Run For Something

A year ago today I made my first phone call as a Candidate Outreach volunteer with Run For Something.

This morning I made my 63rd. 

Of those 63 progressives from 21 states, 10 were on ballots in 2021 and 3 are now elected officials.

On each call, I talk with someone who has witnessed an injustice in their community and has the courage to be part of the solution. They’re running for small-town neighborhood councils and they’re running for big-city school boards and they’re running for state legislatures. They’re former elementary school, middle school, and high school class presidents and they’re people who have never before considered a leadership position like this. They’re you and they’re me and they’re our neighbors.

It’s such a privilege to hear their stories and help them on their way to the resources, community, and support that they need to run a successful campaign and become a devoted public servant. These calls are the most consistently hopeful half-hours in my day.

If the state of electoral politics in this nation causes you grief, I encourage you to get involved with what RFS is up to. You can volunteer, like I do. You can donate to their PAC or to their 501(c)(3), both of which develop young, progressive leadership. Or, you can run for something.

Give to God what is God's—A Sermon on Life and Taxes

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.
 

It has been a minute since I’ve been in this pulpit, after a busy month of traveling all over the place. And y’all have been busy while I’ve been gone! The quarter is seriously under way, the LEVN year presses on, and life outside of your programs carries on, too. It’s a big world out there.

If you’ve been here the last few Wednesdays or maybe the last few Sundays, you’ve been trekking through the lectionary as Jesus tells confusing parable after confusing parable. There were mustard seeds, and wedding banquets, and vineyards, and talents. Just as we have been immersed in Jesus’ stories about what the kingdom of heaven is like, his original hearers were putting the pieces together, forming a picture of a new and different world.

Some folks were not as sold on Jesus’ new way of being in relationship with God and with one another—some religious authorities and, of course, the Roman Empire. They, too, were connecting the dots between Jesus’ stories and their reality.

Remember, Jesus and company lived under occupation by the Roman Empire. Everyone was expected to revere and respect the emperor—Caesar Augustus—above anyone or anything else. The coin that Jesus is talking about depicts the Roman emperor as a deity, or as a conduit for the deity. You see, the emperor maintained a relative peace by allowing those under his occupation to worship their God, as long as they also pledged allegiance to him. You can bet that Jesus had a problem with this, because that utmost devotion is not for earthly kings, but for God our Creator, alone.

The tension between Jesus’ movement and those with political power was only growing. And while this week’s story is not a parable, it’s not exactly straightforward. Some of the folks who were opposed to Jesus’ movement tried to trap him, tried to get him to either openly pledge allegiance to the emperor or openly disparage the emperor.

They ask him, “Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?” Jesus knows what they’re after, and replies with another question, like many teachers do. “Why are you putting me to the test, you hypocrites?” He says. “Show me the coin.” When they show him the money that is used to pay taxes, emblazoned with Caesar Augustus’ name and title, he tells them “give to the emperor what is the emperor’s and give to God what is God’s.” (Matthew 22)

Sometimes, when we tell this story, we do something a little anachronistic and turn it into a modern question: is it Christian to pay taxes? And that’s sort of an interesting question, because our tax dollars do a lot to build up our communities—pay for our schools, roads, fire departments—and that’s an important Christian value. We provide services and resources to members of our community who would otherwise go without.

But, we don’t all agree about how much of our tax dollars should be allocated to which things, or about which things should be covered by our tax dollars at all. A large portion of our tax dollars goes toward building weapons of war—not so much a Christian value. But we know, as citizens and residents of the United States, that we are accountable to one another and responsible for paying taxes.

So is it Christian to pay taxes? Yes...and no. But is that what Jesus is talking about?

Not entirely. Jesus is pointing us toward a larger question: are we servants of God or are we servants of the empire? And not just in the literal political sense—though absolutely in the literal political sense—but in an even more basic sense.

This is the most fundamental building block of our faith. In the commandments given to Moses, we start at the very beginning: “I am the Lord your God...you shall have no other gods before me” (Exodus 20:2-3).

Everything that we have comes to us from God. Yes, we live in a society with a government and with corporations and other trimmings of capitalism, but as Christians we are governed by God first, and by the empire second.

What, that is not our capital-G God, have we devoted ourselves to instead? What do we cling to that is not the triune God?

More than a few things. Money. Power. Status. Security. Institutions—like our governments, our universities, our Churches. National sovereignty. We routinely place our trust and our devotion in things of this earth that cannot possibly sustain us in the way that God can. No human person—charismatic leader, revolutionary, emperor, dictator, or otherwise—provides us that which God provides. Our political leaders are not our saviors.

The commandments given to Moses, the ones that start with “I am the LORD your God,” go on to say, “You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth” (Exodus 20:4).

When we talk about these “idols” or false gods, it’s important to note that we don’t mean other people’s gods, like the deities of other religions. The idols we’re not supposed to be making are things that the empire would deem holy—namely, itself. “Things we can get confused about that we think are divine, things we believe are of ultimate concern, things we might give weight to above all else that are not really holy.”

“Our institutions are not God; the Church is not God; the American flag is not God; our reputations and our egos are not God; comfort, convenience, and safety are not God.”[1]

Have you noticed that I always say the same little prayer at the beginning of my sermons? 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. It’s a habit I’ve gotten into, and it’s so simple that you may have stopped really hearing it. I certainly rattle it off unconvincingly, sometimes. But I say it every time because it is the truest truth I know. 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.

There are important things in the world around us that we commit ourselves to, yes, but those things are not God. Those things are not eternal. Those things will end. The empire will fall. God will be with you, always.

Remember, beloved children of God, that you—and all of us—were created in the image of God. You, as you are this very minute, are holy. You are not merely a number in a database—the university’s or the Internal Revenue Service’s. You reflect not the shiny gold coin of the empire, but the face of God.

Give to the emperor what is the emperor’s and give to God what is God’s. Give to the empire only that which bears its image, and give to God that which bears God’s image—you. [2] You have been given the gift of this life by the God who loves you. Devote yourself right back to the God who is devoted to you. Remember who you are whose you are. Amen.

___

[1] Margaret Ernst, “Say Unto Caesar: Whiteness is Not God” on The Word is Resistance from Showing Up for Racial Justice, showingupforracialjustice.org/podcast, 20 October 2017.

God, I Thank You That I am Just Like Other People—A Sermon on Righteousness and Contempt

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.

Sometimes, the Gospel for the week is looking right at us. This week is one of those weeks. The first sentence: “Jesus also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt.” Right there, it’s us he means. It’s a straight up trap, because if you think it’s you, well, you’re right, and if you don’t, well, congratulations, it is. Because either you are the self-righteous who hold others with contempt, or, you’re the self-righteous who hold “the self-righteous who hold others with contempt” with contempt! Long story short, the author of this Gospel is saying, “listen up, y’all. This one’s for you.”

So now that we know this parable is straight up targeting us, what is it? Well, it’s a classic Jesus construction: there’s a Pharisee and a tax collector. Pharisees are regarded as being the most religious, most righteous, best ever dudes. Tax collectors are regarded as basically the opposite. To be a tax collector means that you are shaking down your neighbors for their cash all the time, and running off with it to Caesar, and none of it is every really trickling-down back into your community. So nobody likes you.

You’re probably thinking “well, I don’t want to be the tax collector in this scenario, so, am I the pharisee?" The Pharisee seems okay. He’s at the temple, and he’s praying: “God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.” I am literally the best at being a religious person, thanks for making me so amazing, you’re the best, God. We can hear the problem with this prayer, right? It’s like, so un-self-aware.

So, if we’re this Pharisee, “what are our own versions of this Pharisee’s prayer? Who are we grateful not to be?”[1]

This is so easy.

We are all human, and so we are all very excellent at comparing ourselves to everyone we encounter—for better and for worse—deciding whether we envy that person or would rather die than be that person.

We do this on seemingly unimportant scales all the time, right? Like with our majors; we can’t believe someone could possibly be getting a degree in that. Or with our professional sports affiliations; even if our team loses, at least we didn’t lose as badly as those guys. This year, the very obvious not-even-elephant in the room is the election. “God, I thank you that I am not like those terrible voters for that other party.” Woo—had that thought like 47 times today.

And recently, I had terribly self-righteous thoughts about InterVarsity Christian Fellowship. They are the nation’s largest Christian campus ministry organization—there’s a chapter here are UC Davis—and so they are home to many of your peers. A few weeks ago, they made a choice I disagree with. Any of their employees who support marriage equality and other protections for LGBTQ Americans are no longer welcome. They are supposed to notify their supervisors of their disagreement with the organization’s policies on sexuality, and transition out of their jobs next month.

It is part of our work as Christians to speak up about oppressive situations and systems in our midst, and to do our best to end them. It is understandable that these employees probably do not want to work for an organization whose ideals they don’t support, but this also removes entirely the possibility of discussion and compassion and maybe eventual change on the subject. This decision proclaims to all the students on 667 campuses around the country where InterVarsity is present that their pro-LGBTQ stances—and their LGBTQ identities—are not welcome.

I confess to you today, friends, that when I think about this I say, “God, I thank you that I am not like other Christians.” While this, momentarily, makes me feel righteous and excellent, it is not the point. There are plenty of things going on in the ELCA and the Episcopal church that we lament and that we confess and that we must work to change. We are not exempt from bad policies because we are not exempt from sin.

We know, because Martin Luther wrote about it a heck of a lot, that we are simultaneously saint and sinner. This is great, because it means that one wrong move doesn’t ruin everything. The thing about being simultaneously saint and sinner is that we’re always uncomfortable. We’re always giving ourselves a pat on the back, and then feeling like that wasn’t the right move.

Some people don’t like Christians because they think we’re hypocrites. They think that, if we call ourselves Christians, we are all set and do everything perfectly and are never mean and always drive the speed limit and never say a swear word and always volunteer to do the dishes and never buy anything expensive because we’re donating all our money to charity. I think these folks have it upside down. Christians are not perfect—far from it. We know so! At the start of every service, what’s the first thing we do? You can cheat and look at the bulletin. Confession!

We begin our evening together by confessing our sin. We say, to God and to one another, that we have failed. We have messed up. We have done things wrong and we have known they were wrong even as we did them. And we have not done something right and known it was the right thing even as we didn’t do it. We have stood idly by as a situation we had the power to change went on, badly, without our intervention. We know it! And so we say it.

“We confess that we have turned from you and given ourselves into the power of sin. We are truly sorry and humbly repent. In your compassion forgive us our sins, known and unknown, things we have done and things we have failed to do.”

Every week, we say those words (or some like them). “Confessing our sins as a group helps us know that we are not alone in falling short.” [2]

Part of the power vested in me—mine because I wear this stole, this vestment—by my ordination is the power to declare to you the forgiveness of all your sin. I am not the one who forgives you, that’s not the power I have. God forgives you, and I am entrusted with the responsibility of reminding you.

When I was serving my internship during seminary in Colorado, I had the privilege of getting to know the chaplain at the nearby women’s prison. She told me about the way she mediated conflict between the women, by insisting that as they told their side of the argument with someone, her name had to be followed by “precious child of God” as a reminder of everyone’s belovedness. For example: “I am so tired of listening to Donald Trump, precious child of God, as he insults so many beautiful groups of Americans.” This to say, dear ones, that “we are all created in God’s image,” but “those other people, those people we are secretly glad we are not—they are created in God’s image, too.” [3]

Wherever you find yourself in this parable, wherever you find yourself in the story of God, you are beloved. You, precious child of God, are forgiven. You are justified. You are a sinner and you are a saint. And so is everyone else. God, I thank you that I am just like other people: messy, joyous, awkward, clever, ambitious, righteous, forgetful, silly, beloved. Amen!