Oh, Jerusalem
Sermon
Sermons on the Gospel Readings
Series III, Cycle C
Object:
Nowadays we have 24-hour news stations, satellite radio, email alerts, and other ways of finding out breaking news pretty much the instant it is happening. But it wasn't always so.
When John Adams acted as an ambassador to Europe during the Revolutionary War he could go for months without hearing from the Continental Congress. He arranged loans of millions of dollars to help the fledgling nation, but no one back in America knew.
The Battle of New Orleans was a decisive victory for the new nation in the War of 1812, and it catapulted General Andrew Jackson into national prominence and eventually the presidency. The battle, however, took place two weeks after the peace treaty was signed and the war was over. The news arrived too late to prevent the bloodshed.
The first news event to travel almost instantly along the telegraph wires to most of the western world was the explosion of the volcano known as Krakatoa in what is now Indonesia. Some have said this was the beginning of the modern world.
There are times, though, we can get news too fast. Sometimes there is simply too much news, so that we can't absorb it all. There is suffering around the world. In one sense we have the information that allows us to respond to disasters almost immediately. However, because we have more information than ever we find ourselves able to tune it out.
That's when we can get overwhelmed with something that's called compassion fatigue. It happened to me when I'd been a pastor in Los Angeles for twelve years. Our church was located at a busy intersection in a large city, and we lived on the church grounds. There were constant demands on our time and decisions to be made -- and always someone who needed help, with a story, possibly a true story, possibly well rehearsed and totally false. It got too easy to be cynical.
When the time came for a move we chose a rural portion of the state of Indiana, which helped ground us again. Some of the cynicism wore away. But even there it was still possible for compassion to be overwhelmed.
Jesus lived in a time of slow and unreliable communication -- yet even he seemed overwhelmed at times, retreating to a hilltop to get away, to pray. This was important, because compassion was at the heart of his ministry. When Jesus fed the multitudes the gospels say that he felt compassion -- using a root word that echoed the feelings of Moses in the wilderness, filled with compassion for a people who had lost their way.
The second Sunday of Lent finds Jesus on a hillside, filled with compassion for the problems of a big city that has lost its way. He is lamenting the hillsides of crosses that will dot the Jerusalem landscape when the city finally falls to the Romans. He sees the destruction that lies in store for Jerusalem. He longs as a mother hen to draw in the people and protect them. And he admits that because of the free will granted to all of us by God, there may be some people he cannot help.
Today's passage immediately follows a parable of judgment, complete with the gnashing of teeth. He reminds us that there can be losers, if we insist on making bad choices. Then, when he is told that Herod wants to kill him, he dismisses Herod's power -- but still there is compassion.
When people choose a toxic lifestyle, how can we help them redeem the cross they have chosen? How deeply do we feel the sufferings of others, whether or not it's their own fault?
This is perhaps the flaw of the incarnation. There is no longer a great distance between God and humanity. God, having taken on human form, cannot deny that the divine knows intimately our flaws, our failings, our fears. God now thinks like us. That link deepens even more the compassion we find in the prophets for doomed people.
Jesus lamented how little difference he was making at the core problem of those who lived in Jerusalem. As we lament with Jesus over the problems of our own toxic society, how can we continue to strive for the things that make for peace?
The essential thing, demonstrated by Jesus when he went to the extreme of accepting the cross in the face of our sinfulness, is that we must be as persistent as our Lord in the face of the world's stubbornness.
Like the proverbial squeaky wheel, our persistence must remain heroic until we finally get the attention of a world intent on ignoring the good news. Our example comes not only from the cross, but from God's world.
Take the birds. Birds can be persistent when it comes to making a nest. Last year a robin was persistent in using my porch light as a base for a nest instead of a tree. When that happens we feel like we have to use the garage door instead of the front door to enter and exit our home, and we can't use the light either. So for several days we would take off all the dried grass, string, twigs, and weeds that the mother robin painstakingly placed on the lamp. After about a week we had to go out of town for a couple days and that's all it took. The nest was made, the eggs were laid, and we were using the garage door as an entryway once more. Would that we were as persistent in working for God's kingdom as that robin was in making her nest.
In addition to persistence we must never set ourselves apart, so that what happens in the world seems to happen to someone else. Jesus was filled with compassion for the people. That compassion is part of the tie that binds.
"Blest be the tie that binds" -- the words of the hymn remind us that we are one. But what binds us together? Shared experience and table fellowship. I have found over time that events involving food and the natural world really bind us together, and I think that's part of the insight contained in this parable. If we do not break bread, literally or symbolically, with our brothers and sisters close at hand and around the world, we will not be one.
Over the years of my ministry I've found it remarkable how richly church members recall those trips taken together into the natural world. Jeep trips, camping expeditions, long hikes, whether these are regular events or one-time occurrences. They call to mind with laughter the difficulties and privations and most of all the differences from the way they normally live life. Families -- grandparents, parents, and children -- often took these trips together and this strengthened the bonds within and among families. The backdrop of natural wonders only added to the bonding. I think the Hebrew Feast of Booths, for instance, which is a feast of tents, is nothing more nor less than a form of family camp, a crucible in which families leave the comforts of home to rediscover the essentials and each other.
At the heart of everything church is food. Most churches consider their cooks the best, their meals the best. Seriously, can there be anything better than warm, fresh bread? Perhaps that is why Jesus uses the image of yeast and bread making. Some churches send home a loaf of homemade bread as a gift for all visitors. And of course bread is integral to communion. The yeast that transforms the loaf is similar to the transformation that churches may experience with the new life in Christ.
Transformation -- transforming events such as church camps, revivals, special guests, and camping trips are part of the yeast that leavens the whole fellowship. When a group member travels to a special event, a workshop, or a conference, are we ready to receive their enthusiasm upon their return and act on it. When a child comes back from camp singing old and new songs and filled with a strange enthusiasm for Christ and the church are we ready to receive, affirm, and channel that energy?
We must be connected and remain faithful in our connectedness. And not only with humanity. The parable of the mustard seed is a naturalistic image. The tree in the ancient world represented the interconnectedness of all things. The ecology of a tree included the birds, animals, and insects who made it their home, as well as the people who benefit from its fruit, its shade, its presence. In a larger sense the tree stood for the kingdom, or even the king, in biblical imagery. Faith in God's kingdom, faith in God's creation, can bind all together in a rapidly growing, transforming relationship.
Compassion fatigue can dull our memory. It's easy to forget. Oh, Jerusalem. That's right. People forget. The plight of inner-city schools may attract our attention for a day or a week, but sooner or later that becomes someone else's problem as our minds are focused on the glut of news that leads us to choose celebrity scandals over the true ills that beset us.
We know so much and we need to forget so much. There is a cross imprinted in the world around us -- and a long memory. Nancey Murphy, in her book Reconciling Theology and Science, connects science and faith in one cohesive system. She reminds us that we live in a cruciform world, a world built around the cross.1 The death of plants feeds the animals, animals die for our table, we die, and enrich the earth, and what has died feeds the plants. It's not a dog eat dog world, it's a life feeding life world.
This story of the ages is imprinted, if not in the memory of humans, then in the rocks, the earth, the trees. You can find out what happened in ages past by core samples taken from the ice in the Antarctic and in samples from the rings of trees. You can find out what happened in the words of scripture, your newspaper, and the magazines you've been ignoring. Where's the cross? It's there. So is life.
In the chapter that follows this passage Jesus heals a sick person. When questioned about this by the religious authorities, Jesus attempts their healing through parables he hopes will wake them up, cause them to look at their own sins, repent, and be transformed. It could happen. At least Jesus seems to think so.
The boundaries of our days are picketed with current events, events of such magnitude for good or ill that they cannot be forgotten. In my life, events such as the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and Robert F. Kennedy, the explosion of the space shuttle Challenger, the destruction on September 11, 2001, are defining moments. The pain and sorrow may lessen with time, but never fully fade.
This glut of news, these national tragedies, and the complications may lead us to say, "Woe is me." And for some people that's what Lent is all about -- looking inward to bemoan our sinful nature. The solution may be to look out, and beyond, and toward God's suffering world. We may not have all the answers. Our answers may not work, but Jesus tells us to get back into the ball game. If we cannot forestall the destruction of Jerusalem, we may yet rescue one soul.
Oh, Jerusalem. That's right. It's still out there. And if Jesus is filled with compassion for them, how dare we fail in sharing his heart for a lost world. Amen.
_______________________
1. Nancey Murphy, Reconciling Theology and Science: A Radical Reformation Perspective (Kitchener, Ontario: Pandora Press, 1997).
When John Adams acted as an ambassador to Europe during the Revolutionary War he could go for months without hearing from the Continental Congress. He arranged loans of millions of dollars to help the fledgling nation, but no one back in America knew.
The Battle of New Orleans was a decisive victory for the new nation in the War of 1812, and it catapulted General Andrew Jackson into national prominence and eventually the presidency. The battle, however, took place two weeks after the peace treaty was signed and the war was over. The news arrived too late to prevent the bloodshed.
The first news event to travel almost instantly along the telegraph wires to most of the western world was the explosion of the volcano known as Krakatoa in what is now Indonesia. Some have said this was the beginning of the modern world.
There are times, though, we can get news too fast. Sometimes there is simply too much news, so that we can't absorb it all. There is suffering around the world. In one sense we have the information that allows us to respond to disasters almost immediately. However, because we have more information than ever we find ourselves able to tune it out.
That's when we can get overwhelmed with something that's called compassion fatigue. It happened to me when I'd been a pastor in Los Angeles for twelve years. Our church was located at a busy intersection in a large city, and we lived on the church grounds. There were constant demands on our time and decisions to be made -- and always someone who needed help, with a story, possibly a true story, possibly well rehearsed and totally false. It got too easy to be cynical.
When the time came for a move we chose a rural portion of the state of Indiana, which helped ground us again. Some of the cynicism wore away. But even there it was still possible for compassion to be overwhelmed.
Jesus lived in a time of slow and unreliable communication -- yet even he seemed overwhelmed at times, retreating to a hilltop to get away, to pray. This was important, because compassion was at the heart of his ministry. When Jesus fed the multitudes the gospels say that he felt compassion -- using a root word that echoed the feelings of Moses in the wilderness, filled with compassion for a people who had lost their way.
The second Sunday of Lent finds Jesus on a hillside, filled with compassion for the problems of a big city that has lost its way. He is lamenting the hillsides of crosses that will dot the Jerusalem landscape when the city finally falls to the Romans. He sees the destruction that lies in store for Jerusalem. He longs as a mother hen to draw in the people and protect them. And he admits that because of the free will granted to all of us by God, there may be some people he cannot help.
Today's passage immediately follows a parable of judgment, complete with the gnashing of teeth. He reminds us that there can be losers, if we insist on making bad choices. Then, when he is told that Herod wants to kill him, he dismisses Herod's power -- but still there is compassion.
When people choose a toxic lifestyle, how can we help them redeem the cross they have chosen? How deeply do we feel the sufferings of others, whether or not it's their own fault?
This is perhaps the flaw of the incarnation. There is no longer a great distance between God and humanity. God, having taken on human form, cannot deny that the divine knows intimately our flaws, our failings, our fears. God now thinks like us. That link deepens even more the compassion we find in the prophets for doomed people.
Jesus lamented how little difference he was making at the core problem of those who lived in Jerusalem. As we lament with Jesus over the problems of our own toxic society, how can we continue to strive for the things that make for peace?
The essential thing, demonstrated by Jesus when he went to the extreme of accepting the cross in the face of our sinfulness, is that we must be as persistent as our Lord in the face of the world's stubbornness.
Like the proverbial squeaky wheel, our persistence must remain heroic until we finally get the attention of a world intent on ignoring the good news. Our example comes not only from the cross, but from God's world.
Take the birds. Birds can be persistent when it comes to making a nest. Last year a robin was persistent in using my porch light as a base for a nest instead of a tree. When that happens we feel like we have to use the garage door instead of the front door to enter and exit our home, and we can't use the light either. So for several days we would take off all the dried grass, string, twigs, and weeds that the mother robin painstakingly placed on the lamp. After about a week we had to go out of town for a couple days and that's all it took. The nest was made, the eggs were laid, and we were using the garage door as an entryway once more. Would that we were as persistent in working for God's kingdom as that robin was in making her nest.
In addition to persistence we must never set ourselves apart, so that what happens in the world seems to happen to someone else. Jesus was filled with compassion for the people. That compassion is part of the tie that binds.
"Blest be the tie that binds" -- the words of the hymn remind us that we are one. But what binds us together? Shared experience and table fellowship. I have found over time that events involving food and the natural world really bind us together, and I think that's part of the insight contained in this parable. If we do not break bread, literally or symbolically, with our brothers and sisters close at hand and around the world, we will not be one.
Over the years of my ministry I've found it remarkable how richly church members recall those trips taken together into the natural world. Jeep trips, camping expeditions, long hikes, whether these are regular events or one-time occurrences. They call to mind with laughter the difficulties and privations and most of all the differences from the way they normally live life. Families -- grandparents, parents, and children -- often took these trips together and this strengthened the bonds within and among families. The backdrop of natural wonders only added to the bonding. I think the Hebrew Feast of Booths, for instance, which is a feast of tents, is nothing more nor less than a form of family camp, a crucible in which families leave the comforts of home to rediscover the essentials and each other.
At the heart of everything church is food. Most churches consider their cooks the best, their meals the best. Seriously, can there be anything better than warm, fresh bread? Perhaps that is why Jesus uses the image of yeast and bread making. Some churches send home a loaf of homemade bread as a gift for all visitors. And of course bread is integral to communion. The yeast that transforms the loaf is similar to the transformation that churches may experience with the new life in Christ.
Transformation -- transforming events such as church camps, revivals, special guests, and camping trips are part of the yeast that leavens the whole fellowship. When a group member travels to a special event, a workshop, or a conference, are we ready to receive their enthusiasm upon their return and act on it. When a child comes back from camp singing old and new songs and filled with a strange enthusiasm for Christ and the church are we ready to receive, affirm, and channel that energy?
We must be connected and remain faithful in our connectedness. And not only with humanity. The parable of the mustard seed is a naturalistic image. The tree in the ancient world represented the interconnectedness of all things. The ecology of a tree included the birds, animals, and insects who made it their home, as well as the people who benefit from its fruit, its shade, its presence. In a larger sense the tree stood for the kingdom, or even the king, in biblical imagery. Faith in God's kingdom, faith in God's creation, can bind all together in a rapidly growing, transforming relationship.
Compassion fatigue can dull our memory. It's easy to forget. Oh, Jerusalem. That's right. People forget. The plight of inner-city schools may attract our attention for a day or a week, but sooner or later that becomes someone else's problem as our minds are focused on the glut of news that leads us to choose celebrity scandals over the true ills that beset us.
We know so much and we need to forget so much. There is a cross imprinted in the world around us -- and a long memory. Nancey Murphy, in her book Reconciling Theology and Science, connects science and faith in one cohesive system. She reminds us that we live in a cruciform world, a world built around the cross.1 The death of plants feeds the animals, animals die for our table, we die, and enrich the earth, and what has died feeds the plants. It's not a dog eat dog world, it's a life feeding life world.
This story of the ages is imprinted, if not in the memory of humans, then in the rocks, the earth, the trees. You can find out what happened in ages past by core samples taken from the ice in the Antarctic and in samples from the rings of trees. You can find out what happened in the words of scripture, your newspaper, and the magazines you've been ignoring. Where's the cross? It's there. So is life.
In the chapter that follows this passage Jesus heals a sick person. When questioned about this by the religious authorities, Jesus attempts their healing through parables he hopes will wake them up, cause them to look at their own sins, repent, and be transformed. It could happen. At least Jesus seems to think so.
The boundaries of our days are picketed with current events, events of such magnitude for good or ill that they cannot be forgotten. In my life, events such as the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and Robert F. Kennedy, the explosion of the space shuttle Challenger, the destruction on September 11, 2001, are defining moments. The pain and sorrow may lessen with time, but never fully fade.
This glut of news, these national tragedies, and the complications may lead us to say, "Woe is me." And for some people that's what Lent is all about -- looking inward to bemoan our sinful nature. The solution may be to look out, and beyond, and toward God's suffering world. We may not have all the answers. Our answers may not work, but Jesus tells us to get back into the ball game. If we cannot forestall the destruction of Jerusalem, we may yet rescue one soul.
Oh, Jerusalem. That's right. It's still out there. And if Jesus is filled with compassion for them, how dare we fail in sharing his heart for a lost world. Amen.
_______________________
1. Nancey Murphy, Reconciling Theology and Science: A Radical Reformation Perspective (Kitchener, Ontario: Pandora Press, 1997).
