After Thoughts: Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 16:1-13

This is a confusing story. A manager who is on a performance plan decides to have one last hurrah before the ax falls. He quickly makes the round of his customers and drastically reduces the amounts they owe to the company owner so that they will show him hospitality once the power and prestige of his role are gone. They will be his golden parachute. And what does the big boss do? Does he get angry that this manager has cheated him? Nope. He thinks it’s pretty shrewd business.

It truly is a perplexing parable. But what is a parable after all? It’s an allegory, a story, words woven to convey an underlying reality meant to perplex us a bit, to make us dig deeper, to ponder. And not to provide us with quick easy answers. So I like this particular parable because it really makes us stop in our tracks. What the heck is Jesus teaching us? This parable gives us a lifetime of questions to work through.

The words that pop out for me are “dishonest wealth.” What is this dishonest wealth? It’s called “mammon” in the King James version. At first glance, it seems that this is a parable about money. But what if this mammon is the material world, of which money is a derivative, but not the original stuff? What if this wealth is the original stuff that God made for us? That is, the creation, all of it. The sky and the earth, light and darkness, time, plants, sea creatures, birds, animals, humans. What if our wealth is creation – even our own selves, our very lives, all gifts of God’s own hands?

And what do we do with this wealth? Think of global warming. Oil spills. Air pollution. Species extinction. Centralized animal farming operations. Contamination and commercialization of water. Domestic abuse. Child abuse. Mistreatment of indigenous people. Genocide. Addiction. Investment scams. Conceit. Jealousy. Big and small, public and personal, so many ways that we pervert the wealth that God has given us.

So if we can’t be trusted with this stuff, stuff that is just earthly treasure, this ashes-to-ashes and dust-to-dust stuff, there’s no way we’re going to be able to handle the real riches. What are those? Well, let’s look at what the manager did. He forgave debts, showed mercy, and extended grace. Forgiveness, mercy, grace. Those are the true riches.

So I have this great wealth, dishonest wealth that I have done nothing to deserve, and yet I don’t use it for the right purpose. I squander the precious time that has been given to me, the light of day and darkness of night, to build bigger barns for myself. I seek my success and worldly acknowledgement, while I overlook those in need right in front of my eyes. I let shame or guilt keep me from bringing the talents and gifts I have been given to the world. As for my own self, the creature that God has created me to be, I can either love my body and spend hours working out and money fixing it up – or I can despise my body and hate the way I look. I look down on some people and overly exalt others based on worldly accomplishments. I don’t love my neighbor as myself. I don’t love God when my life is one crisis after another, a fit of anger, a feast of self-involvement, or a valley of despair. A whole lifetime can be spent wasting the wealth that is given. And if I can’t be trusted with what belongs to another – for surely all that I am and have is a gift from God – how will I ever receive what is my own? That is, the promise of faith, hope, and love, those things that continue forever.

I once had a conversation with a man who was at wits end. He had been in an ugly legal battle for years. It was costing him his health, his happiness, his sleep, his peace. He just wanted it to be gone. He could settle in a court of law – a trivial amount compared to his net worth. But he could not forgive. Mercy and grace were out of the question. He was not going to be faithful with this dishonest wealth he had in abundance. So how could he ever know true riches?

But what if, like the shrewd manager, we use this dishonest wealth to create relationship? Our time, talents, resources, finances, love – all put to work to build stronger bonds with other human beings and to care for all creation? What if we start to see a world of plenty, not scarcity? A world of hope, not fear? A world of cooperation, not competition? And what if we begin to use this worldly stuff in a way that creates community, one body? Then, just maybe, the true riches will be ours. Because in forgiving, we are freed. In showing mercy, we are pardoned. In extending grace, we are blessed.

Forgiveness. Mercy. Grace. True riches intended for us by the Father when we get past the mammon-worship.

After Thoughts: Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 15:1-10

It’s interesting the “people” Jesus hangs with. In Luke 14:1, he’s headed to the home of a leader of the Pharisees. In 14:25, large crowds are traveling with him. Now in 15:1, tax collectors and sinners are coming near. Regardless of who it is, Jesus eats with them, journeys with them, talks with them, teaches them lessons appropriate to what they need to hear. Jesus is an equal opportunity Savior.

The three parables of Luke 15, two of which are included in this Gospel reading, help us understand God’s unconditional all-encompassing grace. Ninety per cent, ninety-nine per cent, not good enough. Jesus came for all. Each and every one of us is important to God. God knows us by name. He longs for us. Each and every one of us is being sought after, searched for, and called by the Creator.

In a world where we can feel misunderstood, unheard, and lonely, this is amazing news, made even more amazing by what we have to do to be part of the story. Nothing. Not a thing. We are part of the story, part of the creation, whether we acknowledge it or not. And God is there, looking for us, sweeping in the dark corners of our lost places, whispering into the depths of our pain, peering into the valleys of our despair, to find us and bring us home.

When all of these lost things in Chapter 15 are found – the sheep, the coin, and the son – the Finder wants to rejoice and calls others to join in the celebration. And that, in a nutshell, is Holy Communion – being called to a big celebration because of what Jesus has done and being invited to the table to celebrate being found. We haven’t done a thing to deserve all this hoopla, and yet God has prepared a feast for us. God has come and found us wherever we are this week – wandering in the wilds, buried under a layer of dust in a far corner, or dying in a foreign land where we’re not deemed worthy of hog slop. And He has brought us safely home.

So there is the individual aspect of the story and the communal side. Each and every one of us is a unique individual, a one-off creation of the Prodigal Father who lavishes love, forgiveness, and redemption upon us. And yet, being rescued in that individuality, we come together in community to rejoice. It’s one of those great mysteries that remind us that God’s ways are not our ways. I am a really precious, remarkable, amazing individual – God knit me together in my mother’s womb. And so are you. And you. And you. There is enough in God’s economy for all of us to be special – and, yet in that specialness, we become one.

So if you find yourself in a place of worship on a Sunday morning or Saturday evening or any day or hour, remember that God has brought you to this place. His mercy and grace are working in you. You have been called here to rejoice. It is a celebration for all. And next week, if you see a new face, rejoice anew. A fellow sheep brought into the fold. Another treasure plucked from the darkness. A long-lost brother or sister restored to family.

When that happens, when we welcome one another to the celebration of the lost-now-found, we get a little glimpse of heaven right here and now. The joy of the angels of God is in our midst as we rejoice together.

After Thoughts: Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 14:25-33

This reading is a tough one to get my head around.  Jesus sounds mean, off-putting, threatening – not Jesus-like at all.  What’s all this hating and cross-carrying and giving up my stuff?  I’ve been wrestling and researching for a few days now.  These two things jumped out at me:
 

Now large crowds were traveling with him.
 

Cannot be my disciple.

Let’s start with the ‘large crowds.’  Jesus was doing pretty cool stuff, healing people and all that, and he was an intriguing storyteller.  Who wouldn’t want to follow him?  But he knew where his journey was leading.  And he knew most – all? – of those following him wouldn’t be able to make the cut.  What if he looked over his shoulder, saw all of those fools clamoring after him, and just had to be honest with them, give them the brutal facts.  “This is one tough road.  You best be prepared for it.  Here’s what it will take.”

Now to the second phrase. “Cannot be my disciple.” I’m not a language expert, or expert of any kind for that matter, so I don’t know what the original context means, but ‘disciple’ seems like a pretty big role, a daunting responsibility. I did read in a couple of resources that the word is never used in the OT and not even in the NT outside of the Gospels and Acts. A disciple is a student, lives closely by the teacher, learns his life and philosophy. So maybe disciples were intended and called for that earthly timeframe of Jesus only. Maybe this message is just for that specific time – the earthly time of Jesus. Maybe He was saying - there’s just a little time left now before this whole thing comes down and I need only people who can finish the job. Here are the requirements. Qualified candidates only, please.

Jesus already knew and knows that none of us are qualified. That doesn’t matter. God is a Wise King. God knows the forces of Satan. Jesus understands the cost of victory over evil and death. Father and Son have considered the war they are about to wage on the cross and the Three-in-One know that victory is certain. Our salvation is secured by the work of Christ. Alone. Period.

So if any of us read that and think, sure, I can be a disciple, or call ourselves, disciples – hold the phone. Think about it. Carry our crosses? Okay, a few seem to be able to do that. Dietrich Bonhoeffer pops to mind immediately. He’s one of the well-known, and there are probably many lesser known folks out there, bearing their crosses quietly, humbly. But I know I prefer the healings and water-into-wine miracles and the part that comes after the crucifixion. Who doesn’t? Facebook is full of posts when good news is received praising God. But when’s the last time someone posted: “The cancer is back. Thanks be to God.”

Not that I’m suggesting we get all caught up being martyrs, loving the bad stuff, even seeking it out.

In seminary, we learned about differences in degree versus differences in kind. Example: I am generous, but Mother Theresa was really generous. That’s a difference in degrees, in this case of the virtue of human generosity. Our talk about God is limited to this same language, but when we think of God as generous, or good, or wise – we must remember that we are talking about a different kind, not a different degree. God’s goodness is not our goodness to the nth degree. God’s goodness is something we cannot conceive with our human minds. We can experience it in our relationship with God, but it is beyond words, without definition, and exceeds calculation.

Back to the beginning to those two phrases. Now large crowds were traveling with him. By the dozens and one by one, that large crowd fell back until there is only one man, the Son of Man, taking a solitary journey to the cross. We all fell away. Cannot be my disciple. No, I cannot. Despite my (sometimes) best efforts, I fail miserably at that role. Which makes the next stories Jesus tells even more amazing. Lost sheep, lost coin, lost sons. He seeks and searches and saves all of them. Thanks to the journey Jesus took, the cross He did carry, even when I fail to follow, He comes for me. And then calls me not to be a disciple, but to be his sister, a child of God. That is truly awesome. And Love, Forgiveness, and Mercy of a kind that passes human understanding.