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.

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[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.

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.

Do Not Be Afraid—A Sermon on Being the Body of Christ

On six Sundays this summer, I provided sabbatical coverage for a colleague; today was the sixth. At Lutheran Church of the Incarnation, August's "Monthly Ministry Partner" is LEVN, the young adult service corps I direct; since I was there to preach and preside, I incorporated into my sermon the usual "Temple Talk" that organizations give at the start of the service.

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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.

Here we are, again this week, reading a story about Jesus that we have probably heard a million times—maybe even more in our popular culture than in church! When we encounter someone who is really impressive and we think can do no wrong, we might say that that person “walks on water,” right? They’re just that good.

This phrase can even make its way into the pejorative, when someone receives high praise and we think it’s undeserved. “Well, she walks on water around there,” we might say. It can be hard to imagine a time before phrases like this were so embedded in the vernacular—let alone imagine being a witness to the event that coined the phrase.

The disciples, of course, our usual suspects, are terrified. They’re in their boat, far away from shore, “battered by the waves” the text says. The wind was against them. They’re fishermen, so they know their way around a boat, but weather is unpredictable. They’ve been out on the water overnight, and they’re probably exhausted. So when Jesus comes walking toward them, they’re unsurprisingly frightened. “It’s a ghost!” they shout. Jesus immediately realizes that his sudden appearance has not comforted them, but terrified them, and says, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”

There are a lot of words in the Bible, and a lot of them are quotable, and I love none of them quite like I love these. “Do not be afraid.” We live in a big world, with a lot going on, and a lot that we can find ourselves afraid of. We are afraid of change, and we are afraid of instability, and we are afraid of loneliness, and we are afraid of any number of things.

Even in the middle of his fear of the storm going on around him, Peter stands up and challenges Jesus, saying “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” This is a fascinating challenge, because, it assumes that Jesus can control this environment so specifically that he can ensure that Peter, too, can walk on the sea. But! It also requires Peter to take that first step out of the boat! Not knowing if Jesus is who he says he is, Peter takes that step! [You’ve already read ahead to the part where he doubts and falls but we are not going to focus on that part right now.]

As I stand before you this morning, August 13, we are 13 days away from the official move-in date of the new cohort of volunteers for our year-long service corps program, the Lutheran Episcopal Volunteer Network. This year’s LEVNeers are coming to us live from across the nation—New York, Virginia, Indiana, Georgia, and of course the great state of California. These young adults have graduated from college—an inspiring feat in and of itself—and have made the choice to spend the next 11 months of their lives living in intentional Christian community and serving in non-profit organizations in a city they’ve never set foot in before. Talk about stepping out of the boat.

They’re coming to us for an opportunity to learn, and grow, and be transformed by their service and by their witness in the community. They’re able to do this in part because of support from people like you, who dedicate an entire month each year to turning your yearlong support into direct, financial support. You also support them with your prayers, and with your welcome when they worship here, and with your encouragement as they go about their service in the community. Thank you for helping to create the space for LEVN to thrive.

During the application and interview process this year, I noticed something a little different than I’d seen in past years. I always ask them why they’re considering a year of service, and they often say things like “I was raised to always give back,” or “I’m considering a career in social work and I want to see a little more about what that’s like” or “my campus pastor suggested I spend a year reflecting on the connections between my faith and my work in the world,” or “my sister did it and told me I should, too.” These are all excellent reasons, and it is wonderful for all of these folks to be in this together.

This year, though, I spoke to more than a few young adults who said that the state of the world—and our nation, in particular—had given them pause as they contemplated life after college. They were less interested in going out into the workforce to be another cog in a wheel that didn’t mean anything to them, and they want to do something meaningful that makes life better for the people they encounter. These young people are hearing the gospel and doing something about it. They don’t know what they’re getting into, but they’re getting into it.

As we embark on this new LEVN program year, I will remind them not to be afraid. It’s going to be a year full of unknowns, starting with the housemates they’re about to share it with. The service that they’ll do will introduce them to many of the poorest and least-resourced members of our society; facing those realities on a daily basis will not be easy, and they might be afraid sometimes.

Outside of that, they will still be participants in that messy wider world. Thank you for being part of our infrastructure to provide young adults with space to ask hard questions, and face tough truths; to rewire old habits and rethink old frameworks. We know this will not be a walk in the park. “Take heart, it is I,” Jesus will say. “Do not be afraid.”

I will admit to you, dear ones, that this week, I was afraid. On Tuesday, the President of the United States and the Chairman of North Korea hurled threats at one another, insinuating that they might hurl nuclear weapons next. I don’t think you need to be reminded that I am only 29 years old, and therefore have not experienced true nuclear anxiety in my lifetime. Perhaps you recall The Cuban Missile Crisis and the Cold War, and have been recalling those days in these days. Perhaps you recall the duck and cover drills in school, or the underground bunker fever. Perhaps, because you recall these things, you were afraid this week, again, too.

In another callback to what we would like to believe is ancient history, white supremacists marched on the University of Virginia campus on Friday night, and throughout Charlottesville, Virginia in their “Unite the Right” rally on Saturday. I watched live online as men carried torches and chanted, not unlike footage of the Klan I’ve seen in documentaries about the Civil Rights Movement.

I also watched videos of the sanctuary at St. Paul’s Church in Charlottesville, Virginia, as clergy from around the country sang and prayed and prepared to protest that rally. They sang “Oh, Freedom!” and “Wade in the Water” and other old spirituals, ripe with eternal resonance, and blessed each other for the hard work of witness. Then, on Saturday, they, too, took to the streets. They linked arms and stood firmly in the way of armed militiamen. They proclaimed loudly that Black Lives Matter; that love trumps hate; that God is not a white supremacist; that bigotry and hatred do not have the final word.

I bet many of them shook in fear. But they clung to each other and to their faith in the risen Lord Jesus the Christ. And, again, they sang. I don’t know what they sang, but soon we are going to sing, “no storm can shake my inmost calm, while to that rock I’m clinging; since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing?”

For some of us, it is dumbfounding that we are witnessing the violent extremism of white supremacist terrorism in 2017. We do not understand how the nation we believe stands for freedom and justice for all has been overrun by those who think freedom is just for some. We watch in horror as our fellow Americans are beaten and bloodied as they stand up for justice—we struggle to wrap our minds around the idea that our fellow Americans are doing the beating and bloodying. For most people of color in the United States, this is not new and it is not shocking. For centuries, they have witnessed violence against their neighbors by their neighbors, and we have ignored their cries.

Many of us wish that we could ignore this. Many of us wish that we could just turn off the news and the events would, simultaneously, vanish. Many of us wish we did not have to reckon with the reality that this has presented for our society. Many of us wish that someone else would just handle it. Many of us wish that we were not accountable to one another quite so literally.

That would be far less scary. But we do not have that privilege, dear friends. We are the body of Christ.

St. Theresa of Avila said, “Christ has no body but yours / No hands, no feet on earth but yours / Yours are the eyes with which he looks compassion on this world / yours are the feet with which he walks to do good.”

Not every one of us is called to be there, on those front lines, arm in arm. Some of us are, and should go. Others of us are called to pray, or to lament, or to support, or to tend, or to weep, or to speak, or to sing—called to confront the ways in which the sin of white supremacy has infiltrated our communities in subtler ways than these torch-wielding mobs.

All of us, as the body of Christ in the world, are called to band together in solidarity with any and all who are marginalized and trampled upon. All of us, as the body of Christ, are called to denounce violence in all its forms, to disavow bigotry wherever it rears its head, and to listen to our God who says, ‘take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid.”

Amen.