Holy Foolishness

If you have been a practicing Christian for more than a few years, you have noticed that the church calendar moves around with regard to the Gregorian calendar, such that holidays like Easter are not on the same date every year. This year, we will—spoiler alert—celebrate the Resurrection of our Lord on April 17th. Last year, it was April 4th, in 2020 it was April 12th, in 2019 it was April 21st, and in 2018, it was the somewhat dreaded April 1st.

April 1st is one of my personal least favorite days on the calendar, as I am a curmudgeon and I disdain the practice of April Fool’s Day. I do not care for pranks of any kind, because I do not find it funny that we punish each other for practicing trust. 

You may be inclined to disagree—obviously this is a minority opinion, as we all experienced who knows how many dumb jokes just a few days ago—and that’s fine. But as someone whose literal job it is to listen for the truth and tell the truth, I struggle with a day dedicated to being mocked for doing just that. 

Today is not April 1st nor is it Easter, but it is a day for fools. Let me explain. 

One of our most well-known and beloved saints, Francis of Assisi, was a holy fool. He is featured in one of my favorite books, Illuminating the Way, by Christine Valters Paintner. In it, his foolishness is described as “subvert[ing] the dominant paradigm of acceptable ways of thinking and living.” [1]

We know him as a lover of the earth and all its creatures, as he famously noted that “the world [was his] monastery.” At the time of his life and ministry, the church was a place of riches and grandeur, and St. Francis chose to relinquish all of that in favor of a simple life of presence. 

St. Francis was an anticapitalist before there was a capitalist to be anti, rejecting the mainstream social values of hurriedness and productivity and consumption. He chose to slow down, live a contemplative life on the margins of society. He was by no means the first of our church ancestors to behave in this way, but his 12th-century peers thought him quite foolish. But Francis knew that this was the best way for him to see where God was at work. 

The prophet Isaiah relays the words of God, who says, “I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” We are being invited to look at the world in new ways, perceiving from a different perspective. This is what holy foolishness, like that practiced by St. Francis, calls us to. As “fools for Christ”, which he called his community, we step outside what is considered “normal” in our culture, and break loose from the bonds of others’ expectations and rules for our lives. We follow Jesus’ radical example, not the conformist example of conventional wisdom. 

In some ways, Jesus himself is a holy fool, “the one who subverts the way things are done and confounds our expectations. Jesus sat at the table with tax collectors and [sinners]. He healed on the Sabbath. He broke boundaries, turned things upside down, and invites us to do the same.” [2]

In our Gospel story this morning, Mary does something foolish. She upends a valuable bottle of perfume—an entire pound of pure nard, it says, for emphasis—onto the feet of Jesus, mopping up the significant excess with her own hair. This is not normal behavior. This is not typical or expected or even responsible. But Mary did not do it because she thought that it was. She knew it was foolish, and that is precisely why she did it.

Mary, you may remember, is the sister of Martha—with whom she disagreed about how to show hospitality to Jesus and his friends—and the sister of Lazarus, whom Jesus resurrected from the dead. Quite a family! Mary is someone who spent a lot of time with Jesus and his disciples, and had listened to him preach and teach before. She knew who he was and what his presence meant in her home.

Other than Jesus, of course, the other major player in our story this morning is Judas. I am personally uninterested in any Judas slander, as I imagine his role in the life and death of Jesus to be more nuanced than our Gospel authors give him credit for, and these narratives were penned decades after the events they describe, when there had been plenty of time to cement him in the villain role. So his objection to her foolishness, and particularly the author’s parenthetical assignments of motivation are not what’s interesting about this story. 

But what Jesus says to him has been interpreted in some problematic ways over the centuries, and so we do have to address his presence, briefly. Judas says that the perfume should not have been “wasted” in this way, and instead should have been sold, and the money given to the poor. 

Jesus replies, “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.” 

Jesus’ words here, “you always have the poor with you,” have been spun to excuse us from alleviating poverty for centuries. Many preachers will tell you that this story is a repudiation of social justice, and that our focus should be exclusively on the worship of God, not the liberation of our siblings. 

If we are scholars of scripture, though, we know that here Jesus is quoting the Torah, Deuteronomy 15:11, to be precise. There, it is written, “There will always be poor people in the land. Therefore I command you to be openhanded toward your fellow Israelites who are poor and needy in your land.” This verse comes in the section of the law regarding debt cancellation. 

Deuteronomy 15:1 says, “At the end of every seven years you must cancel debts” and then lays out how, precisely, to go about structuring that. This debt-canceling year is known as the “year of jubilee”. 

Our present debt crisis could use some jubilee. Yesterday, the student loan debt in the United States reached one trillion, eight-hundred-ninety-four billion, four-hundred-seventy-eight million, three-hundred-fifty-six-thousand, nine-hundred-twelve dollars ($1,894,478,356,912).[3] 35 million Americans have student loan debt, and 90% of them are not ready to make payments toward that debt when the pandemic payment freeze ends on May 1. 

It is arguable that it is foolish to cancel student debt. 

People have been paying off student loan debt for decades, and the US government is counting on those payments being made, eventually, so they can pay back their own debt, presumably. People take out loans all the time; it’s a significant part of how the US economy functions. It’s how we own homes and cars; it’s how we start businesses. There are many people who have already paid off their student loans who feel that cancellation now is unfair to the hard work they put into their payments. There are economic arguments all over the place for all the reasons why it is foolish to do it.

But student loan debt cancellation could lift up to 5.2 million American households out of poverty. Black and African American college graduates owe an average of $25,000 more in student loan debt than white college graduates. 58% of student loan debt belongs to women. Student borrowers who identify as LGBTQ have an average of $16,000 more in student loan debt than those who are not LGBTQ. [4]

Advocating for student debt cancellation may cause others to look at us askance. But we sit at the feet of Jesus. 

And Jesus is not saying that there is no need to give money to the poor, but rather the opposite. Debts should be canceled so that all are able to live freely and to give freely. We should all be at liberty to lavish one another with our riches—financial, emotional, and spiritual. Mary has chosen to show her adoration of Jesus by anointing him with this richly perfumed oil.

Jesus suggests, perhaps, that Mary’s unusual behavior foreshadows his death. Mary knows that Jesus is in danger, and is wanted by various authorities for various crimes against the empire—for advocating for things like debt cancellation. 

She knows that times like these, gathered around the table with friends, may be limited. Tensions are rising. She wants to be sure that her friend Jesus knows what he means to her, to them, to their community. And so she does what is perhaps not the most fiscally responsible choice, according to conventional wisdom and “the way it has always been done”.

Reconfiguring our financial system to more closely resemble the Torah would perhaps be an unpopular option among those who are wealthiest in our present system. But for the poor—who were there in the time of Jesus, who have been there since, and who are here now—it would be gracious, and merciful, and holy, and foolish. How will we, who sit at the feet of Jesus, lavish our riches on those we love?

—

[1] Christine Valters Paintner, Illuminating the Way: Embracing the Wisdom of Monks and Mystics, 4.
[2] John Valters Paintner, “Jesus and the Fool Archetype: The Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard” in Illuminating the Way: Embracing the Wisdom of Monks and Mystics, 7.

Saints and Squirrels—A Sermon for Francis

Grace and peace from God our Creator, hope in our Redeemer Jesus the Christ, and the promised gifts of the Holy Spirit are with you, always.

I was reading about St. Francis of Assisi earlier this week, to remind myself about his story—though he’s certainly one of the saints I’m most familiar with, I have to admit that a lot of them run together in my Lutheran brain. Nice men and women who did unusual things in the name of God and then maybe got murdered for it. Those are more the martyrs, but the lives of the saints are often grisly and rugged, since most of them lived several centuries ago.

Saint Francis, for example, lived at the turn of the 13th century, roundabout the Crusades. Francis had a vision of a world in which the afflicted were cared for—leprosy was rampant at the time, and people lived in irrational fear of its contagion and banished lepers from their midst. Francis, the story goes, embraced and kissed a leper before devoting his life to the service of others. He established an order of brothers—Franciscans—to carry out this work.

You may have heard this before—in a St. Francis Day sermon, perhaps—or maybe you’re more familiar with his other charism, blessing of animals and the natural world. He wrote a wonderful little poem that I want to read for you, now:

“I once spoke to my friend, an old squirrel, about the Sacraments—he got so excited and ran into a hollow in his tree and came back holding some acorns, an owl feather, and a ribbon he had found. And I just smiled and said, ‘yes, dear, you understand; everything imparts God’s grace.”[1]

Part of what I love about this poem, of course, is that he just casually chatted with squirrels, and did so often enough to write of them as his friends. Suffice it to say Francis was an unusual man. But what’s deeper than just the sweetness of this love of God’s creatures is the deep theological truth of that last line—everything imparts God’s grace. 

Francis was not complicated or fancy, and for him, neither was God. Everything that surrounds us in our real lives is sacred; we needn’t dress anything up in order for it to be holy—including ourselves. Francis was born into wealth, but he gave everything he had to the poor and lived on just necessities. He advocated for the fair treatment of all living things—humans, animals, plants, you name it—in a time of social upheaval and civil unrest.

Gosh, I wonder if there’s anything we can learn from St. Francis that applies to our own lives and our own society.

We are living in a time of unprecedented climate change. Animals and plants—and humans—around the world are in danger of habitat destruction and extinction because of human industrial activity. We are clear-cutting forests; we are polluting oceans; we are emitting carbon at irreversible rates; the ice caps are melting; hurricanes are wreaking havoc. Human civilizations are ravaged by war and poverty on every continent; healthcare is only available to those who can afford it; children die of preventable diseases every day.

In our modern religious climate, Pope Francis has moved in the direction of his namesake on a number of these issues. While we wouldn’t call a pope progressive under most circumstances, this one has understood the ways in which humans are connected to other forms of life, and encouraged Catholics around the world to consider their participation in global ills.

Saint Francis of Assisi “was an outspoken and controversial social activist. He was one of the greatest preachers of all time. His concern with poverty and ecology give him a strikingly modern [relevance]. He vigorously opposed the abuse of political power, particularly when it was wielded by the [Pope].”[2]

The reason that Francis is a saint, in my sort-of informed opinion, is in how much he modeled his life in the way that Jesus taught. He listened when he heard the words of Jesus we heard in tonight’s Gospel lesson:

“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Both St. Francis and Jesus lived lives of inclusion, bringing those on the margins into the middle. No matter who you are, there are days when you’d self-identify as weary, and label your burdens as heavy. On those days—and every day—your Christian community welcomes you inside. These words of Jesus remind us that, though we may feel overwhelmed and beyond recovery, there is always someone to whom to hand over our heaviness. You can always turn your garbage over to Jesus. You can always come here and tell a friend or me about what’s up. You can always dump out your giant pile of study material and sort through it with a bad attitude, but a handful of candy from the basket. You can always sit here in this room and sing to your God about the truth of the love you know.

So, come. Come to the table, where all are welcome. For both St. Francis and Jesus—lovers of the earth, radical social activists, carriers of burdens—thanks be to God.

__________

[1] St. Francis of Assisi, translated by Daniel Ladinsky in Love Poems from God

Not Your GOP's American Jesus -- A Sermon on Matthew 11:25-30

Grace and peace from God our Creator, hope in our Redeemer Jesus the Christ, and the promised gifts of the Holy Spirit are with you, always. Amen.

When I read the words of Jesus in this week’s gospel text, I was struck. These are beautiful words, comforting words—some of the kindest words Jesus ever says. They’re so familiar to me—I’ve read this story several times, probably. And it’s likely that these kind words are printed on posters or bookmarks or other borderline-cheesy Christian swag. But don’t let that fool you—these words are not pithy or contrived.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” 

Think about the folks listening to these words—he’s talking, in this discourse, to disciples of John the Baptist, who are curious if Jesus is who John said he would be. They’re likely the definition of weary. Overworked, underpaid, undernourished, exhausted, never quite getting comfortable in their scratchy blankets and worn-through shoes. It’s either too cold or too hot, and they’ve walked so far already today. They’ve sought out this man that is going to change something. John the Baptist prophesied about a new way of being, coalescing in this man, Jesus, and they’re here to hear about what that is. 

Since y’all are just getting to know me, you may or may not be surprised to hear that the Gospel always speaks to me about contemporary American politics and culture. Now don’t you worry, none of the characters in our national drama are stand-ins for Jesus—he’s still here, speaking for himself. His words rarely actually appear in the course of an election cycle.

This week, though, his words called to mind a very American idea. Humor me, a moment: 

“Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, with conquering limbs astride from land to land;here at our sea-washed sunset gates shall standa mighty woman with a torch, whose flameis the imprisoned lightning, and her nameMother of Exiles. From her beacon-handGlows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes commandthe air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.  

‘Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!’ cries shewith silent lips. ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’”

Do you recognize that? It's The New Colossus, a poem by the 19th-century Jewish-American Emma Lazarus, inscribed on a famous US landmark—the Statue of Liberty. 

Did you see the same resemblance I saw? “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” Jesus says. Lady Liberty’s arms are similarly open, saying “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”

Here in the United States of America (a nation of immigrants, we often say) we, historically, know a thing or two about being weary, and carrying heavy burdens. We were built by enterprising immigrants and slave labor. We are built by innovative inventors and blue-collared unions. We are built by minimum-wage earners and migrant workers. We are weary, and carry heavy burdens. We whose families are still doing this nation-building, and we whose families benefit from this nation-building, and we whose families orchestrate this nation-building, and we whose loftiest goals are to initiate new ways of nation-building. We are weary, and carry heavy burdens.

Here in the United States of America, we are processing a recent visit from Pope Francis—whose namesake we celebrate with today’s feast! Both Pope Francis and St. Francis of Assisi are celebrated as being particularly concerned with the poor and with the earth—Pope Francis speaks out often about income inequality and climate change, and St. Francis was ostracized for living among lepers and valuing the lives of animals. 

Across the world, there are poor and huddled masses, who are weary and carry heavy burdens. At this very moment, there are an estimated 19 million refugees. This is horrific on a number of levels—terror and violence forced 19 million people out of their homes and into refugee camps in neighboring countries and then into other nations, hoping for asylum. No stage of fleeing a war-torn community is a good one. As they move from place to place, they are overworked, underpaid, undernourished, exhausted, never quite getting comfortable in their scratchy blankets and worn-through shoes. It’s either too cold or too hot, and they’ve walked so far already today. 

Pope Francis recently called upon each European catholic parish to take in a refugee family. US Secretary of State John Kerry recently announced that we would increase our intake of Syrian refugees in the next few years, reaching 100,000 per year by 2017. These are small fractions of the total number of people seeking refuge, and we can and must do better, but each burden lifted changes a life. In these moments, we live up to the name that Emma Lazarus gave us in that first stanza—Mother of Exiles. 

Jesus says to his disciples and friends and to you and to me and to Pope Francis and to 19 million refugees—come to me, all you that are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. In moments like these, I feel guilty about the reasons why I am weary, and the burdens I consider heavy. But Jesus didn’t set any parameters. The weight that you bear today is a weight he will lift. Whatever burdens you, he will help to carry. Your course load, your grocery list, your budgeting disaster, your fragile relationship; last week’s awkward conversation you can’t shake off, your fears about the future, your disappointment in a friend, the phone call you forgot to make. Your burdens are Christ’s burdens. See that’s the thing about Jesus’ radical equalization—he listens to every voice. Whatever you pray for, whatever you seek, whether you think those things are large or small, they are never beyond the scope of the love of God. You are never beyond the scope of the love of God.

Each time we gather, here, we are celebrating this knowledge. Sometimes, we’re here to be reminded, and sometimes we’re here to remind others. When we pray together, learn together, sing together, eat together, we participate in the passing over to God of that heaviness we brought with us. Here at the table we eat the bread and drink the wine that unite us with God and with all those who also eat and drink—the huddled masses, yearning to breathe free.

So, come. All you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, God will give you rest. Come to the table, and breathe free.