Sixth Sunday after Epiphany 13 February 2022
(Jeremiah 17:5-10 Psalm 1 1Corinthians 15:12-20 Luke 6:17-26)
“Unmuting the Blessedness of God!”
Every time I read these Beatitudes from Luke’s Gospel, those “woes” take hold of me and I am tempted to write one of those “fire and brimstone, in your face” sermons. I think it would sound something like this: “what’s wrong with you rich despicable people? What’s gotten into you overstuffed bellied people? Depart from me you who think all of life is a joke! Get out of my sight, you egomaniacs!” That’s my attempt at a “fire and brimstone, in your face” sermon! Sometimes, it would feel pretty good to preach a sermon like that, but that’s not my style!
Because if I were to do that today, I would get us stuck on the wrong side of this Gospel text. If we go only to the four ‘blessings’ and four ‘woes’ section of this text, then we miss the greater teaching before us.
Only two verses earlier we are told that “…they came to hear Jesus because they wanted to be healed . . . and those who were troubled, wanted to be cured” [vs. 18].
Let’s try to imagine ourselves in that crowd. The lame, the limp, and blind and diseased. Let’s become one of them. Let’s see their limping. Let’s smell their illness. Let’s get a whiff of their sweat—the unwanted; the untended dregs of society; those who are dirty physically and all of them who are contaminated religiously. Here we all are—standing before Jesus! So now what will happen?
Even if I don’t know exactly what’s happening next, what I am sure of is that the last thing I want to hear is a moral code on “blessing and woe” theology.
What I need to hear from this Jesus is a radical plan that brings healing and wholeness to my troubled self and my anxious world. I need to hear of human dignity, rooted in the image and reflection of God in each person, regardless of how I smell, how I look or what I believe! I need to hear a crystal-clear teaching of how radical God’s love is—everywhere, for everyone. That’s what I need, if I truly find myself in that crowd, in that story!
And I suspect that is exactly what we need to hear this morning!
Let me share two stories that may help explain where I’m coming from.
A remarkable Hasidic rabbi, Levi Yitzak of Berdichev in Ukrane, used to say that he had discovered the meaning of love from a drunken peasant. Here’s the story:
The rabbi was visiting the owner of the local pub in the Polish countryside. As he walked in, he saw two peasants at a table. Both were gloriously into their cups. Arms around each other, they were protesting how much each loved the other. Suddenly Ivan says to Peter: “Peter, tell me, what hurts me? Bleary-eyed, Peter looks at Ivan: “How do I know what hurts you?” Ivan’s’ answer was swift: “If you don’t know what hurts me, how can you say you love me?”
The second story comes from a tragic incident several years ago, when ten people were killed in a Texas high school shooting. Within hours of the shooting, Senator Ted Cruz said, “Once again, Texas has seen the face of evil.” (and that’s fine!)
That same night, on the news I remember the words of another voice, a different perspective. This voice was that of a teenage girl, a classmate of the shooter. She struggled to be understood as she spoke through her own tears, when she said, “My friend who did this must have been carrying a world of pain inside himself.” “If you don’t know what hurts me, how can you say you love me?”
Understanding kindness and love is knowing who God is!
Rather than putting up the boundaries to keep away those who are rich now, who are full now, who are laughing now, who are boasting to the seams now—rather than sending them away to a prison of our own making—hear me—the answer is extravagant kindness. The answer is extravagant kindness! — love in all its multifaceted characteristics—a loss of defensiveness, an invitation, a reception, a welcoming in.
And, if that sounds like naiveté coming from the guy who is soon retiring, I will assure you that my belief in extravagant kindness is anything but naïve; rather, it is born from both the joy and the woundedness of 40+ years of ministry. There is nothing more sacred than offering welcome and safety to those who feel excluded, misplaced, disqualified, and unwanted.
During this time of virtual everything, I’ve done more meetings, retreats, spiritual direction sessions, Bible studies, family gatherings, and just plain old ‘getting together to share a glass of wine times’ on zoom—more than I ever imagined possible—and here’s what I’m thinking: when I’m on zoom with a group of people, we spend an awful lot of time saying, “LINDA, YOU’RE MUTED!” or HARRY, UNMUTE YOURSELF!” as we watch Harry go on at some length and we can’t hear a word of what Harry is saying. Finally, Harry figures it out, smiles sheepishly as that little red icon disappears from the screen! “Unmute yourself” has become the battle cry of our zooming vision and existence these days! “PASTOR MIKE, UNMUTE YOUSELF!”
Here’s the message to unmuting the Blessedness of God! I have been preaching for more than 42 years—and each sermon breaks into my own consciousness anew, reminding me what we all must realize if together we are to live the life Jesus lived, and it is this: If we don’t know what hurts each other, we can never know how to love each other!
Gospel-writer Luke tells us that, “…the great multitude of troubled people from everywhere came to Jesus for healing.” It is now our time to come to Jesus, but also our time to unmute God’s healing kindness, the time to speak, the time to know what hurts others so we can love others—without denouncing evil in them.
I say it again: from this Gospel text I hope for us to hear a radical path of discipleship that brings healing and wholeness to our troubled selves and our anxious world. I hope for us to hear human dignity, rooted in the reflection of God in each one of us. I hope for us to hear a crystal-clear teaching of how radical is God’s love—everywhere, for everyone, so we can speak and live and love like Jesus for the healing of the world! Let all God’s people say, Amen.
Sermons at St. James Gettysburg 