Sunday
July 16
By Marsh Chapel
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The text of this sermon is not available at this time. We apologize for any inconvenience.
-The Reverend David Romanik, Rector, Episcopal Church of the Heavenly Rest (Abilene, TX)
Sunday
June 25
By Marsh Chapel
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The Rev. Dr. Jennifer Quigley:
Good morning, Marsh Chapel! It is so good to be with you and back in Boston. Our deep thanks to Bob, Jess, Karen, Jonathan, Scott, Justin, Heidi, and Chloe for the invitation to preach and the hospitality here at our beloved alma mater. It’s been a few years since we’ve lived in Boston and served on the staff here, but we are still connected, even across the distance; that is what community can do.
Wooh, Soren, we just really won the lectionary lottery for this summer preaching series on Matthew and the Costs of Discipleship, huh? Swords, slavery, sin, separation from family. Soren, how do you think about how to deal with difficult biblical passages?
The Rev. Dr. Soren Hessler:
For nearly a decade, I’ve had the privilege of wrestling together with difficult sacred texts with Jewish colleagues at Hebrew College. And for the last five years, I’ve navigated difficult Christian texts as the instructor of Hebrew College’s Introduction to Christianity course. I’ve learned that we navigate difficult texts best when we do so openly and in community and in dialogue with one another.
It is out of those shared commitments that I flew into Boston last Sunday to participate this past week in a concurrent meeting of the International Council of Christians and Jews (the ICCJ) and the Council of Centers on Jewish-Christian Relations (CCJR). The ICCJ is the umbrella organization of over 30 national Jewish-Christian dialogue organizations. Founded as a reaction to the Holocaust, “the ICCJ and its member organizations world-wide over the past seven decades have been successfully engaged in the historic renewal of Jewish-Christian relations.” In recent years, the ICCJ and its members have promoted Jewish-Christian dialogue and provide models for wider interfaith relations, particularly dialogue among Jews, Christians, and Muslims.
“The Council of Centers on Jewish-Christian Relations (CCJR) is an association of centers and institutes in the United States and Canada devoted to enhancing mutual understanding between Jews and Christians. It is dedicated to research, publication, educational programming, and interreligious dialogue that respect the religious integrity and self-understanding of the various strands of the Jewish and Christian traditions. [Its] members are committed to interreligious dialogue, the purpose of which is neither to undermine or to change the religious identity of the other, but rather seeks to be enriched by each other's religious lives and traditions.“
The gathering of approximately 150 people, from over 20 countries, was hosted by the Boston College Center for Jewish-Christian Learning and Hebrew College’s Miller Center for Interreligious Learning and Leadership. The conference theme was “Negotiating Multiple Identities: Implications for Interreligious Relations,” and, of course, our meeting coincided with the national holiday of Juneteenth.
There were plenary sessions and academic lectures, interactive workshops (which included shared text study), various opportunities for critical engagement with the arts, and excursions across the city for deeper learning. Marsh Chapel was one of several sites around the city that hosted conference participants this week.
As I mentioned, there is much in Jewish and Christian sacred texts that we choose not to read often or altogether skip over in the regular cycles of our appointed weekly readings. One workshop I attended titled, “’By the Waters of Babylon’: Intersectional Readings of a Classical Biblical Text” focused on Psalm 137 and shared several new multi-media resources on the themes of exile, homecoming, retribution, and justice from an international digital Psalms project, Book of Psalms: Calling Out of the Depths, hosted by the Miller Center at Hebrew College. Together my colleagues Dr. Andrew Davis, Associate Professor of Old Testament at Boston College, and Rabbi Or Rose, Founding Director of the Miller Center at Hebrew College, explored their shared study of the Psalms and their engagement with this Psalm and others with classrooms of Roman Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish students in the BTI over the last several years. We read together the full text of Psalm 137 in Hebrew and in English, and after the second reading of the Psalm, a participant in the workshop, an elderly Jewish woman who has been involved in Jewish-Christian dialogue work for more than 50 years exclaimed, “I never knew the last two verses of this Psalm!” She had sung other parts of the Psalm in different Jewish liturgical contexts, but not these final two verses, which are translated in the NRSV as
Daughter Babylon, doomed to destruction,
happy is the one who repays you
according to what you have done to us.
Happy is the one who seizes your infants
and dashes them against the rocks.
These words are never set to music. The workshop participants wrestled with the value of these words. The leaders of the workshop shared various rationalizations of the text, including by Augustine, that the author of these words must not have meant them literally. Nevertheless, on their face, they are quite terrible. At best, these final verses give voice to the experience of rage in the midst of oppression. The workshop leaders attempted to contextualize the likely context of the authorship of the Psalm, but ultimately concluded that a literal enactment of the exclamation of the Psalm is inconsistent with the other values and commitments espoused by Jewish and Christian communities. In short, our sacred texts are the products of particular people and contexts. Sometimes we simply don’t understand the full context of the text, and sometimes, the texts themselves are just problematic.
I raise this because I think that today’s passage from Genesis merits at least a bit of attention today. Had it not been the chapel’s summer practice to read all four lectionary texts, I would likely have omitted the Genesis text from the liturgy today. In any event, in our Genesis text, our author recounts God as condoning Abraham’s decision to cast out his wife’s slave, Hagar, and the son she had born for Abraham. Sarah’s ownership of Hagar and Abraham’s sexual access to his wife’s slave are, perhaps, issues for another day, but we have in Genesis today, a recollection of God affirming Abraham’s decision to cast out Hagar so that her son cannot inherit from Abraham alongside Abraham’s other son, Isaac. The heroization of Abraham in the Genesis text is at one of its lowest points in today’s text. It seems that the author can find no other satisfactory reason that Abraham would agree to cast out Hagar and their son than that God reassured Abraham it was a good idea because God would bless and multiply Ishmael’s offspring and make of him a great nation?! This is not a flattering depiction of the divine, and Abraham is not winning any points in my book with his decision today.
But the rest of the pericope recollects God coming to the aid of Hagar and Ishmael when their water had run out, and Hagar was certain that her young son would perish. God’s mercy is on full display in the latter portion of the pericope, but that doesn’t make the former portion any less problematic. As a United Methodist, I read scripture through the lenses of tradition, reason, and experience. Tradition and experience tell me that the text’s characterization of the divine in the initial verses of today’s passage in Genesis is either simply wrong, incomplete, or perhaps asserted for some other narrative purpose. Plain readings of hard texts do a disservice to the complexity of the tradition and our own religious experience, which brings us to the Matthean text today.
The Rev. Dr. Jennifer Quigley:
What a difficult set of readings for these times, and what a difficult set of verses to make sense of in Matthew. Here in Matthew 10, we find ourselves in the midst of the instructions from Jesus to the disciples as He sends them out to travel from place to place, proclaiming the good news, healing, and casting out demons as they go. These logia, these sayings gathered in Matthew 10 partially echo bits of Mark and Luke, but their compilation here and their full content are unique to Matthew’s gospel. Matthew finds it useful to collect these teachings and present them without significant commentary, leaving us to make sense of them. And they make about as much sense smushed together as sayings in the Gospel of Thomas, a noncanonical gospel in which the narrative of the gospels are left out in favor of a series of sayings, such as “Whoever finds the interpretation of these sayings will not experience death." Jesus said, "Let him who seeks continue seeking until he finds. When he finds, he will become troubled. When he becomes troubled, he will be astonished, and he will rule over the All."
The point of sayings like these in Thomas, and like our passage in Matthew today, is to get them, faith seeking understanding, the goal is the contemplation of them; they are constantly elusive, or troubling, or astonishing, but there is also something powerful about them, there is something about the eternal to them, and they invite constant return.
You might feel some of these passages in your bones in these days. I know I do. After all, this is a time of division and polarization. You might have friends or family or former classmates or colleagues you can’t talk about politics or faith with any more; or maybe you can’t as often without conversation devolving into conspiracy theory or conflict; or maybe you can’t really talk at all.
It’s also a time of disaffiliation in our own United Methodist denomination. Across the United States, and to a much more limited extent around the world, some of the most conservative churches of the denomination have left the denomination. I have heard texts like our gospel reading today used to justify these departures. I have heard interpretations of passages like Matthew 10 in these conversations along the lines of, isn’t Jesus saying, with verses about hating your family, and division, and persecution at the hands of religious authorities, speaking straight to our moment and endorsing disaffiliation? Isn’t a text like Matthew about holding fast to a pure, unadulterated, gospel that must be preserved, defended against constant attack? Isn’t this text all about leaving?
When hearing interpretations like these, and the swirling disinformation amidst disaffiliation, I am reminded of the words of the Rev. Dr. Krister Stendahl, Lutheran Bishop, Harvard Divinity School Dean, and New Testament Scholar. One of the last things he wrote was a short essay, titled “Why I Love the Bible.” I assign it every year in my introduction to the New Testament class. Stendahl says he loves the bible because “The Bible is about me, and the Bible is not about me.” Stendahl first loved the Bible because it was about him, it spoke to him, it formed his faith and the way he worshipped and prayed and the hymns he sang. It was personal. But then, Stendahl learned to love the Bible because it was NOT about him.
“This was the time when I was naïve and arrogant enough to identify with the people I read about, or whose writings I read…. It was about many other things—in the long run, much more interesting things. It was about many things in many distant lands, from many distant ages…. Now it spoke to me from a great distance, of centuries and cultures deeply different from my own. And it began to be, just by its difference, that the fascination grew, that it had a way of saying to me, there are other ways of seeing and thinking and feeling and believing than you have taken for granted. And it just added to my love—for love is not just fascination. When I short-circuited my reading in those earlier days of having it just be about me, I slowly learned that this was a greedy way to deal with the richness of the scriptures.” (Stendahl 2007, xx).
I love the Bible, and I love wrestling with difficult texts because I am honest about their distance. The Gospel of Matthew, written perhaps in 80-90 CE, emerges from real crisis. Both what becomes Judaism and what becomes Christianity emerge in the aftermath of the destruction of the second temple in Jerusalem by the Romans in 70 CE. The Gospel of Matthew vividly shares collective memory about this cataclysm, and those who compiled, circulated, and told these stories about Jesus did so with real risk in mind and communal memory.
Some Christians around the world are more proximate to experiences like that today, but here in the United States, this is simply not the case, despite disinformation to the contrary. Hear it from this Christian, United Methodist Pastor, Christianity is not under attack in the United States in 2023. Living in a religiously pluralistic and democratic society with folks who disagree with you, and facing consequences for your speech in public is not religious persecution. Not getting to censor public libraries, public schools, and other public goods does not mean you are being silenced. Jesus and his disciples knew real persecution, and those who first circulated our gospel today some half century later knew what could happen from a violent empire. Why is the constant appeal of a persecution narrative so appealing, any evidence to the contrary? The story of Christianity and the cross makes meaning out of loss, finds power even in its powerlessness, and finds a way to make community even when faced with suffering. These are some great building blocks for theology that can help us find meaning, power, and community today. But the lens looks different when our backs aren’t against the wall, to paraphrase Howard Thurman. These building blocks can be built out of true, to craft a theology that thinks that losing is winning, and that being under threat means you are somehow blessed. Then there is incentive to overlook whether you might be backing some folks against a wall, or to flip the script so that you are always the persecuted, faithful remnant, constantly on defense against the world.
Because I love the Bible, and notice my distance from it, I have freedom to find proximity to it again. Matthew calls us again to contemplate these teachings.
The Rev. Dr. Soren Hessler:
Jen, I think Thurman’s own reading of the Bible, his love of it, his distance from it and others’ commentaries on it, and his ability to find proximity to it offer a glimpse of understanding the Matthean text today.
On Tuesday, I had the privilege of convening and moderating a panel discussion about the life and work of the Reverend Howard Thurman, the distinguished African American preacher, writer, educator, and pastor, who played a key role in the Civil Rights Movement and who was a groundbreaking interreligious and cross-cultural leader, a leader that the Rev. Dr. Robert Allan Hill is fond of describing as one hundred years ahead of his time fifty years ago. Together with three Thurman scholars, my colleagues Nick Bates, the recently appointed Director of the Howard Thurman Center for Common Ground at Boston University; the Reverend Dr. Shively T. J. Smith, Assistant Professor of New Testament at Boston University’s School of Theology; and Rabbi Or Rose, we screened a recent brief documentary about Thurman and discussed Thurman’s work and legacy. On Friday, Or published an article in Patheos reflecting on the panel and the long relationship of his mentor Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi with Thurman and other Christian religious leaders.
Or writes:
“I first learned of Howard Thurman some years ago from my beloved teacher, Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi (d. 2014), founder of the Jewish Renewal Movement. Long before Reb Zalman (an informal title he preferred) emerged as a modern Jewish mystical sage and international religious figure, he began an idiosyncratic spiritual journey that took him from the more insular world of HaBaD-Lubavitch Hasidism into dialogue with an array of practitioners from the world’s religions.
“Among his earliest and most influential interreligious and inter-racial interlocuters was Dean Thurman, whom he first met in 1955, as a graduate student at BU’s School of Theology. By the end of that academic year, Reb Zalman lovingly referred to him as his ‘Black Rebbe’ (the customary term for a Hasidic master). In describing Thurman’s influence on him, Reb Zalman said that his BU mentor caused him to ‘redraw his reality map.’ To put it plainly, the emerging (already off-beat) Hasidic rabbi had not yet met a non-Jewish religious figure like Thurman, whose intellectual, pedagogic, and pastoral abilities he would come to admire deeply. In the ensuing years, Reb Zalman would meet several other individuals and groups, like the great Catholic monk and writer Thomas Merton (d. 1968) and his Trappist community, who would further alter his perception of non-Jews and of non-Jewish religious traditions.
“Part of what impressed Reb Zalman so much about Dean Thurman, was the fact that his love and reverence for Jesus of Nazareth led him to conclude that all human beings are children of God, and that there are many ways—all imperfect—to live meaningful and conscientious lives in relationship with the Divine.”
Ultimately, I think that is what our Matthean text is getting at today.
The Rev. Dr. Jennifer Quigley:
That deeply personal and personalist claim that we are all children of God draws my eye to two other places in our gospel today. These are also at the heart of the gospel: Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. And even the hairs of your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows.
And a verse after our reading ends (sometimes the lectionary limits our imagination), Jesus says, “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.”
Soren and I recently returned from our home conference, the West Ohio Annual Conference, the messy middle of United Methodism, which has always wrestled with politics, theology, ethics, in ways that represent the multiplicity of voices that occur when community gathers together. At this last annual conference, over 200 churches completed a process to leave the denomination, bringing our total numbers over the last year to about a quarter of our collective. But we also voted, for the first time ever, and albeit aspirationally, to welcome LGBTQ+ folks into ministry in our conference; such a vote would have been unheard of even five years ago.Over our days in a convention center in Dayton, we sat at several 10 person tables, over a hundred in the cavernous room. You never knew if you’d sat next to someone about to disaffiliate or someone in conference leadership, next to someone from the Appalachian foothills or the heart of Columbus. We met folks who represent the full spectrum of United Methodism there, and our conversations help me to make sense with Matthew.
On the day of disaffiliation votes, we sat next to an elderly white man in khakis and a polo shirt. He looked deeply grieved, and his tag identified him as a local pastor. Quietly, and carefully, in the breaks between votes, he told us that he was a pastor for many years in the Wesleyan Church. He joined the United Methodist Church, he said, even though his full credentials wouldn’t transfer and he would spend a lifetime pastoring part time and for lesser pay on the side because, “I wanted to be at a bigger table.” I wanted to be at a bigger table, and that’s why, he told us, even though many friends were disaffiliating and many churches in his rural part of the state were disaffiliating, he and his small, part time congregation held fast to the United Methodist church. “I want to be at a bigger table.”
Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me. Even the hairs on your head are counted.
Another day, after historic votes on LGBTQ+ inclusion, we sat for the service of ordination and retirement next to an African American man and woman who were lay leaders at their historically black church in Dayton. The woman was a retired teacher, which she told us meant she had more time for work for the church and community. During the service, it is customary to stand for an ordinand or retiree whose name is called if they have influenced you. One of the longtime LGBTQ+advocates, a pastor of the conference and a partnered, now married gay man, retired this year, the same year that this vote was taken. I made eye contact across my table when we all stood for David’s retirement. “He is our brother,” she said quietly.
We don’t know who will sit with us at the Lord’s table, but when I hear the verse about families divided, I hear it alongside these teachings, “whoever welcomes you welcomes me, even the hairs on your head are counted,” and I think that following Jesus means that sometimes we might need to welcome folks that our parents might not like.We might end up at a bigger table than we expect.
I’m not really sure I can fully make sense of these verses today, Soren, but maybe I can make some sense with Matthew. Logia like these aren’t meant for single use, single meaning only talismans, no more than other biblical or extra-biblical sayings you might find meaningful. To paraphrase a parable, They are like a lost coin found again, turned over in the hand to notice a new glint, a rough edge, a smooth face, joy and delight and intense focus all at once.
Do not be afraid. Even the hairs of your head are all counted. Whoever welcomes you, welcomes me.
I want to be at a bigger table. He is my brother.
Let those who have ears to hear, listen. Amen.
-The Rev. Dr. Jennifer Quigley, Assistant Professor of New Testament Vanderbilt Divinity School
-The Rev. Dr. Soren Hessler, Director of Recruitment and Admissions Vanderbilt Divinity School
Sunday
June 11
By Marsh Chapel
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Good morning! I’m so glad to be back with you at Marsh Chapel, and to participate in this sermon series on Matthew and the Cost of Discipleship.
The writer Sue Monk Kidd reminds us of the root of the word “crisis,” in her essay “Crossing the Threshold.” She writes:
"A crisis is a holy summons to cross a threshold. It involves both a leaving behind and a stepping toward, a separation and an opportunity.
"The word crisis derives from the Greek words krisis and krino, which mean 'a separating.' The very root of the word implies that our crises are times of severing from old ways and states of being. We need to ask ourselves what it is we’re being asked to separate from. What needs to be left behind?"
~ Sue Monk Kidd, from the essay “Crossing the Threshold,” in “The Dance of the Dissident Daughter”
In our gospel reading for today, Jesus encounters three people in crisis. For two of these, the leader of the synagogue whose daughter has died, and the woman with the hemorrhage that won’t stop, these are health crises, and they are acute. Jesus is their last hope. The leader of the synagogue is in the middle of an emergency: his daughter is already dead, but he has faith that if he can just get Jesus to lay hands on her, she will live again. For the woman with the hemorrhage, we are told in the Gospel of Mark where this story also appears that she had seen many doctors, who had not been able to help her at all. For both the synagogue leader’s emergency and the woman’s debilitating chronic illness, Jesus is their last shot at healing. And he does raise the man’s daughter from the dead, and the woman’s touch of his cloak does stop her hemorrhages.
These are such dramatic and powerful stories, that it would be easy to skip over Matthew, there in his booth. Matthew doesn’t actually say anything to Jesus that is recorded here, or ask anything of him. Instead he responds, immediately and whole-heartedly, to Jesus’ invitation to follow him. And that’s how we know he is in crisis: because he just leaves his booth by the side of the road, and never goes back! He has one brief encounter with Jesus, and he leaves his old life behind, for good! There’s a lot of talk in the media these days about so-called “quiet quitting”; this is “loud quitting”!
Now we are reading the Gospel attributed to Matthew, and this is Matthew’s story. It’s just a few verses, and Matthew himself doesn’t say anything in words. But walking off the job communicates a lot. Matthew has had what the writer Bruce Feiler calls a “workquake.” Some of you may remember Bruce Feiler’s bestselling book Walking the Bible from a number of years back. He also recently wrote a book called Life in the Transitions, where he coined the word “lifequake,” to describe points of crisis where our lives seem to open up and rupture, as in an earthquake. In Feiler’s new book, The Search: Finding Meaningful Work in the Post-Career World, Feiler focuses on “workquakes,” the crises or significant turning points that people have over the course of their careers. He urges his readers to examine their own “work story,” and, for those seeking deeper meaning and purpose from their work, to ask themselves questions about their past, present, and dreams for the future that can help them to chart a new course in their careers.
Perhaps Matthew is a good patron saint for these pandemic and post-pandemic times, when four and a half million people left their jobs in 2022, following a trend of what economists call “quit rates” increasing steadily and significantly for the past several years. Feiler argues that many Americans are now rejecting the narrow definition of success that was handed down “by parents, encouraged by . . . neighbors, [and[ reinforced by . . . culture,” questioning its values and challenging its assumptions. People are looking for other measures of achievement than “more, higher, better.” And, they are resisting unjust, inequitable, and discriminatory systems and structures in the workplace that devalue and demean their contributions. We are seeing a resurgence in the labor movement, not just on the factory floor, but in corporate behemoths like Amazon and Starbucks, and also, it should be noted, among graduate students and non-tenure track professors, including at the School of Theology of this very University.
What made Matthew walk off the job in the middle of his workday? It’s clear that Jesus was not offering him a competitive salary with benefits package. Quite the opposite! What kind of internal crisis was happening in Matthew’s life, that led to this abrupt and permanent break with his profession?
Since it wasn’t about money or status, it must have been about meaning and purpose. Maybe before Jesus showed up at Matthew’s booth, he had heard about this wandering rabbi and wonder-worker who preached that his mission was to bring good news to the poor, to heal, and to set prisoners free. Had Matthew’s toll booth become a prison?
And yes, it’s likely that Matthew was not, as the NRSV translates, a tax collector, but in fact a telones in Greek, a toll collector. That helps explain why Jesus meets him on the road, and why he’s in a booth! And for those of you youngsters in the congregation, there was a time when there were real live toll collectors inside the toll booths . . . and when you paid tolls with actual coins. Does anyone else remember manually rolling down the car window, in order to toss quarters into the toll booth receptacle?? Good times.
I will not share all the scintillating details with you from the lengthy article I read on first century taxation, except to say that Matthew, as a toll collector, was probably more of a lower-level functionary collecting smaller tolls and taxes, rather than someone with more clout in the direct employ of the Roman empire.
Which begs the question: “toll collectors and sinners”??? What’s with that recurring biblical phrase? Apparently, toll collectors were notorious for being dishonest. They were the used-car salesmen of the ancient world. And while they generally not big shots, it probably didn’t help their reputation that they were functionaries in the Roman Imperial system.
Matthew then has Jesus over to his house for dinner. (This is what the gospel of Luke says, in Luke’s version of the story.) But the low esteem in which his former profession is held causes scandal, and the Pharisees ask Jesus’ other disciples, “Why does your teacher eat with toll collectors and sinners?” And Jesus answers, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. . . I have come to call not the righteous but sinners.”
The counter-cultural thinker Alan Watts wrote, "See, I am a philosopher and if you don't argue with me, I don't know what I think. If we argue, I say 'Thank You', because owing to the courtesy of you taking a different point of view, I understand what I mean, so I can't get rid of you." I am not a philosopher, but I am from New Jersey, and so I can relate to this. (pause) I grew up in a place where ordinary conversation can seem pretty combative to people from other parts of the country!
And I think that Jesus is in a similar environment. In my years of reading the Bible and preaching, I’ve come to see these ongoing conversations between Jesus and the Pharisees in this light. Their discussions or arguments can get heated, in the way that the discussions of philosophers or political junkies get heated. The Pharisees, Jesus and his disciples, and here the disciples of John the Baptist show up too: they are all working out what they believe in constant conversation and argument with each other. They are debating each other, criticizing each other, and ultimately challenging each other. I see them more as frenemies, than enemies, through much of Jesus’ ministry. They have a lot in common.
So Matthew’s presence as a disciple causes scandal, and then John’s disciples pop over to ask why Jesus and his disciples don’t fast in the way that they do. And Jesus gives two parabolic answers, one pretty straightforward, the other not. First, he says they do not fast because no one fasts during a wedding celebration—Jesus is the bridegroom, and when he’s gone, his disciples will fast. Jesus’ presence has ushered in a new age, and his good news to the poor, healing of the sick, and release of the prisoners is a Messianic celebration.
And then he has two more sayings: “No one sews a piece of unshrunk cloth on an old cloak, for the patch pulls away from the cloak, and a worse tear is made. Neither is new wine put into old wineskins; otherwise, the skins burst, and the wine is spilled, and the skins are destroyed; but new wine is put into fresh wineskins, and so both are preserved.”
Okay, what? [This teaching is obscure enough, that the compilers of the Revised Common Lectionary edited it out of today’s reading; but I thought it was important enough to edit back in, and so you lucky folks get extra Bible to chew on today. Marsh Chapel, now with 20% more parables!]
Jesus has been challenged as to the kind of person he allows to join his disciples, and to how they practice their faith—and he gives this as an answer. Why, and what does it mean? And, what does it mean for us?
First, let’s notice what Jesus does not say: he does not say that new clothes are better than old clothes; and that new wine is better than old wine.
So here, Jesus is not saying that his new ministry and mission is supplanting or replacing the old. In fact, these are sayings about how to preserve the old garment, and the old wine.
These are sayings about craft: about the choices that a tailor and a vinter would make. A tailor would not sew new, unshrunk cloth to old preshrunk cloth, because it would further damage the garment instead of mending it. A vinter would not put new wine, that would still be fermenting and so creating gasses and expanding, into old wineskins: because the old leather has already stretched as much as it can stretch, and the skins would burst and ruin everything.
In other words, the new materials are flexible and elastic; they can stretch. They can adapt. The old cannot effectively receive the new, because the flexibility is gone.
Jesus is talking about craft, and the tradition of craft. Tailors make new garments, and repair old ones: cloth is precious, and nothing is wasted. Vinters make new wine, and age old wine, and sell both, at different prices. And, new wine ages and becomes old wine, and the craft of winemaking continues.
These sayings are not about replacing the old with the new. They are about carrying on the tradition and the craft.
Jesus is saying, new movements cannot be contained in the systems and structures of old movements. They need their own containers. They need systems and structures that can still adapt and change and change shape as necessary. And that this is not a break with tradition, but an essential part of carrying on tradition. Jesus is saying that he is not the kind of rabbi that the Pharisees are, and he is not the kind of prophet that John is. His mission and his ministry are different. And so are his disciples. And it is best not to try to force them into containers that won’t hold them.
His disciples are people like Matthew—people who have become dissatisfied, people who are searching for relationship with God, people who have come to a crisis point in their lives where they need to make a change. Who want to find purpose and meaning in their work and in their lives—who want to be on the side of the liberators and not the oppressors. Who are no longer fine with the status quo—because of who gets left out and left behind.
And the religious communities of Jesus’ day were not able to accommodate people like Matthew. In fact, they did not want those people around at all.
We in the Church are also having a collective lifequake, a collective workquake. We are in the midst of a crisis—of decline, but also a crisis of identity, and a crisis of formation. We are in a historical moment, made more acute and urgent by the pandemic, where it is not at all clear how our faith traditions will be carried on to the next generation. Churches are struggling and closing, longtime church members are dying and not being replaced, our church buildings are often too big and too old to maintain. Most of our congregations are in survival mode, with little energy for those outside their doors.
And Jesus says to us: stop trying to sew a new patch on an old garment. Stop trying to force the new wine into old wineskins.
Our systems and structures need to change. Completely. No more retrofitting; “redevelopment” is not enough. You need new containers, for what the Holy Spirit is doing in your midst right now. We need to think differently about community, about formation and education, about worship, about mission and identity and purpose, about leadership and responsibility and governance—and about buildings.
Or, you are going to lose it all. The craft, the tradition, the gospel, will not continue in the places they have been.
This is the cost of discipleship in our own day: do we hold on to what we know, and let nostalgia continue to corrode our congregations until there’s nothing left?
Or do we follow Jesus into a new way of being church? With new disciples, who weren’t there before—but who long for good news, healing, liberation—and authentic relationship with God.
It’s our choice.
“The very root of the word implies that our crises are times of severing from old ways and states of being. We need to ask ourselves what it is we’re being asked to separate from. What needs to be left behind?"”
I’ll look forward to being back with you in August, to continue this conversation.
In God’s name, Amen.
-The Rev. Dr. Regina L. Walton, Denominational Counselor for Anglican/Episcopal Students and Lecturer, Harvard Divinity School
By Marsh Chapel
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This sermon was given in honor and celebration of the legacy of Martin Luther King Jr. on MLK Jr. Weekend 2023.
The text of this sermon is unavailable. We apologize for any inconvenience.
-The Honorable Judge Christopher Edwards,
Friend of Marsh Chapel & Member of the Marsh Chapel Advisory Board
Sunday
August 14
By Marsh Chapel
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A written text of this sermon is currently unavailable.
-Mr. William Edward Cordts, Friend of Marsh Chapel
Sunday
July 31
By Marsh Chapel
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Have you ever used a litmus test? A litmus test is a test using a special colorized paper. You dip the paper into a liquid and the color of the paper will change to blue or red, depending on whether the liquid is an acid or a base. The blue part of the paper will turn red if placed in something acidic and red paper will turn blue if placed in something basic. Many schools use the litmus test as a hands-on science experiment for students. It’s a relatively easy science experiment for kids that is still fun.
The term litmus test is used more broadly as a way of determining whether something will pass or not. It is widely used in politics, especially concerning court justices and presidential candidates. Hot button issues can be polarizing litmus tests which supposedly determine party affiliation or other meaningful political information. A lot of times certain issues become a sort of litmus test for things like dating, friend groups, or voting. Litmus tests are also used in churches. What is a sacrament, how often should communion be celebrated, and do you baptize or dedicate an infant? Calvinism or Free Will? Depending on the results of a litmus test during a sermon, we might tune in more closely or think harder about what we should have for lunch. The simplicity of a litmus test is helpful for making quick decisions. It recognizes that our pre-judgements often shape how we experience what is going on around us.
As a science project, a litmus test is straightforward. The results are either acid, base, or neutral. The paper shows the results of what is present. It is a fairly objective process; however, when the idea of a litmus test gets applied to other realms, like politics and theology, the process becomes much more subjective. That means that our experiences, identity, and other elements factor into the process. The results are rarely as straightforward as acid, base, or neutral and almost always some element of choice is involved. The subjective element allows for nuance and situational aspects to be accounted for, but too often the limitations of subjectivity are taken as objective fact. What I mean by that is something grounded in the perspective and experience of a person is taken as truthful constants; rather than, as something interpreted from a particular point of view. Interpretation always extends from who we are. It extends from our points of view, even as it comes back to shape our point of view. What we see in a text or in life, is partly influenced by our experiences of life.
To give this a concrete context, think about the national debates over what is currently written about in history books, especially with regard to race and racism. States and school systems around the country are banning and altering curriculum in dire dystopian fashion. On the one hand, this is wrong, untrue, and harmful. And on the other hand, it is actively shaping the point of view of younger generations so that their experiences of the world are marked by a certain understanding of the world and events. When I was in high school, a history teacher made it a strong point that the Civil War was not fought over slavery. We were told multiple times that slavery was not the cause of the Civil War. We lost points on essays and exams if we claimed otherwise. We were told the Civil War was fought “to preserve the Union” and over “States Rights.” To use this litmus test from history is to lose all nuance and complexity over past events while allowing a present system of injustice to persist.
The stakes are high when it comes to history books, which is why the conflict is so important and strong. The danger is not only misinformation but a complete inability to engage truthfully with the past so that present oppression can continue. Prior point of view largely impacts present understandings and experiences of the monuments. And this is where the metaphor litmus test breaks down a bit. Because of elements like choice and experience, a litmus test outside of science it is not simply a means of determining acid, neutral, or base. It is often a choice to interpret the information or experience filtered through prior beliefs. The metaphor litmus test is popularly used as a way of testing beliefs or views on a matter. In practice, the litmus paper interacts with a solution to show you what type of solution is present, but in everyday practice, the litmus test actually reinforces preconceived beliefs to avoid honest and difficult engagement. While there are necessary reasons for this detachment, especially the survival of people constantly threatened by policies and views of others, there are consequences. Rather than deny point of view, experience, and subjectivity, we can account for the ways they influence us as we engage in discourse, especially the ways we approach differences.
Colossians 3:11 says, “In that renewal there is no longer Greek and Jew, circumcised and uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave and free; but Christ is all and in all!” While some of the particular markers of identity may not be readily recognizable to modern readers, the summary solidifies the point. “Christ is all and in all.” Some have taken to interpret this text as a denial of earthy identity. The only identity that matters is that which we have in Christ. Others have cited this text as a defense of color-blind approaches to race and racism which deny the significance of race or the presence of modern racism. For these approaches, difference is an obstacle that gets in the way of unity. In a vacuum, these approaches might have more merit than detriments but in our actual context, they have more detriment than merit. They become a litmus test, a tool which denies difference an opportunity to flourish. They also deny subjectivity to marginalized people and creates maladaptive identities in those with power. Our unity in Christ does not come at the cost of diversity and uniqueness. In fact, it is our differences and uniqueness which lead us even further into the divine mystery. At the same time, our unity and diversity in Christ also does not claim that all experiences of the world are equal. Some, lead toward justice and equity, while others lead toward hate and oppression. Perhaps, a better litmus test for politics and theology would be one that determines whether the course is loving or not. If only it were that simple…
The prophet Hosea lived in a contentious time in Israel’s history. He was a contemporary of the prophet Amos, whose words against the rampant social injustices are so strong. Amos denounced those who hoarded wealth unjustly and those who participated in harmful economic policies which kept the poor in poverty. Amos was especially critical of those who did so with a veneer of theological legitimacy. Those who built large barns off the backs of the poor, all the while, referring to their wealth as evidence of God’s blessing. Jesus’s parable, and Hosea’s message to these people are similar. That which is given, can be taken away and God desires justice not sacrifice. God desires faithful obedience not gifts that are lessened by how they were acquired. Hosea warned that the Assyrians would be a means of God’s justice for the injustice he witnessed. Where Amos rallied for social well-being and justice, Hosea emphasized faithfulness and knowledge of God. Two prophets, each revealing a part of God’s heart. Each complementing the other and trying to guide a people to live justly.
As you know, Old Testament prophets were not people who possessed crystal balls that could predict the future. They were God’s messengers, often in words and deeds. They discerned the word of the Lord and passed it along to the people. But this was an interpretive enterprise. The life of the prophet, the experiences of the prophet became a part of the interpretive process. The prophets were not passive people who recorded a voice they heard from beyond but active interpreters of their historical and social situations in light of their understanding and encounters with the Divine. The Word of the Lord came to them, but they were intimately involved in discerning and interpreting the Word. More often than not, the prophets of the Old Testament responded to their social and historical situations rather than making predictions about the far-off future. This means that prophets were far more human than popular imagination can make them out to be but also that we are invited to the same interpretive activity of the prophets. We interpret and discern the time we are in, in connection with others and the faith of ages past.
By nature of their inclusions in our Scripture, it can be easy to miss that the prophets were not always accepted by the people. They did not always champion popular views and they frequently engaged in polarizing prophetic ministry. What Hosea claimed of God was not readily accepted in his day, partly because there were other prophets who made opposing claims to Hosea. It is not surprising that a study of the prophets shows that often the most popular prophets, those who do not have books named after them in the canon, were the ones who predicted good things for the people and required very little change.
Some of these other prophets made their claims by virtue of other deities, like Baal as the Hosea reading says, but some prophesied differently from the canonical prophets and still in the name of YHWH. When we peer beneath the surface of our prophetic literature, we see communities in tension over how to interpret the times and God’s involvement in the world. We see different voices, sometimes even competing voices vying for legitimacy. Just as those who put the biblical cannon together had to ask, which prophets authentically spoke for God, we too have to discern between the myriad of voices in the present who claim to speak about God in our time. This is no easy task.
Hosea’s prophetic ministry began around 745 B.C.E. The book which bears his name utilizes many metaphors to discuss the relationship between God and God’s people. Metaphors are helpful in that task because we need something which helps us describe in human speech something that is greater than human speech. While still limited, metaphors help us grasp the mystery of the divine. Hosea uses the parent-child metaphor for God and Israel throughout the book and in the passage we read today. “11:1 When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son.” The passage continues to note the ways God nurtured the people of Israel. Mention of Egypt and the Exodus, teaching Ephraim to walk, holding the people in arms, and providing healing.
We see that Hosea claims God is not only a parent to Israel but a good parent. A parent who loves and cares, a parent who helps develop the child into adulthood. God is faithful in steadfast love for the people. Hosea draws from the covenant tradition here. His imagery is either a reminder or a further development of God’s covenant with Israel in the wilderness after Egypt. “I led them with cords of human kindness, with bands of love. I was to them like those who lift infants to their cheeks. I bent down to them and fed them.” This is the level of care that many would desire from their God. Love, care, and nourishment. If you have taken care of a parent, child, or pet perhaps you can relate to the connection between love and care.
But, Hosea also claims that the people were not steadfast in their faithfulness to God. “11:2 The more I called them, the more they went from me; they kept sacrificing to the Baals, and offering incense to idols.” Because of their unfaithfulness, Hosea warns the people that they will return to Egypt and that Assyria will rule over them. Hosea speaks of God’s love and God’s steadfastness but also of impending wrath and destruction. Hosea sees the historical rises of Egypt and Assyria as a real threat to Israel but interprets it in light of his understandings of God’s desired faithfulness. In other words, Hosea interprets the international scene from theocentric and Israel-centric standpoints. He engages the past and the history of the people to interpret the present.
When I teach this passage to Old Testament students, we take a long pause here to discuss the connection between history and the present with God’s action. Many students are quick to embrace Hosea’ theological methodology, connecting events around him with beliefs, and engaging the times with God. Sometimes these events are specific and other times they are more general. Such efforts, I think are commendable. Because I believe God is active in Creation, I too want to make sure my beliefs and theology reflect the possibilities opened by that posture.
However, after some time, I like to play the devil’s advocate with them. I bring up examples of pastors who have made claims of God in the aftermath of events like Katrina or Supreme Court cases which I assume are in opposition to the student’s beliefs about God and Creation. They usually see the difficulty. When Christians claim God is not bound by the pages in a book but active in the world, much can be claimed of God that is not noble, true, and right. When Christians claim the totality of Euro-American centric theologies, even ones grounded in the genuine experiences of those peoples, harms take place. But then the question rises, how do we discern the word of the Lord among the cacophony of those claiming to be prophets?
There is no litmus test to determine definitely just as the people of Israel had no litmus test to determine a true or false prophet. It is one reason; we speak of being cautious while making universal claims about God and all the unknowns. With the biblical witness, we have the advantage of time and those who have discerned for us in the past. We look back as modern interpreters who can discern and interpret God’s activity over the course of hundreds and thousands of years. Scripture guides us through the past and offers direction for the present. I do not think we should not be tempted by approaches to Scripture that claim to speak absolutely about absolute matters. Scripture does not speak in one voice but in many. It is among its many voices that we are called to witness the work of the Holy One. This invites us to discern, the multiple voices and traditions present within our tradition, even as we recognize that not all voices are good. Just as ancient Israel had to discern which prophets to listen to, we too are invited to this process of holy discernment among the myriad of voices claiming to speak for God today.
Perhaps, a key to a healthy Gospel is not so much the absolute surety of a litmus test but an openness to keep dipping beliefs and experiences into the living water as a means of being transformed into God’s likeness. It might mean we need to change pre-conceived notions and deeply held convictions, but it might just start us on a journey to a more equitable and just world. Led by the hope of the Gospel and the presence of the Holy Spirit.
-The Rev. Scott Donahues-Martens, PhD Candidate, BU STH
Sunday
July 24
By Marsh Chapel
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On a Sunday in February of 2019 my hospital pager went off when I was sitting in my home. My wife and I rarely watch the Superbowl, but the Patriots were playing and we lived in Quincy. It was half-time and the ICU requested that I come in to see a dying patient and support the family. I made the trip in and said a prayer outside the ICU doors. You never know what exactly you are stepping into in a situation like this. I found my way to the room, opened the glass door and moved the curtain. The room was decorated with Patriots gear and filled with people wearing Patriot’s Jersey’s. An older patient lay in bed with a large Patriots blanket. I thought, “well this visit might be a bit different.” The family expressed their thanks that I had come but rarely took both eyes off the screen. At the same time, they were attentive to their loved one. Frequently speaking, squeezing hands, and sharing a memory during a commercial. By the time I arrived, it was the third quarter. We watched the game for a while. Talking during commercials and downtime—gasps, and squeals during plays. The patient going in and out of consciousness but was surprisingly alert for end of life.
At one point I said, “Big fans,” “How could you tell” was the response. They shared that watching the Patriots together was a family ritual. They lived near the stadium and frequently went to games in person or gathered in someone’s house on a rotating schedule. It seemed that this family ritual would not be interrupted even at the end of life. This family ritual helped us navigate the end of life situation. I chose not to fight it but embrace it as a part of our end of life ritual. Eventually, the fourth quarter came and while everyone mostly watched the TV screen, I kept an eye on the other screen in the room. The screen which recorded vitals. Aware that the patient might not make it to the end of the game, especially with the stress of a 3-3 tied Superbowl, I asked if we could do the prayers they requested during a commercial. The family came fully to the reality of the situation at that moment and said yes, but someone did request I put in a good word for Tom Brady while I was at it.
We prayed and read the commendation of the dying liturgy, which includes the Lord’s Prayer. The family participated and recited many of the familiar prayers, especially participating during the Lord’s prayer. Prayer was also a family ritual. One that was passed down from generation to generation. Another familiar path in an unfamiliar time. One that connected them to each other and to God. By the time we finished, what would be the Patriot’s touch-down drive was in full swing. The room anticipated that this could be big and celebrated with great enthusiasm when they scored. Lots of high fives, lots of “did you see and they are going to do it.” Because the drive started during our prayer, they told me I had to stay to watch the rest of the game with them. They didn’t want to risk it, they said. I stayed. We watched the game and the Patriots won. The family celebrated, smiles on the patient’s face whose eyes were more often closed than not toward the end of the game. The next day, I discovered that the patient passed not long after I left, still surrounded by loved ones, still basking in the ritual of gameday, and the practice of prayer.
On my drive back home from the visit, I reflected on how the ritual of prayer and the family’s gameday rituals intertwined. They worked together in this instance. I thought about the liminal space between the sacred and secular that ritual can mediate. End of life is a fragile liminal space. Patriots and prayer were reminders of the family bonds in that space. Like a child who brings a favorite stuffed animal or toy on a long trip, the familiar can guide us when we are in unfamiliar territory. Part of the depth of meaningful rituals is the way they imprint in our consciousness when engaged with intentionality. They become a sort of grammar for our lives. Not the feared grammar of elementary school but like the way of first learning to speak.
When we first learn to speak as, we hear words recited by others, mostly unsure of their meaning. Infants, babies, and toddlers hear a variety of words every-day for months and years. They hear them for a long time, sometimes even trying to repeat words with coos, grunts, and garbling. Eventually it comes together, and the sound of words comes out, even if adults do not fully understand. Then, little by little, the words make more sense. Intention and meaning become clearer. Full sentences eventually come and the connection between speaking about what is in the world around us becomes even stronger. Just as we learn to speak through practice, through use, our faith rituals are also embraced through practice and reflection. We learn the Lord’s prayer by practice and reflection. We embrace it through the memorization of words and the enactment of their meaning in the world.
The Lord’s Prayer is a familiar prayer. Most of us can recite it by heart. We’ve heard it, read it, and hopefully lived it in one way or another. In many ways, it is a paradigmatic prayer of Christian prayer practices. It is frequently one of the first prayers memorized, either intentionally or learned through weekly use. While the memorization of the prayer is one way of internalizing the meaning of the prayer, the significance of the Lord’s Prayer should not words alone. Rituals are rarely about the words alone. Do not get me wrong, the words matter. Words matter and written rituals are frequent examples of words that do something. Like a couple who says I do at a wedding to enter into marriage, the Lord’s prayer changes how we relate to God, the world, and each other.
For many of us, we learned the Lord’s Prayer as it is recorded by Matthew rather than Luke. Luke’s account is different. When I come to Luke’s, I have to slow down. I have to remind myself to read the words on the page because my mind so quickly jumps to Matthew’s account. If I do not read slowly, I miss the differences, especially because most of the differences are subtle. They would likely go unnoticed if not for the ingrained memorization of Matthew’s account.
Like other sections of scripture, ancient manuscripts themselves do not always agree on the words of the prayer, in both Matthew and Luke. Lines are different, some lines that are considered stock to us seem to be later additions. The changes are illustrative of one of the first Latin phrases many in theological studies learn, lex orandi, les credendi which means, the rule of prayer is the rule of faith. The rule of prayer is the rule of faith. What we pray shapes what we believe. Pray can be a form of primary theological speech, not just secondary reflection. Prayer is a crucial element of the grammar of Christian faith because it is a central practice. It is a practice which connects us to each other, Creation, and God. Prayer tells us what we think about God and the world. It has a way of reflecting our core beliefs and values. And, as the ancient Church taught, , lex orandi, les credendi. Prayer shapes our beliefs. Prayer shapes our attitudes. Prayer not only informs it also forms. It forms our beliefs, values, and actions.
Luke’s account of the Lord’s prayer places the Lord’s prayer in the context of Jesus’ own prayer life. Jesus was praying in an unnamed place and the disciples requested Jesus teach them to prayer as John taught his disciples to pray. Luke situates the Lord’s prayer in Jesus’ prayer life but also underscored the catechetical nature of the prayer. It is an example of how to pray and what to pray.
Following many Psalms, the prayer begins with honor to God’s holy name. “Father, hallowed be your name.” Jesus prays to God, the father. The prayer then moves to welcome God’s kingdom coming. “Your kingdom come.” Missing, although present in some ancient manuscript’s the line “on Earth as it is in Heaven.” Nonetheless, this line is truly, one of the most radical prayers in all of scripture and one that is incarnated, to small degrees, every time we allow the Lord’s prayer to shape our lives and situations. To pray for God’s kingdom to come is to recognize our common need for the divine. It recognizes our dependence on God’s love and activity. It is also a call for Christian unity. We desire God’s Kingdom not our kingdoms.
A petition for daily bread. “Give us each day our daily bread.” The grammar of Greek here is interesting. Give us daily bread—each day. The bread is daily bread, the request is to have it each day. Daily bread each day. Perhaps, a reminder of when the people wandered in the desert and relied on God for mana. Mana came each day but it was daily mana you could only collect what was needed because it spoiled. Storing mana led to spoiled mana. Praying for daily bread is a reminder that God is Creator and Sustainer. The prayer shapes us attitudes around sustenance and possessions. Another radical value formed through this prayer is contentment with what we have rather than the insatiable desire for more. To rely on God for daily bread is to trust.
A few months ago, my two year old and I were in a rhythm every morning. He would wake up and almost always ask for Blackberries for breakfast. It was a new food item to him and quickly became a lasting favorite. We only give him a couple at a time, and it was fun to watch the enjoyment on his face while he ate them. On one particular morning, I woke up well before he did, so I put the blackberries at the table where he sits on his placemat. But without thinking, I left out the plastic container from the story on the counter. When my son woke up, he ran out and he saw the Blackberry container on the counter. He immediately started asking for blackberries. I tried to get through to him that I had already gotten him some, that they had been washed, and that they were ready for him to eat at the table. He was so focused on the containers on the counter though. No matter how many times I told him that I had already given him some and that he could just go to the table to get them, he just kept reaching for the containers. He couldn't see his portion which was ready for him because he was so focused on what he didn't have. The Lord’s prayer is a Christian practice that helps shape contentment. It enables us to see what God has given us and what God has worked around us. It is easy to miss what we have longed for stuff that we do not really need but nonetheless holds power over us. Daily bread is a form of contentment.
The Lord’s prayer moves from physical sustenance, daily bread, to forgiveness. “And forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us.” First, the forgiveness of sins from God, then the language changes from that of sin amartia to debt opheiló. The Lord’s prayer reminds us that we need to be right with God and we need to be right with our neighbors. The term, Opheiló, debt initially carried more legal and economic weight than moral implications. While not exclusive to Luke, we see Luke’s emphasis on human social relating here, especially connecting social relating with economic relating. Luke consistently reminds us that how we interact with other people, and how we interact with money are directly connected, further emphasizing the need for contentment. The communal language is also present throughout the prayer. Give us, forgive us, as we. Community
The final line in Luke’s account is “And do not bring us to the time of trial.” We are so used to saying, and deliver us from evil that it is hard to stop there. Some scholars see this line in cosmic terms while others see it as more mundane. Is it some present hardship, or a final ultimate battle? Many scholars argue it is not a request to avoid hardships altogether but a request for God to see us through hardships and trials. A request that even when the valley of the shadow of death is near, God is present with us with rod and staff to comfort us. Like the Gettysburg address, the Lord’s prayer is short but every line conveys depth.
A popular understanding of prayer is as a means to influence or shape God. This is one view that is supported by Scripture but another view of prayer reminds us that God shapes our through prayer. Prayer is a guide which invites being shaped, like clay in the hands of the potter. Prayer places us into the hands of the potter.
The Lord’s prayer is Catechetical, which means it was used to teach the early followers of Jesus what to pray and how to pray. This use of the Lord’s prayer continues today. It is taught in catechism and Sunday school rooms. The prayer informs us.
The Lord’s prayer also became liturgical. It was recited in worship services. It was used in baptism and the eucharist. We recite the Lord’s prayer when we gather for worship. The prayer forms us.
The prayer is also enacted through faithful living. These are not only words on a page but an invitation to live into the reality of God’s kingdom on earth. The prayer is performed by living. Inform, form, and perform. Each captures different uses and facets of the familiar prayer.
The passage in Luke continues with a lesson on the importance of perseverance in prayer. which Jesus summarizes by saying, “So I say to you, Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. 10 For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened.” Ask, search, and knock. Inform, form, and perform.
-The Rev. Scott Donahues-Martens, PhD Candidate, BU STH
Sunday
July 17
By Marsh Chapel
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In the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum here in Boston, there is a tapestry room. The room is grand with walls displaying enormous tapestries. Many of the tapestries depict images or scenes, one even showing parts of Abraham’s story. These textile artworks are woven together thread by thread to make their images and tell their stories. They may not always have the vibrancy of oil and canvas, but they are commanding. At its essence, a tapestry is a collection of dyed threads. Because the thread is dyed before being woven into the final product, it takes an enormous amount of precision and patience. It takes vision to see the final product and precision to actualize the vision. When connected to the whole, each thread becomes a part of something larger. Colors work together to form beautiful images.
I’m struck by how each individual thread alone is small. Just a piece of thread. A single piece is easily broken or blown away by the wind. These individual threads are vulnerable to tearing. When they are woven together into a tapestry though, the threads become stronger together. The small thread vulnerable to tearing alone is less vulnerable when surrounded by a community of threads woven into each other. On a tapestry, the horizontal threads, the weft threads are woven through the warp threads, that are the vertical ones. Horizontal and vertical, weft and warp, hold each other tightly to prevent the tapestry from coming undone or fraying. They work together to hold one another in place.
When I was young, whenever I had a thread break away from a piece of clothing, my mother would tell me not to pull it. I generally did it anyway but pulling it risks making a minor snag into a big problem. Because of the way cloth is woven together the threads hold the other together but it does not make them invincible. So, pulling on loose threads can risk the safety of nearby threads as well. Tapestries are similar. Despite their strength, when threads fray or get pulled out, sections of the tapestry can be weakened.
Perhaps, the tapestry can serve as a metaphor for community. Ideally, threads work together, holding one another up. Each plays a part, drawing attention to each other. Each thread contributes in its unique way to some image or scene. Each thread matters to the whole but no one thread dominates the others. They are interconnected and interdependent. At the present, our social tapestry is frayed and fraying at a rapid pace. Loose threads are visible, and many have been pulled threatening the whole structure. The more this occurs, the greater the potential for continued degradation and destruction. Loosening threads threaten our social tapestry. We are coming to see what many around the world have experienced for much longer, societies are not always safe or stable. Many of you are already aware of the fraying tapestry. Perhaps, many of you also feel a sense of paralysis over what to do. Let us listen to the Gospel according to Luke for the inspiration of the Spirit who has weathered ages past and will see ages to come. We turn to Luke, not to escape our world and troubling situation but to remember the promise of the Gospel. Let us search for the good news.
Directly following the parable of the Good Samaritan, last week’s Gospel reading which ends with “go and do likewise” is a short scene involving two sisters, Mary and Martha. The text says that Martha invited Jesus to her house. Jesus was presumably traveling with the disciples and others so this may not have been a small invitation. A good-sized entourage was likely with Jesus. There was no texting so maybe Martha knew she would be hosting but perhaps she had no idea. Either way, it seems Martha was busy trying to get everything that involved hosting together. I sympathize with Martha here. Hosting is hard work. Cooking, cleaning, filling drinks, making sure it is not too hot or too cold, hoping the conversation, barely audible from the kitchen is entertaining for everyone present. Hosting is a big responsibility and has social norms and expectations. Hosting can be a high-pressure activity, even if a lot of the pressure is self-imposed.
The social norms and responsibilities were even greater in the 1st century than they are today. In ancient Greek literature, we read about hosting in language reminiscent of the sacred and friendship. We also see examples of the high place of hosting and hospitality in the Hebrew Bible. Acts of hospitality or inhospitality feature prominently in the Genesis patriarch stories and in other places throughout Scripture. Hospitality was more than good manners, it was meeting the needs of guests’, often considered friends when under the roof. Meeting guests’ needs goes above and beyond warm smiles and being polite. It is caring for the person. Amid trying to get everything done and be hospitable, when Martha saw her sister Mary at Jesus’ feet, she questions what was happening. Perhaps, she wants help, perhaps she feels the impropriety of a woman learning at the feet of a man should be questioned. Possibly both.
Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.” Martha would like help. Hosting is hard and she might be used to her sister doing the work with her. Interestingly, she turns to Jesus for that help. She questions Jesus about his care over her sister leaving her to do the work, even while it is her house. As host, Martha had the authority to request Mary’s help, but she defers to Jesus, her guest but also the Lord.
Teeming with gender roles and expectations, Jesus’ response, like the Parable of the Good Samaritan, defies typical roles. Women were not to learn at the feet of teachers, but Mary sat at Jesus’ feet choosing to defy the social and gender norms in normal circumstances, let alone when hospitality was involved. Expectations were flipped. Even still, it is important not to create a binary system of womanhood from this Lukan text. We should not go around labeling people Mary’s and Martha’s when it seems to me that Luke was pushing back against gender norms and societal expectations not creating a system of labels and boxes. This passage shows that there is more than one way to be but, perhaps we should go even further to remind ourselves that life and situations are complex. We embody a myriad of roles or positions throughout our lives, none of which have to be raised to ontological necessity. Sometimes, we embody the role of host and sometimes we embody the role of learner, and sometimes even both at times. Personhood, identity, and roles are more complex than labels. Labels can be useful, especially as they provide orientation. But it is important to recognize the role of the situation in our actions. We all perform different roles and actions in different situations and contexts. Rather than threatening our core senses of selves, the very situations we find ourselves in are the places where action and being come to fruition.
Along with homilician David Schnasa Jacobsen, I see this with the Gospel too. The Gospel is not completely understood as something apart from the situations we find ourselves in but speaks to, from, and with situations. That means that our present situation of a fraying tapestry is not without the Gospel. It pushes us to hold up where we are, context with our faith, text and belief in the hard work of discernment. In this way, the Gospel becomes something more than ancient creeds and words on a page, it incarnates through us into the world. This mode of discerning the Gospel has less surety and more openness which can make it uncomfortable, but it also holds the potential to be revelatory in this day and age.
After the parable of the good Samaritan, where someone typically looked down upon was the paragon in the parable, Jesus once again defies custom. He responds in favor of Mary. “10:41 But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; 10:42 there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.” Martha is concerned with hospitality. A good concern. A needed concern. God bless those concerned with hospitality. She wants to care for those who have come under her roof. Martha is actively doing. Like many others who invited Jesus to their house and showed hospitality, Martha does not want to miss the opportunity to show hospitality but unlike many others who order servants to do the hospitable work, Martha seems to be doing it herself. Feeding, washing, and caring are holy work. Mary wants to learn from Jesus. Both are worthy and often Luke pairs a parable or a narrative with another parable or narrative which inform the other.
Maybe the Parable of the Good Samaritan, with its emphasis on action and the story of Mary and Martha, with its emphasis on listening, form a sort of pair. The Good Samaritan emphasizes action and this narrative listening at the feet of Jesus. Perhaps, each in unique and varying situations are needed. What is “better” for Mary may not have been better for Martha and vice versa. Perhaps, it is the very situation which determines which is “better” to use Jesus’ words. But no matter what, like the weft and warp of a tapestry they mutually inform and hold each other in place. The strength of the tapestry is not the weft or warp alone but their interconnected woven nature. The strength of faith in belief and action is also in their interconnected woven nature. Take away “Go and do likewise” or take away faith at the feet of the Lord and the tapestry falls apart. Each person contributes in their unique manner to the whole in a way that fundamentally matters. Uniqueness and diversity give the tapestry its beauty. Threads woven together, lend the individual strands their strength.
I spent the first summer in seminary working for the seminary grounds crew. There were about 6 of us Master of Divinity students who did everything from mowing to weeding and trash pick-up to planting. We spent one whole month weeding and mulching, weeding and mulching, weeding and mulching. Into the second week of mulching, we confessed that each of us had felt job envy at some point. You see, on the first day of mulching we all selected a part of the overall job. I used a pitchfork to get the mulch off the dump truck and into the wheelbarrows, three people moved the wheelbarrows from the truck to the flower beds, and two people spread the mulch in the flower bed. We all played our part but after a few hours of this day in and day out, it was easier to focus on the ease of other tasks and escalate the hardships of our own. We referred to this feeling as job envy. Envious of the desirable parts of others’ roles while neglecting the desirable parts of your own job. “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself?”
We tried rotating jobs but really came to see that the initial jobs we had all chosen were the ones we wanted to do. So, we stuck with the same jobs and tried to keep the job envy at bay. The six of us all played a part in the overall work. Even while our attitudes toward each other and the work impacted our experience of each other and the work.
Community takes work and a desire or commitment to community. As I read old accounts of Methodist camp meetings and society meetings, lately I have been struck by the communal aspect of discernment. Faith and discerning the promise of the Gospel was not something done in isolation, it was communal by purpose. People gathered to read the ancient text, sing, and share their lives together. It was personal and communal balanced together. People affirmed, challenged, or illuminated in community with one another held together by a common desire to love God and neighbor and interpret the times. What I sense in these old accounts is an understanding that God’s promises to Creation, God’s promises to us are woven together. Because God is not my God alone and because I am not the only person in Creation, discerning the will and promise of God should be communal because the tapestry is strongest when the threads are interconnected. My understanding of God and life are enhanced through engagement with others. Woven promises connect and form strong bonds.
This is a different view of faith and spirituality from the strong “personal relationship with Jesus” language of my youth. I still see some merits in that image and language, but I also think it has its limits. God is not my personal God but God over everything. My view and understanding of God are enhanced by listening to others and engaging others. I think if faith is going to continue to be a voice of goodness and purpose in the world, it will do so through more communitarian ideals. It will do so by returning to a vision of faith discerning in community and with community; rather than, highly individualistic manners. At a time when the social tapestry is frayed and fraying, the church can lend strength to the threads of life. No matter what isolated individualism would have us think, our lives are woven into Creation and into the lives of others. Just as my family, friends, and people I’ve encountered are a part of my memories, I am a part of other’s memories. The social tapestry is complex.
Colossians invites us to be reconciled with Christ, the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all Creation. The one present at Creation and who it is through that Creation came to being. “1:17 He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” To be a part of God’s tapestry is to recognize that Christ is part of what holds the threads of Creation together. Christ’s promises are not ours alone to possess but are directed toward all of Creation. Which calls us toward responsibility. We are not responsible for the whole tapestry but perhaps, with wisdom, guidance, and love we can be threads which strengthen; rather than, fray. Perhaps, we can be threads that help hold the threads around us together in strength and love.
When we care for one another, the tapestry of Creation strengthens. When we listen to those who need to be heard, the tapestry strengthens. When we encourage and promote self-care and mental health, the tapestry strengthens. When we participate in loving communities and churches, the tapestry is strengthened.
Amos knew something of the need for a strong tapestry. In fact, the Amos passage for today begins with fear over a frayed social tapestry. Fear that inequality was irreversible without divine intervention and fear over how God will intervene to end the inequality of the day to right the iniquity of the time. Amos speaks of buying the poor for cheap prices, using weighted scales, and padding grain with useless bit unfit for eating.
-The Rev. Scott Donahues-Martens, PhD Candidate, BU STH
Sunday
May 8
By Marsh Chapel
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As an elementary school student my parents took my siblings and me on a weeklong trip to Washington D.C. We spent most our days in and out of museums and monuments. I was particularly in awe of the National Air and Space Museum and remembered being captivated by the planes and rockets. We were in the gift shop, and I was mesmerized by a small triangular prism that fit in the palm of my hand. I kept turning it over and over to see how the prism would refract the light. On one side, ordinary light entered the prism through a translucent pane and on the other side out came visible parts of the color spectrum. If you like music, think of the image on Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon album. White light enters one side of a triangle, and a rainbow comes out the other.
My mom bought the prism for me and wherever we went, I would take it out to see if it would work. Without fail, wherever there was light, the prism would make what looked like a rainbow to me. Whether we were at the zoo or the Lincoln memorial my prism would show me something present but unrecognizable. Without the prism, the light looked clear to me, just like the light in this room. It seemed like normal light. But with a triangular prism with precise panels cut at just the right angles, I could see something more than with just my naked eye. While there are a lot of scientific tools that do similar things, the simplicity of the prism stands out to me and it changed the way I engaged with the world. It is not as if I go around always aware that the light I see holds a spectrum of colors not visible to my eye by direct observation alone; yet I know that beneath the observable surface is a reality infinitely more complex than what it seems at the first glance. There is more to world and life than meets the eye.
At times, we catch glimpses of the depths of reality. We get lost gazing at the stars and wonder of it all, our breath is taken away by the view of a mountain top. We are overwhelmed by a hug at the right time, or the perfect mother’s day gift which makes someone feel seen and heard. Sometimes, we witness death and destruction or receive life altering news. We experience transcendence or even recognize our own finitude at such moments. These moments can invite us to deeper recognition. They shape and mold us. It would be nice if there was some sort of prism that we could keep in our pockets and hold up to those moment or some devise that would allow us to capture the way they make us feel. When life feels too complex or we just need a little more surety, we could hold a prism up to and go beneath the surface. Sometimes, it is hard to recognize what is going on beneath the surface or even that more is going on.
For some, prayer, Word, and Sacrament might be like prisms which invite us to marvel at God and Creation. They are means of grace which can be centering. In a curious sort of way, they ground us on the solid rock. A wonder, is that these means of grace are in some ways, just ordinary. Water for baptism, bread for communion, ink and paper for Scripture. Hands and words for prayer, food for fellowship. Ordinary, like how there is nothing special about the light that goes through a prism. In a certain sense, there is nothing special about water, bread, ink, and food but through scripture, reason, tradition, and experience we can see that they are extraordinary. The mundane can disclose the Divine. Many of our deepest understanding stem from realities that cannot be seen with the eye alone. Scripture, reason, tradition, and experience can reveal the unseen bonds are there. We might need a sort of prism to recognize them but they are present.
Our Gospel reading invites us to consider recognition with regard to Jesus. Amid winter, perhaps replete with cold breezes, at Solomons portico during the festival of dedication— people gathered around Jesus. They inquire whether he is the Messiah, first asking how long he will keep them in suspense. The question seems straightforward. “If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.” A simple yes or no would suffice. But Jesus does not answer the question in the way the group would have liked. He answers it in a way that preserves tension, ambiguity, and mystery. He answers in way that maintains suspense, not necessarily for the sake of suspense, but because of the way recognition and faith relate. Faith is not proof but belief and trust. Jesus responds to the question, “I have told you, and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father's name testify to me; but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.”
Sometimes, to recognize the voice of the Shepherd, we need to belong to the sheep. It is perhaps not as linear as that suggests. Belonging leads to belief. There is a danger to this sort of thinking when it is closed. The danger of circular reasoning. Faith sometimes falls victim to circular reasoning which confines it. And yet, so many through history and now are able to keep the circle open through exposure to change and life. Yes, sometimes, to recognize the voice of the Shepherd, we need to first belong to the sheep. Belong to believe. I believe Lord, help my unbelief. But perhaps, Jesus words should not be taken so linearly or even circularly but as a spiral which moves up and down, as well as side to side. A spiral is not confined to one axis just as faith is not confined to the mind, the page, or circular reasoning. It is where faith and life intersect that Jesus’ words come to be true. The very situations and contexts we find ourselves in are not obstacles to believe in Jesus as the Good Shepherd but the time and place where the words take on truth in time.
Perhaps, many first learn to seek, then learn to recognize. We learn to take out our prisms and hold them up to the light to make sure the color spectrum is still present. Through time, we learn to trust in the consistency of the presence of the other such that we do not always need to pull out the prism to know that God is with us. A trouble though, is that moments are fleeting. The experience we once had of the divine that we were so confident of, passes into memory. The cobwebs of the mind settle fading the original passion and experience. Life goes on and the circle is more comfortable than the spiral. Belong to believe but keep belief exposed to God’s ongoing presence and work enlivens faith. At some point, we recognize the Good Shepherd not only because we are the sheep, but because God relates to us as the Good Shepherd.
Recognition invites relationship. It stems from relationship and points back toward relationship. When we are in relationship we trust in the presence across unseen bonds. After years of relationship with someone, we learn to recognize their responses, body language, and other subtle clues about what they are thinking or feeling. I do not always need to be present with my spouse to know she loves me and to trust her even as I do seek to affirm these realities when we are together. Eventually, relationship informs recognition, even self-recognition. In other words, it is through recognizing ourselves as the people of God that we come to learn about what it means to be people. To love. To be loved. This type of being must be opened by the world to break out of well-worn circles and go into unknown spirals. Recognition invites relationships. Relationship with a present but elusive God.
Paul Ricoeur wrote, “The small miracle of recognition, however, is to coat with presence the otherness of that which is over and gone.” Recognition is not just about seeing but also relationship and presence. It is a mode of thinking or being which relates in the world differently as a result of engagement and it allows difference. “The small miracle of recognition, however, is to coat with presence the otherness of that which is over and gone.” Applied to God we might say that God is bigger than my preferences, positions, and predilections. That God is present but also other than presence.
Every year my undergraduate school would print an “April fools” edition of the school newspaper. I confess that I looked forward to that edition more than any other throughout the year. It was the one I read with the most care and derived the most joy from. One year, the front-page headline was in reference to the school’s science building campaign. The school had been trying to raise funds for what felt like a decade to renovate and update the facility. It seemed that every major event would end with a drive for the science building. I was not a science major so I did not care much for the efforts or pay close attention, except that it felt like the campaign would never end. I did my science liberal arts credits but spent most of my time with the theology crowd; although, I wish I had better equipped myself in the sciences too.
The April fools front page had a big picture of the current science building with a headline that said something like: “God answers prayers for new science building” and underneath in slightly smaller letters “The answer is no.” “God answers prayers for new science building: the answer is no.” In one swell swoop, the headline provided a succent zinger that still makes me chuckle when I think about it, and says something profound about God. God does not always respond the way we would like nor does God always respond in ways that we would like.
God is present with us, especially through Christ in Word and Sacrament and in the caring actions of people around the world, but God also remains something other than what we can conceive or imagine. There is an otherness of God that keeps a tension with the closeness of God. Recognizing the otherness of God is important to keeping faith living. A living faith is one which draws from the rich images of Scripture, history, tradition, experience, reason, and other sources. It is not threatened by difference and does not succumb to ethnocentric tendencies. It is enlivened by a diversity of opinions, expressions, and images. A living faith is one which lets God be God and us be human. It trades degrees of certainty and closedness for more porous boundaries and explorations. It does not force itself onto others, especially by taking rights aways. It knows that sometimes, God answers prayer with “no,” that God is sometimes more elusive than we would prefer, and sometimes Jesus refuses to break the suspense and tension we desperately want broken.
And yet, “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.” Put differently, my sheep recognize my voice and are in relationship with me. Recognition, relationship go together and extend over into representation. When we are counted among the sheep recognizing the shepherd and in relationship with the Good Shepherd, we become representations. That is the root of Christians afterall, little Christs. We represent Christ when we act justly, love faithfulness, and walk humbly with the Good Shepherd.
Across our lectionary texts today, we see the common pastoral images for and used by Christ. We hear Christ refer to his people as sheep. The Johannine passage follows one of the “I am” sayings. Christ refers to himself as the Good Shepherd. “11 “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” The Psalm for the day is perhaps the most familiar. “The Lord is my shepherd.” Revelation invites us to behold Christ, the lamb of God, around a host of worshippers. A diverse host from across boundaries which emphasizes diverse and universal aspects of the people of God. These bucolic and pastoral images invite us to reflect on the nearness of God. The presence of Christ. They invite us to peer into the world and boldly affirm Immanuel- God with us. They invite us to recognize through relationship and to represent.
There is, of course, a caution though. God is not mere light which a prism can fully reveal. God is greater than that which we can imagine and therefore, we must also hold onto the otherness of God. We relate with God and the world as an unfolding spiral where we are invited into deeper love.
We live in the suspense that Christ refused to do away with. "How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly." It might not be that exact question for you but perhaps it is something similar. How long do I have to live with the unknown of unemployment when I trust in God’s provision? How long do I have to lament over the lost pandemic time and losing loved ones? How long will machines of war rake in profits while food rots unused.
We live in a world full of suspense. I cannot break the suspense for you today. There are times when irresolution speaks louder than resolution but amid the suspense, I offer you the prism and the spiral. Recognition – Relationship – Representation
- Rev. Scott Donahue-Martens, PhD Candidate in Homiletics at BU School of Theology
Sunday
October 3
By Marsh Chapel
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This year’s Baccalaureate speaker is Yolanda Kakabadse, former president of the World Wildlife Fund International (WWF).
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Marsh Chapel Sunday ServicesNovember 6, 2008