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Missing The Point
As I know I've mention to each of you before, I really have fallen in love with the drive from Austin to Caldwell the weeks I come to preach. There's something about leaving the city, and in the quiet (or perhaps amid the sweet sounds of Abe and Frankie quietly babbling to one another in the back of the van) I am able to see the beauty of the Texas landscape in all its bucolic, longhorned glory.
That is, of course, until I turn off of 290 onto Route 21. At that moment, only a few thousand feet after the turn, I see three, outsized signs violently sticking up from the ground, and for all intents and purposes ruining my vista view. My first time driving here, I made it a point to stop and look real quick and what each sign said. I'm sure any of you who have driven past have done the same. I might be more forgiving if the sign had a big “welcome to beautiful Texas!” logo on it, or maybe a big smiley face, but instead it is a series of political statements, the most profound of which is a long definition to the newly minted word ineptocracy. Now, please understand, that this isn't intended to pass judgment in any way, except maybe the positioning of the signs and how they obscure my otherwise unfettered Sunday drive. But it does make me think each time I make that turn that I am not in a liberal part of the state any longer, certainly just a little different than Austin, and my seminary, which tends to lean a bit more towards the progressive end of the spectrum. My peers come from many walks of life, span the range of sexualities, and are far more likely to be protesting the most recent shooting of a person by a police officer than to be concerned about the right to carry a firearm. And maybe, for some of you here in this congregation that may fall more in line with those ideas, that suits you just fine. However, there may be others of you who may be cringing a little bit in your pew. I have to imagine that there may have been a little bit of question as to who I was when I was coming here the first time, and if I was just going to send up a bunch jeremiads saying how wrong you were for being who you are. Conversely, I imagine that some of my peers, if they were to come here, would feel as though some of you may be instantly judging each and every aspect of who they are, damning them to a life that is forever in the margins.
Fear. In each case, people are fearing each other – what they might say, what they might do, how they may react. And certainly, if Donald Trump's acceptance speech is to be believed, we do have much to fear. But I want to take some time today to consider the consequence of this kind of fear.
Just as when we were children who feared the shadow of a monster that was only a pile of blankets, it
becomes so easy to turn those that we fear into creations of our imaginations that are far more evil than what perhaps they truly are. And as we continue to build these monsters, we can easy move to hating them. After all, these monsters have the ability to consume the things that we hold close, and enter into the most intimate spaces in our lives.
In today's gospel reading, we come face-to-face with the monster of the Jewish people at the time of Jesus – the Samaritans. The Samaritans, while claiming heritage as part of the tribes of Israel, were considered by Jews in 1st Century CE as the same as Gentiles. The Jews considered them to be “suspect and degenerate”, so much so that they would not even consider sharing the same vessels with the Samaritans. Jesus and the disciples, we discover, are square in the middle of Samaritan territory, in the town of Sychar. And it is here, at Jacob's Well, that Jesus speaks with the Samaritan woman. This is shocking enough in and of itself – a Jewish man speaking with a Samaritan woman. But even more than this encounter, Jesus reveals the good news of the Gospel – a gospel that in the eyes of many of the people around him had nothing to do with the Samaritans. Yet once Jesus tells the people, it moves throughout the town like wildfire. People flocked to the message, coming out of their homes to learn of the news.
And then we get to the passage I read today (which, coincidentally, is the passage for my exegesis exam). The disciples return after getting Jesus something to eat. Jesus then moves the attention of the disciples away from the food to the harvest. Imagine sitting as one of the disciples for a moment. You are in a land of people that you hate, and who hate you, and yet they come towards your leader, curious about his message, believe that he is the same Messiah that you know. Jesus then looks to you and says “open your eyes and look at the fields! They are ripe for harvest! Even now the one who reaps draws a wage and harvest a crop for eternal life, so that the sower and the reaper may be glad together…”
I can only imagine how they must have been feeling at that moment. As a good Jew, I couldn't imagine that Samaritans, some of the people I despised more than anyone – were receiving the same gift that I was! And now, Jesus is saying that these are the people God's will is for?!
We can start to fill in our own blanks, of course, for the people we can't stand, on any side of a debate: the person shouting black lives matter, the person shouting blue lives matter, the person shouting all lives matter. The person with the conceal carry, the person who wants to take away conceal carry. The Trump Supporter, the Clinton Supporter. And yet Jesus extends the will of the one who sent him to each and every one. There is nothing more humbling than to realize that the person that you fear, that you hate, that you can't stand, is the same one Jesus looks at and says “I, the one speaking to you – I am he.” The moment any of us – liberal/conservative, black/white, gay/straight – lose this, the moment we turn off the lights of the Gospel and stare at the shadow monster still piled in our room. The moment we lose this idea is the moment we forget that even in our best moments, we are no better or worse than the our own Samaritan. That we, too, are a Samaritan to someone else, who desperately wants to be known in the same way Jesus knows the woman at the well.
Who are those people in your life? Who are those people who scare you? Who you can't stand? Who you hate? What would it be like if, for even a moment, you stood next to them and told them the gospel – that Jesus Christ came into the world to save it? Would it be easier to hear the cry of a mother who lost her son in racially charged violence? Would it be easier to hear the pain of a man who worked in a factory all his life to support his family, only to have it taken away from him in the twilight of his career? I'm not suggesting that we will suddenly agree on every topic, but we may, perhaps, see those we disagree with as beloved children of God, and not some hyperbolic creation of rhetoric intent on chaos and terror.
Friends, as you continue to consider what this church may look like as you have a new pastor, I'd urge you to consider where your harvest is. While it's easy to consider it amongst those who look and think like you, Jesus points to an even fuller and greater harvest in the hearts of those who we dislike the most.
That is, of course, until I turn off of 290 onto Route 21. At that moment, only a few thousand feet after the turn, I see three, outsized signs violently sticking up from the ground, and for all intents and purposes ruining my vista view. My first time driving here, I made it a point to stop and look real quick and what each sign said. I'm sure any of you who have driven past have done the same. I might be more forgiving if the sign had a big “welcome to beautiful Texas!” logo on it, or maybe a big smiley face, but instead it is a series of political statements, the most profound of which is a long definition to the newly minted word ineptocracy. Now, please understand, that this isn't intended to pass judgment in any way, except maybe the positioning of the signs and how they obscure my otherwise unfettered Sunday drive. But it does make me think each time I make that turn that I am not in a liberal part of the state any longer, certainly just a little different than Austin, and my seminary, which tends to lean a bit more towards the progressive end of the spectrum. My peers come from many walks of life, span the range of sexualities, and are far more likely to be protesting the most recent shooting of a person by a police officer than to be concerned about the right to carry a firearm. And maybe, for some of you here in this congregation that may fall more in line with those ideas, that suits you just fine. However, there may be others of you who may be cringing a little bit in your pew. I have to imagine that there may have been a little bit of question as to who I was when I was coming here the first time, and if I was just going to send up a bunch jeremiads saying how wrong you were for being who you are. Conversely, I imagine that some of my peers, if they were to come here, would feel as though some of you may be instantly judging each and every aspect of who they are, damning them to a life that is forever in the margins.
Fear. In each case, people are fearing each other – what they might say, what they might do, how they may react. And certainly, if Donald Trump's acceptance speech is to be believed, we do have much to fear. But I want to take some time today to consider the consequence of this kind of fear.
Just as when we were children who feared the shadow of a monster that was only a pile of blankets, it
becomes so easy to turn those that we fear into creations of our imaginations that are far more evil than what perhaps they truly are. And as we continue to build these monsters, we can easy move to hating them. After all, these monsters have the ability to consume the things that we hold close, and enter into the most intimate spaces in our lives.
In today's gospel reading, we come face-to-face with the monster of the Jewish people at the time of Jesus – the Samaritans. The Samaritans, while claiming heritage as part of the tribes of Israel, were considered by Jews in 1st Century CE as the same as Gentiles. The Jews considered them to be “suspect and degenerate”, so much so that they would not even consider sharing the same vessels with the Samaritans. Jesus and the disciples, we discover, are square in the middle of Samaritan territory, in the town of Sychar. And it is here, at Jacob's Well, that Jesus speaks with the Samaritan woman. This is shocking enough in and of itself – a Jewish man speaking with a Samaritan woman. But even more than this encounter, Jesus reveals the good news of the Gospel – a gospel that in the eyes of many of the people around him had nothing to do with the Samaritans. Yet once Jesus tells the people, it moves throughout the town like wildfire. People flocked to the message, coming out of their homes to learn of the news.
And then we get to the passage I read today (which, coincidentally, is the passage for my exegesis exam). The disciples return after getting Jesus something to eat. Jesus then moves the attention of the disciples away from the food to the harvest. Imagine sitting as one of the disciples for a moment. You are in a land of people that you hate, and who hate you, and yet they come towards your leader, curious about his message, believe that he is the same Messiah that you know. Jesus then looks to you and says “open your eyes and look at the fields! They are ripe for harvest! Even now the one who reaps draws a wage and harvest a crop for eternal life, so that the sower and the reaper may be glad together…”
I can only imagine how they must have been feeling at that moment. As a good Jew, I couldn't imagine that Samaritans, some of the people I despised more than anyone – were receiving the same gift that I was! And now, Jesus is saying that these are the people God's will is for?!
We can start to fill in our own blanks, of course, for the people we can't stand, on any side of a debate: the person shouting black lives matter, the person shouting blue lives matter, the person shouting all lives matter. The person with the conceal carry, the person who wants to take away conceal carry. The Trump Supporter, the Clinton Supporter. And yet Jesus extends the will of the one who sent him to each and every one. There is nothing more humbling than to realize that the person that you fear, that you hate, that you can't stand, is the same one Jesus looks at and says “I, the one speaking to you – I am he.” The moment any of us – liberal/conservative, black/white, gay/straight – lose this, the moment we turn off the lights of the Gospel and stare at the shadow monster still piled in our room. The moment we lose this idea is the moment we forget that even in our best moments, we are no better or worse than the our own Samaritan. That we, too, are a Samaritan to someone else, who desperately wants to be known in the same way Jesus knows the woman at the well.
Who are those people in your life? Who are those people who scare you? Who you can't stand? Who you hate? What would it be like if, for even a moment, you stood next to them and told them the gospel – that Jesus Christ came into the world to save it? Would it be easier to hear the cry of a mother who lost her son in racially charged violence? Would it be easier to hear the pain of a man who worked in a factory all his life to support his family, only to have it taken away from him in the twilight of his career? I'm not suggesting that we will suddenly agree on every topic, but we may, perhaps, see those we disagree with as beloved children of God, and not some hyperbolic creation of rhetoric intent on chaos and terror.
Friends, as you continue to consider what this church may look like as you have a new pastor, I'd urge you to consider where your harvest is. While it's easy to consider it amongst those who look and think like you, Jesus points to an even fuller and greater harvest in the hearts of those who we dislike the most.
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