. The rule is, your brother marries her, has children with her, and those are considered your children. Problem solved, right?
Except for all the problems this raises. What if these two don’t like each other? When Jacquelyn and I were married, I had two brothers. My brother Allan was tall and handsome, much more handsome than me. My brother David is more charming than anyone I’ve ever known and he’s a rich lawyer. But you know, love isn’t always reasonable. This text comes up every three years and it came up about a year after we were married. After the service, Jacquelyn quietly said, “No matter what happens to you, I’m not marring either of your brothers.” The Sadducees think they’ve found another problem: “If, as you say, Jesus, there is resurrection, whose wife will she be after marrying seven brothers?” It’s a gotcha question!
I think of them gathered around, someone proposes the question, just as we heard: “Now there were seven brothers; the first married a woman and died childless;..” And so on. I think of them smiling in their arrogance, knowing they’ve got him. The crowd is quiet, listening, Jesus looks back at them for a moment, perhaps sad at their lack of imagination, their lack of faith in God creative power, and simply says,
“Those who belong to this age marry and are given in marriage, but those who are considered worthy of a place in that age and in the resurrection from the dead neither marry nor are given in marriage. [Luke 20:34f]
Wow. That’s it: God’s able to create and recreated and resurrect is so far beyond our present experience, our present lives, that we can’t carry all the things we know into it. So there’s no problem; God’s love is so great, it’s beyond what we can imagine.
Jesus isn’t content to brush aside their gotcha question, though. He goes on to point something out from Exodus, from the very scripture the Sadducees claim to represent.
the fact that the dead are raised Moses himself showed, in the story about the bush, where he speaks of the Lord as the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.Now he is God not of the dead but of the living, for to him all of them are alive.
This is what we should take away from this section: God is God of the living and all of us are all the time alive to God.
The closest we can come to this is the way parents are with children. Every parent, I think, has this experience: they are alive to us in their whole history, in all their ages. May is 35 but in my head, she’s also the little girl who was fabulous at her sister’s wedding when she was 10, she’s also the 15 year old who taught me to enjoy alternative music and rap, she’s the 20 year old college girl and so on. The same is true of my other kids. My daughter iAmy has grown kids now but to me she’s still the high school girl who outsmarted me. She used to go out on Saturday nights; she had a midnight curfew. I’d do that dad thing starting about 11:30; I’d start thinking she was going to be late and get mad. By 11:45 I’d be all worked up. By 11:55 I’d be ready to deliver a real dressing down to the late Amy. But Amy would sit outside in the car with her date until 11:58, then waft in just as the clock struck 12. I’d be obviously mad, ready to yell, but with no reason; she was on time. She’d look at me and say, “What?” And I’d have to stifle it. Maybe you know how awful it is to go to God full of unexpressed righteous anger. I could go on about Jason as well. What’s true is that all these are alive to me in all their ages, not just their present.
That’s what Jesus is saying about how God is with us: we are all present to God in all our ages, in all our lives. Our past is present to God. Our present is present to God. And our future is present too, beyond death. Death is one of the structures of this world, not God’s love. We don’t know how this works; we don’t know what this is like. So we imagine all kinds of things, most of them based on what happens here. That’s fine, as long as we realize that’s us. God’s love is beyond ours, beyond our imagination.
We’re going to sing a song in a few minutes that’s one of my favorites: “In the Bulb There Is a Flower”. Most of you know this song: in the bulb, there is a flower, in the seed, an apple tree. There’s nothing about a bulb that suggests a flower. There’s nothing about a seed that suggests an apple tree. Yet that’s their future. In the same way, Jesus is telling us, nothing about what we are now is big enough, full enough, to show God’s love for us. He invites us simply to believe in the love of God, beyond our imagination, beyond our experience. In that love, we are, we were, we always will be, embraced in the love of God. Who you truly are, who you truly will become, is indeed, as the song says, “Something God alone can see.”
This is how God starts: everything in order, light and darkness separated, land and sea, a fruitful creation, two people set in a garden. Then the people decide they want to be like God and it all falls apart. There’s violence and shame and sin and it’s a mess. It’s like when you go through one of those periods where you don’t clean, the dishes pile up, the bed’s a lump of twisted covers and sheets and you can’t face it all.
So God starts over; washes it all away in the Flood, teaches boat building to Noah and Noah goes on a cruise, God promises not to do this again, the waters recede and everything is in order. Then people spread out, they decide to be god like, build a tower and God has to scatter them and invent languages, and it all falls apart.
So God starts over: whispers to Abram and Sarai a promise about a land where they will be God’s people and that they will have children and become the beginning of a blessing to the whole world. God makes a covenant with them, sends them on a long journey, gives them a child, and it all looks good. Then it falls apart. There’s violence, there’s division. The people of God go off to Egypt and become slaves.
So God starts over: gets Moses to go to Pharaoh to say, “Let my people go”, because on the whole, God hates slavery. It takes some doing to convince the Egyptians but eventually God’s people leave slavery, wander around, doubting God some, complaining some, but God gives them a set of rules, Ten Commandments, makes another covenant with them, promises the promised land. They get there and then it all falls apart. They don’t live by the covenant, they think other Gods look like more fun, and they think they can be Godlike themselves.
So God starts over: sends prophets, gives them a Word. One of them is Habakkuk. He lives in a time of deep division. The Chaldeans, a people from present day Iraq, have defeated God’s people but it’s before the final devastation of Jerusalem. He sets out the problem.
O LORD, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen? Or cry to you “Violence!” and you will not save?
1:3 Why do you make me see wrong-doing and look at trouble? Destruction and violence are before me; strife and contention arise.
1:4 So the law becomes slack, and justice never prevails. The wicked surround the righteous; therefore judgment comes forth perverted.
But what’s the solution? Habakkuk says, “the righteous live by their faithfulness”. But what about the rest?
I’ve summarized the whole Hebrew Scriptures and perhaps you noticed the repeated, “So God starts over.” This is God: ever faithful, always trying to get back to that garden moment, like someone cleaning a house, making the bed, doing the dishes, putting things away. That’s what Jesus is doing: Jesus is God’s cleaner. And today we heard how he does it. Did you get it? Did you understand it?
It’s a simple story. Jesus is on the way to Jerusalem. Just a little before this, he’s told his friends for the third time that he’s going to go there and be crucified. No one wants to hear that but he keeps telling them anyway. Now, Jerusalem is up on a mountain. To the east is the Dead Sea and above that is the Jordan River. There’s a deep, deep valley, it’s actually so deep it’s below sea level. There’s a place at the river where you can ford and there’s been some kind of village there since about 9,000 BCE. There are fresh water springs and palm trees. Out to the east is the wilderness; off to the west is the winding road up the mountains. The city that’s grown up there is named Jericho and it’s one of the oldest cities in the whole world. To get to Jerusalem, you first have to go through Jericho.
That’s what Jesus is doing: he’s in the last stage of going to Jerusalem. It’s like taking the train here from Philadelphia; when you get to Elizabethtown, you know it’s time to get ready to arrive. When you drive up from Baltimore and hit the turnpike, you know it’s time to get over for the Harrisburg exit. He gets to the edge of Jericho and meets a blind man; Luke doesn’t name him, Mark says his name is Bar Timmaeus, which means more or less “Timothy’s son”. He cries out to Jesus; the crowd tells him to shut up but Jesus stops, has Tim brought to him, heals him because of his faith.
It’s a sign: Jesus has been dealing with so many people whose eyes work just fine but who are blind to the way God’s love just falls on the world like rain. Jesus has been dealing with so many people who are blind to God’s hope for all of us to treat each other with that same love. Timothy’s eyes are now open and he can see fully what he had glimpsed in faith, that Jesus is the Son of God, come to show that love.
They move on into Jericho itself. I’m sure there’s a crowd, after all Luke says that at one point Jesus had sent out 70 people to share the good news about him with others. There are a group of women who have supported him all along. There are the 12 disciples. Just try to walk down Green St. with 12 guys following; you’ll end up stopping traffic. It’s the same thing here.
If you’ve ever been to old cities, you know that the streets are narrow for the most part with the occasional open plaza area. That’s how I imagine this. There’s a small crowd, some running ahead, some behind Jesus, some trying to stay next to him. Surely news about him has gone ahead and there are people who stop what they’re doing to see.
Now, I know you’ve all been to a parade and you know how it goes: there are always people in front of you. You always have to decide how hard you want to push and if you’re like me, it’s not that hard. That means going to a parade tends to be looking over people’s heads; not that fun. There’s a guy there in Jericho who has an additional problem: he’s short. He’s not going to look over anyone. This isn’t the first time he’s had this problem, so he does what I suspect he’s done since he was a kid, he climbs up in a tree. His name is Zaccheus, which means ‘Innocent’. But people there don’t see him as innocent; they see him as a very bad man. He’s the chief tax collector there in Jericho which to most people means the chief cheat. He’s rich, and perhaps he’s not shy about showing it; drives a fancy chariot, has more than three sets of clothes, has enough food every single day. Being a tax collector means he’s ritually unclean; he’s not welcome at worship.
But there he is, up in the tree, can you imagine him? He wants to see Jesus. Isn’t that like you? Isn’t that like me? I used to preach from a pulpit that had a little brass quotation on it I saw every time I was there, it said “Sir, we would see Jesus”. So, Jesus is coming down the street, with this whole crowd, some just want to be around him, some want him to solve all their problems, some want to touch him. Maybe the tree is in a little square, and the crowd flows in. There are sycamore trees, a kind of fig tree, and there are palm trees, maybe there’s a pool of water, and there’s Zaccheus up in a tree and this is just the reverse of what Zaccheus had in mind. It isn’t a story about Zaccheus seeing Jesus: it’s about Jesus seeing Zaccheus.
Zaccheus is rich but he isn’t popular. He’s rich but he isn’t liked; no one invites him to coffee, no one comes by his office just to hang out. People avoid him. But Jesus sees him and calls out to him, “Come down, I’m going to your house for dinner.” Wow! Imagine Jesus inviting himself to your home. Imagine Jesus seeing you and calling you out by name. “Salvation has come to your house,” Jesus says. But it’s not a popular saying; Luke says that everyone grumbled. Everyone in that crowd feels they are better than Zaccheus; he’s an unclean, unpopular, unrighteous guy. Why is Jesus making a big deal over him? Why is Jesus actually going to his house, planning to eat with him?
It isn’t some great act of repentance by Zacccheus; he isn’t going to change his life on the spot. He’s already pretty much doing good, he says he gives half his income to the poor, he goes beyond what’s required when he wrongs someone. But that all comes after Jesus has announced he’s coming to Zaccheus’ house. It’s not the reason for it, it’s Zaccheus reacting to the grumbling. No, there’s something else at work here and it’s this line near the end: “he, too, is a son of Abraham.” He’s part of the promise, he’s a child of God. It doesn’t matter that he’s rich; it doesn’t matter what he does for a living. He’s a child of God. A lot of those children have gotten lost and Jesus is all about finding them, guiding them back to the family, reminding them of who they are. He wants to remind us as well.
Emily Dickinson famously wrote, “I’m nobody; who are you? Are you nobody too?” So many live as nobody. Jesus comes to remind us of who we are. He sees Zaccheus and he sees what the grumblers have missed: that whatever else he is, whatever he has done, he is a child of Abraham, he is God’s child, a child of blessing and promise. Now today is ‘All Saints Day’ The word ‘saint’ has come to mean someone recognized as extraordinarily good but originally and always in the New Testamet, it means any follower of Christ. Paul says in Christ we have been adopted into Abraham’s family. So what Jesus says about Zaccheus he could say about you or me: this person is a child of Abraham. This person is a child or promise. This person is a saint. This person is a child of God.
Jesus mission is to find the children of God and keep them home with God. Surely that is the real meaning of All Saints. We look back to friends and family we have known and loved; we remember them. Behind them is an even longer line of those who came before. All these are God’s children. All these Jesus came because he finds God’s children and just as the prophets said, intends to restore them to God.
But All Saints is not just the past; it is the present as well and the future. This is a wonderful congregation. What is said in Second Thessalonians about those Christians so many years before us could certainly be said here.
We must always give thanks to God for you, brothers and sisters, as is right, because your faith is growing abundantly and the love of everyone of you for one another is increasing. [2 Thessalonians 1:3]
That same spirit of the saints is here. It’s here and Jesus is looking at us, as he looked at Zaccheus, saying the same thing about us, that we are children of God, hoping we will recognize each other in that way, act in that way.
So when we hear him talking to Zaccheus, we should hear him talking to us as well, saying the same thing. “This too is a child of God…and today salvation has come to your house.” May that blessing live in your hearts this week and always.
When I was little, maybe five or six, I hated making my bed. I didn’t care about my messy room with dirty clothes and toys scattered about. My mother did care and we fought about it endlessly. Finally, one day, she sat me down, and showed me a list. “This is your Do It list,” she said. There was a line for my making my bed, picking up clothes, and some other things. “If you can check off everything each week, you will get a prize. Well, I didn’t care about making the bed, but I did care about prizes. So I started doing the things on the list and I did get some prizes. This little interaction is exactly how religion worked for many centuries. There was a sense that God had a To-Do List and if you faithfully checked it all off, you’d get a prize. The prize might be a good crop, it might be a peaceful life, it might be a good life after death. Whatever the prize, you were buying it by doing your list.
That’s what’s going on at the beginning of the parable Jesus tells. It’s another “two guys” parable; we had one recently about Lazarus and a rich man, we’ve had others. In this one, we start out with a good guy. He tells us he’s a good guy right from the start. “The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus, ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector.” The tax collector is the other guy; we’ll come back to him in a bit. “I’m better than all these, God!”—that’s the beginning of his prayer. Then he goes on to tell God he’s done his To-Do list: “ fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.” This is actually beyond what he’s required to do. He’s proud of his religious accomplishment. He’s completed the list, he’s ready for his prize. Let’s set him there on the shelf for a few minutes while we think about this system of relating to God by completing a to-do list.
It’s an ancient system. Hundreds of years before Jesus, we hear the prophets talking about how some people speculating on how much it will cost, what they will have to do, to get God’s favor. The first Christians were close to the message of Jesus but within a few hundred years, they were overtaken by Roman culture which included this idea of how you got to God. They also took over the Roman system of hierarchy: someone at the top, a few just below, more below that, and so on down to regular people. They called the ones at the top Archbishops, the ones lower bishops, and they had other titles down to priests. All these over time came to be more interested in power and wealth than the pure light of God’s love.
A thousand years later, this produced some beautiful cathedrals, an elaborate ritual for worship and a deep spiritual emptiness. Some people began to look for another way. They thought the Bible should be in a language everyone could understand. John Hus in Bohemia said this and inspired followers who fought for this new way. John Wycliffe in England translated the Bible into English. Both were killed as heretics but their ideas lived on. A hundred years later, Martin Luther criticized the system of To-Do lists and the corruption of the church around him. This time, some of the princes backed him. When Papal delegates came to Prague to negotiate, they were thrown out a window you can still visit.
But Luther wanted to keep the structure of the church with all its hierarchy. It took others to see that hierarchy is not God’s plan. John Calvin suggested a kind of church governed not by princely bishops but by the people themselves, electing a consistory of leaders who, along with the church’s pastors, would govern the church. His ideas spread through parts of Germany and especially Holland. They were added to by a man named Ulrich Zwingli so that a set of ideas about how to worship began to come together and catch on.
Those ideas generally included four things. First, that a church was not just everyone who lived in an area but a group of people who were covenanted, promised to each other as followers of Christ. Send that being part of a church meant understanding you were saved by faith in Christ, not by completing a To-Do list. Third, that the way to know Christ was through the scripture. Finally, they created churches that were governed by the people in the church, usually through something like our consistory. These ideas…covenant, consistory, conviction, conversation with the Word, became the foundation of what was called the Reformed churches, and they spread through parts of Germany and Holland. In England, the same groups were called Presbyterians—‘Presbyter’ is the Greek word for Elder, the title given to the clergy of these new churches. In England, another group took the idea even farther and said that each Congregation was complete under Christ. They were called Congregationalists.
By the 1700s in Germany, life was tough. Wars had devastated the economy and people were forced to worship however their ruler wanted. That drove many to immigrate to the new colonies in America. William Penn offered these Reformed people land and freedom of worship. So, many Germans came to Pennsylvania and in 1725, just 300 years ago, sponsored by the Dutch Reformed Church, they met and held their first service of communion. I imagine it was cold that day; this is Pennsylvania after all and they were in the wilderness near Lancaster. But their hearts were warm. Gradually, this way of worship, with its emphasis on covenants, and a direct peace with God spread. Eventually some of them got together with some Lutherans and founded this very church.
I’ve been going through our family album, I hope you’ve stayed with me. This is who we are: we believe everyone should be able to read the Bible for themselves, everyone should be able to come to their own way with Christ without a To-Do list or a bill from the church. We believe our church should be governed by us and it is. Someone asked me a while back, knowing I had retired four years ago, how it was to be back running a church. I said, “I’m not running it, I just preach there, the consistory runs it.”
So now I want to take that guy we started with off the shelf, remember him? He’s busy telling God his To-Do list is complete and how great he is, how righteous. But there’s another guy in the story. That guy isn’t righteous. He’s a collaborator with the Romans; he’s a tax collector. And it’s worth hearing his prayer too: “But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven but was beating his breast and saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’ [Luke 18:13] This is his prayer; this is his faith, that God’s grace can rain on him even though he isn’t a righteous man. These two are standing far from each other. The Pharisee is alone; the tax collector stands far off. Jesus says this parable is meant for those of us who trust their own righteousness, that is the righteousness that comes from completing your To-Do list. But Jesus says it is the tax collector who goes home justified.
One writer said about this,
At the end of this story, the Pharisee will leave the Temple and return to his home righteous. This hasn’t changed; he was righteous when he came up and righteous as he goes back down. The tax collector, however, will leave the Temple and go back down to his home justified, that is, accounted righteous by the Holy One of Israel. How has this happened? The tax collector makes neither sacrifice nor restitution. On what basis, then, is he named as righteous? On the basis of God’s divine fiat and ordinance!
God’s grace is experienced in our faith, not in a To-Do list. We can’t make God love us; we can only believe God already does. That’s the message of the whole Reformation; that’s the message of the scripture. Turning towards each other, turning towards God is the way.
As many of you know, in December I’ll celebrate the 50th anniversary of my ordination. I hope you’ll all celebrate with me on December 7th. It’s been a long run, God has been good, and perhaps because of that, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about some of my experiences. One I miss is youth ministry. That’s a work for younger people but when I was younger, it’s one I loved. I particularly remember my first group as a youth minister. They were a great group of teens, and I remember them that way, although today they would probably be retired. One of the things I most loved was retreats. We were in Massachusetts, near Boston, and one of our members would lend us a ski chalet occasionally.
The first couple of times we went off to Vermont, I planned the whole weekend, meals—it’s never good to let a youth group get hungry!—activities like sledding and some worship time, ending with a communion service around a fireplace. By the third time, I turned the planning over to the kids. They came up with a great schedule, but they left off the communion service. I didn’t want to take away their sense of authority, so I left the schedule as they planned it.
The final night that year, we were all gathered in blankets, some of them quietly smooching in the back, and someone said, “Hey Rev, what about communion?” I pointed out that they hadn’t planned this. And then someone, who I am sure has since sat on a Consistory or a Church Board afterward said, “But Rev, we ALWAYS have communion!” Quickly they all agreed: I had failed to do what we always do! We didn’t have any grape juice or bread, but we did have root beer and hot dog buns so we made do, and honestly, it was one of the most deeply moving services of communion I’ve ever shared. Maybe it was the root beer.
So much of church life is like that: we do what we’ve always done. We assume that’s the right way to do things. Jacquelyn and I spent last week in Prague in the Czech Republic, and we visited several cathedrals because they are so beautiful. Every one has the same form: there’s an altar at the front, a high pulpit on the side, pews,, side chapels with statues everywhere and they always have enormous amounts of gold and stained-glass windows. Honestly? I can’t imagine actually worshiping there; it’s not what we do, it’s not how we do things. Yet I know that people have worshiped there centuries longer than they have here. I know that they would find what we do strange and different. We do what we’ve always done but what about when things change? Can we change what we do and learn new ways?
Today we heard two oracles from the prophet Jeremiah. He lived in a very difficult time in what is now Israel and was then the kingdom of Judah. If you listen closely, you may have noticed that each of these pieces began the same way: “The days are surely coming…” Scholars call this eschatological, a big word that simply means look up from the present stuff and see the goal that’s always there. No matter where the Steelers are on football field, the goal is always there. No matter how the Phillies are doing in any baseball game, home base is always there. When someone begins to cook, they always have in mind the meal that will be shared. “Surely the days are coming!”—God has the goal in mind, Jeremiah wants us to see as God sees, toward that goal, toward the final feast.
His message is twofold: first, the immediate future is disaster; second, the ultimate goal is there and everything will be fine. He’s living like the people of Ukraine are now, under assault. The leaders of his day were so confident God would be on their side, they took on the greatest military power around. In that day, it was Babylonia, an empire based in what’s now Iraq. What’s happened here is that God’s people have lost the war. Jerusalem is destroyed; think of those old pictures of bombed out cities in Germany or France in World War Two or the recent pictures from Gaza with miles and miles of rubble. Jerusalem is rubble; the Temple, the focus of all their worship, is rubble. The leaders of the community are being led to exile; Jeremiah himself becomes an exile. Many are dead, all are suffering.
Jeremiah’s message before this passage is that this is God’s doing. Because the people of God have not lived out God’s justice, have not followed God’s covenant, God has destroyed them. But that’s not the goal; that’s not God’s ultimate plan. Instead, Jeremiah brings this word.
And just as I have watched over them to pluck up and break down, to overthrow, destroy, and bring evil, so I will watch over them to build and to plant, says the LORD. [Jeremiah 31:28]
The goal is out there: we just have to get there. The path may lead through defeat, but it shouldn’t include despair. The path may lead through foreboding and fear but it’s going to the fulfillment of God’s plan. The path may lead through the valley of the shadows but it leads ultimately to the glory of the mountain top.
Now we live in a difficult time as well. Our city hasn’t been destroyed, but we are assaulted every day by news of gun violence. We hear about almost unthinkable things going on in other cities where the government is deploying our military to assault our own people. We are being asked to turn against people who aren’t citizens and the rules of our civic life, our constitution, are being changed in ways we never imagined possible.
Last week, one of the most moving moments was walking through an ancient synagogue, now a museum, where the names of 80,000 Jews who were murdered by the Nazis are inscribed on wall after wall. What’s important to know is that Shoah, the holocaust, began with a long campaign of lies that Jews were somehow different, alien, and it’s humbling and scary that it took the cooperation of people just like us to accomplish.
So we live in a difficult time as well. What does God’s Word say about living in such times?First, that this moment is not God’s ultimate goal; God’s goal is the joyful, abundant community of God’s people, living in justice, reflecting God’s love thankfully and endlessly. “The days are surely coming…”, Jeremiah says, when God will make a new covenant. The new covenant is that we will want to do God’s will. “I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts, and I will be their God, and they shall be my people.”, God says. Now in ancient Jewish thought, the heart was not a romantic center; it was the center of a person’s will. This is a prophecy about a time when we all want to do what God intends.
How do we get there? That’s the question we ask every day. Everything is going to be fine eventually, “Surely the days are coming…”, but what about now? How do we live now? For that, we turn to the other readings. Paul wrote to Timothy in a difficult moment as well. The first thing he commends is simply to persist
…continue in what you have learned and firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned and how from childhood you have known sacred writings that are able to instruct you for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus. [2 Timothy 3:14f]
The same thought comes through the parable we heard in Luke. Judges in Jesus’ time had enormous power; there was no system of appeals. Their word was final on all kinds of cases. But what about when they are wrong?
Jesus asks us to imagine a woman who just won’t give up. It’s kind of funny, isn’t it? We can imagine this woman. Maybe it’s a small town, maybe she just keeps bugging the guy. “Give me justice!” Over and over again; he sees her in the market, she comes to his home, she’s there when he sits in judgment. The story tells us that he “neither feared God nor had respect for people”, a way of saying the guy just makes it up as he goes. You’d expect him to blow her off, wouldn’t you? But Jesus points out that actually what happens is she wears him down with her persistence. She never stops, she never goes away, and eventually she gets her way. The point isn’t that God is like the judge, it’s that persistence pays off.
We are all carrying around a bunch of ideas from our past about how things should be. But we live in a changing time, and it’s going to call for some new ideas, some new ways. It’s time for a new covenant. So God is asking: can we change? Can we let go of the old, persist in our faith in God and not in the forms of what we do?
Two years ago a horrific moment of violence occurred when gunmen took over 200 hostages, one of whom was an infant, from a musical festival in Israel. An enormous amount of hate and division has come from that act powered in part by grief over those hostages. A synagogue in Detroit remembered the hostages by putting 240 chairs and a crib out on their lawn. This past week, the last living hostages were returned as the beginning of the promise of peace deal in Gaza. The synagogue marked the moment by removing most of the chairs; a few remembering hostages who have died but whose remains haven’t been returned were left. The ceremony also marked the beginning of a new relationship between the Jews of that synagogue and the large Islamic population in Detroit. They are trying to persist in their faith but also recognize this is a new time that calls for new efforts to embody God’s love.
“The days are surely coming…”, God says. In the meantime, it’s up to us to listen to God’s Word, persist in faith that God’s ultimate goal will be accomplished and embody not what we’ve always done but what God is doing. What God is doing is always the same: a justice that sees all people as God’s children and a love that embraces every single one. This is God’s promise; these promises are the foundation, the only foundation, for building our lives together.
One of my favorite musicals is The Music Man. Do you know this show? It concerns a con man in early 20th century Iowa named Harold Hill. His swindle is that he gets people to believe there is trouble in their town only he can solve and only by creating a boys’ band. He sells them instruments, he sells them uniforms, he sells them on the idea that he can teach them to play the instruments and march in the uniforms through what he calls “The Think Method”. This simply consists of thinking you can play. Now, I was a trumpet player when I was a boy and part of a band. I can tell you that thinking won’t make your trumpet sound sweet, that takes practice. I was part of a marching band for a while and it’s less about thinking than drilling on making each step exactly the same as the last so that you stay in line. So none of what he says is going to work. There is a wonderful moment in The Music Man when Professor Harold Hill is found out, arrested, brought in handcuffs to the school where the boys are assembled along with the town and told to prove the band can play. He takes up his baton, and with the most unbelieving expression possible, says, “Think, boys, think”.
I wonder if that’s the same expression Jesus had when he said the things we read today. Jesus was no con man, but he’s been teaching and preaching for a while now. The part we read pictures him alone with his disciples. They’re on the way to Jerusalem, and he’s told them already that there he’s going to be crucified and said discipleship with him means a cross. Yet they just don’t seem to get it. Do we? Just before this section, he talks about forgiveness.
So watch yourselves. “If your brother or sister sins against you, rebuke them; and if they repent, forgive them.
Even if they sin against you seven times in a day and seven times come back to you saying ‘I repent,’ you must forgive them.” [Luke 17:3f]
Just after this section, Luke tells us that they are traveling along the border between Samaria and Galilee, on the way to Jerusalem.
These two snippets tell us where Jesus is: he’s crossing borders. He’s calling his disciples to cross them with him. Cross the border from guilt to forgiveness; cross the border from one place to another. In those moments of crossing, the disciples ask, “Increase our faith.” It’s funny, but I’m not sure if we get the joke. These are disciples, followers, but here they are, ordering their Master like he’s a servant. So Jesus gently reminds them of their relationship to him—and ours. They all understand the relationship of servants and master, and he invokes it here: Will a servant be thanked for doing what he was done? Everyone knows the answer. Servants—and disciples—are meant to follow the Master, not have the Master wait on them.
Today, there are many voices wearing Christ’s cross but demanding that he follow them into division. So perhaps World Communion Sunday, this Sunday, is especially important. It began not far from here, in Pittsburgh, in 1933. That was a time when denominations were fiercely competitive, anti-Semitism was officially promoted and racism was rampant. The Shadyside Presbyterian Church began the service as a way of reaching across boundaries of faith. It was promoted by the National Council of Churches beginning in 1940, as the whole world sunk into the violence of a second World War. Today, it stands a reminder that Christ does not belong to us; we belong to Christ. Anyone who tells us that Christ is on one side or the other of political or ethnic conflicts is lying. The call of Christ is beyond the sides, bigger than any of them, a call from the God who loves all.
Today, all over the world, Christians of every theology, every tradition, every background, every nation, unite to share communion. So we need to see at this table not just those of us here, but people of other colors, other traditions, other customs. It’s a reminder that we all follow Christ. And in that reminder is a miracle waiting to burst forth.
When Professor Harold Hill in The Music Man, begins to conduct the boys’ band, something magical happens. The boys, it turns out, have actually practiced and can get some noise out of the instruments. But it’s not noise the parents hear: the parents hear the sweet melody of their children making music. The camera lets us see what they see. One man cries out, “That’s my Davey!” And somehow, the boys are transformed; they become the band they had imagined.
Christ’s call is for us to become the disciples he imagined: faithful, loving, forgiving. Like Prof. Hill, he raises his baton. Like Prof. Hill, he calls out, “All Together Now”. And waits to hear us.
16th Sunday After Pentecost/C • September 28, 2025
Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15 • 1 Timothy 6:6-19 • Luke 16:19-31
“Which side are you on? Which side are you on?” It’s a line from an old union organizing song; in my head I hear Pete Seeger singing it. But it’s also an ancient question it seems people have always asked. As far back as we know, our stories, our sagas, our poetry speak of sides. Homer’s Iliad, the great story of a war between Greeks and Trojans imagines sides, and the Bible is full of them: Hebrews and Egyptians, Israelites and Canaanites. Genesis traces our division all the way to the first brothers, Cain and Abel, with one being murdered. Which side are you on?
The Parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus
The story we read from Luke is the Jesus version of a much older parable. It was always obvious that life had immense inequities. Some are rich; some are poor; some live out on the couch of comfort while others huddle on cold cement. Like the parable we read last week, it begins, “There was a man…” Between that story and this one, we’ve skipped Jesus castigating the clergy there for their attachment to riches. Last week we heard about a dishonest manager who finally uses his dishonesty not to enrich himself but to make relationships; now we hear about another man, never named, who is already rich and doesn’t really understand that it’s relationships, not riches, God wants.
The situation imagined in the parable is common. There is a rich man; there is a poor man. The rich man has good food, good friends, good everything. He feasts every day; he dresses like a king, for only kings could afford clothes made with the expensive purple dye. The poor man has nothing. He’s hungry and sick; he has the first-century version of no health insurance: he lies in the street with sores, unable to even fend off the dogs. His name is Lazarus, but he’s not the famous Lazarus resurrected by Jesus. He’s all the unhoused folks we see on street corners; he’s the person who lost their home and doesn’t even have a car to live in.
But, we’re told, at death things reverse. Lazarus, the poor man, is carried to heaven by angels. The rich man? The text simply says: “He died”. In the afterlife, they find their fortunes reversed. The poor man cuddles in the lap of Father Abraham, the revered patriarch and companion of God; the rich man is in a place of torment. This is meant to be a metaphor, not an actual description of the after-life. Jesus has borrowed from the Greeks the concept of a two
Long before Jesus, similar stories were told of a profound reversal of fortune. “Remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony,” Abraham says in response to the rich man’s complaint. The moral seems to be that God seeks a kind of even keel, a balance, and that the more unbalanced we are, the more we should look for reversal in the future. Be careful if your side is up: in the cycle of life, up comes just before down.
Beyond the Story
Other ancient Near Eastern versions of this story end here, with balance restored and the positions of the men reversed. What’s truly curious about this story is how Jesus has used the story to go on and make a profound point about our relationship with God. Consider the conversation in the afterlife.
What’s clear almost immediately is that the rich man has learned nothing. He tells Abraham to send Lazarus to get him a drink, as if he still was in charge, as if even there, his comfort was the most important priority. When he is refused, he still doesn’t understand the new state of things; “…then send Lazarus to warn my brothers,” the rich man says. Even here, the rich man can’t see Lazarus as anything but a servant, a means of getting what he wants. Abraham replies that his brothers have Moses and the prophets, a way of saying, they have the scriptures. “But if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent,”
But will they? What will it take to get some attention, some attention for God, some attention for God’s purpose and rules? This story is being remembered and told in a church with amazing similarities to ours. The first century was a time of cultural ferment. All around the people for whom Luke’s gospel were written was a rich cultural buffet with many options. Philosophers and preachers held forth on street corners. It was a prosperous time and some were rich; many were poor. Rome made peace throughout the Mediterranean world and trade thrives in peace time. We know that in the time Luke’s gospel was first read, items from Spain were found in Palestine, Egyptian wheat was eaten in Rome, British goods traveled to Iran and the world was full of choices. But in a world of choices, a noisy world full of the clamor of the market, how is it possible to hear God’s voice and God’s word?
Pay Attention Please
Paul makes the same point in a letter to Timothy. Perhaps the most misquoted verse in the entire Bible is Paul’s statement that “…the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil…” [1 Timothy 6:10] Sometimes we say, “Money is the root of all evil,” but that’s not what Paul has in mind. He knows that money itself has no moral value, it’s just a way of keeping score. Money is an energy stored: so much work, so much sold, so much earned. It isn’t money that’s evil; the evil comes from fixing our focus on money.
What Paul knows is that anything in this world that so occupies us, so consumes us, so captures us, takes our attention from God. That’s what he means to address and that’s what Jesus is lifting up as well. God wants our attention. The ministry of Jesus, the preaching of the prophets, all are a way of God saying to us, “Pay attention please!”
Here is the issue, presented at the end of the parable: if someone comes back from the dead, will even that be enough to get our attention? This is a Christian scripture; this is a Christian question. We gather every Easter to say, “Christ is risen, he is risen indeed,” but is even that enough to get our attention? But then we look at our calendar, we look at our checkbook, we hear the voices of all those who want us to do something, and we begin to respond. Someone needs a ride; someone needs a job done. We make their approval or material things or some other worldly thing become our goal, and it draws us like the North Pole draws a compass. In the midst of it, the voice of God is often lost. Even our religious life can become a part of the noise. American religion increasingly is about what we do. In many churches, the whole emphasis is on getting saved, saying the right formula. Our prayers become to-do lists for God, delegated duties that are beyond our ability.
But what is God saying in the midst of all this noise? God is saying pay attention. And we will never hear the rest until we do pay attention. The first act of faith is not to memorize a catechism or believe something, it is to take God seriously enough to stop doing, stop saying, and start paying attention. The first act of faith is not to say your prayers; it is to stop and listen The first act of prayer is not to ask, it is to listen.
Jesus Listened
Jesus listened, and the amazing thing is that he heard both Lazarus and the rich man. He heard God erasing the sides, refusing the sides: he saw that to God they were one people, regarded with one love. He heard the suffering of the Lazaruses of this world, of course, and all the accounts of his ministry include healing. But he also heard the desperation of the rich ones too. He never stopped listening to the Pharisees, even when they opposed him. He tells them this story: they are the audience here. He invited them to stop choosing sides and follow God in choosing to share with each other, forgive each other, embrace each other.
Which side are you on? It’s second nature for us to choose sides. We do it in sports, we do it in music, clothing, style. When I bought a Nikon camera years ago, I discovered I hadn’t just bought a camera, I had become a part of the Nikon tribe; there were people who got angry at me because I had that brand of camera. We do it in our politics. The last Presidential election was particularly nasty. I see people losing friendships because of it. Now I love politics, I’ve been involved as a volunteer and sometimes a professional for years. But here it has no place; this is not a place for choosing sides, this is a place for paying attention to God.
Following Jesus
I want to follow Jesus. Following Jesus means first, paying attention to God. When I pay attention to God, what I see is that God is beyond the sides. God is beyond the divisions. Our God is the God of all: rich and poor, alike. So the more we can do to live as binders together, stepping over the division of sides, the more we will find ourselves following in the footsteps of Jesus. That’s why our church continuously offers a chance to do things that recognize people. We do it individually when we baptize someone. We do it when we act in mission together, as we’ve done with the Christian Churches United. We do it individually when we bring a coat or some food. All these are ways of paying attention to God’s call in Jesus Christ to mutual care.
Which side are you on? Only when we realize the sides are just human inventions will we finally find ourselves where God has been all the time: beyond the sides, caring for all, listening to all, loving all. And it is when we know how God has loved all that we also come to the most powerful realization of all: that God loves each of us.
