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GOD IN THE BOAT

6/23/2024

Sunday, June 23, 2024
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell

Mark 4:35-41

On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”

The dream starts like this: I am in our church, but it is never this building.  I know it’s our church because you are here and Pastor Alison is here, and I am getting ready to preach.  But somehow, I have forgotten my robe or my stole or my sermon manuscript.  And my office is not down the hall.  Instead, it’s in the bowels of the building, down many staircases and long hallways.  And so, I rush to retrieve the forgotten items.  But invariably, as I am rushing to get them, someone stops me to talk.  Or sometimes, I get lost trying to find my office.  When I finally do, so much time has passed, that I have only a few minutes to make it back upstairs before worship begins.

Or so, I think.  Because all of a sudden, I hear the ominous sound of Joe on the organ, as he plays the opening hymn!  It is now so much later than I thought!  Panicked, I dash up the stairs and down the long hallways.  And when I finally make it back to the Sanctuary, it’s the precise moment I need to go into the pulpit to preach.

And sometimes, that is where the dream ends.  And the day is saved.  But other times, the dream continues.  I go into the pulpit to preach.  I open the folder of my manuscript.  But all the pages are wrong.  They are either for another sermon.  Or half the pages I need are missing.  And so, I have no choice but to wing it.

In the beginning, it’s actually good.  In the beginning, you all are listening and engaged.  But somewhere in the middle, I falter.  I lose my steam.  I lose my train of thought.  I cannot bring it home.  And that’s when you begin to stir in your seats.  And some of you, who shall remain nameless, get up to leave while I am still speaking.  And the whole then crashes and burns.  And I am left alone and afraid.

That’s the clergy version of every anxiety dream any of us has ever had.  And my dream is proof positive that clergy are people too!  We too struggle with feelings of inadequacy and stress about our work and fear about being left alone.

Now I know full well that Scripture encourages us, over and over again, to “fear not.”  And yet, this preacher has had a life-long battle with sometimes debilitating fear.  It started early.  Some of it is based in trauma.  Some in religion.  Some in religious trauma.  And so, I come to this passage in which Jesus asks his friends why they are afraid with some very mixed emotions.

After a long day of intense ministry, Jesus suggested that they cross the Sea of Galilee to the other side; to a place called the Decapolis.  And so, they got into a boat.  And when they did, their roles shifted.  Mark notes that they took Jesus “just as he was.”  The Lord was in a passive role, maybe because his exhaustion had finally caught up with him.

So, Jesus laid down on a large pillow in the stern of the boat.  And with the gentle rocking of the waves, he was soon very deeply asleep.  And they set sail.

The Sea of Galilee, a large fresh water lake, is shallow and surrounded by hills.  It is not uncommon for sudden gusts of wind to blow down and between those hills and across the surface of that shallow water, stirring up large waves.  On this day, the wind from the hills came strong and sudden, and the waves were instantly angry.  We know this because Mark writes that the boat was being swamped.

Now these were experienced fishermen. They had sailed through bad weather before.  But this storm was severe enough that they were terrified that today was the day they would die.  And all the while, through all this drama, an exhausted Jesus slept.

Finally, their fear and panic were so intense that one of them stood over the slumbering figure of the Lord and shouted: “Don’t you care that we are perishing?”  It was an angry accusation, fueled by terror, against someone whom they knew cared for them.  But fear makes us all say things we normally wouldn’t.

So, Jesus roused himself from sleep, and stood up as the boat pitched and the wind howled.  And in a loud voice, he said: “Be quiet!  That’s enough!”  And the wind and the waves were suddenly still.  The great poet Mary Oliver described this moment like this: “Sweet Jesus, talking his melancholy madness, stood up in the boat… and the sea lay down.”

And when it was quiet again, except for the sound of the water dripping off their clothes and hair, Jesus asked them: “Why are you afraid?”

That question always stops me in my tracks.  Wasn’t it obvious?  Wasn’t Jesus also soaked to the bone?  Wasn’t he standing in ankle-deep water?  And didn’t he know that to ancient people the the sea represented chaos and darkness and death.  Why wouldn’t they be afraid?

We may not be in a boat during a storm, but we know the storms of life.  This life is so beautiful, but in a moment, it can also be terrifying.  It is completely unpredictable.  And there are no guarantees.  And besides all that, fear can play a useful role sometimes.  Fear can warn us.  Fear can save us.  As a former parishioner once told me: “When the hair stands up on the back of your neck, pay attention.”

So, why did Jesus ask the question.  And more importantly, what did he mean by it?

Notice that Jesus also asked them a second question, right on the heels of “Why are you afraid?”  He asked: “Have you still no faith?”  And I don’t think you can understand one question without the other.

Now, does that mean that the disciples should have known, or had faith, that Jesus would calm the sea?  Or did he ask the questions based on their accusation: “Don’t you care that we are perishing?”  They thought that Jesus had left them on their own, to die in this deep and angry water.  They had forgotten that he was in the boat with them.  And so, he asked them: “Have you still no faith that I am with you in this boat, in this storm, in this dire situation?  Did you really think that I would not stay here with you, even if this boat sank?

You know, I can’t really fault the disciples for their fear and lack of faith, because sometimes I too believe the great lie that fear whispers - that I am on my own; that I will come to illness or loss or death on my own, and that there will be no one speak peace to me, not even the One who has promised to never leave us and never forsake us.

There’s one more detail to this story that is often overlooked.  And it’s simply this: this is also a story about a Savior who will not abandon the community.  Of this trip across the Sea of Galilee, Mark says that “other boats were with him.”  In other words, that midnight cruise to the Decapolis was a flotilla of the faithful, sailing with Jesus into the unknown.  And when that storm arose, it didn’t just threaten one boat.  It threatened the community.  But when Jesus spoke peace, the community was saved too.

We’ve been in the boat with our Pastor Alison for a long time.  And the thought of her transition to other forms of ministry might feel like a storm to us.  It might frighten us.  Or maybe we’re disappointed or sad.  Maybe she feels some of those things too.  And maybe we wonder: what will happen to us when she is no longer here?  Who will help us navigate these waters?  Who will help us guide this boat toward our destination?  And what about the new pastor?  Will we like this new captain?  Will she or he or they like us?  Will it be smooth sailing or choppy waters?

I don’t know the answer to any of those questions.  But I do know this: that this particular ship of Zion has been kept afloat for 300 years.  And we have weathered some mighty storms: smallpox and wars and terror attacks and nuclear threats and hurricanes and financial disasters and church scandals and, most recently, a world-wide pandemic.  Some of these storms have indeed been life-threatening.  And yes, sometimes we have taken on some water.  But we are still here.  And most important of all, Jesus has never abandoned this ship.  And he never will - come hell or high water.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

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TELLING STORIES

6/16/2024

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Sunday, June 16, 2024
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell

Mark 4:26-34

(Jesus) also said, “The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how. The earth produces of itself, first the stalk, then the head, then the full grain in the head. But when the grain is ripe, at once he goes in with his sickle, because the harvest has come.”

He also said, “With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it? It is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.”

With many such parables he spoke the word to them, as they were able to hear it; he did not speak to them except in parables, but he explained everything in private to his disciples.

The novelist Reynolds Price once observed that “next to food and drink, our most basic human need is story.”  Maybe that’s why streaming services are such big business. Maybe that’s why we all secretly enjoy some juicy gossip.  Maybe that’s why some of you like sermons – you hope that there might be a good story in here somewhere; something to make you laugh or think; something you will remember.

So, as not to disappoint you today, here is one of my favorite stories, as told to me by my grandmother when I was a child.   She always called it: “The Blue Bird of Happiness.”  I can no longer remember all the details or even if she borrowed the whole thing from a story book.  But I do remember my grandmother’s vivid description of a totally blue world.  The trees were blue, she said, and the grass was blue.  The soil was blue and all the flowers were blue.  And in this blue world there lived a little blue bird whose entire purpose in life was to sing - in order to chase away those blues.  And whenever and wherever the little bird sang, the true colors of the world returned.  The bird sang and the trees and grass sparkled in shades of green.  The little bird sang and the soil returned to its rich browns and blacks and reds.  The flowers popped orange and purple, yellow and pink – and all because the little blue bird sang.  And then my grandmother would say: “And we should sing too, whenever we need to chase away the blues.”

There is a lovely truth in that story.  But as I got older, I quickly learned that not all stories are so nice, because the fullness of our human experience cannot be told without frightening stories and sad stories and disturbing stories.

Our Lord Jesus was a master storyteller.  And lots of folks are surprised when they learn that Jesus, more often than not, told disturbing stories, upsetting stories, unsettling stories.  It’s surprising because his stories so often use bucolic images: sheep and flowers and fields and trees. But like all good stories, the stories of Jesus had many layers, many meanings.  And some of those meanings were quite countercultural, subversive, even dangerous.

Unlike a fable, a parable does not point to a singular conclusion.  It is purposefully open ended and vague, so that we will reflect upon it and draw our own conclusions.  And maybe in the process, through being disturbed, we might also be transformed.

In today’s Gospel lesson, Jesus told two short parables, and both with an agricultural theme.  The best known of the two is the parable of the Mustard Seed.  And it goes like this: the Kingdom or Reign or Empire of God is like a mustard seed.  It is the smallest of all seeds, yet when it is put into the ground, it becomes the greatest of all the shrubs and puts forth large branches so that the birds of the air can make a nest in its shade.

Now, at first glance, that seems like a perfectly pleasant little story about how a tiny seed becomes a mighty bush, making a home for some sweet little birdies.  We might interpret it to mean that even the smallest act of kindness can grow into something life-giving.  And that’s true.  But it’s also true that parables are open-ended and vague so that we will dig in.  And when you dig into this one, you begin to understand why it disturbed people so deeply.  It might even disturb us.

But before we get there, we need to unpack what Jesus meant by a phrase he used all the time: the “Kingdom of God.”  For lots of folks, the Kingdom of God is mostly a reference to the great beyond, that place called heaven.  It’s up there somewhere and we all hope to make it one day.

But it’s important to note that when Jesus uses this phrase, he is not referring to paradise.  In fact, he’s not talking about a place at all.  Jesus is talking about a state of being.  Whenever he uses the phrase “the Kingdom of God” what he really means is any place or any time “where or when God rules.”  So, “when God rules” it is like a mustard seed.  So, what might that mean?

Well, mustard plants were considered weeds in ancient Palestine.  No one wanted them around mostly because they are uncontrollable and disorderly.  And the Torah is very specific about not mixing certain kinds of plants together.  But apparently, mustard seeds aren’t very religious and don’t obey the Law of God.  Instead, these tiny black seeds are wafted about on the slightest breeze and take root in any kind of soil and grow in, under, and around all the other plants.  Thus, mustard seeds represent chaos and imperfection and a lack of control. They start small and grow as they will and intrude upon everything else when no one is looking.  And that’s what it looks like when God rules.   The Kingdom of God is an invasive species: it starts small and grows as it will and intrudes upon our precious order.  – Do you seem what I mean about parables being disturbing?

Other people read in this parable the subversion of an economic system.  In the Roman Empire, the majority of the wealth was in the hands of a very few.  But, as God’s mustard seeds blow around, and the mustard bushes grow, their leafy branches invite the birds of the world to find a ready home.  And from those branches, the hungry, beautiful, colorful birds have a bird’s eye view of all the delicious produce of the farm – that they neither planted nor harvested.  But it’s theirs, none-the-less, because – and here's the point - it ALL belongs to God anyway, not to Rome, not to us.  So, when God rules, everyone has enough.  When God rules, we actually take seriously the idea that the earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof – making us all tenant farmers of sorts.

Or maybe the mustard seed parable is actually about Jesus.  A parishioner once said to me that Jesus told so many parables that he finally became one.  I like that.  So, Jesus is like a mustard seed.  He was just one man, in one place, at one time.  His life was short; his ministry even shorter.  I’ve been ordained for 33 years this month; Jesus only preached for three years.  And then he was executed by that deadly mix of church and state.  And the tiny seed of his mortal life was laid in the field of a tomb.  But like any other seed, after a period of germination, it broke forth from the ground, alive, yet somehow different.  And this tiny seed grew into a giant tree.  And in the shade of that tree billions of us birds have found our rest.  The death of one man gave life to the whole world.  And that is how God rules.

And let’s pause for just a minute to consider the other agricultural tale that Jesus told.  The great preacher Barbara Brown Taylor called her sermon on this parable “The Automatic Earth.”  And you will see why in a moment.

Jesus said that when God rules, it is like a farmer who goes into the field scattering seed.  And farmers, at that time, had no real idea how a seed grew. But grow it did.   And grown it does.  Year in and year out, it grows.  The farmer rises from bed, day after day, in hope, surveying the fields - knowing that one day when he looks, he will see the green sprouts pushing through the good earth.  He counts on this automatic action, because he has seen it before.

And so, have we.  We have seen the faithfulness of God before.  We have seen the amazing grace of God before.  And we will see the grace of God again… and again… and again.  We just forget sometimes, in our stress and fear, that God’s grace is guaranteed.  It is automatic.  And it’s everywhere - under our feet and over our heads and at our sides and in the air we breathe.  It sprouts, and grows, and flourishes, again and again.  And that’s how God rules.

So, which of these interpretations challenged you?  Which comforted you?  Or did you have another idea altogether?

Tell me about it.  Tell me a story.  Tell me about a time when God’s grace touched your life.  Tell me about how God upset your precious order in order to set you free.  Tell me about the fields full of glory and bushes full of birds.  Tell me about the faithful abundance of God in a world of scarcity.  Tell me how God rules in your life, and maybe your story will plant a seed in me that will grow into something wild and wonderful that looks like the Reign of God.  So, please.  Tell me a story.

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OUT OF HIS MIND

6/9/2024

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Sunday, June 9, 2024
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell

Mark 3:20-35

…and the crowd came together again, so that they could not even eat. When his family heard it, they went out to restrain him, for people were saying, “He has gone out of his mind.” And the scribes who came down from Jerusalem said, “He has Beelzebul, and by the ruler of the demons he casts out demons.” And he called them to him, and spoke to them in parables, “How can Satan cast out Satan? If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. And if a house is divided against itself, that house will not be able to stand. And if Satan has risen up against himself and is divided, he cannot stand, but his end has come. But no one can enter a strong man’s house and plunder his property without first tying up the strong man; then indeed the house can be plundered.

“Truly I tell you, people will be forgiven for their sins and whatever blasphemies they utter; but whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit can never have forgiveness, but is guilty of an eternal sin”— for they had said, “He has an unclean spirit.”

Then his mother and his brothers came; and standing outside, they sent to him and called him. A crowd was sitting around him; and they said to him, “Your mother and your brothers and sisters are outside, asking for you.” And he replied, “Who are my mother and my brothers?” And looking at those who sat around him, he said, “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”

Some lies my mother told me:

This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.
No matter what you tell me, I will believe you.
Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

Of all those things my mother told me, the last one is perhaps the most egregious, even if well-intentioned.   Of course, we know what it’s supposed to mean.  We know that our parents told us this in order to bolster our confidence and to remind us that words could only really hurt us if we believed them.  - Ah, if only it were that simple.  If only words didn’t sometimes land like stones.  If only they didn’t cut us, like a knife, right to the bone.  If only they didn’t sometimes do worse even than that.

Early in my ministry at this church, we hosted a community memorial service for a young girl from Doolittle who took her life because of the pain inflicted by words.  This child was bullied incessantly until she just couldn’t take it anymore, and death seemed the better option.

Of course, this was an awful tragedy.  But we can’t honestly be surprised.  How can we be surprised when our children live in a culture in which bullying has been elevated to an artform.  C-SPAN should have an “R” rating for the way our elected leaders speak to one another.  Insults are hurled.  Lies are told.  And there is name-calling – lots and lots of name calling: “looser,” “idiot,” “enemy,” and perhaps most dismissive of all, “crazy.”  If you call someone crazy, that’s the end of the conversation because you have effectively delegitimized everything else that comes out of that person’s mouth.  With one word, you have taken their power.  And that is exactly what some bullies tried to do to Jesus.

According to Mark’s Gospel, Jesus’s ministry was wildly popular and his fame had spread far and wide.  And it’s no wonder, because in just the first few pages of this Gospel, Jesus has bested Satan, cast out demons, healed a fever and a leper and a paralytic and a man with a withered hand.  And his preaching?  Well, people were wild for his preaching.  He drew crowds of thousands who hung on every word.  And all of this excitement threatened those who were charged with keeping the social order.

On this day in particular, Jesus was back in his hometown of Nazareth.  And a crowd of people had gathered and they pressed into and against the house where he was, so that he couldn’t even lift his hand to his mouth to eat.

Well, news of this ruckus reached his mother, Mary, who gathered her other sons and daughters and decided to intervene.  What else was she supposed to do when people were saying, out loud, that her first-born son was crazy.

Jesus was crazy.  Now maybe that idea has never occurred to you before.  I hadn’t really thought about it either until this week when I read about an early 20th century, four-volume exploration of the mental health of Jesus.  It was written by a French physician named Charles Binet-Sanglé.  Dr. Binet-Sanglé read the Gospel accounts through a medical lens and wondered: was Jesus bipolar?  A megalomaniac?  A paranoid schizophrenic?  A utopian fanatic?  An epileptic?

These theories have been largely discounted, but to even ask the questions at least took this erratic behavior of Jesus seriously.  Because what Mark presents to us is not normal or normative behavior.  His behavior was odd enough that the people of his hometown, who had known him since he was a child, were saying out loud: “He has gone out of his mind.”

And so, it was mama and company to the rescue.  And once they arrived, they saw that the clergy had come down from Jerusalem to join in the name calling.  But these religious scholars had another diagnosis.  “He’s possessed,” they said.  And their statement reminds us that religious people have other names they hurl for those they wish to discount: “fanatics,” “holy rollers,” “heretics” “apostates.”

So Mary and family find the house where Jesus was said to be.  And in a scene that breaks my heart, they stand outside the door, where he was holed up with tax collectors and drunks and sex workers; where he was surrounded by jeering crowds and judgmental clergy, and they implored him to come home.

But apparently, it was too noisy in the house for Jesus to hear his mother’s voice.  So, someone finally told him: “Your mother and your brothers and your sisters are outside, asking for you.”  And that’s when he seemed to really go around the bend, because he replied: “Who are my mother and my brothers?”  And then, looking around the room at all those other folks called “crazy,” he said: “Here are my mother and my brothers.  Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”

And he didn’t leave the house.  And he didn’t come out to talk to his mom.  And that was, I suspect, when Mary thought it might be true.  Maybe he has gone out of his mind.  And crestfallen, she gathered up the rest of her brood and went home.

So, what on earth was going on here?  What was the point of what Jesus said?  What did he mean when he seemed to dismiss his own blood relatives and insist that his true family was all around him?

Well, that question has puzzled scholars since the beginning.  And that question challenges preachers who don’t want to offend the families in the pews.

But this week, I wondered, if maybe what was happening here was all rather simple.  What if, I thought, all that Jesus was trying to do was to remind us all of what we already know, yet regularly deny in word and deed: that we are far more connected to one another than our name-calling will allow; that we are indeed our brother’s and sister’s keepers; and that God really is the father of us ALL.

Now in this world, in this cultural moment, in this nation so divided, to take these words literally seems naïve at best and crazy at worst.  But if the life and teachings, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ means anything at all to us, then maybe it’s not Jesus who is crazy.  Maybe the world is crazy.

And so the church is called to live into the sanity of God’s holy dream for this world: peace, prosperity, love, purpose, unity, dignity, community for everyone born – that is, for all those in here and out there who are our mothers and brothers and sisters.

Some of you may know of Wendall Berry – the farmer, poet, mystic, environmentalist, and theologian.  In his marvelous poem “Practice Resurrection,” Mr. Berry writes of the nonsensical, day-to-day craziness to which the followers of Jesus have been called.  He writes, in part:

“Every day do something that won’t compute.  Love the Lord.  Love the world.  Work for nothing.  Take all that you have and be poor.  Love someone who does not deserve it… Give your approval to all you cannot understand… Ask the questions that have no answers… Practice resurrection.”

Crazy talk, I know.  But it just might yet save this country and this world.  And it will most certainly save us.

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ERRING ON THE SIDE OF MERCY

6/2/2024

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Sunday, June 2, 2024
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell

Mark 2:23-3:6

One sabbath he was going through the grainfields; and as they made their way his disciples began to pluck heads of grain. The Pharisees said to him, “Look, why are they doing what is not lawful on the sabbath?” And he said to them, “Have you never read what David did when he and his companions were hungry and in need of food? He entered the house of God, when Abiathar was high priest, and ate the bread of the Presence, which it is not lawful for any but the priests to eat, and he gave some to his companions.” Then he said to them, “The sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the sabbath; so the Son of Man is lord even of the sabbath.”

Again he entered the synagogue, and a man was there who had a withered hand. They watched him to see whether he would cure him on the sabbath, so that they might accuse him. And he said to the man who had the withered hand, “Come forward.” Then he said to them, “Is it lawful to do good or to do harm on the sabbath, to save life or to kill?” But they were silent. He looked around at them with anger; he was grieved at their hardness of heart and said to the man, “Stretch out your hand.” He stretched it out, and his hand was restored. The Pharisees went out and immediately conspired with the Herodians against him, how to destroy him.

“That world of misery, that lake of burning brimstone, is extended abroad under you. There is the dreadful pit of the glowing flames of the wrath of God; there is hell's wide gaping mouth open; and you have nothing to stand upon, nor anything to take hold of, there is nothing between you and hell but the air; it is only the power and mere pleasure of God that holds you up.”

“Your wickedness makes you, as it were, heavy as lead, and to tend downwards with great weight and pressure towards hell; and if God should let you go, you would immediately sink and swiftly descend and plunge into the bottomless gulf, and your healthy constitution, and your own care and prudence, and best contrivance, and all your righteousness, would have no more influence to uphold you and keep you out of hell, than a spider's web would have to stop a falling rock.”

Do you need a moment to recover?  And do you know whose sermon that is?  These are but a few paragraphs of the American literary classic entitled “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.”  It was composed by the great Congregationalist minister, Jonathan Edwards, who delivered these words first at the church in Northampton, Massachusetts and then again at the church in Enfield, Connecticut.  Besides being a cornerstone of American literature, this sermon helped to light a fire called the First Great Awakening – a spiritual revival that swept America.

Mr. Edwards is one of ours.  We are the heirs of his legacy.  But my, oh my, how his children have changed.

Edwards preached about an angry God, but we rarely think of God as being angry.  Edwards spoke of the fires of hell, but we rarely mention that dreadful place.  These concepts seem primitive to us, because we Christians see God through the lens of Jesus Christ; and since Jesus, apparently, was always meek and mild, then that must mean that God is meek and mild too – a rather harmless deity; more like a best friend or a co-pilot.

But it is a fallacy to say that the God of the Old Testament is the “God of Wrath” and the God of the New Testament the “God of Mercy.”  A close reading of both testaments presents a more nuanced view of God: One who is indeed full of mercy.  And One who is at times angry.

So, what is God angry about?  Well, it’s not what most people think.  God is probably not angry about those things or people that you are.  Instead, the uncomfortable truth is that the anger of God is often directed at those who imagine that they are on God’s side, doing God’s work.

One Sabbath day, Jesus and his disciples were walking through a grain field.  And their bellies were rumbling.  And so, some of the disciple began to pluck the heads of the grain and munch on them.

Maybe this was upsetting to the landowner.  But it was definitely upsetting to the Pharisees - those religious authorities who were charged with helping the people keep the Law of God, and thus assuage God’s anger.

And let’s be clear: there was, indeed, a Sabbath prohibition against doing any kind of work.  And to pluck the grain was considered harvesting.  So, when it came to the letter of the law; when it came to keeping law and order, the Pharisees were absolutely right.

But Jesus reminded them of the time when King David and his companions were hungry, and they entered the very house of God and ate something called the Bread of the Presence.  And this wasn’t just any bread.  It was God’s bread.  It was made of the finest flour, laid on a table of pure gold, and covered with costly frankincense.  They might as well have to come into this room and devoured the communion bread right off this table.

Then Jesus reminded these religious teachers that the Sabbath was made to benefit humans.  It was made for our pleasure and rest.  Humans were not to be slaves of an idea.  And the One who said this called himself “Lord of the Sabbath.”

Then Jesus entered a synagogue, as was his custom.  And in that synagogue was a man with a withered hand.  And this man’s whole life had been defined by this disability.  He couldn’t work.  He was likely reduced to begging.  And it was commonly believed that physical ailments were a sign that an angry God was punishing you.  So, when this man saw Jesus, he saw the opportunity for new life.

But to heal was also considered work.  And this was still the Sabbath day, about which the Law of God was clear.  You shall not do any work.  And so, the Pharisees, knowing that Jesus was a healer, watched to see what he would do.

Jesus called the man forward.  And every eye in the room turned to look.  And every voice fell silent.  And Jesus asked the Pharisees: “Is it lawful to do good or to do harm on the Sabbath, to save life or to kill?”  It was an excellent question, because even the Sabbath laws allowed for deeds of mercy.  For example, on the Sabbath you could rescue a farm animal that had gotten into life-threatening danger.  So, the question was a good one – perfect for rabbinical debate.  But they refused and instead were silent.

And that is when Jesus Christ, meek and mild, the friend of sinners and lover of our souls looked at these silent judges, and anger burned within him.  He was grieved at their hardness of heart.

And then he said to the man: “Stretch out your hand.”  And when he did, it was restored.  But it was far more than his hand that was restored.  His life, his livelihood, his family life, his religious life, his hopes, his dreams, his future were all restored.  He was saved by the power of Jesus Christ.

But those who were more concerned about the rules, about control, about keeping people in line, had had all that they were going to take from this troublemaker.  And it was at this moment that the plot to kill Jesus was laid by those who loved rules more than mercy.

And sometimes, so do we.  Sometimes, we love our traditions more than mercy.  Sometimes, we love our values more than mercy.  We love our opinions more than mercy.  We love our politics more than mercy.  We love our portfolios more than mercy.  So, let’s not be too hard on these people, because sometimes, they are us.

But every day, God gives us the chance to choose again, just like he gave to those Pharisees.  And today is one of those days.  The town has asked to use our Green to host a Pride Celebration kick off at noon.  On the Sabbath.  And we have the opportunity to welcome the stranger and extend hospitality and all in a spirit of mercy.

Now, here’s the thing: in a diverse community like ours, for some folks, this will seem too political and something we shouldn’t be part of.  For others, you’re still not quite sure about this whole LGBTQ+ thing.  But maybe you’re afraid to say that out loud here.  For others, you have little patience for those who can’t get on board for this kind of event.  - But here’s the other thing.  No matter how we understand “the rules,” we don’t need to agree in order to be gracious and hospitable and kind.  Today, we can lay aside our points of view and instead practice love and humility and mercy.

And when that day comes when we stand before Almighty God, it is always better to have erred on the side of mercy.  Because what you give is what you get.

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GOD IN THE BOAT

TELLING STORIES

OUT OF HIS MIND

ERRING ON THE SIDE OF MERCY

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