Luke 18:1-8
2007-10-15 by Ron Allen

Three big Lukan themes are in back of this text. The first is that Luke believes that the ministry of Jesus (and the coming of the Spirit) partially manifest realm of God in the present and point to its final and full coming in the near future. The apocalypse (the second coming of Jesus) will be the means of the final and full manifestation of the realm. For Luke, the realm is the restoration of all things to the way they were in Eden. The end-times will be like he beginning times.

Second, Luke believes that a delay is occurring in the final manifestation of the realm. Many people had expected the apocalypse to take place soon after the resurrection. Luke writes a generation later and it still has not occurred.

Third, many in the community are drifting away. Tensions have developed between the church and some traditional synagogues, between the church and Rome, and within the church. The community perceives itself as suffering. In the language of today's text, many people are losing heart.

Fourth, Luke understands prayer in a very specific way. For this writer, prayer is the intentional opening of the self and community to the presence of the realm. When the community prays, it seeks to make itself available to the working of the realm.

Sermon on 2 Timothy and Luke 17 (Oct. 14)
2007-10-12 by David von Schlichten


Endure; God Heals

(Word count: 608 )

Text: 2 Timothy 2:8-13; Luke 17:11-19

The great preacher Fred Craddock said in a sermon that most people he knows of who “turn in the keys,” who give up on serving the church, do not do so because of a sharp pain. They turn in the keys because they have “a dull ache all over.” In other words, Craddock says, they are tired.

We the baptized get tired, tired of trying to love God and serve the neighbor, tired of trying to help the needy, tired of cultivating faith in this unweeded garden called the world. After all, so many people are hungry, dying, sick, poor, marginalized. So many people need help, and progress merely plods forward or even tumbles backward. Ferocious evil seems omnipresent. Life throbs with unfairness.

Christians grew tired back in Bible times, as well. For instance, when you read all of 2 Timothy, it becomes evident that the original readers of the letter were growing tired. Being a Christian was demanding and even lethal. Paul says to Timothy and the other recipients of the letter, “Endure. I endure, and I want you to do the same. If you die with Christ, you will live with Christ. If you endure, you will reign. If you turn your back on Christ, there will be consequences, but Christ will never give up on you.” Paul says, “Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved by him, a worker who has no need to be ashamed [ . . . ]” (v.15). In other words, do not give up. Endure. God has saved you, approved of you, so now you are to respond by enduring, persevering.

2 Timothy 4:21 tells us that, at the time that the letter was written, winter was approaching. Winter is harsh, dark, and deep. It is surely coming, but persevere, endure, with power from the Spirit, living like the approved people we are, thanks be to Christ.

Do you feel like giving up as a Christian? Unanswered questions, prayers that seem to go unopened, evil crowding around us, war in Iraq, genocide in the Darfur, school shootings, sexism, legions of people ignoring the call to combat global warming.

Instead of giving up, we persevere, endure, the Holy Spirit empowering us to do so. The Bible, Baptism, and Holy Communion are gifts from God to restore, feed and heal us. Worship, prayer, sermons, hymns – all these blessings strengthen us to endure, perservere. God forgives and restores us.

God also gives us each other to help with enduring and persevering. We stand together as a group, Jew and Samaritan, White and Hispanic, Black and Asian, Catholic and Protestant, male and female, elderly and teenaged, Democrat and Republican – we stand together as a group and cry out together, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” Together, one, with the Spirit filling us with breath, we cry out with enduring voice, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!”

Then Jesus heals us. He may heal us of disease. He may send us a doctor or medicine. Jesus may heal us with comforting words from each other. Jesus may heal us with a hot meal, a gentle evening, a purring cat on the lap. Over and over God heals us through Scripture, Baptism, Holy Communion. God heals us by forgiving us our sins.

Jesus Christ, in various ways, makes us clean and new, all of us, regardless of our differences, and we respond by all of us, despite our differences, kneeling before God and saying, “Thank you” and then showing ourselves to the Church, announcing, “God enabled us to endure, and we did. Now God has healed us. Thanks be to God! We still have problems, but God still endures. We stick together, one, enduring, knowing God continues in ways large and tiny, to heal us.”

David von Schlichten, poedifier

Our First Book!
2007-10-12 by Dee Dee Haines

Our first Book Club selection is Preaching as Testimony, by Anna Carter Florence. 

In trying to compose an invitation to readers, I searched and searched, hoping to find a quote that would be so eye catching that no one could resist.  But the book is so well crafted, so artfully composed that taking just one quote would have been like stealing one note from a song.  It wouldn’t sound the same--- and it would not be what the composer intended. So, read just the introduction to see if you don’t agree that this book will alter our thinking about the practice of preaching.  If you’re anything like this preacher, you’ll be hooked. Post your thoughts and comments in the Book Club portion of Share It! 

To Nora and Rick
2007-10-12 by Tom Steagald

Nora--what a beautiful treatment of the story! Having worked for a while in an AIDs hospice while finishing my DMin at Candler, I saw so much of my own experience there: from the fear I felt before my first day (heightened by my son asking if I was going to die by working there) to the realization that I was far more dangerous to my patients than they were to me. Healing and hope can flicker, indeed as Venus, in that darkness. Here and there, says Buechner by way of Tillich, now and then...

To Rick I would suggest a different approach. By that I mean that, several cycles ago as I studied this text, I noted the significance of the phrase "Now he was a Samaritan." My sense is that Luke is telling us that the other nine were Jews, able in the first instance to show themselves to a priest whereas the Samaritan could not, but even more to the point is this: the community that was formed in their mutual plight was not strong enough to endure their healing. Sick, there were no distinctions between them, they called with one voice; healed, the fellowship unraveled. No, nothing wrong with their going to the priest. The Samaritan, in effect, went to his priest who was Jesus. What is sad is that they were not able to maintain a fellowship beyond their "healed" distinctions.

Does that make sense? Which is to ask, does that seem an apt or valid reading? I think in my own experience of "emergency room" fellowship where the bonds of suffering unite people quite strongly for as long as the emergency lasts, but then people go back to their prior and separate ways of relatiing. Certainly, that is not the main point, but it seems to ring true to me.

Sermon for Luke 17: 11-19
2007-10-12 by Nora Gallagher

Here is the sermon that came out of the musing this week. 

Quotations are from Walter Brueggemann, to whom I am indebted, always. My thanks to David Schlafer for his invaluable help. And to James Hillman for his insight into analysis and story. The sermon will also be posted on Sermon Feedback Cafe (go to Share It!).

And isn't it grand that Doris Lessing won the Nobel Prize.


Ruth  1: (1-7) 8-19a)

2 Timothy 2:(3-7) 8-15

Luke 17: 11-19

Psalm 113

   In this story, we have Jesus and ten lepers. Or we have nine lepers, and a tenth. The tenth leper, a man twice marginalized, a Samaritan and a leper, walks all the way back to Jesus and throws himself at his feet.

   So, what is healing? What happened to the ten lepers, and particularly, to the one who came back to Jesus?

   When I first started serious therapy,  I discovered how my past snaked into the present, like a tendril from ivy growing through a brick wall. I discovered I lived by a set of unconscious rules: I enacted and reenacted old, painful patterns. I preserved the past, if you will; I embalmed the dead. Once I recognized this, I thought, this will be easy, I’ll change. To my surprise, it was nearly impossible. It was as if I were a thermostat with a set temperature.

   But as I sat with this person, this healer, in that room, week after week, and she listened to me. I mean, she really listened to me,  I began to see possibility.  She and I took my chaos and pain and, together, we wrote a new story.

   When we find a compassionate listener, (and I’m going to get back to compassion) either in our own hearts or outside ourselves, in someone else: in therapy, with a priest or a best friend, or with Jesus, we have the chance to rework the material of our lives, to create a “fiction” if you will, meaning, not a false story, but a narrative that now has purpose and meaning.

   The resurrection of Jesus is the ultimate new story. Out of the chaos of death and execution, a new story was written and revealed.  The new narrative has purpose and meaning. It is not a story that banishes the old one; everything that happened to Jesus is still true, all the ups and all the downs. His moments of glory and his moments of failure. But the resurrection casts it all in a new light, with a new purpose, and a new meaning. And something new happened not only to Jesus, but to his disciples. They went into hiding after the crucifixion. They were shattered and lost. But after the resurrection appearances, they walked back out into the world.  They were braver and stronger; they visited strangers, and healed the sick. It was not just what they saw when they saw the resurrected Jesus,  but what was set free in them.  

   What if the resurrection is not about the appearances of Jesus alone but also about what those appearances point to, what they ask of us?    

   When I look at this gospel story again, I see that something happened to the tenth leper.  He no longer “kept his distance.”  He walked right up to Jesus and fell as his feet. He may have even covered Jesus’s feet with his newly healed hands, just like that woman who bathed Jesus with her tears.

   It may have been almost as hard for him to accept healing as it was for me to let go of my old, painful patterns.  He may have grown used to being an outcast, and a beggar.  But we know that something happened to him, because he did not wander away like the other nine, seeking some sort of certification from the religious hierarchy. He turned back, to the person who had touched his poor skin, and he thanked him.  It was not just what he saw when he saw Jesus, but what was set free in him. He was not only healed, he was changed. And that’s what makes this gospel a resurrection story.

   That’s what the resurrection is all about, for us. We are asked to take the chaos and trauma of the past and write a new story.  We are asked to be changed.

   And there’s another part to the gospel. It’s the part played by Jesus.

   First of all, let’s imagine the scene. The gospel says that Jesus “saw them.” He actually saw the lepers. How many of us, and I include  myself in this, no longer see the men standing beside the stop signs with the signs held up asking for food? Jesus sees the lepers, and he stops. I imagine he called out to them. And I imagine the lepers were amazed, that a person, a healthy person, was calling out to a leper to come over.

   The scene I imagine is like a story I heard at San Francisco General Hospital in the AIDS ward, when I visited that place as a reporter, in 1985, when AIDS was like the plague. Everyone was scared, some were terrified; no one knew exactly how it was transmitted.

   San Francisco General was a crumbling dark red brick hospital, its bricks blackened by exhaust from the nearby freeway, and the AIDs ward was in  a completely separate wing of the hospital.  The  ward was like those field hospitals during a war into which the maimed and destroyed were brought to die. The nurses were the front line medics in the war on AIDS. They kept a book of names of the men who had died there, written at first in normal script and then smaller and smaller because there were so many names and they had run out of space. I was a young reporter and I was scared to death to walk in the door.

   The first person I met was the head nurse, a man named Bill, a tall guy from  Queens. Now everyone on the ward wore gloves and a mask at all times. Some of the nurses wore full body suits with ventilators. But Bill did not wear a mask. He rarely wore gloves. I asked him why and he told me this story.

   The year before I visited there,  Bill arrived from another hospital on the ward, fully gowned, masked, and gloved.

   One night, a patient, Julian, was dying in room A-15. Julian could not sleep. Nothing seemed to work for him. Bill began to massage Julian’s feet with his gloves on and finally said to himself, This is ridiculous. You cannot   catch AIDS by rubbing a man’s feet. And so Bill took his gloves off. He massaged Julian’s feet with his hands and, at last, Julian slept.

   Next, was the mask. Bill was treating a man who had pneumocystis pneumonia, a pneumonia caused by a parasite that lodges itself in the sac at the base of the lungs where carbon dioxide is exchanged for oxygen. The protozoa turned the normally flexible lungs to rigid bags of glass.

   The men with pneumocystis had to be placed on ventilators, even though the blowing of the air from the machine could blow a hole in the by now stiff and rigid lungs. Ventilators bring sputum straight up from the lung, bypassing the various tissues that catch fluid before it goes into the air. That  sputum contained the protozoa. So the nurses were particularly worried about the men with pneumocystis who were on ventilators.

   Bill wore his mask into the room with the man with pneumocystius, a man I’ll call Steve. Until one day, Bill remembered what he had read: that the protozoa existed everywhere, on tabletops, on doorknobs, on the hands, and was only lethal to those with compromised immune systems. He thought why not take off the mask so Steve can see me smile. And Steve said, “You aren’t afraid of me anymore, are you?” 

   Gloves, masks, suits. Imagine dying in a room with everyone around you wearing a mask. The men who had AIDS in those early days were often compared to lepers.  Bill changed that.  He wrote a new story in the AIDS ward. He wasn’t Jesus. He did not have the capacity to fully heal someone, but you know, and I know, that a lot of healing went on in that ward after Bill took off his gloves and his mask.    

   And there is more to this healing gospel, and more to Jesus’s compassion.  The compassion of Jesus for those who were poor, or deaf, or blind, or sick with leprosy was, as the theologian Walter Brueggemann has said, “a radical form of criticism,” a radical form of criticism. Let me unpack that. Jesus’s compassion and the healing that flows from it announces that, “the hurt is to be taken seriously, that the hurt is not to be accepted as normal...but is an abnormal and unacceptable condition...” 

   Jesus in his compassion says that the affliction of this leper, his pain, his disease, and his marginalization, are to be taken seriously, and are not to be accepted as normal.  It is not normal for people to be without food; it is not normal for someone  who is a leper or someone who is blind or deaf to have to beg on the street. Your pain, your confusion, the way you might be outcast in this society, are to be taken seriously. Being forced to the margins of life is not to be accepted as normal.

   But, the Roman empire that Jesus lived in and at least part of the religious establishment of his day allowed people to be cast out. They allowed people to beg on the street.  In the same way we do today. The Roman rulers allowed lepers to be ostracized by the society, to beg on the streets and to die, and they expected their citizens to remain silent in response. “Empires,” as Brueggemann says, “are never built nor are they maintained on the basis of compassion…”

   But Jesus doesn’t play by those rules. He doesn’t drive by in his car. He doesn’t turn up the sound in his headphones. He doesn’t go shopping. He stops, he sees the lepers, and he heals them. By healing these men, Jesus takes the first step in revealing “the abnormality that has become business as usual.

   “Thus his compassion is …a criticism of the system… that produces the hurt.”   Bill Nelson, the nurse on the AIDs ward, became a living criticism of those of us who went on wearing gloves and masks, long after they were known to be unnecessary.

   And what happens to Jesus? “Finally Jesus enters into the hurt and comes to embody it.” He enters into the hurt of the leper, he enters the pain of the people who live on the street, the women raped in the Congo, the children dying in Darfur, he enters into the pain you suffer when you are outcast and ostracized, laid off from your job, or sick with cancer or AIDS or old and deaf and worn-out. He goes all the way into the pain, and finally into the death caused by the violence of an empire determined to keep its power at any cost. 

   I imagine the leper he healed who turned around and thanked him, heard about that story. The parade in Jerusalem. The execution. I’ll bet he was afraid. Maybe he’d be associated with this guy. Maybe the police would come looking for him.  And maybe he felt himself giving into despair: if the one who saved him could not save himself, what did that mean? What did life mean?

   And then, maybe the travelers came, and he heard the other stories.   Jesus had been seen, they said, he had spoken. It was he, not someone else. It was he, and not quite he. “It was his Reality,” one of them said. And when she broke bread at the table with the man healed of leprosy, and handed it around to him and the others, maybe he caught some of that Reality from her. He caught some of  the liveliness and compassion he remembered from that old healing, a long time ago when he was knitted back into the world.

   Then he felt strong, again, and brave again, and maybe he left that night and traveled with her and her friends, the followers of Jesus.  Maybe he, too, did some of his own healing, little things: a girl sick with dysentery, a boy afraid of the dark, a man who simply needed someone to listen to him.  And, of course, he must have met with many who had leprosy, who were cast out and hidden and begging on the streets. Maybe the tenth leper whispered to them the same words that Jesus whispered to him when he was alone and sick on that old road. He told them to come near, that he was not afraid, that to him they were precious and irreplaceable. Maybe he tells them that he  has a dream of a kingdom where everyone is equal and everyone is treated with dignity and no one is cast out. When he helps in this way, in the way that he alone can help, I think he understands why he was given and why he took that second chance. And how now he is writing a new story. Amen.

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