Epiphany 5A: Go and Be Salt

salt-and-light

OLD TESTAMENT:  Isaiah 58: 1-9a (9b-12)

Read the Old Testament passage

The writings that we know as Isaiah probably span several generations and several writers.  The 58th chapter is in what we loosely call “Third Isaiah”, which was probably written around 520 BCE, as the Hebrews began trying to rebuild and reshape their community after the exile.  The passage that we read for this week is full of instructions for how to do just that.

The people seem to think that they are doing all the right things, living godly and pious lives that will please God.  After all, they are doing it all right.  Their worship services are standing room only.  They say their prayers.  They follow the ritual fasting days that will bring God’s favor upon them.  So, it must have been quite a shock to hear this prophet’s strong condemnation of these rituals.  They are called to take a hard and discerning look at why they are doing these things.  Is it to gain favor with God?  Is that the only reason that you practice your faith?  Is that what you’re called to do?  And then the prophet points to the seemingly endless stream of injustices that are part of their society—oppression, hunger, homelessness, poverty—the list is endless.  The question is how can a society or a people call themselves righteous, call themselves people of God, who would allow these things to exist?

The writer contends that this is the only way to have a relationship with God. The writer reframes what the fast itself means.  It is no longer the periodic fast days that are part of their religious life that “proves” that they are religious.  Rather, the fast to which God calls the people of God is a fast from domination, oppression, evil speech, self-satisfaction and self-preservation, blaming others, entitlement, and privilege.  God calls for justice to be lived and breathed by the people of God.  One cannot have a full relationship with God without having a full and just relationship with the rest of humanity.  You cannot disconnect piety from your everyday life.  It is lived out day in and day out.  God does not operate in isolation but calls the people into a partnership in building God’s vision.  That is what it means to be a child of God.  It is then that the light will break forth.

For us, we probably need to listen to the words, “Shout out, do not hold back!”  Deep down we all want to do something, to live out our faith in the way that God calls us.  But oftentimes, life gets in the way.  First we need to___________ [fill in the blank].  You know after we get ____________ [fill in the blank] in order.  That is the conventional wisdom of this world.  We know all about worship and prayer except how to let it change us.  But God calls us to get on with it, to begin living our life of faith in the fullest way possible without waiting until the time is right.  It is our own chance for healing.

How would your congregation respond to this call to worship?  “We hope you are not planning to go through the motions in worship, singing the songs but never engaging your hearts, hearing the Scripture but not listening for God, or giving an offering but not giving yourselves, because if so, you are not doing God any favors.  You do not get points for attendance.  If you really worship God today, then you will share with the poor, listen to the lonely, and stop avoiding those in need.” (Brett Younger, from Feasting on the Word, Year A, Volume 1, p. 319)

 

  1. What does this passage mean for you?
  2. In what ways does this passage speak to our own time and our own context?
  3. In what ways do we separate our piety from our works of justice and mercy?
  4. What happens when those two become separated?

 

 

NEW TESTAMENT:  1 Corinthians 2: 1-12 (13-16)

Read the passage from 1 Corinthians

Paul continues his letter to the church at Corinth and the theme of competing wisdoms between the society in which they lived and their identity as children of God.  He is not trying to impress the Corinthians, who loved the Greek way of wisdom and knowledge, with flowery speech and rhetoric.  Paul just said it the way it was.  He preached Christ.  (And we then learn later that Paul struggled with some people who were still dismissing him because he was “unimpressive.”)

Paul uses the word “mystery” not to describe a wisdom that he attains but to describe the cross. And unlike the Corinthians, who viewed the notion of “spirit” as miracle and power, Paul’s concept of Spirit of course depicts the Spirit of Christ that is alive and lives because of the cross.  Paul is not preaching against being smart or intellectual.  I would guess that Paul would be a zealous advocate for deep and reflective study.  But for Paul, wisdom is something more.  It is the wisdom that one finds in relationship with God, the wisdom of the cross.

He sees the cross as God’s way of outwitting the powers of this world, the powers that divide the world and pull it away from what is right and good.  He is warning the Corinthian hearers that they are doing the same thing.  They need to decide which power they will follow, which value system is part of their lives, or they have, in effect, “killed” Christ all over again.  Those who love God, who follow Christ, who see the cross as God’s glory, will know the wisdom that is God.

Paul is actually being a little sarcastic here by employing the Corinthians own “everyday” language in his letter.  He is usurping those words that the Corinthians hold so dear in their value system—mystery, wisdom, spirit—and bringing them into a new and certainly wise understanding.  Paul is also challenging the powers of that world and of ours.  Perhaps we have become entirely too comfortable with letting the powers of this world and the power and wisdom that is God “co-exist”.  Maggie Ross, in her book, Pillars of Flame:  Power, Priesthood, and Spiritual Maturity, writes that “if we emulate the world’s understanding of power, we cease to be the church.  We merely mimic the power politics to which we have grown so accustomed.  In discovering and rediscovering the “self-emptying, kenotic humility of God,” however, we not only find our voice as God’s people, but we are empowered to become the kind of community that brings healing and new life to the world.”  (Richard M. Simpson, in Feasting on the Word, Year A, Volume 1, p. 331.)

 

  1. What does this passage mean for you?
  2. We’ve asked this before but how does this depict “wisdom”?
  3. Do you think we are too comfortable with letting the powers of this world and the powers of God “co-exist”? What does that mean for us?
  4. We have talked about the “humility of God”. What does that mean in our world today?

 

 

GOSPEL:  Matthew 5: 13-20

Read the Gospel passage

Last week we read the Beatitudes, the well-known discourse that depicts life in the context of God’s grace.  You will notice that the final beatitude changes to second person.  Verses 13 and 14 continue with this personalizing effect. The emphasis is on “you”….YOU…YOU…YOU.  (You are the salt of the earth, as if Jesus is speaking specifically to each of us.)  And so, in the middle of these concerns, Jesus provides the image of “salt”.  Why salt?  Think about some of the uses for salt—seasoning, nutrition (an essential nutrient that the body itself cannot produce), deicing, as a preservative, as a purifier (antiseptic for wounds), as a cleaning agent, or to add buoyancy in water (ships float higher in salt water than in fresh water.)  Real Simple Magazine suggests that you put salt into pine cones and shake them in a plastic bag to get all of the dirt off before you use them to make a wreath.

So salt does not have just one use.  The idea, then, of “becoming salt” calls us to a deep and multi-layered existence with God and with our brothers and sisters on this earth.  The passage does not say “you should be” or “you ought to be” or “when you have time, you should try to be.”  It says “you are the salt of the earth.”  You are the essential nutrient that the world needs.

Salt was so valuable in the ancient world, that the Greeks called it divine.  There were times when Roman soldiers would even receive their salaries in salt. In fact, the Latin word for “salt” is the root word for “salary”. For the ancients, the two most important things in life were sol and sal, Sun and salt.  In this Scripture, the salt referred to the leveling agent for paddies made from animal manure, the fuel for outdoor ovens used in the time of Jesus.  Young family members would form paddies with animal dung, mix in salt from a salt block into the paddies, and let the paddies dry in the sun. When the fuel paddies were used to light an oven, the mixed-in salt would help the paddies burn longer, with a more even heat. When the family spent the salt block, they would throw it out onto the road to harden a muddy surface. (“trampled under foot”).

Jesus saw his followers as leveling agents in an impure world. Their example would keep the fire of faith alive even under stress. Their example would spread faith to those mired in the cultural “dung.” But if their example rang empty, they were worthless; they would be dug into the mud under the heels of critics. Even today in Africa, workers request a portion of their pay in salt.  When one is presented to a chief, it is expected that you would bring a gift of salt.  Nelson Mandela once said, “Let there be work, bread, water, and salt for all.”  So, to really understand this passage, we need to have an African view of salt.  When we are told that we are salt, we are told that we are of great use and value in society.  We must add flavor to everything we touch.

Why light?  That one is probably more obvious to us.  A light illumines, points to something, reveals, makes it easier to see.  We are called to be light—to be the ones that reveal Christ to and in the world.  We are called to be salt, to shape the world, and we are called to be light, to point toward Christ.  That is the way that everything that came before, the laws, the prophets, the wisdom, is revealed in its fullness.  The point is that we are always called to be something more.  Christians make a difference in the world by being different from the world.

 

We have listened to the Sermon on the Mount and perhaps have understood it. But who has heard it aright? Jesus gives the answer at the end (Matt. 7:24– 29). He does not allow his hearers to go away and make of his sayings what they will, picking and choosing from them whatever they find helpful and testing them to see if they work. He does not give them free rein to misuse his word with their mercenary hands, but gives it to them on condition that it retains exclusive power over them.

Humanly speaking, we could understand and interpret the Sermon on the Mount in a thousand different ways. Jesus knows only one possibility: simple surrender and obedience, not interpreting it or applying it, but doing and obeying it. That is the only way to hear his word. He does not mean that it is to be discussed as an ideal; he really means us to get on with it.  (Dietrich Bonhoeffer)

  1. What does this passage mean for you?
  2. Why is this sometimes so difficult for us to really grasp and live out in our lives?
  3. What does it mean to you to “be salt”? To “be light”?

 

 

Some Quotes for Further Reflection:

Without justice, what are kingdoms but great gangs of bandits? (St. Augustine of Hippo)

What makes humility so desirable is the marvelous thing it does to us; it creates in us a capacity for the closest possible intimacy with God.  (Monica Baldwin)

There can be little growth in holiness without growth in a sense of social justice.  (Edward Hays)

 

 

Closing

I want to pay the highest compliment anyone could ever pay:

You are the light of the world.

You are the salt of the earth.

You are the leven in the loaf.

So, go and be light.  Go and be salt.  Go and be leven.

                                    (From Marcus Borg, who admitted that he stole it from William Sloan Coffin]

 

 

Proper 26C: The Redemption of the Tree-climbers

zacchaeus-joel-whitehead
“Zacchaeus” (Joel Whitehead)

OLD TESTAMENT:  Habakkuk 1:1-4; 2:1-3

Read the passage from Habakkuk

Most scholars agree that it is difficult to date the writings of the prophet known as Habakkuk.  There are references in it to times preceding the Babylonian exile, so it is possible that it may be a few decades before the invasion of Judah.  The portion of Habakkuk set down for today is part of a dramatic dialogue between God and the prophet. Although the writing is really remarkable, it is sort of hard to read.  Habakkuk laments the amount of protracted wickedness in the land. The wicked continually oppress the just, and there is neither law nor justice in Judah. The despairing Habakkuk asks God how much longer the wicked will prosper. God’s reply is decisive, if shocking. In order to punish the wicked of Judah, God is raising up the military might of the Babylonians. The idea of God’s use of foreign invading armies as punishment of the wicked for their sins is classic Hebrew thought from the period. (It’s the “do bad, get bad” formula that is so prevalent in the early Scriptures.) The rest of Habakkuk 1 contains a description of the atrocities committed by the Babylonians on the people of Judah.

The second part of the reading has the prophet objecting strenuously to God regarding the treatment of the Judeans. He elects to ‘stand at my watchpost’ until he receives God’s response. God’s answer comes in the form of a short oracle, which Habakkuk is ordered to write down. It is to be written clearly, and apparently in large characters, so that ‘a runner may read it’ – a messenger in a hurry running by can still read it and understand it!

The oracle itself is preceded by God’s reassurance. The time will come when God’s vision for a righteous Judah will be fulfilled. Even if it is a long time coming, it will happen. The focus is on the ‘spirit’ of the proud, who have pride in their strength. On the other hand, the ‘righteous’ do not live by their own strength, but rely on their faith in God.

It is the old story—the wicked supposedly carry within themselves the seeds of their own destruction. On the other hand, the believers contain the seeds of close relationship with God. This teaching is to be applied in a wider context than that of Judah and the Babylonians. It speaks to all nations opposed to the people through whom God is building the divine kingdom on earth.

We live in a self-sufficient age that teaches us that we are in charge of our lives.  But that flies in the face of God’s providence.  There are seasons in our lives when everything is right with our world; there are also seasons of darkness and difficulty.  It is in those times that we are told to wait on the work of the God who waits with us.  We live in a world and a society that often prays for God to “fix” things.  But sometimes God just wants us to focus on the vision that is just ahead.

 

  1. What is your response to this passage?
  2. Is this passage more difficult for you or more uncomfortable? Why?
  3. What vision of justice do you find in the passage?

NEW TESTAMENT:  2 Thessalonians 1: 1-4, 11-12

Read the passage from 2 Thessalonians

This is penned as Paul’s second letter to the church at Thessalonica, but in all likelihood it may have been written by a follower of Paul’s who sought to protect Paul’s foundations that had been so carefully laid before.  In fact, it sort of takes a different track than its supposed first letter.  (In fact the five verses that our Lectionary skips seeks to comfort the Thessalonians by assuring them that those who persecute and afflict them will get their “due”—sort of a spiritual terrorism that, sadly, is alive and well even today).

The letter exhorts its readers to give thanks for their ongoing faith.  This actually means “coming to faith”, probably not adhering to some set belief system.  But it is a costly faithfulness, perhaps one that even puts their lives in danger.  They are in fact growing in their faith – none of the modern trend to look on faith as something which gains one entry to a status or a future heaven and counting for little in real life!

The object here is love and, in particular, love for one another. Perhaps that reflects the pressure. And with that, we are given the assurance of prayer.  To be made worthy of one’s calling appears to mean something like: to help you to measure up to what it demands by becoming the kind of person it requires. That of course depends on human response to God’s work in us, but it assumes that the life and agenda of God is directed towards producing good intentions and good deeds. Goodness is a helpful and very human way of understanding God’s grace. It is not a sterile morality which does nothing wrong (and does no one much good either), but a dynamic (“in power”) movement of the Spirit to produce in us the fruit of love in both attitude and action – strong enough even to undo the vengeance motif laid out earlier!

We want to go for easy alternatives in this world.  This discounts that.  Faith is costly; faith is hard; but through God’s grace, we will find peace for us and for the rest of the world.  The writer was also reminding the church at Thessalonica that they were shaped by spiritual friendships.  They were not in this alone.  Their faith was indeed growing abundantly.  Few things in life are more powerful than a person of growing faith.  When someone is growing in faith, their life bears fruit.  Faith that inspires is consuming, costly, and constantly extravagant.

 

  1. Why are so many so quick to jump on that sort of “spiritual terrorism” type of motif?
  2. Why is the notion expressed here so difficult to embrace?
  3. What “costs” do you see as being associated with faith?
  4. What does the community of faith, these spiritual friendships, mean to you in your faith journey?

 

 

GOSPEL:  Luke 19: 1-10

Read the passage from The Gospel According to Luke

This is a familiar story for many of us.  In fact, if you grew up in the church, you probably sang a song about it.  But put it in context—the story sequences are beginning to come to a close.  Jesus nears Jerusalem (and we all know how the tale ends).  But, here is one last outcast on the way to Jerusalem.  The name Zacchaeus means “clean” or “innocent”.  Perhaps it was wishful thinking on the part of his parents.

But here we are—Zacchaeus tries desperately to see Jesus (much like the blind man that Jesus just healed).  We hear that Zacchaeus is rich (much like the rich man who was sad because he couldn’t part with his wealth.)  And Zacchaeus is small and blocked by the crowd (much like the children kept back by the disciples).  He is a tax collector (like the one that we read of last week praying humbly in the temple.)  Perhaps the writer created some sort of composite character in case we didn’t get it before.  And in true Lukan-style reversal, the shunned, “unclean”, “non-person” is found and redeemed.  But the point is that, unlike some of the others, Zacchaeus joyfully welcomes Jesus into his home.  He didn’t just receive unmerited, undeserved grace and stop there.  He changed.  He had the courage and the veracity to look ahead straight into that vision of God.  And then he tithed!  The miracle is not that Jesus welcomed him or that he was redeemed.  We all know that happens over and over.  The point was that he changed.  THAT is the miracle.  And now Zacchaeus sees.  And when Jesus sees Zacchaeus, he announces salvation—not just to this slight little “non-person”, but to the whole of Creation.

We envision ourselves the redeemed.  In fact, we see ourselves as those called by God to help in the redeeming.  Are we truly ready for those who are the “unclean” to change?  Are we willing to change along with them?  Are are we holding on desperately to our riches and our beliefs and our ways of seeing?  Are we unwittingly participating in the suffering of others by allowing injustices in this world?  What does it truly mean to be righteous?  When’s the last time any of us let down our guard and climbed a tree?

 

I wonder if he ever had second thoughts about what he promised Jesus as his feet first met the ground and his eyes first met Jesus’ eyes.

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The afternoon sun dappled through the palladium windows in Kirby Parlor at Perkins School of Theology one autumn afternoon a couple years ago. It lit up the rugged, handsome features of an athletic 60 year old man seated in a circle of about 30 young preaching students. He was John Irving, the novelist, author of The World according to Gap, Cider House Rules, and A Prayer for Owen Meany among other novels. He was on campus to do the Tate lectures at SMU and graciously agreed to spend an hour with my preaching students. They provided the topic: What do sermon writing and novel writing have in common?

“Where do you start when you write a novel?” asked one young student.

Leaning forward, he said, “I always begin at the end, with the last scene. I put in it, in excruciating detail, what I want the reader to see, smell, taste, feel, hear …Then I flashback to the very beginning,  to what I call the inciting incident that jumpstarts the whole plot. Then I flash forward, scene by scene, each scene a domino that hits the next, that hits the next, that hits the next, each domino absolutely necessary to the next one, all crucial to the final one, until I arrive once again where I began, at the end.

Leaning forward even further, with an almost religious zeal in his fine brown eyes, he said:  “The trick is, friends, to make people realize there is so much at stake that they must keep reading, from one scene, one domino to the next, with each one asking “Why?” and “What is next?”, feeling that life as they know it can’t go on until they reach that final scene that they read last but that I wrote first.  That’s how I write a novel. You preachers should try it sometime.

Who am I am to ignore John Irving’s advice? Think about preaching a “John Irving” sermon on Zacchaeus. You could use this form on lots of different texts- probably narrative texts would work best.

Start at the end and flash back to the beginning and show how the ending depends on every scene that precedes it.

**********************************************

The things we say in a moment of gratitude. I sit at my table, alone now, shaking my head in disbelief, but with a sort of smile on my face. The voice of Jesus had faded and his footsteps receded as he went on his way to Jerusalem.  Jericho will seem forlorn without his voice and tread.  Servants quietly move around the room, clearing scraps of bread and half filled glasses. Still I sit, shaking my head. What was I thinking? What did I promise? How will I ever give away half my possessions to the poor and repay those I have defrauded four times over? The things we say in a moment of gratitude!

I wouldn’t be sitting here stunned and yet smiling if Jesus had not entered Jericho and passed through it on his way to Jerusalem. That’s how all this came about. But Jesus is always on his way to Jerusalem, always on the way to his death, but also to his life. His path to his crucifixion and resurrection always passes through my town.

I had heard about this healer and teacher, this one who ate with sinners and who touched the unclean.  But if he had not entered Jericho and been passing through it, he would have been only a distant rumor. I would never have been able to see who he was. I would have heard his stories about a shepherd leaving 99 sheep behind and seeking the one, a woman sweeping the house for a lost coin, and a father seeking to save two lost sons. But if he hadn’t bothered to come through my town, I would never have met my Shepherd, my Homemaker, and my Father.

It was as if he came looking for me. Oh, I guess I did my prior part as well. I was looking for him. If I had not had such a yearning to see who Jesus was, I would not have climbed a sycamore tree to see him. And, if there had not been a sycamore tree handy, I would not have been able to see him. None of the taller townspeople was likely to put me on their shoulders! I ran and I climbed, undignified behavior for one already disdained in the town. I ran and I climbed- why? Because Jesus was going to pass that way. That’s the “whisper down the lane” news I had heard. “He’s coming this way. Line up along the parade path. He’s coming this way.”

If I had not been high in my perch I would not have been able to see the top of his head and the sweep of his robe as he went by. That would have been enough for me. Just to see him from a distance. If he had not stopped right under my tree and looked up at me, I would never have seen his face. I would never have met those searching eyes.

If he had not stopped under the place where I was perched, he would not have seen me, would not have been able to direct his invitation to me. Never been able to instruct me to hurry. I did my part. I hurried. There is an air of urgency about an unexpected invitation, an unannounced guest.  If he had not stopped under my tree I would not have felt that stomach lurching sense of dismay, followed by elation. “He not only notices me, he forgives me. He sees me as worthy to host him in my home!” As I clambered down, I remembered the story Jesus once told about an unforgiving servant whom a king forgave of a great debt, who then turned around and would not forgive another. I would be the forgiving servant. His invitation said so much about his respect for me despite all I have done, all that still needs to be forgiven.

As soon as my feet hit the ground, I heard the grumbling of my neighbors. They hate me. They resent me. They call me a sinner. Sinners are those who are ill or disabled or poor, or, who, like me, though rich, are ritually unclean because of what we do for a living. I take their money for the Romans. Others are unclean because they dye cloth or tend sheep or have to sell their bodies for their daily bread. “You’re right,” I feel like saying. “He is going to be the guest of one who is a sinner… But a grateful one, a repentant one.”

What if Jesus had listened to their grumbling and said, “Oh, my bad. He is a sinner, isn’t he? Bad choice for the first stop on my progressive dinner. I’ll move on to someone else.” He would have rescinded the invitation and gone on to Jerusalem, gone on to dine in someone else’s home.  But he didn’t listen to them.  Instead, he listened to me and to what I said next.

If I hadn’t said “Look, half my possessions I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much,” my life wouldn’t now have to change.

The things we say in a moment of gratitude. I sit at my table, alone now, shaking my head in disbelief, but with a sort of smile on my face. The voice of Jesus has faded. His footsteps have receded as he went on his way to Jerusalem.  Jericho will seem forlorn without his voice and tread.  Servants quietly move around the room, clearing scraps of bread and half filled glasses from the table. He is gone, and yet, he is somehow still present, still here to guide and energize me. Still I sit, shaking my head. What was I thinking? What did I promise? How will I ever be able to give away half my possessions to the poor and repay those I have defrauded four times over? The things we say in a moment of gratitude! (Excerpt from “Dominoes, Anyone?:  Lectionary Reflection on Zacchaeus, Luke 19: 1-10, by Dr. Alyce McKenzie, October 22, 2010, available at http://www.patheos.com/community/mainlineportal/2010/10/22/dominoes-anyone-lectionary-reflection-on-zaccahaeus-luke-191-10/, accessed 27 October, 2020)

 

  1. What is your response to this passage?
  2. What does this story say about redemption?
  3. Where do you find yourself in this story?
  4. What about climbing that tree?

 

 

Some Quotes for Further Reflection:

The whole future of the Earth, as of religion, seems to me to depend on the awakening of our faith in the future. (Pierre Teilhard de Chardin)

Prayer is hope’s breathing.  When we stop praying, we stop hoping.  (Dom Pedro Casaldaliga)

 

Unless one says good-bye to what one loves, and unless one travels to completely new territories, one can expect merely a long wearing away of oneself and eventual distinction. (Jean Dubuffet)

 

 

Closing

Close by reading the words of “Would I Have Answered When You Called”, by Herman G. Stuemfle, Jr., The Faith We Sing # 2137

 

Would I have answered when you called, “Come follow, follow me!”?  Would I at once have left behind both work and family?  Or would the old, familiar round have held me by its claim and kept the spark with in my heart from bursting into flame?

 

Would I have followed where you led through ancient Galilee, on roads unknown, by ways untried, beyond security?  Or would I soon have hurried back where home and comfort drew, where truth you taught would not disturb the ordered world I knew?

 

Would I have matched my step with yours when crowds cried, “Crucify!” when on a rocky hill I saw a cross against the sky?  Or would I too have slipped away and left you there alone, a dying king with crown of thorns upon a terrible throne?

 

O Christ, I cannot search my heart through all its tangled ways, nor can I with a certain mind my steadfastness appraise.  I only pray that when you call, “Come follow, follow me!”, you’ll give me strength beyond my own to follow faithfully.  Amen.