Beloved Children of God

When I served my seminary internship in Littleton, Colorado in 2012 and 2013, part of our congregation’s ministry was in partnership with New Beginnings, the congregation inside the Denver Women’s Correctional Facility. I got to know the chaplain there, at the time, an ELCA pastor named Emily. She was the perfect combination of deeply compassionate and tough as nails that I imagine is required for work in an environment as dehumanizing as prison.

One of the most useful things I learned from her was that, in pastoral counseling and especially during conflict mediation, it was required to say “beloved child of God” alongside the name of any person you were talking about.

So if someone was sitting with her, telling her about a disagreement they’d had with someone, they’d have to say, “and then, Casey, beloved child God, said” and go on with the story. You can imagine that, in the heat of the moment, or with the editorializing we might do as we recall a situation, this is difficult to do. And that there are perhaps other names we might want to attach to the people we disagree with.

I have tried to adopt this practice into my own life, whenever I am saying unkind things about someone who has harmed me or someone that I love. It is not meant to erase their harm or excuse their harm, but to remind me that they, too, are a beloved child of God, who receives grace upon grace from the one who created us and calls us good.

In Paul’s letter to the Corinthians this morning, I heard Chaplain Emily.

Paul writes that the same God who gave us life and who gave us every good and perfect gift that comes along with that, gave life and gifts to everyone else. That the people in the community with whom we have disagreements, conflicts, and otherwise strained relationships, are also beloved children of God, with a variety of spiritual gifts that differ from ours.

I see the church at Corinth squirming in their seats, grumbling as the letter is read aloud, perhaps not for the first time, as they struggle to live together in love.

The church at Corinth is a specific group of people from a specific time and place in history, but in this instance, stands in for all of us.

Professor Lincoln E. Galloway writes that “This was a difficult message to hear in a context of divisiveness that may have been based on philosophical differences, socioeconomic status, cultural markers, and competing constructions of the Christian faith.” [1]

It is possible that the different ideas they had about how to be church together were equally good and equally correct and equally faithful. But they had differing ideas, and they’d decided to define each other by those differing ideas, and harm each other with those differing ideas.

Nobody likes to be scolded into reconciling with their sibling. But we do need to acknowledge that sometimes, our differences are not changeable, we will have to agree to disagree, and that diversity of thought and opinion is necessary for our common life.

God is the source of diversity. This does not mean that our differences do not matter, or that we should minimize them in an “I don’t see color” sort of naivety. But rather, we should truly see each other for the beloved children of God that we each are, and collaborate to celebrate our diversity every chance we get.

It is perhaps cliché this morning, on the weekend we commemorate the life of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., to mention the God-given nature of our differences.

Dr. King’s vocation was leading people whose differences had been weaponized against them into the joy of equity and freedom in their belovedness.

Dr. King worked tirelessly to access voting rights for Black Americans, and for the fair wages and protections of labor unions, for the reality of his children to be judged not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

His dream was not for his children and their children to deny the color of their skin or the history they carried in their bodies, but for that to be a cause for celebration, not oppression. That we might regard each other as siblings, and build a common life together out of joy and abundance, not scarcity and fear.

In the Gospel According to John, Jesus tells us that he came into the world so that we might have life, and have it abundantly.

Professor Elisabeth Johnson writes that “abundant life does not mean a life of ease, comfort, and luxury or an absence of sorrow and suffering. But it does mean that in Jesus we have an abundant, extravagant source of grace to sustain us, grace that is more than sufficient to provide where we fall short and to give us joy even amid sorrow and struggle. Abundant life means that in Christ we are joined to the source of true life, life that is rich and full and eternal, life that neither sorrow, nor suffering, nor death itself can destroy.” [2]

Our Gospel story this morning is about that abundance. Jesus performs the first of many miracles, turning water into wine at a wedding. The physics, the chemistry, the exact “how” of the situation is unknown to us, so we’ll focus on the “why”.

Why does Jesus—after telling his mother that this was not the time—instruct the stewards to fill the ablution jugs with water, and then to draw that water—somehow, now wine—and serve it for the wedding guests’ delight. Does this wine fundamentally alter the guests’ lives? Contribute to their righteousness? Enact justice? Not this miracle, not yet.

The first place the adult Jesus reveals himself to be a worker of wonders, he does so in service of joy. He does so in order to allow a celebration to carry on into the wee hours of the morning. He contributes to more dancing, and more laughing, more sharing of stories, more healing of broken spirits, and more kinship.

Yes, perhaps, in the grand scheme of God’s earth, a wedding ceremony running short of wine is not an emergency. But it is a matter of life.

You probably expected me to say a matter of life and death, because that is the turn of phrase that is common. But in this situation, a wedding—whose, we do not know—is, like every wedding ought to be, a celebration of abundant life.

These people, through their experience of abundant joy, have grown closer to one another and closer to God. Abundant life is about more than surviving, but thriving. It’s about knowing and being known. It is to be so connected to God, to have such an intimate relationship with our Creator, that the giving and receiving never stops. This abundant life is represented by the joy of fine wine at a wedding. [2]

Before we take this image too far, I want to be clear that I do not mean that God insists we must consume a substance to have abundant life.

Alcohol is not a prerequisite for joy, and in many cases, it stands between us and the life God has called us to. In certain circumstances, drunkenness and levity and frivolity can be a source of fun and enjoyment for some people, but very easily, it can be dangerous.

It’s unfortunate that the story here involves alcohol, because that makes it just one degree harder to understand the real miracle. The real miracle is not six jugs of wine that nobody had to pay for.

The miracle is that it is one of God’s priorities that we experience joy together.

This is one of the first ways that God reveals Godself to us through Jesus. This is not a show of power and might, it is not a physical healing, it is not a political change, it is a moment simply of joy.

I wonder if you can remember a recent instance where you felt the presence of God in a moment of joy. These can be small moments, or significant occasions, but either way they connect us to each other and to God. Especially when we can much more easily recount recent instances of frustration, or fear, or grief. And perhaps we struggle to allow ourselves to feel joy, because we are so weighed down by everything else.

This may be going a little rogue in a sermon, but I am going to read you a poem. It is one of my favorites by one of my favorite poets, and when I started writing about joy I realized it was just the thing. It’s called “Don’t Hesitate” and it’s by Mary Oliver.

“If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case.
Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.”

Joy is not made to be a crumb, dear ones. Mary Oliver understood this, and Jesus certainly understood this. Jesus will perform many more miracles during his life, and we will read about those in the coming weeks and months. He will go on to restore sight to the blind, to liberate the captive, to let the oppressed go free. He will restore people to their communities. He will show us how to open our doors and lengthen our tables.

But first, very first, before we get to all of that, he shows us what it’s all for. What is it that people cannot see? What is it that people are being excluded from experiencing? What is the abundant life that is possible, when we invite everyone in? Connection is for everyone. Kinship is for everyone. Community is for everyone. Healing is for everyone.

We know this because Jesus has shown us. Jesus has revealed himself to be about the work of transformation—both literal and figurative. His life and ministry usher in a new era, where justice rolls down like water, and righteousness like a mighty stream. Where we are all called beloved. Where we are all welcome at the table. Where we all know the truth, and the truth sets us free.

Joy to the world, the Lord is come!

—
[1] Lincoln E. Galloway, “Second Sunday After the Epiphany” in Preaching God’s Transforming Justice: Year C, 62-66.

Wonder of Wonders, Miracle of Miracles—A Sermon on Sharing our Bread

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.

Filling in for Pastor Dan these few Sundays has been an interesting experience—for all of us, probably! It is sort of odd to come in and out of this place, not being here every Sunday but being here several Sundays, sometimes two in a row. I imagine you all may feel like it has been sort of odd, having Pastor Dave much of the time, and me sometimes, and sometimes both of us together, and then the occasional guest preacher or presider, and your lay preachers being featured, as well! This has been an eventful summer.

When I prepare to be with you on a Sunday morning, it can sort of feel like I’m coming into something in the middle. Luckily for us, there’s the continuity of the lectionary, keeping us in a somewhat orderly fashion. But I wonder sometimes if I’m going to say something that completely contradicts what last week’s preacher said!

Sure, we’re all looking at the same Bible, but we sure aren’t looking at it through the same lenses. That has hopefully been the greatest blessing of your summer—hearing the Word from so many different mouths. I imagine, though, that you’re looking forward to having Dan back, so you can feel a little less whiplash from week to week.

Similarly, we enter this week’s gospel text somewhere in the middle. The first sentence refers to something we haven’t heard: “Now when Jesus heard this…” it begins. Heard what? Sometimes, the previous passage is last week’s text, and so we can take a minute to recall that and catch up.

But this is not one of those times.

Last week, the gospel was a series of sayings from Jesus about what the kingdom of heaven is like. A mustard seed, and treasure, and a pearl, and a net. The thing that Jesus heard, though, is none of those things. There’s another half chapter between there and here, and it’s nothing to skip over—it’s the death of John the Baptist.

Upon hearing that his friend and co-conspirator had been heinously executed, Jesus “withdrew...to a deserted place by himself. But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns” (Matthew 14:13). The death of John the Baptist rattles the community that followed him, and the community that followed Jesus. People gathered together, hoping to hear a word from Jesus about what had happened, and what was going to happen next. Jesus spent a very short time alone, coming ashore once he saw the crowd of people begin to gather.

Verse 14 is so lovely–”he saw a great crowd, and he had compassion for them, and cured their sick.” He is grieving the death of John the Baptist, wondering what this will mean for the movement, but at the sight of the people he has come to love, he remembers what his work is all about. He has compassion for them and he heals them. He sees that they are grieving, but on top of all of the suffering they had been doing before.

They are still poor, they are still oppressed, they are still tired, they are still hungry, they are still sick, they are still afraid. They still need to be cared for by Jesus.

The disciples realize how late it’s gotten, and tell Jesus it’s time to go, time to let everyone head back to their villages for dinner. They may have come out to see Jesus without packing anything to eat, since it was fairly sudden. It’s been a full day for everyone. Rather than send everyone away, Jesus suggests that the food the disciples have on hand—five loaves of bread and two fish—will suffice. [I wonder sometimes if the disciples ever got used to Jesus suggesting unlikely things, or if they always stammered, “wait, what?”]

Jesus blessed the bread and fish and began to share. The story ends, “and all ate and were filled.” This is one of the stories that has been told about Jesus often throughout the centuries, to explain the power he possessed and the amazement that followed him around.

It’s traditionally interpreted that Jesus multiplied the five loaves and two fish into enough food for thousands of people—not unlike the time he turned the water into wine, or calmed a storm and walked on water, or raised Lazarus from the dead, all of which sounds impossible.

You may be a miracle skeptic. You may look at stories like this and scratch your head. You are not alone. In fact, there is a great lineage of skeptics and wonderers in the family of God, which is part of the reason we need prophets.

The prophet Isaiah this week calls out to people who believe that to hunger or thirst is their only choice, and the prospect of being fed is far from likely. “Everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price” (Isaiah 55:1). Could it be so? Could there be such richness? Food for those who have no money? Wine? And milk? Nothing less for the people of God. In just those few short sentences, “Isaiah anticipates their objections and skepticism by explaining that God’s mercy is beyond human comprehension.”[1]

Speaking of “beyond human comprehension,” we're back at those five loaves and two fish and thousands of people. This story from Matthew’s gospel does not say, “and then Jesus turned five loaves into thousands of loaves and two fish into thousands of fish, so there was enough for everyone to eat.” But that’s what we have said this story says. What the story says is that Jesus and the disciples shared of what they had, and that all ate and were filled.

I wonder, though, if Jesus and the disciples were not the only ones who shared what they had. I wonder if the folks who trekked out from their homes to this seashore thought they might be there a while, and perhaps a few loaves and a fish or two might not be a bad idea.

It is possible that, at first, they were reluctant to share with one another—sound like anybody you know? Some of those who brought food may have been worried that others had not, and so their food might be taken from them by force. Some who hardly had food for their families might have been embarrassed by their meager morsels, and not wanted to be seen having so little. Some may have been waiting until they got away from the crowds, so they would not have to share with anyone who hungered.

I hope that the show of generosity from the disciples—just five loaves of bread and two fish—inspired the crowds to open their hearts and their picnic baskets.

This pattern of inspiring community and communion is a hallmark of the ministry of Jesus. Responding in kind is a hallmark of the Christian life. In communities across the centuries, Christians have been gathering together in the face of fear and scarcity to proclaim hope and abundance. “Early Christians frequently took their meager resources, brought them together, and did miraculous things with them….this story challenges the church not to be overwhelmed by fear, but to trust in the power of God to provide.” [2] We can trust God to provide by miraculously multiplying loaves and fishes into more loaves and fishes—and our understanding of just how that multiplication happens can vary.

We are not sitting on a hillside with Jesus, sharing a meal with thousands of strangers. But as the church in the 21st century, we still have the opportunity to come together in the face of fear and scarcity to proclaim hope and abundance.

As Americans in a globalized world, we can see that there are places where God’s children are hungry, and places where God’s children are fed; we can see that there are places where God’s children are enslaved, and places where God’s children are free; we can see that there are places where God’s children are uneducated or undereducated, and places where God’s children are educated or overeducated; we can see that there are places where God’s children are oppressed, and places where God’s children are the oppressor.

As we walk the aisles of our overflowing grocery stores, and revel in the beautiful abundance of the Davis Farmers’ Market, we know that there are people here in our own community and across the world who are going without even the most basic nutrition. We know that it does not have to be this way.

An Argentinian theologian named J. Severino Croatto wrote about this week’s portion of Isaiah, and how it speaks to the economically devastated people in his society. “The only positive way out of our dilemma is creativity and solidarity,” he says. [3]

There is a way for the whole world to be fed. There is a way for all of us to have what we need—and even what we want—without our siblings in Christ going without. I am not about to solve world hunger from the pulpit this morning, dear friends. But I am going to remind you that this story about Jesus feeding thousands of people is only a story if we leave it here in this pulpit, here in this room, there in that book. The miracle of the Christian community is that creativity and solidarity, facing problems small and large with solutions small and large.

This morning, you who are hungry will have the opportunity to come to the table and be fed, bread and wine without price. We will sing together, in just a minute, about this table, and how we are all invited to “taste and see that God is good.” So, come. Eat and be filled. Leave this place full of gratitude, hope, and abundance. Open your heart and your picnic basket—there is bread to share. Amen.

________

[1] Nyasha Junior, “Third Sunday in Lent” in Preaching God’s Transformative Justice, 140.

[2] Michael Joseph Brown, “Matthew” in True to Our Native Land: An African American New Testament Commentary, 105.

[3] J. Severino Croatto, “Isaiah 40-55” in Global Bible Commentary, 195.