Back to Work—A Sermon on Economic Justice and the First Week of Classes

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.

Welcome! Welcome back! Welcome home!

Writing the back-to-school sermon is such an exciting and odd experience for me. Throughout the year, when I’m writing, I’m thinking back to who was here in the chapel the week before and what did we talk about after dinner and what have y’all been up to this week and what’s going on in the world...but for the first week back, there’s so much mystery!  I am thinking about returning students and what y’all have been up to all summer—research, internships, summer session, working, sleeping. But also I am imagining the possibilities of new students, and who might be wandering into our little yellow house this week for the very first time.

Perhaps you just moved to Davis a few days ago, or have been here a year or more, but today seemed like the right day to come. Perhaps you saw the sign that said Free Dinner, and that sealed the deal. Whatever brought you to this table, welcome.

Here at the Belfry, you know or will come to know that we get together for a few pretty specific reasons: to eat food, to make friends, to laugh a lot, to sing songs, and to hear stories from scripture. Sounds simple enough.

In the Gospel stories, Jesus has a habit of telling parables—sort of riddles—that cause a lot of confusion. Sometimes, the people to whom he’s telling the story within the story aren’t sure what the moral of the story is; or, they totally get it, and they realize he’s telling them that they are wrong, and they get very upset; or, they get it backwards and they think he’s calling them good when he’s really telling them to get their act together.

And we’re not so different. Sometimes, we hear the words of Jesus and we sit back and say, “huh?” And other times, we hear the words of Jesus and realize that we are not living into the Christian life quite the way we thought, and we feel convicted. And other times, we hear the words of Jesus and we think we’re doing all right but then someone points out that it’s not so simple. Every once in awhile, though, we hear the words of Jesus and something clicks.

I don’t know if tonight’s story puts you in any of these camps, and it’s pretty okay if you’re solidly in the “huh?” zone. That’s where I hang out a lot of the time.

Luckily, many Christians and many scholars have come before us, and they can offer us some wisdom to help us on our way. One of the best people that I like to turn to when I read a parable and go, “huh?” is a professor named Amy-Jill Levine. She’s a Jewish woman who teaches the New Testament to people studying to be Christian ministers. She is very snarky and she is a genius. She wrote a book called Short Stories by Jesus, in which she lays out how the people Jesus was talking to would have heard these parables. Such a helpful lens to look through! She had excellent things to offer me, as usual, about tonight’s.

Let’s think back to a few minutes ago when I read that. In the parable, we’re in a vineyard, with the owner of the vineyard and some hired laborers. He hired some of them first thing in the morning, and promised to pay them “what is right,” a day’s wages. He hired some more at 9 and at 3 and even at 5. He paid them, at the end of the work day, one full day’s wages. Those who had worked since sunrise, since 9, since 3, and since 5.

Now, I think most of y’all have probably worked an hourly job before, and absolutely could not expect to be paid for hours you did not work. And probably would have been upset to find out that someone who worked for fewer hours than you did was paid the same as you were. It is pretty easy to understand the laborers who “grumble” against the landowner.

The landowner has behaved sort of oddly, paying them this way. He gives them all a day’s wages—a right and just thing to do, as these people probably have families to support, and the work they did for him was all the work they could get that day. He doesn’t pay them based on the quality of the work they’ve done, how much they’ve achieved, how effective they’ve been. He pays them what he believes everyone deserves.

Naming this parable “The Laborers in the Vineyard” encourages us to identify with the laborers as opposed to the landowner, whom we are then free to identify as God.[1] Easy enough. No matter what we do, God has claimed us in our baptism and we will all receive grace upon grace. End of sermon, see you later.

Not so fast! What if we change that? What if, instead of interpreting this as “God is generous with salvation”—thought that is true, and a good thing to remember—what if we thought about this as a much more literal example for how to treat one another? I will rarely encourage you to engage in Biblical literalism, y’all, so when we go down that road, it’s for a good reason.

You could interpret this parable as “no matter what you do, God loves you, and so it doesn’t matter.” But complacency is not the best look for Christian life. Showing up at the end of the day and hoping to eke out the same benefits as those who have worked all day is not recommended. Especially when we turn this into a prescription for the work of justice. Looking at a situation that will take a day’s labor, we cannot assume that if we do the bare minimum, that’s “enough” to get the real, long-term work accomplished. We can take it one step further towards the literal, and wonder about who is receiving benefits for whose work.

Amy-Jill Levine, the professor I mentioned before, she puts it this way: “If we refocus the parable away from ‘who gets into heaven’ and toward ‘who gets a day’s wage,’ we can find a message that challenges rather than prompts complacency. If we look at economics, at the pressing reality that people need jobs and that others have excess funds, we find what should be a compelling challenge to any hearer.”[1]

As residents and citizens of the United States of America, we are well aware that there are disparities in our society—racism, income inequality, sexism, heterosexism, xenophobia, white supremacy, and more.

A report by PayScale.com and Equilar says that “the average CEO-to-worker pay ratio….stands at about 70-to-1, with some CEOs making more than 300 times the median salary of their employees.” And, for the data-driven among you, that is only talking about cash, before stock options and other compensation provided to many executives.

Truly seeing who is doing the work and who has the most money at the end of the day, this parable does not mirror the way our society is structured. In this parable, the landowner freely gives away his money to those who need it. He seeks out those who need work, and he pays everyone a living wage. Even those who have not done what the rest of the market might deem a day’s work.

This landowner should “not only be a reference to God, for what God does is often what those who claim to follow God should do.” [1] As Christians, we should seek to be so generous, so just. We should seek to find all those who look for meaningful work, and provide it to them. We should ensure that everyone has enough resources to live well in our communities. We should ensure that even those who cannot work—the chronically ill, for example—are not forced into poverty because of it.

We should notice if any of this makes us feel uncomfortable. We work hard for what we earn. Yes, and we should be paid appropriately for that work. We should not, though, have to sentence a huge segment of our population to a life of poverty because there isn’t enough to go around. There is enough. There has always been enough, and there will always be enough.

God, who is rich in mercy and abounding in steadfast love, serves as an example for us of how well we can treat one another, if we want to. We learn from these stories big truths about God, like these, and big truths about ourselves, too. As we gather at the table for communion, there will be enough. It is my prayer that we will carry that fullness and richness out into the world together.

It’s a new day here in Davis. It’s a new quarter, a new school year. As we go through the motions—get settled into the new schedule, figure things out with new roommates, remember how to ride a bike—we can decide what this new year will be like. We can wonder about how our life and work is related to all the lives and all the work happening around us. It is my joy and privilege to be among you this year, wondering along.

Amen.

 

[1] Amy-Jill Levine, Short Stories by Jesus: the Enigmatic Parables of a Controversial Rabbi, HarperOne, 2015.

Publicly Accountable Note-to-Self

Hi. A few stories, confessions, and revelations and stuff to put on "paper" for when I forget my commitments.

In high school, I was like "I want to be a youth director" because I loved BLCYM and Jonathan (our youth director) and so, naturally, wanted to keep that forever. It's where I met my best friend, and so obviously it was the best thing out there. Typical.

Then, sophomore year of college, I met the CLU Campus Ministry, and the CLU Religion Department, (and then the Secular Student Alliance the next year) and the world of interfaith dialogue swept me off my feet. Somehow, I forgot about the life of youth ministry I'd loved. Going to seminary for the express purpose of cruising on to a PhD and being a professor and activist and all-around brainiac took center-stage. With it, the idea of parish ministry and youth, in particular, got shunted to the back burner as "less than" my newfound academic pursuits. That kind of thing was for people without higher education, I'm sure I said.

The first two years of seminary kept this ball rolling pretty hard. School is basically my favorite place, y'all, and the idea of staying there forever, reading and writing about the world seemed like the ultimate life. Being in the Bay Area, the crossover between academia and activism is pretty easy. One week, for one class, our homework was to attend an Occupy protest and write a theological reflection about it. I mean, really. Hashtag Berkeley.

And every time a fourth-year said something about, "well, once you've done internship," I just rolled my eyes for hours about how out-of-touch with reality parish ministry had to be, compared to my awesome worldview and stuff. I am so ridiculous sometimes, you guys.

The first few months of internship, I fought tooth and nail to make it reinforce my ideas. I was like "yep this proves this life isn't for me" every time something wasn't the coolest or the most academic or the most liberal or whatever. I AM LITERALLY INSUFFERABLE.

I'm a week away from completing my internship, as I write this. My project (a required part of the intern year) was helping to articulate a budding ministry of advocacy. We met with a cool guy named Brad, the Rocky Mountain Synod's advocacy director for the state of Colorado, who helped us figure out how to be in relationship with our legislators. We met monthly to learn and plan; we attended a legislative prayer breakfast; we attended Faith Advocacy Day for Colorado; I attended Ecumenical Advocacy Days, a long-weekend event in DC; I preached about being advocates for justice; we watched documentaries; we wrote our legislators; we encouraged the congregation to have opinions about things like the death penalty and other issues of criminal justice reform. It RULED.

Simultaneously, in the last 11 months, I have gone on two weekend retreats and two week-long trips (one service, one camp) with the high school and middle school youth here at Holy Trinity. We also had a girls' overnight for Dia de los Muertos, and I taught confirmation once, and I often hung out with the high school kids during their Sunday morning education hour, and I'm the captain (lol) of our "HTLC Heroes" team that's hitting up the ColorVibe 5K this Saturday. They're so cool.

And not only are they so cool, but the camp staff that I met on our trip to Joplin and our week at confirmation camp were so cool. I forgot to mention how much eye rolling I did in college and up until a month ago with regards to camp. Sorry to those I love deeply (in particular Ben and Kelsey) who love camp deeply -- I don't know if you even knew I was such an ass.

And I read Eboo Patel's book Acts of Faith, and dove headlong back into thinking that the way to change the world is through young people. And, especially, by having important conversations and interfaith conversations and serving together and advocating together. That it's definitely important to foster advocacy among adults, but that the damage future generations could do to each other will be much more easily avoided if our young people don't grow up in a world of ignorance and misunderstanding and hate, in the first place. And somehow in the mix I encountered and entered the 99 Collective, a group of young adults who are committed to transforming the world through young people, through the church. Who'da thunk.

So, now, as I go forth into the world in peace, back to my academic Berkeley life for my final year of seminary classes, I'm making some out-loud commitments.

I'm registered for classes that I think will make me a better pastor, advocate, ecumenical and interfaith partner, and innovator in what I see as the future of the Church. And I'm hoping that by putting these words out to you, that, round-a-bout February, when you see me forget myself and roll my eyes about something someone says about youth ministry, that you slap me upside the head and make me read this whole post out loud.

And, after all of that, when I graduate in May, I'm moving to DC because that's where I think the action I want in on is taking place, right now. And I sure hope that the bishop of the Metro DC synod wants to call me--even though what I'm looking for in a call is a little more than the plug-and-play into and existing situation that we see throughout the ELCA. I'm hoping to be multi-vocational, and I'm hoping to help bridge the gap between the church and the rest of the world. I want to be an advocate, and I want to effect change in the lives of young people, and I want to do it from the pulpit, and the hospital room, and other houses of worship, and the steps of the capitol, and the university campus. And maybe even from summer camp.

Because writing a paper full of "the answers" is cool and all, but actually being with people is probably significantly more effective. And follows a lot better in the footsteps of our main man, Jesus. Which, after all, is kind of what I signed up to do three years ago.

Don't let me forget it.

Process theology sensory experience free-write

In class today, we spent about 20 minutes outside having "follow the leader" sensory experiences -- shoes off in the grass, listen to a water pipe, feel the sunlight on your face, drag a hand over tree bark. And yet the most surprising sense was putting my bare feet back on the classroom carpet. I love bare feet. I loved my feet on the warm grass and on the sidewalk and on the cool, wet grass and on the rough brick. I live my best life barefoot. When you don't need to wear shoes, you are inseparable from the universe. You are home. You are on the front lawn or in the pool or at the beach or in the comfort of actual indoor home. The temperature is such that you need not cover your feet.

Separate from the feet feelings I loved the hearing the most. Listen to water rush through a pipe. Crinkle a plastic bag. Listen to the wind whip through a bright orange traffic cone. I was surprised to hear the water running so loudly through the pipe. I didn't want to put the cone down -- you know, the old "hear the ocean" thing. I enjoyed most all the things that remind me of homeness. If only there'd ben sand. Or water! There sort of was water. We ended  by gazing out over the bay. Every time I do that, I hear "we live in a beautiful world...yeah we do, yeah we do." As little as I dig Coldplay, that song has stayed with me since the video yearbook senior year.

Homeness.