Preaching Matthew 10:40-42
2008-06-24 by Gary Charles
The lectionary is not always a friend to the preacher. There are some texts that lose their full force when stripped of their context and I would suggest that the Gospel text for June 29 is just such an example. Taken by itself, this text seems to be a lovely account of the importance of good manners and genuine hospitality. As a child of the South, I have been taught these lessons all my life. Based on 10:42-44, we can then conclude that Jesus was a Southerner by philosophy, if not by birth.
As I said, the lectionary is not always the preacher’s friend. We will return to the theme of hospitality, but not until we consider what Jesus says prior to these three closing verses of Matthew 10. The chapter opens with Jesus choosing twelve disciples and giving them authority to do what he has been doing, healing to the ill and bringing sanity to the demonic and preaching good news to the lost sheep of Israel. Next, we hear Jesus deliver missionary instructions with the heart of the instructions calling the disciples to rely on the good manners and genuine hospitality of those in the towns that they will visit. There is also a severe warning from the Lord about those who practice poor hospitality and about their undesirable state affairs in the coming reign of God.
Jesus sends out the twelve not with the naïve idea that people are basically good and all you need to do is treat others well and they will do so to you in return. In verse 16, he cautions his disciples: “See, I am sending you out like sheep into the midst of wolves; so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.” He goes on to warn his twelve chosen ones that the mission field is likely to be anything but hospitable; it may well be deadly. He tells them that faith will pit family member against family member and will often be the source of anything but peace and yet there is no truer path to life that to leave everything and everyone in pursuit of the ways of Jesus.
Only after this long and difficult preamble can we hear the seemingly serene words: “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me” (vs. 40). Hospitality is more than a matter of good manners or cultural customs, it is a sign that the reign of God is near. Read throughout the Hebrew canon and you discover a recurring theme of providing for the needs of the stranger, the alien, and the outcast. One of the most memorable examples of such hospitality is not offered to a stranger but by one. Sarah dies and Abraham is in need of a burial plot. Finally, Abraham buries his beloved in Hittite country because a Hittite showed him hospitality.
At the other end of the spectrum, the biblical story often paints the “wicked” as those who are too self-absorbed to provide hospitality to the stranger. Early in Matthew, Joseph and Mary and the baby, Jesus, flee Bethlehem due to the inhospitable terror of Herod and they travel to Egypt where they will rely on the hospitality of strangers. Fred Craddock tells the story of comforting a lost young one in the store only to be accosted by an angry mother who says, “You can never be too careful” to which Craddock responds, “Oh, yes you can.”
Later in Matthew 25, Jesus will define those who live in the reign of God as those who by nature provide hospitality to the hungry, the thirsty, those in prison, the stranger. As chapter 10 comes to a close, it does so under the promise of the reward of a life lived shaped by the same hospitality that has claimed us all by God’s grace.
What would it mean in this day in which we cannot build enough fences to keep strangers out for the church to claim these three verses as a mission statement? What if a warm welcome into our sanctuaries and a loving hand in our ministries were less a strategy to grow or to make us feel less guilty about our privilege and more the basic instincts of our faith and life together?
Preach on Matthew 10:40-42, but do not let the lectionary keep you from listening carefully to the rest of the story.
Preaching Romans 6:12-23
2008-06-24 by Gary Charles
My daughter and I have been engaged in a family genealogy project this summer. The attic and the basement clutter is now spread haphazardly across our rather large dining room table – old photos, coins, certificates, newspaper articles, and an occasional letter that has yellowed over time. I love to travel back in time through the random collection of photos, but the random letters are the most fascinating. Many of the letters are written in response to an initial letter that has not survived and the challenge is to solve the puzzle of what was written in the first letter.
Reading the Apostle Paul’s correspondence often involves similar detective work. Just what were the Galatians doing that provoked Paul to omit all the social greetings and begin his letter in such loud, theological outrage? Had the Corinthians really abandoned the doctrine of the resurrection? What made the church in Philippi so special to Paul?
In the long and often complex letter to the church in Rome, the reader is almost always challenged to determine the question/situation to which Paul is addressing, but not in Romans 6. The basic puzzle does not seem too puzzling. In this text, Paul is obviously concerned that some have understood the doctrine of grace as an excuse to define “freedom” as a wild, selfish, and irresponsible life. The logic to which Paul’s response seems to be: If God claims us by grace regardless of how we live, then what does it matter to God how we live?
As David Bartlett writes in the Westminster Bible Companion, this truncated understanding of grace has survived long beyond Corinth. Bartlett writes: “The notion that the goodness of grace frees us from responsible obedience is still with us. We ignore questions of economic and social justice because ‘the gospel is not really about that’. We excuse our own tendency to spend our time and energy on people just like ourselves because, after all, the attempt to be more inclusive is just a kind of works righteousness. We think that because our hearts belong to Jesus, our bodies, our checkbooks, our votes, and our property belongs to us. Paul does not think that grace frees us from responsible obedience. Grace shapes us into responsible, obedient people” (pp. 60-61).
Throughout the winding theological argument in Romans 6 Paul never minimizes the reality of sin, but instead emphasizes that God has established a more powerful reality – grace. Grace is a constant reminder that the grip of sin is fierce, but not nearly as fierce as the grip of grace that God has exercised in Christ. Grace does not lead us to revel in sin, but to respond in thankful gratitude. The slave-master metaphor that Paul uses in this text may ring harsh in the 21st century, but Paul would have no one miss that the grip of sin is harsh and yet the grip of grace is remarkably light.
It is always a considerable homiletical challenge to preach just a piece of a letter, especially one as theologically dense as Romans. So, if you choose to preach from Romans 6, I pray that you will celebrate, as does Paul, the free gift of God’s redemptive grace. Celebrate what God makes possible in us despite the sharp talons of sin. Again, David Bartlett says it well to those who would preach from this text: “We could spend more time reminding people how much goodness is given us in the grace of God. We are citizens of no mean country --- God’s realm. We belong to no mean family – the family of God. We are graced with no mean gifts – the gifts that God has given us in Jesus Christ. We can be the kind of people we are and stop pretending to be the backbiting grouches we acted like when we got up this morning” (p. 66).
Garrison Keillor and Fred Craddock Interviews
2008-06-23 by David Howell
Keillor and Craddock interviews are in Share It!
Go to Homepage and then to Share It!
Preaching Psalm 13
2008-06-23 by Gary Charles
Last summer, the worship staff and worship committee at Central Presbyterian Church in Atlanta decided to let the lectionary get some rest. We designed a “Summer with the Psalms” worship and education series. In worship, the entire liturgy – responses, music, prayers, arts, and preaching – was based on particular psalms, sometimes, but not always, the psalm lection of the day. I have been preaching regularly for nearly 30 years, but had never spent a sustained liturgical and homiletical season wandering through the Psalter. My quick review of last summer is that it was often difficult and a challenge to coordinate music, arts, and proclamation, but was the most wonderful summer of worship that I have ever known.
Too often in worship if the Psalms are considered at all, they serve as a liturgical “warm-up” for the “real” text to be considered from the pulpit. After a summer wandering through the Psalter in search of a homiletical word to proclaim, I came away with a renewed love for this book of psalms. In the Psalter, I rediscovered perhaps the most honest and provocative book in the Bible.
Throughout my religious life, I have been taught to speak only with the utmost reverence to God in prayer. Either the Psalmist never learned that lesson or quickly moved beyond it. The Psalmist accuses God of everything from negligence to outright persecution. For the Psalmist, prayer is not a lame habit that probably does not matter anyway; prayer is the loud and glad praise of God at times, but it is also calling God to pay attention and to let up when God is paying too much attention.
In the psalm for June 29, Psalm 13, there are no obligatory words of praise that are offered by the Psalmist to open this terse text. Words of praise will come, but they are not the first words spoken. Instead, the Psalmist examines her situation (what that situation is we are never told) and demands some divine attention: “How long, O LORD? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” (vs. 1) For those who think prayer needs to be flowery and always respectful, Psalm 13 shatters that illusion.
In Psalm 13, though, God has not just forgotten the predicament of the Psalmist – or the people – God has turned away on purpose. Any preacher in any congregation for any period of time has prayed or has stood with members of the church as they have prayed, “How long, O LORD? . . . How long will you hide your face from me?” Preachers/ pastors may try to “protect” God from such charges, label them “poor theology,” but in times of crisis, people of faith are not interested in a cordoned off God, they want to have a long, hard conversation with the LORD God who made covenant with Noah and Abraham, David and Christ.
Too much about faith today is painfully timid, expecting little from a God who can do less. Not the Psalmist. After howling, “How long?” the Psalmist moves from interrogative to imperative: “Look on me and answer, O LORD my God. Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death (vs. 3).” The Psalmist lives under no notion that if she just thinks positive thoughts then life will turn in a positive direction or if she just gets enough education then she will be fully enlightened. In her despair and desperation, the Psalmist turns to God and expects an answer. What would it be like to call people to the kind of faith that sees God as the One who brings light and life to us, in our living and in our dying?
Praise arrives in Psalm 13, but not in an obsequious introductory way. The Psalmist is honest with God not in an attempt to tease God out of hiding, but because the Psalmist knows that the God to whom she prays is ultimately trustworthy. While the Psalmist accuses God of hiding from her, she will not hide her lament or her praise from God. Martin Luther once wrote of the mood of Psalm 13: “the state in which hope despairs, and yet despair hopes at the same time.” It is a psalm in which lament and praise live quite naturally together.
While Psalm 13 is short in length, it raises some of the most profound theological questions in Scripture. It is a worthy conversation partner for any preacher. I realize that some liturgical traditions reject the notion of preaching from the Psalms. I can only suggest that while tradition can be a loyal companion, it can also be an overbearing master. As you consider where the Spirit is leading this week, consider preaching on this psalm.
2008-06-22 by Gary Charles
In the blogs this week, I will look at the four lectionary texts individually and then will offer some homiletical themes that weave through these four texts. Today, we begin with arguably the most terrifying and disturbing text in the Hebrew canon, the so-called “testing of Abraham.” Like the stories that precede it, Genesis 22:1-14 is a primal story that addresses some fundamental human questions about the nature and intentions of God and the same of humanity.
In these primal stories from Genesis, God is not a distant Sovereign, but is dangerously imminent. In the previous chapter, God “tests” Abraham by telling him to accede to Sarah’s jealousy and send Hagar, his concubine, and Ishmael, his first born son, into the desert. Abraham obeys reluctantly, but only after God assures the patriarch, “Do whatever Sarah says, for Isaac is the one through whom your name will be carried on. But the slave-girl's son I shall also make into a great nation, for he too is your child' (Genesis 21:12-13).” So, in the Genesis story, Abraham and the reader hear repeatedly, and as recently as chapter 21 that God’s intention is not to sacrifice Issac, but to make of him a great nation.
Many of the primal stories are told with a healthy dose of irony and Hebrew humor and yet humor does not make this horrific journey with Abraham and Issac. Just as Jesus will later be “put to the test” in the desert, so now Father Abraham is “put to the test.” There is something about “testing” stories in Scripture that are deeply disturbing and perplexing. Surely after Eden was despoiled by a sacred trust betrayed and Noah found drunk and naked soon after the flood and Sarah heard laughing inside the tent before a divine promise while Abraham stood mute before the same promise, God must have readjusted divine expectations for human behavior. And, yet, here in chapter 22, God asks more of Abraham than humanly imaginable.
As my mind plays with this primal text, I find myself wondering: What if Issac had said, “Dad, I’m going nowhere until I see a sacrificial lamb”? What if Abraham had said, “God, I’m not about to terrorize my son to prove to you that I am loyal to you. Ask something else. Ask anything else”? What if Sarah had told Abraham, “Enjoy your trip, husband; Issac stays with me”? Of course, the one who tells this story leads us in none of these directions. Unlike Abraham negotiating with God to prevent the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, Abraham here is strangely silent and obedient. Is Abraham calling the divine bluff, after hearing repeated promises from God about Issac’s grand future? We do not know. We only know that Abraham sets off on a journey that no parent should ever be asked to take.
For lectionary preachers, Genesis 22 is often a choice text to skip. After all, the Psalmist, Paul, and Jesus in Matthew offer plenty of homiletical food for the day. Any preacher worth her salt knows that great damage has been done with this text over the preaching years. Why risk adding to the damage? It is a legitimate question, but there is perhaps a greater danger in avoiding this text for it is a text that is read by church members and contributes to their image of God.
So, if you plan to wrestle with Genesis 22 in the pulpit on Sunday, June 29, what do you say? In this story, God does not look for admiration or respect from Abraham. God is looking for total trust. The storyteller sets up the severity of the test by the use of repetition: “Abraham, Abraham,” “your son, your only son, your beloved Issac.” Abraham is not going on a spiritual retreat with his son; he’s going to sacrifice, his son, his “only” son (see how, in terms of election and future blessing, Ishmael fades from narrative thought), his beloved Issac (no laughing here).
Hints of the horror of Cormac McCarthy’s, The Road, appear as Abraham and Issac depart from the company to walk up a lonely mountain with Issac bearing the wood for his own sacrifice. The scene grows eerily graver with Issac querying his father about a sacrificial lamb, only to find himself set upon the wood as a sacrificial lamb. While God’s angel stays the knife before Abraham can kill his son, and by implication, the divine promise through Issac, the narrative cost is wrenching. Not unlike the sparse scene of impending death of Hagar and Ishmael with few provisions in the desert, here the reader is left wondering: “Why is this necessary, God?” “How could you go far as you went, Abraham?” “Is faith ever proved through violence?”
From Augustine to Calvin to Trible, fine theologians and biblical scholars have wrestled with this troubling text. My prayers are with you as you do so and I caution you not to rush to a happy ending – “Issac is spared” – because the one who tells this story is clearly not in a rush.
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