The Life of This People Jesus Gathers: The Desire to Embrace an Enemy

The Life of This People Jesus Gathers: The Desire to Embrace an Enemy
(Matthew 5.9, 21-24)
A sermon preached by Dave Shull
Spirit of Peace United Church of Christ
Sammamish, Washington
The 26^th Sunday in Ordinary Time: September 25, 2011

The first in a series of reflections on what a community that takes its shape from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount might live like.

When they hear words like Christian or Jesus, a lot of people start running the opposite direction. They point to horrible things people throughout history right up to today have said and done in the name of Jesus Christ. And they don’t want any part of such violence and hatred and exclusion.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says to his followers: you are salt for the earth; you are light for the world. And I think those of us who want to show the world a different way to follow Jesus have been a bit shy. In my youth I tried to help my mom make dinner. Whatever I was making called for a teaspoon of salt. I put in a tablespoon instead. Everyone who ate it knew it. There’s nothing subtle about salt. We are salt for the earth. We are light for the world.

In the coming months, we’ll take a slow walk through Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. And open ourselves to hear what Jesus says it means to be salt and light. I hope the Spirit can use Jesus’ words to break us open. So we can imagine daring, bold ways to show the world the life of this people Jesus gathers. So those who flee when they hear the name Jesus might see how we live. And see us loving with an risky, extraordinary love.

Jesus starts the Sermon on the Mount with nine statements that begin with the same word. It’s the word blessed. These nine statements are called the beatitudes, because beatitude is an English form of the Latin word for blessed. Examples of the beatitudes are,

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are those who are persecuted for the sake of justice, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Everything Jesus says after the nine beatitudes expands on one of them. Our passage this morning is about anger and torn relationships. It expands on the beatitude almost all English translations of the Bible express as

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God
(Matthew 5.9, New Revised Standard Version).

Twenty years ago, a Palestinian Christian named Elias Chacour realized that the tone of the beatitudes doesn’t sound like Jesus. He says blessed sounds so passive. The people listening to Jesus give his Sermon on that hillside in Galilee lived under Roman occupation. The people Chacour works with live under Israeli occupation. Chacour asks,

How could I go to a persecuted young man in a Palestinian refugee camp…and say, ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted,” or “Blessed are those who are persecuted for the sake of justice, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven”? That man would revile me, saying neither I nor my God understood his plight, and he would be right.

Jesus doesn’t tell people who are suffering just to grin and bear it because God loves them. But that’s what Blessed are those who are persecuted makes it sound like. That they’ll be rewarded in heaven. So it’s okay if they have to live in a refugee camp now. It’s okay if Israeli soldiers shoot a desperate Palestinian father as he rams through a checkpoint because the only hospital that can save his dying daughter is on the Israeli side of the wall.

So Elias Chacour did some studying. Jesus would have preached this sermon in Aramaic – the day-to-day language of first-century Palestine. The English word blessed sounds pretty passive. But how does Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God come across in Aramaic? Like this:

Get up, go ahead, do something, move, you peacemakers, for you shall be called the children of God (Megan McKenna, Matthew: The Book of Mercy, New York City Press, 2007, p. 60).

That’s how to be salt and light for this world. To be grabbed by Jesus so we get up, do something, and move. Grounded in love, in non-violence, in extravagant welcome.

Filled by this new way of hearing what it means to be blessed, let us hear Jesus words about how those he gathers respond to anger and torn relationships.  Listen for a word from God.

“You’re familiar with the command to the ancients, ‘Do not murder.’ I’m telling you that anyone who is so much as angry with a brother or sister is guilty of murder. Carelessly call a brother ‘idiot!’ and you just might find yourself hauled into court. Thoughtlessly yell ‘stupid!’ at a sister and you are on the brink of hellfire. The simple moral fact is that words kill. This is how I want you to conduct yourself in these matters.
If you enter your place of worship and, about to make an offering, you suddenly remember a grudge a friend has against you, abandon your offering, leave immediately, go to this friend and make things right. Then and only then, come back and work things out with God”
(Matthew 5.21-24, The Message ReMix © 2003 Eugene Peterson).

In this words, I hear Jesus saying: Look at your own anger, Dave. Look at your relationships. Look at who you demonize, who you curse, who you hate. What to do you see? If people who flee when they hear words like “Christian” and “Jesus” see how you respond to anger and torn relationships, what kind of Jesus do they see you following? Do they see you loving with an extraordinary love? Or do they see just the same old self-righteous anger and blaming the other for the torn relationship?

One of my favorite people who write about Christian faith is a Croatian guy named Miroslav Volf. During the Balkan Wars in the 1990s, Serbian soldiers killed many people he loved. So when he writes about how Jesus calls his followers to mend broken relationships, I listen to him.

Miroslav Volf has a simple way to see how well he’s following Jesus’ call to control his anger and mend broken relationships. He thinks of these Serbian soldiers … or the thinks of anyone he hates, and asks himself, Do I have a true desire to embrace my enemy (Exclusion and Embrace, Abingdon Press, 1996, p. 126)?

It’s outrageous. What kind of God expects us to want to embrace people who hurt us and those we love? It’s natural to hate such people. Why would I want to follow Jesus if he expects me to try to control my anger and mend a relationship with someone who’s brought so much pain to me and those I love?
Because hate doesn’t work. When anyone in the world still hates, there can be no peace.

I believe Miroslav Volf is speaking a dreadful, horrible truth. I believe Jesus asks the people he gathers to do whatever they need to do to nurture a desire to embrace their enemies. For only then can followers of Jesus call the world to walk the path to peace.

We who wish to follow Jesus must keep our eyes on him. We see him on the cross. When I’ve seen images of Jesus on the cross, I always see unspeakable suffering. When Miroslav Volf looks at Jesus on the cross, he sees sees
the arms of the crucified are open – a sign of a space in God’s self and an invitation for the enemy to come in (p. 126).

Volf looks at the cross, and sees Jesus opening his arms to embrace the people who put him there.

That’s what it means to be a peacemaker. That’s what it means to respond to anger with healing love. That’s what it means to mend relationships that have been broken.

Yesterday, I talked to friend on the opposite coast. The church she’s part of is going through a horrible time. People in the church are deeply divided. She said, “When it’s time to pass the peace of Christ, and say, ‘The peace of Christ be with you,’ now there are people I can’t embrace and offer those words to. And there are people who would always walk toward me with wide open arms and say, ‘The peace of Christ be with you!’ who now look at me and turn away. I’m so angry. I just want to leave that place and never go back.”

That is so real. I imagine all of us have felt that kind of anger and that kind of brokenness. All of us have had torn relationships we’ve had no desire to try to mend. There’s been too much hurt.

This week, Georgia, Alabama, and Texas executed three of God’s beloved children. Troy Davis Derrick O’Neal Mason, and Lawrence Russell Brewer were killed because they were convicted of killing. Has there been any healing? Are we any safer, any more just, any more loving? If followers of Jesus took seriously his call to seek to receive and nurture the desire to embrace an enemy, what could have happened?

And when I am ready to say Jesus can’t expect me ever to want to embrace someone who’s caused me so much hurt, I hear his words in this morning’s gospel lesson. And I think of a speech I heard five years ago.

Peter Storey is a Methodist bishop from South Africa. He served on the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. This was the healing process in South Africa that brought people who committed atrocities face-to-face with the victims of those atrocities. In his speech, Peter Storey said, “A mother spoke about how a police officer beat her son to death. The police officer was in the room. During the hearing, the woman whose son had been murdered by this man walked over to the table where he was sitting. She looked at him. And she said, ‘Your first name means blessing. God needs you to be a blessing. To be a blessing you need a mother. Now come here,’ and she opened her arms to embrace him.”

Get up, go ahead, do something, move, you peacemakers, for you shall be called the children of God.

Amen.

“May I See Some I.D., Please?”

“May I See Some I.D., Please?”
(Isaiah 43.1-3 and Matthew 10.42, 44)
A Reflection by Dave Shull
Spirit of Peace United Church of Christ
Sammamish, Washington
The 25^th Sunday in Ordinary Time: September 18, 2011
The last in a summer series on topics you asked to hear reflections about.

This morning’s topic: How do we move from being givers to being receivers? How do we move from being givers to being receivers?

Dorothy White’s question gives voice to a very human grief.

The grief that comes over us when we can start more and more of our sentences with “I used to be able to…”, and end more and more of our sentences with “…but I can’t do that anymore.” The loss of what I used to be able to is a harsh and terrible loss. Because the things I used to be able to do are what gave me my identity. What I used to be able to do told me and everybody else who I was. What I used to be able to do gave me value. I was proud of what I used to be able to do.

As we get older, as we come out the other side of a major accident or illness, the roles we were used to switch.
We find ourselves being the receiver a lot more than we’re the giver. And that can be devastating.

When it seems like we’re always the receivers and that we have little of value to give, then we often find ourselves feeling guilty or ashamed or of little value. At such times, we need to hear the words of Jesus in this morning’s gospel reading. With these unfamiliar words, Jesus slaps me on the face. He says, Stop dividing the world into givers and receivers. With me, the gifts of love always flow both directions.

Listen for a word from God.

Jesus said to his disciples, “Anyone who accepts what you do, accepts me, the One who sent you. Anyone who accepts what I do accepts my Father, who sent me. Accepting a messenger of God is as good as being God’s messenger. Accepting someone’s help is as good as giving someone help. The smallest act of giving or receiving makes you a true apprentice. You won’t lose out on a thing.”
(Matthew 10.40, 42, The Message ReMix © 2003 Eugene Peterson)

Say what?

Accepting a messenger of God is as good as being God’s messenger.
Accepting someone’s help is as good as giving someone help.

What’s up here?

What’s Jesus trying to tell people who so often feel guilty for being receivers instead of givers? What’s up is that Jesus is telling us following him is all about practicing hospitality. When we practice hospitality, some people are guests and some are hosts. But it’s not like the host does all the giving and the guest does all the receiving. Where Jesus is concerned, the roles of guest and host get really messy.
(This idea of the fluidity of the guest-host relationship in the world of Jesus comes from John Koenig, New Testament Hospitality, Fortress Press, 1988.)

Think about what happens when we serve meals to hungry people in downtown Issaquah. We’re the hosts for these meals, right? We cook the food and set the tables. The hungry people who come for our meals are our guests. We’re the hosts. They’re the guests. We’re the givers. They’re the receivers. The lines are nice and clear, right?
But as we’re sitting at the table with them, something funny happens. One of our “guests” says something, or does something. And we feel like someone has just given us the most precious gift in the world. The person who was supposed to be the receiver has fed me. And gifted me with something I didn’t even know I needed.
But wasn’t I the giver? Weren’t they the receivers? What’s going on?

What’s going on is when we live the love of Jesus, everyone is a giver and everyone is a receiver. When we live with the love of Jesus, the lines between giver and receiver don’t just get really messy, they disappear altogether.

You come to do something for me I used to be able to do but can’t do anymore. I hate that I can’t do it anymore. When you come to me in my need, and the love of God fills you, then you don’t come in the role of a giver. And you don’t do anything to make me feel like a receiver or a charity case. You come as someone who expects that you will receive the love of God that is alive in me. I know you are coming to do something for me that I used to be able to do but can’t do anymore. When I believe the love of God fills me, then I don’t see you as the giver and me as the receiver. expect that, when you come to help me, you will receive something of the love of God that lives in me. Even when I can’t do so many things I used to be able to do.

Where Jesus is present, everyone is a giver. And everyone is a receiver. Because the love of God that fills us always flows in both directions. If I convince myself I have nothing more to give because I can’t do what I used to be able to do, then I make a choice. I choose to keep God’s love from flowing through me. I choose to withhold the life and joy and Jesus people need me to give them.

What do we do when we can begin more and more sentences with the words, I used to be able to …, and finish more and more sentences with, but I can’t do that anymore.

In this morning’s gospel story, Jesus doesn’t ask us to stop grieving the loss of identity that comes with the loss of the ability to do things we loved to do. Instead, Jesus asks us to stop dividing the world into givers and receivers. And stop identifying ourselves as receivers. Jesus asks us to change our identity. He asks all of to stop finding our identity in any role that aging, accidents, and illnesses can take away from us.

He asks us to take on the identity our Old Testament reading reminds us God gives us at birth.

The people of Jerusalem have been deported to Babylon, they’ve lost everything that had gave them their identity and value. In Babylon, their identity is gone.

If we’d gone to Babylon and asked one of those deportees, Can I see some I.D., please?, they wouldn’t have had anything to show us. Their I.D. was having a temple, a homeland, and a king.

Now all these has been taken away. So they have no idea who they are. They have no I.D.

To these deportees who have lost their identity and value, God sends the prophet Isaiah. God says to Isaiah,
Remind my daughters and sons who they are.
Tell them again what their identity is.
That identity I gave them at their birth.
That identity that neither age, nor accident, nor illness,
nor anything else in all creation can take away from them.
Isaiah, God says, remind them who they really are.

Listen for a word from God.

God’s Message – the God who made you in the first place, the One who got you started: “Don’t be afraid, I’ve redeemed you. I’ve called you by name. You are mine. When you’re in over your head, I’ll be there for you. When you’re in rough waters, you will not go down. I am God, your personal God, the Holy of Israel, your Savior. That’s how much you mean to me. That’s how much I love you.
(Isaiah 43.1-3, The Message Re-Mix © 2003 Eugene Peterson)

You are mine.

We sang this love song from God at the start of our worship this morning:
I love you. You are mine.

When anyone comes up to us and asks, Can I see some I.D., please?, wouldn’t it be outrageous if we smiled at them and said, “I’m God’s.”?

The next time we start to say, I used to be able to do that, but I can’t anymore, what if, instead, I said, Every moment of every day God looks at me and says, “I love you. You are mine.”

How will we respond when we can start more and more of our sentences with, I used to be able to … and when we can finish more and more sentences with, but I can’t anymore?

As that happens to me more and more frequently, I pray I will let the spirit of Claire fill and guide me.

Claire was a 90-something woman who lived down the hall from Peter and me in our apartment in Chicago.

There were lots of sentences Claire could have started with the words, I used to be able to. There were a few times I saw her cry for love she’d lost. Abilities she’d lost. Dreams she’d had to let go of.

All of us pass through that world at times. But Claire didn’t stay there for long. She didn’t spend a lot of time looking back over her life. She looked at right now. And she found ways to make now good. She chose to make now good.
She gave three violin and cello lessons they day she died of a heart attack. Every week she raced her 88-year-old brother to see which of them could finish the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle the fastest.
During baseball season, she cursed like a sailor at whatever team was beating the Chicago Cubs that day.
She enjoyed saying things to me like, Your French is lousy.
And she loved to play Private Eye.

There was a little grocery store on the first floor of our apartment building, and she was sure they were violating health department codes by throwing produce right into the dumpster behind our building. So every month or so Claire would stand at her window that overlooked the dumpsters. She’d take pictures when the store employees took out the trash. The next time I walked by her open apartment door after she had her newest batch of pictures, Claire would call out to me in her best stage whisper, Dave! I’ve got some more pictures….  I’d come in. And together we reviewed the fruits of her sleuthing.

I think the Rev. William Sloan Coffin was talking about someone like Claire when he said, The secret of living a good life is to die young as late as possible.

Two months before Claire died, Peter and I visited her in the hospital. We’d barely gotten in the room when she said with utter disgust, You wouldn’t believe what a nurse had the nerve to ask me this morning.
“What did she say,” we asked.
Well, Claire said, she asked, ‘What did you used to be?’
We were surprised anyone who said that to Claire was still standing.
“What did you do?” we asked.
With a look of triumph, Claire answered, I looked her right in the eyes and said, ‘Honey, I still am!”

Claire chose not to live in a world filled with I used to be able to.  She could do this because most of the time she remembered who she was. If anyone came up to Claire and asked, “Ma’am, can I see some I.D.?”, she would have said, “I’m God’s.” She would have said, “I’m someone God looks at every moment of every day and says, Claire, I love you. You are mine.

I love you. You are mine. It’s the only identity any of us will ever need. It’s the only I.D. that matters.

Amen.

What Road Shall We Make?

What Road Shall We Make?
(Luke 19.41-42, 44b)
A reflection by Dave Shull
Spirit of Peace United Church of Christ
Sammamish, Washington,
The 24^th Sunday in Ordinary Time: September 11, 2011

Love is so easy to say and so hard to do.

Today we mark the 10^th anniversary of the day when passenger planes were turned into missiles. As people who live in this country and who want to follow Jesus, how do we honor this day? We know Jesus commands us not only to love the people who are nice to us, but to love our enemies. Catholic social activist Dorothy Day reflects on Jesus’ command that we love our enemies when she says, "Love is a harsh and dreadful thing to ask of us, but it is the only answer."

We follow the Jesus who commands us to do that harsh and dreadful thing called loving. We follow the Jesus who is called Prince of Peace. How are we to mark this day that is filled with so much emotion … including anger and a deep desire for revenge?

The day Jesus rode into Jerusalem on the donkey, the crowds shouted for joy: Blessed is the one who brings peace! But the peace the crowds wanted wasn’t the non-violent, enemy-loving peace of Christ. They were sure Jesus was raising an army to kill the hated Romans. Peace was them killing the bad guys so the good guys could take over.

But Jesus knew the crowd’s desire for revenge could never bring peace. That path led only to more people becoming widows and orphans. So Jesus does what anyone would do when people they love choose to do things that will only lead to their own self-destruction.

Listen for a word from God.

Coming within sight of Jerusalem, Jesus wept over it and said,
“If only you had known the path to peace today!
But now it has been hidden from your eyes….
[Y]ou failed to recognize the time of your visit from God”
(Luke 19.41-42, 44b, The Inclusive New Testament, Priests for Equality, 1994).

It is always tragic when we don’t know what the times demand. Jesus had come to call people to walk a different road. A road of non-violence and enemy-love. But they refused. They like their version of peace more than the version Jesus offered. So in 66 the Jewish Wars began. And by the year 70, their temple and all that they loved had been destroyed.

They could have chosen a different path. I don’t believe God has created a path for each of us to walk. And all we need to do is find that path and then stroll merrily down it. I agree with the Spanish poet Antonio Machado that we make our roads by how and where we choose to walk.

Pilgrim, your footsteps are
the road, and nothing more;
pilgrim, there is no road,
the road is made by walking.
By walking one makes the road,
and upon glancing behind
one sees the path
that never will be trod again.
--Antonio Machado

Over the past 10 years, our country has responded to the tragic events of 9/11 by making the road we find ourselves on today. So what road will me make by our walking from this point on? Ten years from now, when the 20^th anniversary of 9/11 is celebrated, what road will they find themselves on. Will they look back on the past 10 years, and give thanks that followers of Jesus have chosen to walk a road marked by a harsh and dreadful love that has blessed the world with a peace that is true and holy? What road can we begin to walk today that will bring this country and world to a more loving and peaceful place?

I’m going to share a story with you that inspires me to try to walk in the way of the peace Jesus offers. Afterwards, I invite you to share a thought or a story that might help us walk a road toward a true and holy peace.

This is a true story that happened to a guy in his 20s named Shane, and an 11-year-old named Kassim. Shane tells the story.

Kassim and I were walking down a narrow street to our neighborhood post office in the Kensington area of Philadelphia. A group of teenagers started to follow us and call us names. They threw a couple of rocks at us. I told Kassim, “Let’s go say hi.” Kassim wasn’t so sure about that. So we turned back and walked toward them. I put my hand out and said, “Hey, I’m Shane. And this is my friend Kassim. We live around the corner.” They didn’t know what to do with that. A couple of them shook his hand and introduced themselves. Others snickered. One or two refused the handshake. We said, “Nice to meet you guys,” and headed back on our walk.

After they got over things not going the way they’d planned, the group of teens started to run after us. They threw some rocks. I noticed two of them had grabbed a couple broomsticks from the trash. We began to pick up their pace a bit. But then I looked at Kassim and said, “Don’t run.” We turned back. Suddenly, one of the kids hit Kassim on the side of the head with a stick. Then they started hitting me with a broomstick until it broke over my back. At this point, I decided to bust out a can of holy anger. I looked them in the eyes and said, “You are created in the image of God . . . every single one of you. You were made for something better than this. Kassim and I are followers of Jesus and we do not fight, but we will love you no matter what you do to us.”

That wasn’t exactly what they expected or hoped for. They looked at each other, startled a bit. For the first time they were quiet. Then they ran off in different directions.
Afterward, I asked Kassim what he thought would have happened if we’d chosen to fight. “It would have been ugly,” he said. “They might have been bloody, and we probably would have been real bloody.” No one would have left any nicer, that was for sure.

I told Kassim I wasn’t sure what Jesus would have done if he were in our place. I said I was sure Jesus wouldn’t have fought, and wouldn’t have run. I said Jesus have done something weird to throw them off, as he often seemed to do – like writing on the road with sidewalk chalk, ‘You are better than this.’ We thought we’d really shown these young people what Jesus was like. We said to each other, “Not only did we refuse to hit, but we refused to hate.” Then we prayed for them together. Finally, as he was leaving, Kassim reminded me that each of those boys had to go to bed thinking about what they did that day. Kassim added, “And so do we.” That night, we slept well (Shane Claiborne and Chris Haw, Jesus for President: Politics for Ordinary Radicals, Zondervan, 2008, pp. 264-5, paraphrased).

That’s the kind of road I want to make by my walking.

What about you? What ideas and stories do you wish to share?

(congregation shares their stories)

I often get discouraged because I don’t think I can make a difference. I feel like everything’s too big and too out-of-control. But the stories we’ve shared tell us we can and do make a difference. We can and we do live that harsh, dreadful love Jesus commands and we make new roads by our walking. Let us speak the words of Antonio Machado and hear his wisdom and his call:

Pilgrim, your footsteps are
the road, and nothing more;
pilgrim, there is no road,
the road is made by walking.
By walking one makes the road,
and upon glancing behind
one sees the path
that never will be trod again.

As we make new roads of love and true peace, Christ walks by our side. We are not alone. Amen.