Honesty and Healing

Better late than never: Here's my sermon from last month. Our pastor has taken some vacation time each of the last two months, and I've been blessed with the opportunity to fill in a couple of times. The lectionary readings for my October sermon were Psalm 22:1-8, 19-31; Job 23:1-12; Hebrews 4:12-16; and Mark 10:17-31.

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Probably my favorite new TV show this season has been a sitcom on NBC called “Go On.” Matthew Perry plays Ryan King, a sports radio talk show host. As the season began, Ryan was returning to work after the death of his wife in a car accident. He insisted that he was ready to move on, but his bosses required him to attend a support group for people dealing with loss.

At first, Ryan was skeptical. He tried to manipulate his way through the required sessions, but later realized that he actually was in need of help. As the season has progressed, he has become more and more aware of the depth of his grief and the fact that he can’t deal with it alone.

In our gospel reading this morning, we find Jesus having a conversation with a man who’s very much like Ryan King. The rich, young ruler, as he is known in the King James Version, is a wealthy, successful man, a man who seems to have it all together – and he thinks so, too. So he comes to Jesus with a simple question: “What do I need to do to have eternal life?” In other words, he’s asking, “What do I need to do to be pleasing to God? What makes God happy?”

I find Jesus’ first response interesting. You see, Jesus is asked this same question, or very similar questions, in other parts of scripture. Sometimes he answers by telling a story. Sometimes he condenses a complex idea down to one simple concept, as when he said the greatest commandments were to love God and love others. But when the rich, young ruler asks the question, Jesus gives an answer that’s sort of out of character for him: He quotes from the Ten Commandments.

He says, “You know what makes God happy: Don’t murder. Don’t commit adultery. Don’t steal. Don’t lie. Don’t cheat. Honor your parents.” It’s one of the very rare times in his ministry that we find Jesus really seeming to endorse the law.

But I would argue that Jesus said this because he was anticipating the man’s response. He’s setting the man up for one of his life’s most pivotal moments.

When I envision this conversation, I imagine the man doing this Barney Fife kind of thing – trying to look modest, sort of sticking his hands in his pockets and looking down and kicking a rock and saying, “Well, I’ve … done that.” And I imagine that his pride was still shining through, despite his best efforts; and he stood there, waiting for some affirmation or a pat on the back from Jesus.

And he was shocked when Jesus said, “Great! Then give all of your possessions to the poor, and come follow me.”

Now, I’ve heard this passage interpreted as sort of a universal command for those who are wealthy. I’ve heard it used to suggest that everyone should live simply and give more away – and I don’t really disagree. But I don’t think that’s really the point here.

I think Jesus’ words to the rich, young ruler are not so much a commentary about wealth or greed or materialism; they’re about highlighting a dysfunction in this man’s heart.

There’s a great scene in “The Wizard of Oz.” It’s after Dorothy and the Scarecrow and the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion have defeated the Wicked Witch and returned to the Emerald City to give the Witch’s broom to the Wizard. Instead of sending Dorothy back to Kansas and giving the Scarecrow a brain and the Tin Man a heart and the Cowardly Lion some courage, the Wizard tries to intimidate them – until Toto runs in and pulls back the curtain, revealing that the Wizard is really just a man.

This is what Jesus does to the rich, young ruler. With one sentence, Jesus pulls back the curtain and exposes who he really is: A man who thought himself good and holy, but whose heart really belonged to his stuff. And the man walked away, sad because he was unwilling to let go.

Jesus later told the story of a self-inflated Pharisee, who offered a public prayer boasting of all his goodness, and a broken tax collector who humbly admitted his brokenness. In Jesus’ judgment, the tax collector was the one who went home made right with God. I think maybe, as he was telling this story, Jesus thought sadly of his encounter with the rich, young ruler who thought he had it all together.

On the other hand, we find a completely different attitude reflected in our Old Testament and responsive readings. Both Job and David came to God, not with boasting about their goodness, but with an acknowledgment of their desperate need for grace.

I have never spent a minute in seminary, so I don’t know much Hebrew. But the one word of Hebrew I know is “Tsa’aq.” It means to cry out, to call for help. It’s the cry of a victim, the desperate plea of one who demands justice. “Tsa’aq” is exactly what we find Job and David doing.

They come to God with their hearts ripped open, with their emotions laid bare. They don’t mince words; they cry out for rescue.

The writer of Hebrews urges us to “come boldly to the throne,” promising “that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need.” Job and David are proof of this.

See, what I really love about these passages is that they don’t end with “Tsa’aq.” The desperation, the need, the frustration – they don’t have the last word.

Over the past few months, I’ve spent quite a bit of my driving time listening to Bruce Springsteen’s latest album. “Wrecking Ball” is very much a theme album – it‘s primarily about the economic problems American people have faced over the last four years or so, and the factors that caused this. The album follows a pretty clear emotional pattern: The first several songs are expressions of anger or sadness or frustration; then, the album begins to give way to clarity and, finally, unbridled hope. And the emotional hinge, right in the middle of the album, is a song called “This Depression.”

Like the passages from Job and Psalms, the song begins with an honest cry for help, as Springsteen sings, “I’ve been down, but never this down; I’ve been lost, but never this lost; This is my confession, I need your heart; In this depression, I need your heart.”

But by the last verse, something has changed; something starts to shift, and he sings, “I’ve been without love, but never forsaken; now the morning sun, the morning sun is breaking.”

This is exactly what we find in the Job and Psalm readings. After their pleas for help, after their cries of desperation, after their “Tsa’aq,” both Job and David find that “the morning sun is breaking.”

Listen to how instant David’s transition is – literally from one verse to the next. In one passage, in The Message paraphrase, he says, “You, God – don’t put off my rescue! Hurry and help me! Don’t let those mongrels devour me. If you don’t show up soon, I’m done for – gored by the bulls, meat for the lions.”

In the very next passage – in the next breath – this is what he says (again, from The Message):

“Here’s the story I’ll tell my friends when they come to worship, and punctuate it with Hallelujahs: Shout Hallelujah, you God-worshipers; give glory, you sons of Jacob; adore him, you daughters of Israel. He has never let you down, never looked the other way when you were being kicked around. He has never wandered off to do his own thing; he has been right there, listening.”

David apparently has this instant moment of clarity, this reminder that God is present – that God has always been present. And it changes his entire perspective.

So, by acknowledging who they really are and what they really need, David and Job are able to move past their desperation to a point at which they find sufficient grace. And by refusing to acknowledge his need, the rich, young ruler remained unchanged.

I was asked back in the summer to serve as an assistant coach for the Harlan County High School cross country team. Our course has a big hill, and one of the things that we have tried to instill in the kids is the importance of coming down the hill at full speed. It’s normal to want to hold back and tiptoe down the hill. But the fact is, getting down the hill fast is a great opportunity to gain some ground, and the momentum you have when you come off the hill can make all the difference in how you get to the finish line.

In the same way, by not holding back – by letting go and being honest about their need – Job and David were able to come through their pain into a place of clarity and healing and wholeness.

I said earlier that maybe Jesus had the rich, young ruler in mind when he told the story of the boastful Pharisee. But maybe he thought of us, too. It’s so easy for us to think ourselves stronger than we really are. Being honest about our need for grace is not easy; but until we do it, we’ll never be who we were meant to be.

So, what is the dysfunction of your heart? Is there something you can’t let go of? Is there a person or group of people you are unable or unwilling to accept? Is there pain that hasn’t been acknowledged?

We have an amazing opportunity. We have a friend who knows what we’re going through. We can come to him just as we are, and we can find the help we need.

This is also the hope that our world has – the hope that the way things are isn’t the way things will always be. I’d like to close with the words of a song by Andrew Peterson, titled “After the Last Tear Falls.”

                After the last tear falls, after the last secret’s told

                After the last bullet tears through flesh and bone

                After the last child starves, and the last girl walks the boulevard

                After the last year that’s just too hard, there is love

                After the last disgrace, after the last lie to save some face

                After the last cruel jab from a poison tongue

                After the last dirty politician, after the last meal down at the mission

                After the last lonely night in prison, there is love

                After the last plan fails, after the last siren wails

                After the last young husband sails off to join the war

                After the last “this marriage is over,” after the last young girl’s innocence is stolen

                After the last years of silence that won’t let a heart open, there is love

                And in the end, the end is oceans and oceans of love and love again

                We’ll see how the tears that have fallen were caught in the palms

                Of the Giver of love and the Lover of all

                And we’ll look back on these tears as old tales

So let us come boldly to the throne of grace, that we obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need. May we acknowledge our need for help and discover the healing that lies on the other side of that acknowledgment.  And may we cling to the hope that after the last tear falls, there is love – for us, and for the world.

Boaz, Ruth, and So-and-So

Wow. I suck. This is my first blog post since June. That's just awful.

And, with that little bit of self-loathing out of the way...I offer the text of my sermon from last Sunday. The lectionary passages were Ruth 3:1-5, 4:13-17; Psalm 127; Hebrews 9:24-28; and Mark 12:28-34. I chose to focus on the story of Ruth. Enjoy!

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It’s only been in the last few years that I’ve become familiar with the story of Ruth. I’ve been attending church since I was 2 years old, but, for whatever reason, you don’t hear that one in Sunday school very often. I got a lot of Adam and Eve, a little Noah and the Ark, some Abraham and Joseph and Moses and Joshua and Samson, some David and Goliath, and a whole lot of Jesus, but no Ruth. All I remember about Ruth from my childhood is that I thought Boaz was a funny name.

Now that I’ve studied it a bit, I find it to be a very compelling story. And I still think Boaz is a funny name.

I want to spend some time this morning focusing on the story of Ruth, and especially on the part between the two passages we read.

In chapter 3, we find Naomi advising Ruth to go to Boaz’s party, and – without going into too much detail – to offer herself to him, to let him that she’s available for marriage and that she’s interested. Ruth follows Naomi’s instructions, and the story tells us that Boaz is overwhelmed by Ruth’s love. He tells her he wants to marry her, but there’s another relative who has the first option.

So the next day, Boaz arranges a meeting with the closer relative and the elders of the town. I think Boaz’s approach is interesting: He first presents an opportunity to buy a piece of land. He tells the man, “There’s this piece of land, and it’s yours if you want it.” The guy says, “Sure, I’ll take it.” Then Boaz introduces Ruth; he says, “Oh, by the way, you also get to marry Ruth.”

That makes the man pause. He already has wives and children, and he doesn’t want to jeopardize their inheritance by fathering more children with another wife. So he declines, and then Boaz marries Ruth. As the story ends, we find Boaz and Ruth having a son, Obed, and we learn that, just a couple of generations later, David comes from this line.

It’s a really beautiful story, one of the more romantic stories you’ll find in the Bible, and I’d like to share a couple of thoughts about it.

First, let me point out that the closer relative isn’t named in the story. Everybody else’s name is mentioned. We learn the name of Ruth’s sister-in-law, Orpah, even though she’s gone from the story before the first chapter ends. We learn the names of Naomi’s husband and sons, even though they’re gone before the story even begins. But the language used to introduce to introduce this closer relative is basically the Hebrew equivalent of “old so-and-so.”

Here’s why I find that interesting: When Boaz presented him with the opportunity to marry Ruth, this closer relative decided that Ruth just wasn’t worth his time and trouble. He stripped Ruth of her worth; he made his assessment, and found her to be insignificant. But then the writer of the story turns the tables and says, “You don’t need to worry about who this guy is – he’s nobody. That’s just old so-and-so.”

Now, we can all relate to Ruth in this story. Sometimes we’re the ones being sized up by so-and-so. Sometimes we hear voices that define us by our failures, voices that deny us our value, voices that strip us of any worth or significance.

The writer of the story of Ruth teaches us that those voices just don’t matter – when it’s all said and done, they’re the ones who are insignificant and not worth our time. It doesn’t matter what package they come in. Maybe it’s a parent or teacher or other authority figure who has belittled us. Maybe it’s a self-righteous relative or neighbor who points out all the things we do wrong. The voice of so-and-so might come from the fancy suit and slick hair of a politician or a televangelist.

So-and-so might determine we’re worthless based on where we live, what we look like, what we have, what we don’t have. It doesn’t matter, because so-and-so does not have the last word.

Ruth’s story doesn’t end with so-and-so’s rejection. That only opened the door for her to be redeemed by Boaz. Ruth was loved by Boaz, and that is what mattered. It’s the same for us. Whenever so-and-so tries to strip us of our value, we can reject that rejection and cling to the reality that we are redeemed by the Lover of our souls. God calls us valuable, and that trumps any and every voice that would say otherwise.

A few years ago, a great independent film called “Little Miss Sunshine” got a lot of Oscar buzz. The movie was about a seven-year-old beauty pageant contestant named Olive. Olive was not exactly pageant material; she was kind of plain and a little chubby, and wore glasses. There’s a moment in the movie, after Olive’s dad tells her she shouldn’t have any ice cream because of her weight, when she starts to doubt herself. She asks her grandfather if she is pretty, and he assures her, “You are the most beautiful girl in the world.” It’s a really touching moment that propels her through some very difficult times as she and her family travel to the pageant.

One of my best friends in the world is a guy who lives in Lexington. He’s visited here with me before. His name is Caleb. I met him a few years ago when he was spending the summer in the Tri-Cities as a missionary, and we’ve been friends ever since.

Caleb is probably the least pretentious person I’ve ever met; I don’t know anyone else so comfortable in their own skin. Caleb wears thrift store clothes; I don’t think I’ve ever seen him buy a new article of clothing in all the years I’ve known him. He walks around in flip-flops and an old, red toboggan pretty much year-round. He has a big, long beard. And people seem to automatically gravitate to Caleb; I’ve never introduced him to anyone who didn’t feel immediately comfortable around him.

I think this is because Caleb has a strong sense of who he is and where his worth comes from – and I wish I could be more like that.

So, sometimes we’re Ruth in this story. But if we’re honest, I think we have to admit that we sometimes play the part of so-and-so. We make judgments about the people around us based on any number of differences. Maybe, like Ruth, they are foreigners. Maybe they just don’t look like us.

Maybe we define them by their struggles. In a song called “I Repent,” Derek Webb once wrote, “I repent … for the way I believe that I’m living right by trading sins for others that are easier to hide.” I wonder, how often do we define people by their sins just because their sins are more obvious than ours? How quick are we to define a drug addict by his addiction?

I know I have done this, even recently. We have had some trouble with theft in our neighborhood recently, and several elderly neighbors have been victimized. It was no secret who was responsible, although it took a while for the police to build enough of a case to make an arrest. I would occasionally see the person responsible, and – to be perfectly honest with you – I can’t tell you some of the things I said to myself about that person, because they’re not appropriate words to share up here.

I forgot that the God who loves me and calls me valuable, also loves him and calls him valuable. I forgot to see him through God’s eyes. Instead, I devalued him; I wrote him up as an addict and a thief. For that, I have had to repent.

I mentioned my friend Caleb a few minutes ago. Caleb is currently in the process of publishing his first book, also called “I Repent,” which I had the privilege of proofreading. The book recounts a summer road trip he took with friend a few years ago and the correlating spiritual lessons he learned in the cities he visited.

During one of his stops – I think it was in Baltimore – Caleb says he saw a young African-American guy on a bus. Caleb admits that he made a number of judgments about the man and his lifestyle, simply based on the clothes he was wearing. Just before the guy stepped off the bus, Caleb noticed what he had in his hand. The guy was carrying a Bible.

If we are going to be the representatives of Jesus that we are meant to be, we must learn to reject our inner so-and-so.

We have just come through a political campaign season that was probably the most bitter and polarizing in our country’s history. Depending on your politics, your inner so-and-so might make unloving judgments about those receiving government assistance, or about corporate CEOs; about the gay community, or about the tea party; about those who watch Fox News, or about those who watch MSNBC.

Whatever our politics, we must remember that our first allegiance isn’t to a president or a challenger, but to a King; not to a nation, even, but to a Kingdom – and in that Kingdom, everyone matters, and there is room for us all.

And finally, as we prepare to head into Advent in a couple of weeks, let us reflect on our calling to be like Boaz.

Earlier in the Ruth story, we see that Boaz was generous to Ruth from the first time he met her. The law stipulated that the edges of a field of grain were to be left unharvested so that the poor could collect the grain to survive. This is what Ruth was doing when she first met Boaz. He instructed his workers not only to leave plenty for her to glean, but to actually drop some of the good grain on the ground for her to pick up. He welcomed her to glean in his field for the entire season so that she would be safe. All of this went far beyond what the law required. And we might think that Boaz was trying to impress Ruth and win her affection, but the story doesn’t suggest that at all. All we see in the story is someone with plenty showing kindness to someone in need.

You know, a lot of the rhetoric in the presidential campaign was about government assistance – about how much responsibility the government should bear in providing for the people versus how much responsibility people have to take care of themselves. I’m not interested in having that debate, but this much I do know: It would be a moot point if we, as the body of Christ, were living out our calling to love and to serve – if we took seriously our responsibility to “the least of these.”

We have so much. Did you know that half of the people on the planet live on less than $2.50 a day? I handed over that much for a bottle of water and a pack of gum on my way to work the other day. Did you know that about 80 percent of our neighbors around the world live on less than $10 a day? I paid more than that for my lunch yesterday.

What if, like Boaz, we did more than the minimum? What if I stopped focusing on myself and what I want, and practiced regular generosity? What kind of difference could you make in the world simply by being kind?

May we embrace the truth that we are loved, valued and accepted by our Redeemer. May we see others through our Redeemer’s eyes and realize how deeply they, too, are loved, valued and accepted. And may we be the hands and feet of Christ extended to help those in need. Amen.