Let Justice Roll Down: Amos and Sutherland Springs

Text:  Amos 1:1-2, 5:14-15, 21-24

Date:  11.12.2017

Pleasant Street UMC, Waterville, ME

© Thomas L. Blackstone, Ph.D., Preacher

1The words of Amos, who was among the shepherds of Tekoa, which he saw concerning Israel in the days of King Uzziah of Judah and in the days of King Jeroboam son of Joash of Israel, two years before the earthquake.

²And he said:
The Lord roars from Zion,
   and utters his voice from Jerusalem;
the pastures of the shepherds wither,
   and the top of Carmel dries up. 

¹⁴ Seek good and not evil,
   that you may live;
and so the Lord, the God of hosts, will be with you,
   just as you have said.
¹⁵ Hate evil and love good,
   and establish justice in the gate;
it may be that the Lord, the God of hosts,
   will be gracious to the remnant of Joseph. 

²¹ I hate, I despise your festivals,
   and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies.
²² Even though you offer me your burnt-offerings and grain-offerings,
   I will not accept them;
and the offerings of well-being of your fatted animals
   I will not look upon.
²³ Take away from me the noise of your songs;
   I will not listen to the melody of your harps.
²⁴ But let justice roll down like waters,
   and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream. 

Let justice roll down.

Wow, I can’t believe I’m preaching on this text again, after quite possibly having exhausted it in last Spring’s Lenten series.  But just when we want to relax into the Beatitudes, or the 23^rd Psalm, or Baby Jesus in the Manger, the voice of Amos roars again from the pages of the Hebrew Scriptures.  “Let justice roll down,” he cries.  “Let justice roll down.” 

And if this were an ordinary week, I might have been inclined to filter out that voice, and grab an alternative, less-disturbing, text.  But it’s been a disturbing week, hasn’t it?  As we were singing last Sunday, // at the very moment we were singing last Sunday, “Let thy Congregation escape tribulation…”, an apparently mentally ill security guard, continued and magnified a pattern of domestic abuse by taking his emotional instability out on his ex-mother-in-law’s congregation in Texas.   And because a bureaucratic error had placed in his hands a weapon designed for the battlefield, rather than the target range or the forest, dozens of men, women, elders, and children were dead and injured in minutes, all in the place they felt closest to God and one another. 

And so, yet again, America is standing over the bodies of children and their parents and grandparents, trying to explain how this blood sacrifice is necessary to ensure that our right to bear arms shall not be infringed.  And then Amos, rises up once again.  “Let justice roll down; let justice roll down.” 

I haven’t spoken or written very often about this topic, in part because I get both sides of this national conversation.  I was raised in Aroostook County, and when I was 12 or 13, like most of my peers who lived out of town, I picked a lot of potatoes one fall, and purchased my first gun, a .22 rifle, down at the hardware store.  I did so with the encouragement of my Dad who probably bought his first firearm in the same store.  I remember agonizing over which one to buy, in part because I wanted my Dad to be pleased with my choice, and in part because I had never spent $ 60 before, had never had $ 60 before.  After I made my decision, I signed my name in the registry, and my dad signed as the responsible adult, and we brought the gun home with 100 rounds of ammunition.  And then I was told again, that I would not touch, load, or fire that gun until I had finished “the course.”  “The course,” in our city was taught by the same guy who had taught my dad and uncle how to handle a firearm.  It wouldn’t surprise me if he had taught my grandfather and his brothers as well.  Small towns are like that.  And at “the course” we learned a few things.  Like:  every gun is always loaded; never point a gun at anyone, ever; never pick up a gun when you’re tired, or angry, or distracted, or been drinking; never ease the safety off or put your finger on the trigger unless you intend to fire; and never ever fire when hunting, unless you can clearly see not only your target, but what’s behind it.  We were taught as well to admonish our peers who ignored these rules, that owning a gun was not simply a right, but a privilege, and like most privileges it came with responsibilities. 

I lived on a farm, though we didn’t farm it, and down where the fields met the woods, there was a pile of dirt that formed the back of our shooting range.  It had been that way for at least two generations before me, probably more.  And there the adults in my life drilled me on the safety rules, and showed me how to shoot after breathing out, before breathing in again.  Paper target after paper target felt the sting of my bullets, and I became bonded to my Dad and great Uncles in a way that was unprecedented in my life, as they passed down skills that had been passed down to them, skills that had meant the difference between life and starvation for our distant ancestors.  I was never much of a hunter, though I did do pretty well at the local turkey shoot one year.  The kid with the best score won a frozen turkey.  That wasn’t me, but I was proud to represent my family, in the midst of the other families gathered there, our neighbors.

I say all of that to acknowledge that I get it.  When my fellow citizens point out that a heritage of responsible gun ownership and use is a part of our culture, they’re right.  When all those pieces are in place:  responsible parents, dedicated safety instructors, appropriate locations, and constant vigilance, learning to use a gun safely and carefully is part of the American experience, at least it was part of mine.  Doing so is probably one of the better memories of my childhood, it is one of the few rituals left in our culture for defining the boundary between childhood and adulthood, and it formed a bond between me and the men in my life who were not naturally given to displays of love or affection; this is what we did instead.  After mastering the safe use of a weapon, I was welcomed into the fraternity of the hunting camp where men told stories of their greatest hunt, ate forbidden foods with abandon, and played unspeakable pranks on one another.  It was there that I heard about Bud Smith’s buck that jumped off a cliff after being shot, landing in a tree below, still twenty feet in the air, hanging there, taunting him.  I learned the Aroostook County version of the tale of the fur-bearing trout, only to be found in the deepest and coldest of lakes (I still haven’t caught one!).  And I learned that the taking of the life of a deer or moose was serious business, and no part of it should go to waste. 

So, yeah.  Good memories, beautiful experiences, life-long relationships.  I get it.  The thought that someone would come along and diminish that experience because of a political theory hammered out in a distant city was ridiculed in my home town, it still is, as it threatens a delicate thread that connects us to those who came before, a tradition that, in small ways, helps define who we are today.

But // as I picture those poor kids and their parents, last week, in Church, huddled under pews, hushing the little ones, trying to hide from evil, I know that something has gone wrong.  And the source of the problem harkens back to “the course,” those principles I learned as a young man, that owning a gun, firing a gun, is not only a right but a privilege, and a privilege divorced from responsibility is a privilege that can be taken away, must be taken away, until a sense of responsibility can be restored. 

The problem, of course, is that the weapons that provide us with food or mastery on the range or the biathlon course, have long since been turned on human targets.  The Veterans we commemorate today served in wars, many of them, great conflicts of nations that required ever more powerful, deadlier, more effective weapons.  And as time has passed, the sad business of war, and its implements, have somehow found their way to our door steps, our parking lots, our schools, our courthouses, and even our homes.  In today’s world, a momentary flash of anger can instigate or be responded to with deadly force before rational thought has even a moment to assert itself.  Down in Augusta last week, one man telling another that his shoe was untied led to the drawing of a weapon.  How does that happen? 

The point is that something needs to change.  Now, there may be grand schemes to make us a weaponless culture, but you and I know that neither the political will nor the moral outrage exists to make that happen in our nation, at least not in my lifetime.  At my age, my aspirations are much simpler, and I hope realistic.  Can we at least, as a society, stop abiding the death of children?  Is that too much to ask?  Cutting off lives at the root before they even have a chance to begin?  I’m not afraid of the adults and teens who grew up in my hometown and had the experiences I did relative to firearms; I have no desire to take those weapons away.  But when someone has a proven history of violent acts, mental instability, or sexual aggression; or when the weapons or ammunition they want to purchase is compatible only with an act of massive destruction or injury, is it too much to ask that someone take notice and be empowered to do something before it’s too late?  Before more children die?

I know we’ll never perfect such a system, but can’t we even try?  Can’t we have a quiet reasonable discussion somewhere on middle ground, and remind ourselves

·        that responsible gun ownership and a truly effective background check are not incompatible with one another? 

·        That knowing who’s responsible for every weapon sold can help us hold someone responsible when they’re used illegally?

·        That if it’s someone’s job to keep the records about who’s ineligible to own a firearm, then let them understand that lives are depending upon their accuracy, diligence, and timeliness? 

·        And that perhaps we should worry about justice for our children, as much before a trigger is pulled, as we do afterwards?

While we work for change, and I mean actually do something to make change happen, we should remember those amazing Baptists in Sutherland Springs, TX, gathered for worship this morning, not half a block from where their brothers and sisters, children and grandchildren died last Sunday.  They need our thoughts and prayers, absolutely, but we need their thoughts and prayers as well, as they stand there preaching, and singing, and hugging, and showing the love of God to the world on Sunday morning.  Where else would God’s people be? 

And we should remember the Veterans in our midst and in our surrounding communities, who stood in harm’s way because our society asked them to, believing it was in the best interest of human freedom.  “No one desires Peace, more than those who have gone to war,” one sage has written (Anon.), and as a people of peace, it is up to us to find a way to make a difference.  Our world deserves it; our veterans deserve it, and our children deserve it. 

By the door where you exit, there’s half a sheet of paper, listing the names of our legal representatives, the people who can make a difference when it comes to protecting our children from violence.  I’m going to challenge you to write one or more of them a letter this week, and to let them know what you feel about this issue.  You don’t need to tell them what your pastor thinks; you may think your pastor’s out to lunch; that’s okay.  As a United Methodist you have that right.  But whatever your opinion is, don’t let it sit in your mind, unexpressed.  Because this is going to happen again, and again, and again.  And our children deserve better than that, our grandchildren deserve better than that, every child of God deserves better than that.  And I believe we can save lives by speaking up and creating some reasonable limitations on one human being’s ability to hurt another. 

Inspired by our neighbors in uniform, we’re standing in harm’s way this Veteran’s Day weekend, putting our bodies between those who would deal out violence, and the lives that they would take.  After all, you showed up at church this morning, knowing that we are vulnerable, that our doors are open, didn’t you?  To sing the hymns, and pray the prayers, and hear the Word, and to stand for justice.  We are here this morning together to protect the innocent in whatever way we can, and to create the world that can be, not to lament the world that has been. 

So let justice roll down like water, sisters and brothers.  Let justice roll down, for the kids, for the elders, for all of us.  Amen.

Pestering Jesus, The 2017 Ziegler Award Sermon

On June 17, 2017, I received the Wilbur C. Ziegler Award for Excellence in Preaching from the New England Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church.  The opportunity to preach to one's colleagues and siblings in the faith is the blessing conferred on the fortunate one chosen. The theme of the 2017 Conference was "Vital Conversations:  Racism".   

Text:  Matthew 15:21-28

Date:  June 17, 2017 (Ziegler Award Sermon)

New England Annual Conference, Manchester, NH

© Thomas L. Blackstone, Ph.D., Preacher

Matthew 15:21 Jesus left that place and went away to the district of Tyre and Sidon. 22 Just then a Canaanite woman from that region came out and started shouting, “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.” 23 But he did not answer her at all. And his disciples came and urged him, saying, “Send her away, for she keeps shouting after us.” 24 He answered, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” 25 But she came and knelt before him, saying, “Lord, help me.” 26 He answered, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” 27 She said, “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.” 28 Then Jesus answered her, “Woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish.” And her daughter was healed instantly.

Pestering Jesus

First of all, I want to thank my amazing congregation Pleasant St. UMC for nominating me for this honor, particularly Grenda Banton, Kerri Oliver, Carol Crothers and their confederates who helped make this happen.  I also want to acknowledge the members of my church, including the choir, who left Waterville at 4:30 this morning to get here, because evidently, they had nothing better to do on a Saturday in June.  Actually, I think it had more to do with meeting Mark Miller, given that we have been singing his words all the way through Lent.

I’m also grateful for my family being here, my oldest Alex who works as a counselor with troubled teens in the Maine woods to help turn their lives around, my son Patrick who is departing for the University of Indiana in a couple of weeks to enter a Ph.D. program in theoretical physics, probing the mysteries of the universe, and my daughter Laura who studies math, computer science, and geology at Brown University about a mile from Rev. Ziegler’s former church in Providence.  And, of course, Lynn my wife of 31 years who enriches the lives of kids with autism and other challenges as a speech pathologist in Augusta.  She also keeps our family on track, and how all five of us got here today on time, with matching socks, I have no idea, but she (I suspect) does.

I also want to thank the saints in my life who have inspired me as a Christian, as a preacher, and as a member of the New England Annual Conference, this body which has shown such courage in standing for change and for justice in troubled times.  These folks are too many to name individually, but let me call attention to three people who are close to my heart today:  Vicki Woods is heroically typical of the incredible District Superintendents that I have served under for the last 26 years.  She has been a voice for justice from my first days in ministry, and she helped my congregation figure out how to nominate me for this award, so if you don’t like what you hear, blame Vicki.  I’m also thankful for the life of the late H. Everett Wiswell, who was my pastor in Caribou, ME in 1978, when as a High School Junior I screwed up my courage and shared with him (after a week at Mechuwana) that I felt called to ministry.  Had he chuckled or rolled his eyes or told me to go grow up a little, I might have never said another word, but instead he honored that holy moment in my life with Christ-like compassion and love, for which I am grateful.  Finally, I’m remembering my doctoral advisor, the late Dr. Fred Craddock who helped me figure out how to be a student of the Bible and a pastor at the same time.  In the great circle of scholars at Emory University, Fred was the one who found me in my confusion about where I was headed, and helped me find my way through the Ph.D. program and back to the church, all the while being an inspiration in every sense of the word. 

[And I should add that of the three people I just mentioned, Vicki Woods is the TALL one!  So, it’s a good day for the short people!]

And it is essential to remember, as well, the Rev. Wilbur C. Ziegler, who so inspired his congregation in Providence with his “compassion, optimism, ability, courage, and sensitivity” that they created this award in his honor.  I never met him personally, but I have blessed by his legacy and inspired by his character and faith.

You have to know that I have been listening to the Wilbur C. Ziegler sermon every year at annual conference for nearly 25 years.  And every year that I’ve heard it, I’ve shared one thought with every United Methodist Pastor who was listening with me.  “Thank God that isn’t me!”  My second thought, of course, has been to realize how God has used my amazing colleagues and siblings in the faith to break open some fresh perspective on God’s word, and God willing that will happen again today. 

Will you pray with me?  Holy and Gracious Lord, who quiets the fear in every trembling heart, use these moments as you desire: to bless, to heal, to challenge, or to mend, and may your holy wisdom reveal herself to our hearts, either because of or in spite of your servant.  Amen. 

A Canaanite woman stood in the road… A Canaanite woman stood in the road…not the Syrophoenician woman we read about in Mark’s gospel, no, a Canaanite woman, torn from the very pages of the ancient Torah, 1000 years or more out of time.  If some of you Whovians are wondering if she just stepped out of a blue police call box, you’d be justified.  Matthew has conjured up a time traveler, an ancient enemy, a mother from one of seven tribes driven out to make room in the Promised Land for the children of Israel.  You remember the Canaanites from Deuteronomy 7:1 don’t you, that passage you assign to your lay leader when she’s being difficult?  How Moses predicted military defeat over the Hittites, Girgashites, Amorites, Canaanites, Perizzites, Hivites and Jebusites, “seven nations larger and stronger than you,” he said.  “And how should we treat these scoundrels, Moses, when we come into the land?” the people inquired. 

And Moses, speaking for God, responded with words that still trouble us:  “You must destroy them totally. Make no treaty with them, … show them no mercy.  Do not intermarry with them. …Break down their altars, smash their sacred stones, …. burn their idols in the fire.”  …Show / them / no / mercy.  It’s as though Moses said, “They are incompatible with the love of God.”

So, when a Canaanite woman appears in the road standing before Jesus…wow.  Now we get to see what happens when the incarnate Son of God crosses paths with the sworn enemy of the Ancient Hebrews.  And when Jesus’ friends saw her, did those devastating words from the Great Lawgiver echo in their minds, “Show them no mercy.” 

Well, then the Canaanite woman makes a ruckus.  Not content simply to be in Jesus’ presence, she not only speaks her truth, she shouts her truth, and the first words out of her mouth?  “Have mercy.”  “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.”  “Have mercy on me, Lord.”  So here she is, the very embodiment of the outsider, the rejected one, whose exclusion from mercy came from the very lips of Moses himself, speaking for God, and she asks for the very thing that the Bible says she can’t have:  Mercy.  Not because she’s unworthy, not because she’s a bad mother, not because she has an evil reputation, but simply because…she was born that way:  born on the wrong side of the racial, ethnic, tribal line that had stood for centuries.  By cursing her people, Moses had cursed all of their descendants, including her demon-possessed daughter.  Mercy indeed.  “Go study your Bible, woman,” the disciples might have said with justification.  “There is no mercy for you.” 

Well I wish I could say that Jesus moved quickly to lift this ancient curse, but it’s to Matthew’s credit that he doesn’t give us the inspired story we want, but the inspired story we need.  Jesus, for whatever reason, does what the body of Christ still does when confronted with the one who doesn’t quite fit our definition of acceptable.  Jesus, says…nothing.  Dead silence.  “But he did not answer her at all,” Matthew says.  Given the harsh words of Deuteronomy, maybe Jesus considered that silence was a merciful response, but this woman began to disturb the bureaucracy with her shouting, her protest, her misbehavior, and soon the disciples are whispering in Jesus’ ear that he must dismiss her because… she is driving them crazy.

          So Jesus, seeing that silence isn’t working so well, speaks, not words of liberation, but (I’m sorry to say) words of “policy.”

“I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.”  (whew!)

Understand that Jesus doesn’t say these words to the Canaanite woman, the victim of his silence.  He speaks this policy to his brothers, his inner circle, his council of advisors, his general conference if you will.  And within that tightly knit circle of like-minded individuals, this resolves the situation:  A Canaanite woman has asked for help, ignoring her was ineffective, but now we have issued a policy statement that covers her situation.  Her daughter doesn’t meet our eligibility requirements for assistance.  “Sorry, Canaanite woman, you’ll have to get help someplace else.”  And we have to assume that one of the disciples carried this news to her, or even worse that she had to endure listening to her eligibility for mercy being debated by a group of people that had given her no greeting, offered her no right to speak, and did not even bother to learn her name.  Because, you see in that moment she wasn’t a person, a mother, a fellow human being in the eyes of the infant church.  She was an “issue,” a problem, an agenda item, a complication to be dealt with. 

What happens next is perhaps best summarized by the words of the unlikely prophet Sen. McConnell.  “She had appeared to violate the rule. She was warned. She was given an explanation. Nevertheless, she persisted.”  [US Senate, 2.7.17]

Yes, those Canaanite women are everywhere. 

But she came and knelt before Jesus, saying, “Lord, help me.”

I have to imagine that that was not an easy thing to do.  And I mean literally that I have to imagine it because I have never been in her situation.  Because white, middle-class, over-educated, straight men in our culture… don’t have the experience that this woman just had, we aren’t spoken of in the third person by those in power, we are not categorized in ways that subsume our sacred personhood under a label.  We have the privilege of being spoken to, not spoken about.  So, before those of us who carry such privilege in our backpack, assume that we would not intrude upon Jesus’s personal space with such audacity and boldness, or that we would not humble ourselves before a group that had just so disrespected us, let’s you and I walk a mile or two in her shoes, her Canaanite shoes. 

The conversation that Jesus and woman proceed to have is unworthy of our Jesus, and Matthew knows that.  But Matthew, inspired by the Holy Spirit, needs us to hear it because the church still, to this day, confuses justice and charity.  Jesus said to this woman, weary from night after night of rubbing her daughter’s back, bathing her forehead, listening to her cries, holding her trembling body, to her Jesus said, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” And summoning every ounce of self-control that she can, the woman answers, “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.” 

When I hear her say those words, it breaks my heart.  Because it says that she has been so beaten down, and so consumed by worry for her child, that she will sacrifice her own dignity for the sake of another.  In this moment she is Messianic, she is self-sacrificing, she is embodying the love of God. 

I see this woman’s face, every day, in fact:   in the women who walk into the Food Bank in my Church, and I hear her voice in the words that are spoken as they register and check in.  I am grateful that these women are treated with respect and dignity by our volunteers, but I know they’ve heard the comments hurled at them by our society:  “freeloaders, welfare queens, lazy, good for nothing.”  When we give to the poor out of our abundance, are we distributing crumbs to the dogs under the Master’s table (along with a helping of shame and humiliation)?  Or are we, conscious of our unclean hands, partnering with God to try to undo the economic injustice of our society, that has made a handful of people fabulously wealthy, while leaving scraps for public education, health care, nutrition, housing, college tuition, and job training? 

Does it still have to be said in 21^st century America that it is not a sin to be poor, that it is not a sin to be sick, illiterate, marginalized, mentally ill, addicted, bankrupt, persecuted, a refugee from tyrants, a teenager who is bullied?  Being weak or in-need shouldn’t put someone under the table with the dogs.  In God’s kingdom it is the hungry person who is seated first, and are not the ones in need of forgiveness, those who would deny them a chair? 

Well, just when I am ready to give up on Jesus in this story, he responds with words that give me back my hope and restore my faith.  Because with this woman kneeling before him, Jesus doesn’t say, “your obedience is impressive, your submission is acceptable, your shame makes me pity you sufficiently.”  Instead Jesus looks at her, looks at his disciples, and looks at the crowd, and whether he has just come to this conclusion or not—the Bible doesn’t tell us—Jesus gets it.  There may be a passage in scripture that condemns this woman, there may be a standing policy that denies her mercy and justice and inclusion, but Jesus looks at her self-sacrificial posture, her willingness to be humiliated for her daughter, her God-like compassion and tells her to stand up, and with one phrase Jesus restores her dignity: “woman, great is your faith!  Let it be done for you as you wish.” And it was.

Did you hear that first part?  He praises…her faith.  And in that moment, we know that Jesus sees her, includes her, is in fellowship with her, and (dare we say it) has learned from her.  The word faith is used 17 times in Matthew’s gospel, and always it is the mark of genuine discipleship, either because one has it or because one lacks it.  Those who need to hear the Sermon on the Mount are called “those of little faith,” the Centurion in chapter 8 (another outsider) has his servant healed because of the Centurion’s faith, the disciples in the boat during the storm are afraid because they lack faith, the paralyzed man is healed because of the faith of his friends, faith the size of a mustard seed will be capable of accomplishing anything, and what do the Pharisees, scribes, and hypocrites lack?  Justice, mercy, and faith. 

By praising the greatness of this Canaanite woman’s faith, by raising her up from the dust, by speaking to her rather than about her, by recognizing the image of God already in her soul, Jesus has set aside scripture, ignored policy, and has shown the church how to be the Church of Jesus Christ when there’s a Canaanite, an outsider, an incompatible, a suffering brother or sister standing right there in front of us, asking for mercy.  It’s not about charity, it’s about justice!

Those of you who are close to me know that the last six years of my life have been consumed with accompanying my mother through the hell of dementia.  By all possible measurements we are only part way down this path that will direct the rest of her life.  It became apparent after my father’s death that, even in the midst of pancreatic cancer, he had been compensating for her growing confusion.  She lived with us for two years after that, then moved to assisted living, and now resides in a memory unit that keeps her physically safe but mentally tormented by her continuing self-awareness of her failing memory.  In time that will pass we are told, but when ignorance has become bliss, she will no longer remember us, and so we journey together and try to treasure every moment, even if it is painful for her and for us. 

Because of Mom’s illness, one of the words that I’ve had to learn this year is “paramnesia.”  Paramnesia occurs when a mentally compromised person tries to make sense of the world while suffering a partial lack of memory.  And in order to speak coherently about an event, the patient will confabulate, include details in a story that didn’t actually happen, will fabricate a reality that makes sense for the moment but is in fact, false. 

Part of me wants to ask in my confusion, whether Jesus was suffering from theological paramnesia when this episode with the Canaanite woman occurred (and yes, I know there are multiple explanations of why he might have acted the way he did), but I’ve come to believe that Matthew wasn’t in fact telling a story about Jesus; I think Matthew was telling a story about the church.  Because as Matthew’s congregation watched Imperial Rome crush Jerusalem like a walnut, and as they saw the smoke of destruction and persecution rise over the Holy City, Matthew’s community knew that things were going to have to change, that the Church in order to survive and to be the authentic expression of God’s love in the world, that the church was going to have to remember a few things it had forgotten.  It was going to have to remember that Jesus sought out strangers, that Jesus praised the faith of Gentiles, that foreigners showed up at his birth, that ethnic, racial, tribal differences mattered nothing to him, that economic injustice and racial privilege is incompatible with Christian teaching, and most of all the church had to remember this:  Canaanite lives matter…incompatibles lives matter, persecuted minorities matter, LGBTQ lives matter, victims of violence matter, and (today of all days) black lives matter.

You and I are here at the 2017 New England Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church.  And on my dark and cynical days, I find myself wondering how many more of these there will be.  But even as we wither away, Canaanites—some of them our own children—are standing at the door of the church, longing to come in.  They are standing there, cautiously, because (despite our faults) they sense God in us, someplace beneath all that silence, mis-interpreted scripture, and prejudicial legislation.  They can hear the authentic Jesus in our heritage and in our passion for mission, despite the racism and white privilege that gets in the way of our discipleship, and they can hear the rush of the wind of the Spirit that we keep trying to squeeze into containers of fear so that it won’t change us. 

It’s time to let that Spirit loose!  It’s time to let that Spirit loose!  It’s time to let that Spirit loose! It’s time to emulate the Jesus who tells persecuted strangers to stand up with dignity.  It’s time to rediscover the image of God in the people who scare us because they seem different.  It’s time to confess our sins, and seek to undo the harm we have done because of our lack of justice, mercy, and faith.  The Holy Cities of 20^th century Christendom are burning, there is no going back.  The church I was trained to serve in seminary no longer exists, if it ever did.  But Jesus?  Yeah, Jesus has never left. As he promised, he is with us to the end of the age!  And if we are willing to let Jesus heal our memory, to let Jesus strip away the false narratives of the church that we’ve told ourselves, who’s in and who’s out, to let Jesus put us square in the middle of town where Canaanite mothers can pester us and teach us with their requests for justice, then brothers and sisters, I have hope for this church.  And if this church can find that Jesus and let him break our sinful selves open yet one more time, and put us back together with a lot less judgement and a lot more justice, mercy, and faith, then maybe some of those Canaanites will do us the honor of crossing the threshold, standing by our side, and reminding us that God wants them here because of the greatness of their faith:  And as they walk in the door (hear this now!), it’s time for folks like me, who are invested in and benefit from the status quo, it’s time for folks like me to stop talking…and listen…and change.  It’s our only hope.

Our choir sings a song, Great, Great Morning.  And folks love it; it’s a medley, a mash up of several gospel songs that are all looking towards “that day,” that ultimate day when Jesus calls us home, or comes to check on what we’ve been up to [maybe you’ve seen the bumper sticker:  “Jesus is Coming; Look busy!”].  I love singing that song; it just makes me feel good.  But I also know that the day we’re singing about is Judgment Day, that day when Jesus comes to rebalance the scales of justice.  If you’ve read the prophets or the Book of Revelation, you’ve got to know that it doesn’t turn out well for those who neglect the poor, oppress the Saints, or ignore the world’s suffering. 

One of the things that is said about Rev. Ziegler is that he was really good at “afflicting the comfortable.”  In that spirit we’re going to sing that song, and I want you to enjoy it, but not too much, because we still have work to do, don’t we?  Amen?