Sample Sermon Manuscripts
Preaching
Without A Net
Preaching In The Paperless Pulpit
Preaching cannot be taught in the abstract, but only in the doing. It would be unfair of me to pontificate on preaching without actually doing some preaching of my own. Much as I would like to invite you to church on Sunday, here I can only give you a sample of what you might have heard, had you been there. In the spirit of "Show, don't tell," I offer these examples.
For each sermon manuscript, I've included an introduction that addresses some of the homiletical issues involved. My hope is that the sermons, with their introductions, will stand as practical illustrations of the results that can be obtained with the method I've proposed in this book.
All of these samples were preached without a net -- I used no notes or manuscripts in their delivery (you will see that I have retained the original "oral manuscript" form of each sermon). They are examples of what can be done with the process outlined in this book. They were delivered pretty much as given here, though I am always editing and revising up to the moment I open my mouth. As such, they are merely written reminders of what was said -- not the sermons themselves. What I cannot reproduce here are the gestures and voice that brought the words to life; the sermon was a vocal, bodily interpretation of these words. For maximum benefit and to come as close as possible to reproducing the experience, I suggest you read the manuscripts aloud.
Sermon composition is never done in isolation from the community that receives it, so a few words about specific congregations are in order. Christ Episcopal Church in Avon, Connecticut, is a medium-sized parish in a well-off suburb of Hartford; the architecture is modern, the parish young, the people prosperous. Grace and St. Peter's Church in Hamden, Connecticut, outside New Haven, is the product of a successful merger of two diverse congregations, and while its ethos is strictly middle-class, it has accumulated a substantial endowment. I served both parishes as an Interim Ministry Specialist, and these sermons reflect the transitional dynamics at work.
Dog/God
Proper 9, Year B
Mark 6:1-6 -- "Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown."
July 9, 2000
Sometimes our sermon study uncovers a tidbit that is not common knowledge, but crucial for understanding the scriptural passage. Sometimes, as in this case, what is uncovered is just the tip of an iceberg. The ancient Mediterranean honor/shame dynamic is essential to understanding not only the reaction to Jesus' sermon in Nazareth, but much of the social dynamics reflected in the New Testament. This sermon seeks to give the congregation this clue in order to open up the text theologically. You may note that my interpretation of the Nazareth sermon in Mark is quite different from my view of Luke's version of the story, which will appear later in this book. The literary and theological diversity of the Bible can and must be reflected from the pulpit; it simply won't do to color Mark with Luke's pen. It was preached at Grace and St. Peter's Episcopal Church, Hamden, Connecticut.
I saw a bumper sticker the other day.
It said, "My Boss is a Jewish Carpenter" --
I thought that strange.
Shouldn't it read, "My Boss was a Jewish Carpenter"?
Jesus isn't in Nazareth anymore.
But that's the problem with bumper stickers.
My father would never allow a bumper sticker to be put on his car.
We used to visit family in Chattanooga, Tennessee, which was Bumper Sticker Heaven: See Rock City. Visit Ruby Falls. Ride the Incline. Confederama.
My brothers and I would beg for bumper stickers.
But my father would always say, "The problem with bumper stickers is they never come off."
Just ask anyone with a twelve-year-old car that reads: Vote Dukakis.
Of course the other side would be rejoicing that what goes around comes around, if only they didn't have to scrape off the name Quayle.
The problem with bumper stickers is that they never let you change your mind.
And if Chattanooga is Bumper Sticker Heaven, then Nazareth in Jesus' day was Bumper Sticker Hell.
And now I'm not talking about the things that you paste on the back of your car, but the things you paste on the inside of your head.
Jesus walked into his hometown and began to do what he did in all the towns he visited: he began to teach in the synagogue.
But the people of Nazareth saw and heard only what they were expecting:
The carpenter.
The son of Mary.
The brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon and all his sisters.
They could not see who he really was.
Only the carpenter.
Part of this is familiarity.
I read somewhere about a guy who went to Yellowstone to see Old Faithful.
Every twenty-four minutes the geyser erupts, and there's actually a clock that ticks down the time.
This guy was sitting next door in the Old Faithful Inn, having lunch.
Everyone in the place was watching the clock.
When it got down to one, the tourists would jump up from their tables and go to the big picture windows to watch the water show.
This guy went to the window with everyone else.
At the window, he turned around to see that all the waiters took this opportunity to sweep down on the tables and clear dishes and fill water glasses.
It was as if they all moved on cue.
Not a one of the staff looked up to watch the geyser.
They had seen it.
This is why preachers hardly ever go back to serve the congregations that sent them off for ordination.
Except, of course, for that one very painful sermon right after you get out of seminary, where you preach the prophetic word, but all they do afterwards is smile and pat you on the head and say, "I remember when you were this tall."
If they hear anything, it's only to respond, "So that's what they're teaching in seminaries these days."
Yet it was not just familiarity in Nazareth.
It was also honor and shame.
Ancient Palestine had a highly-developed code of honor and shame, as many societies still do today.
The most important thing that you could do was to follow the code, to act with honor. The worst thing you could do was to bring shame on your family.
This is one of the reasons, I think, that they call him "the son of Mary," and not, as would be the normal custom, "the son of Joseph."
It was the oldest son's responsibility to take care of his mother.
Joseph is presumably gone, so the honor falls to Jesus -- and he's out and about, preaching in synagogues, healing the sick, casting out demons -- not taking care of his mother.
It doesn't make any difference that he's got four other brothers to help out.
It was his job.
But there's a little more to it than that.
This was not a pull-yourself-up-by-your-sandalstraps kind of place.
You were a carpenter; that is what you were trained to do; that is what you were born to do.
You didn't get above yourself.
Educated people, rich people with time on their hands and clean fingernails, studied the Torah and taught in the synagogue.
Not the carpenter.
The carpenter certainly did not leave town and go to other towns preaching the Kingdom of God and yada yada yada yada.
They were offended at him -- deeply, mortally offended.
In their way of looking at it, Jesus had brought shame.
Even his own family thought he was crazy, Mark tells us.
So Jesus said, "Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown, and among their own kin, and in their own house."
And yet there's even more going on here than shame and honor.
There's also the monkey factor.
In India, the time-honored method for catching monkeys is to use a coconut shell.
You take half of the shell and put a hole in it just large enough for a monkey to squeeze a hand through.
Then you pin the shell to the ground, and put some food inside of it.
The monkey will come along, smell the food, and wiggle his hand down inside to grab the food.
But then the monkey is trapped, because no monkey is ever going to drop a bit of food, and there's no way to get its hand out of the hole, as long as it's closed in a fist.
All the hunter has to do is come along and collect the monkey.
The people of Nazareth, along with the rest of the human race, share the monkey factor.
There's no way we're going to let go, once we get something in our fists.
You live in Nazareth, you know that Messiahs come from heaven in power and glory. They do not apprentice as carpenters.
Crucified people do not become the Son of God, nor do bands of ex-fishermen constitute the people of God.
Bread and wine do not become body and blood, any more than a couple of dozen people sitting in a white building in Hamden, Connecticut, could be God's hope for this world.
We get it in our fists, there's no way we'll let it go.
Mark tells us that Jesus could do little or nothing in Nazareth.
His power was limited by their disbelief.
But then Mark tells us the most important part of the story:
Mark says simply, "He went about among the other villages teaching."
Because if people are like monkeys, then God is like a dog.
In particular, God is like the most famous dog in Japan, Hatchiko.
Americans have Lassie; the Japanese have Hatchiko.
Hatchiko used to go with her master to the train station every day to see him off to work.
And every evening at 5:00 p.m. Hatchiko would return to the train station to wait for her master to come home.
One day the master did not come home. He had died that day at work.
Hatchiko waited for him at the station at 5:00 o'clock, as always.
In fact, so the story goes, Hatchiko the dog came to the station every day at 5:00 o'clock, for the next eleven years, for the rest of her life.
Jesus kept going; he kept on teaching.
Even though we human beings keep holding on to that which is not worth our lives.
God keeps coming back, keeps waiting, doggedly waiting for us.
Accident Report
Proper 10, Year C
Luke 10:25-37 -- "Who is my neighbor?"
July 12, 1998
This sermon, which was preached at Christ Episcopal Church in Avon, Connecticut, is set along a main road that leads from Avon toward Hartford (the insurance capital of the world). It is an example of a sermon that takes its form from the Scripture in a very direct fashion -- it simply retells the Scripture in modern guise (and to be honest, owes no little inspiration to Clarence Jordan's Cotton Patch Gospel). The problem with this particular parable of Jesus is that its message has been obscured by layers of sentimentality; we no longer think of the main character as scum (as Jesus' contemporaries did), but as a hero. The thing I pondered was how to recapture that sense of shock and disbelief that the original parable must have invoked among its hearers, and yet still move my congregation in a positive direction. The reader can judge how well I've done here; I can certainly report that some people in Avon were shocked. Others in this media-saturated, positivistic culture were merely surprised that I could "know" about these events -- had I seen it on television? I wonder if Jesus had the same problem.
A man was carjacked the other day on Route 4 outside Farmington.
He didn't see it coming.
It was early, not even 6:00 a.m.; he was hoping to get an early start on his workday down at Aetna.
He was sitting at the intersection, waiting for the light, listening to a CD, thinking about the day's To-Do list.
He hadn't even thought to press the door lock button on his Lexus.
One of them came through the passenger side with a gun.
The other pulled him out the driver's side like he was nothing more than a sack of potatoes.
They pistol-whipped him, knocked the wind out of him, and smacked him a couple of extra times for resisting.
They tore his suit.
They took his wallet and his watch and even his Italian loafers.
They kicked him in the head one last time before they drove off in his car.
Of course by that time he had already passed out.
The first car that came along was driven by an Episcopal priest.
He was on his way to officiate at an early service at the Cathedral.
Afterwards he had a very important meeting with the Bishop that morning. They were planning an addition to the parish hall at his church, and a big celebration for the hundredth anniversary of the congregation. Things were going well, booming.
He saw the man with the torn suit and no shoes on the side of the road.
At first he didn't think much of it -- about what he expected to see when driving into the city, just another one sleeping it off.
But he wasn't in the city yet, and when he passed by he could see that the man was hurt.
He thought about stopping, but then he'd be late for the service. And it's awfully hard to get an appointment with the Bishop, and there was that deadline for the loan application for the addition.
He prayed a little prayer as he punched 911 on his cell phone.
911 put him on hold.
After a few minutes, he passed out of range, and the phone disconnected.
The next car that passed by held three people who all worked with the man at Aetna.
They were on their way to an early morning ecumenical prayer breakfast downtown.
One was on the planning committee of the prayer breakfast and was scheduled to deliver the opening prayer.
The other two were members of the board at their own churches.
They saw the man in the torn suit and no shoes on the side of the road.
They didn't recognize him.
One of them said, "Looks like the guy's hurt."
Another said, "You know, sometimes gangs will set out a decoy, someone to play dead, and when you stop to help they jump you."
The driver kept driving.
One of them dialed 911 on a cell phone.
Another said, "Nice suit."
911 put them on hold, the car passed out of range, and the phone disconnected.
The third car that passed thumped with rap music.
The driver wore a leather jacket, wrap-around shades, and rings in his nose and eyelids.
He was a drug dealer.
He saw the man on the side of the road, and he knew a mugging when he saw it.
He pulled over and got out to take a look.
It was obvious the guy was in pretty bad shape.
The drug dealer patted him down -- no wallet, no watch, no nothing, but he did have a pulse.
So the drug dealer pulled the man over his shoulder, dragged him to his car, and put him in the backseat.
He drove to the emergency room of the hospital.
He stopped in front of the door and went around to the back to pull the man out.
A security guard called across the parking lot to him, "You can't park there. Ambulances only."
The drug dealer ignored him. He took the man inside and laid him on the closest empty gurney, and wheeled him through the double doors.
A nurse took over, wheeled the man into an alcove, and began to work on him.
The drug dealer turned to go.
Somebody with a nametag stopped him: "Wait a minute. We need proof of insurance."
"Oh, man's got insurance all right," said the drug dealer.
"We need proof of payment."
The drug dealer pulled a roll of cash out of his pocket, and peeled off a couple of hundred dollar bills. "This do?"
Behind him the security guard said, "You'll have to move your car."
That night, the Episcopal priest met with the Vestry to plan the new addition.
The three insurance executives all had dinner at home with their families.
And the drug dealer took up his post, watching the white kids who drove in from the suburbs as soon as the sun went down.
The man who had been mugged woke up that night in the hospital confused and disoriented.
"Don't try to sit up," the nurse said. "You've had a concussion. Can you tell me your name and address? Your family must be worried by now."
"How did I get here?" he said.
"I don't know," the nurse said. "Someone found you and brought you in. Must have been one of your neighbors."
The man said, "Who is my neighbor?"
The Gospel According To Bart
Epiphany 4, Year B
Deuteronomy 18:15-20 -- "The Lord will raise up for you from among you a prophet like me." and Mark 1:21-28 -- "What is this? A new teaching -- with authority!"
January 30, 2000
I am sometimes accused of using pop culture in my preaching. I don't feel the need to apologize. Quite the opposite. To say that my preaching style is influenced by the culture of the day is nothing to me but a compliment. Gradations in culture are largely a matter of taste, and as we all know, the taste of our congregations varies widely. After this sermon, there were people who were happy to tell me that they had never watched Bart Simpson (fortunately I told the story in the way they could follow, even without being familiar with the characters), but there were just as many people in the congregation who had never read a lick of Graham Greene, or would never go to see a movie like The End of the Affair, which I cite at the end of this sermon. It seems to me that preaching has to reach both audiences. Show, don't tell, must for this reason be our rule, no matter what the content. We can't assume they know Bart or Barth; whatever we glean from our study, we must show it to them so they can appreciate it on its own and for itself. This sermon was preached at Grace and St. Peter's Episcopal Church, Hamden, Connecticut.
Bart Simpson is out of time.
It is the night before the big test, and he needs to pass, not only to avoid flunking the course, but to move on to the next grade.
One more "F," and he will be held back to repeat the whole year.
It is lights out, bedtime, and he is not ready for the test.
So he does what a lot of people do when times get desperate: He prays.
"Dear God," Bart says, "you held back the sun for Moses. Give me one more day to study."
"Prayer, the last refuge of the scoundrel," says his sister Lisa.
But the next day a freak snowstorm sweeps in and covers Springfield, giving Bart one more day.
"I'm no theologian," says Lisa later, totally flabbergasted. "All I know is that the Lord is a force more powerful than Mom and Dad put together, and you owe God big."
"Yes," says Bart, clutching his test, "part of this D-minus belongs to God."
If speaking to God is serious business, speaking for God is something else entirely.
I read in the newspaper that the New York State welfare office will no longer refer its clients to jobs at the Psychic Friends Network.
No longer can you call 1-800-PSYCHIC and pay four dollars ninety-nine cents a minute to speak directly to a New York welfare mother.
It's too bad for the welfare mothers, because apparently it was nice work -- the pay was good, and all you needed to apply was a pleasant, sympathetic telephone voice.
And, oh, yes, what if you weren't actually psychic? That's okay, said the Psychic Friends. We train.
It reminds me of the psychic hotline that went out of business a few years ago, because, a spokesperson said, they had financial difficulties they could not foresee.
The people of Israel were told right off not to waste their $4.99.
"When you come into the land the Lord your God is giving you," said Moses, "do not do what the people of the land do -- "
Keep away from soothsayers, sorcerers, witches, mediums, necromancers, psychics trained or untrained.
If you have something to say to God, you can get down on your knees and say it directly.
And if you want to hear something from God, you will have from God a prophet.
"The Lord your God will raise up for you from among you a prophet like me," Moses told them.
Moses said a couple of important things about this prophet.
One is that the prophet comes from "among you"; the prophet is one of your brothers and sisters, a fellow Israelite.
You don't have to consult anyone from the outside, Moses said. It will be one of you.
One of our friends just started working on the staff of an Episcopal Diocese in New England.
The bishop introduced her to the convention, and rattled off all of her experience and her qualifications for the job.
Last of all, and "Best of all," said the bishop, "she is a native New Englander."
And they all started cheering.
There's something about being "one of us" that gains you the credibility to do the job.
The prophet will be one of you.
The other thing about that prophet, said Moses, is that the prophet will be like me.
That's not just his big head talking.
It's fundamental to the whole plot.
The prophet is going to look like something familiar, Moses said.
The prophet is going to hold you accountable to what you already know.
You have to remember that by the time we get to the book of Deuteronomy, we're at the fifth of five books of Moses.
We're talking about all the traditions that have been gathered around the name of Moses -- not just whatever Moses actually wrote, and we know he didn't write all of it himself --
But all the accumulated wisdom that extends back through the line of Moses.
That's five thick detailed books --
This is what the prophet is going to have to look like, said Moses.
It's not so much like being psychic or telling the future; the Old Testament prophet looks backward as much as forward, or rather the prophet looks at the present in light of the past.
The prophet is someone with moral courage, who can look at society with an eye trained by Moses, and say, this, and not that, is how things should be.
The prophet stands up in a corrupt court, next to the unbalanced scales of justice, and points back to the ideal.
There's really nothing new about this prophet.
It's all in the library.
It's a lot of bedtime reading.
You try reading the first five books of the Bible at two or three chapters a night, and see how long it takes you to get through it all.
Genesis alone will take you almost a month at that rate.
And that's without all the commentary.
By the time we move from Deuteronomy to the days of Jesus, there's another half-a-millennium of tradition to deal with.
It's no wonder that the people of Israel could not come to a consensus about this new prophet in their midst.
There was so much material to wade through.
A good deal of the New Testament was written to prove that Jesus was in fact the prophet like Moses.
We get an early glimpse into the issue in Mark's story about what happened at the synagogue in Capernaum.
Any Jewish man could be invited to teach in the synagogue, so it was no particular surprise when Jesus stood up to speak.
Even what he had to say wasn't particularly new -- the prophet like Moses will sound something like Moses.
It was the way Jesus said things --
"Not as the scribes," Mark tells us, "but as one who had authority."
Apparently what they were used to was commentary on the commentary, an endless parade of quotes and citations and "So-and-so says this but Thus-and-thus says that."
Somebody was telling me the story the other day, about the Sunday school class that was learning proper church behavior.
"Why is it important to be quiet during the sermon?" asked the teacher.
"Because," said one little girl, "people are sleeping."
Maybe the expectation in the synagogue was no greater.
But no eyelids grew heavy as Jesus taught.
Just as no one could sleep through the cries of the unclean spirit that interrupted the sermon.
"What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us, you Holy One of God?"
"Shut up," said Jesus, "and come out!"
After Jesus finished off the demon, they were even more amazed.
Moses had power to do signs and wonders in the courts of Pharaoh, and here was Jesus with authority even over the unseen powers of evil.
"What is this?" they said to one another. "A new teaching -- with authority!"
They were flabbergasted.
But, you know, "amazed" is not the same as "believed."
In fact, Mark usually uses that word "amazed" to describe the people who don't believe in Jesus.
He tells us that Jesus' fame spread through the countryside, but he does not say that the whole countryside came to faith.
Because it's one thing to see the prophet like Moses, and another to recognize him.
With recognition comes responsibility.
You have to realize that you are accountable for what you see and hear.
If it's truly God speaking, you're not going to be able just to hang up that phone.
You're going to owe big.
There's a movie out now, The End of the Affair, starring Julianne Moore as a woman named Sarah living in London in the middle of the Blitz, in World War II.
Without giving too much of the movie away, I can tell you that the pivotal scene finds Sarah on her knees by the side of her bed in the rubble, praying her heart out for the one thing that means more to her than life itself.
As we watch, her prayer comes true.
Her life from that moment undergoes electric shock treatment. She cannot go on as before. She will never be the same again.
You cannot let God into the deepest part of your heart without coming away scorched.
Later on Sarah will say that as much as she tried to resist it, "On that day, a love was born."
Now theologically, I would say that Sarah's prayer was no more mature than Bart Simpson's.
Prayer is more than getting what you asked for.
Just as a prophet does more than tell your future.
And listening to the word is more than staying awake through the sermon.
But Sarah's prayer was a start.
All God needs is a little crack to slip through.
Faith is a little seed, and worship and teaching are the sun and the rain that make faith grow.
The real test of faith is what happens next.
The Power Of The Python
Easter 7, Year C
Acts16:16-34 -- "These men are slaves of God, who proclaim to you a way of salvation."
May 27, 2001
I include this sermon because it presents a problem of memory, and because the problem was solved. The Seuss-like rhyme of the opening (no one seems to know where this poem came from, Dr. Seuss didn't remember writing it, and it exists on the Internet in enough variations to make a textual critic drool) was the hardest part to learn by heart, since I did not write it. It had the advantage of rhythm and rhyme, but the memory work was still much harder than with my usual sermons. The solution was simply to spend more time with it. Most of our memory problems are fixed either by revision, if the problem is structural, or as in this case, by more rehearsal. Was it worth it? (I could have started the sermon with "You have to make a choice"). Yes, if for no other reason, delight -- not the least of which was the delight I saw on their faces as they gradually realized that my opening lines were not ordinary. One of the joys of preaching at Grace and St. Peter's Episcopal Church was the creativity of the congregation -- there were a number of Suess lovers who after the service gave me their own Suessian evaluation of the sermon, complete with rhymes. Here's a footnote: the final story came from Desiree Cooper and was aired on All Things Considered, May 24, 2001.
Did I ever tell you about the young Zoad
Who came to two signs at a fork in the road?
One said, "place one" and the other, "place two."
So the Zoad had to make up his mind what to do.
Well the Zoad scratched his head, his chin, and his pants,
And he said to himself, "Now, I'll be taking a chance.
"If I go to place one, that place may be hot.
"So how will I know if I like it or not?
"On the other hand though, I'll feel such a fool,
"If I go to place two and find it's too cool.
"In that case I may catch a chill and turn blue.
"So place one may be best and not place two.
"On the other hand though, if place one is too high,
"I might get a terrible earache and die.
"On the other hand though, if place two is too low,
"I might get some terrible pain in my toe.
"So place one may be the best," and he started to go.
And he stopped and he said, "On the other hand though ...
"On the other hand, other hand, other hand though ..."
And for thirty-six hours and one half that Zoad
Made starts and made stops at the fork in the road,
Saying, "No, don't take a chance; you may not be right."
Then he got an idea that was wonderfully bright.
"Play safe!" cried the Zoad. "I'll play safe. I'm no dunce.
"I'll simply start off to both places at once."
And that's how the Zoad who would not take a chance
Got to no place at all with a split in his pants.
-- Anonymous, sometimes attributed to Dr. Seuss
You have to make a choice.
That was what was so annoying to Paul.
It was not just the persistent drip, drip, drip --
Day after day of the slave girl and her singsong voice:
"These men are slaves of the Most High God, who proclaim to you a way of salvation."
What annoyed Paul so much was the fact that she spoke the truth --
Yet she was unable to live that truth.
She was under the power of the Python.
Our translation calls it "a spirit of divination," but any citizen in the Roman colony of Philippi would have recognized the Python --
That great mythical dragon who rose out of the mud to rule Delphi.
The snake was slain by Apollo, but was still said to inspire the priestesses of the Delphic Oracle, where people would come to ask questions about their future, and get a thumbs up or thumbs down on their plans.
The Romans thought that all fortune-telling came from spirits like the Python, so even this little slave girl could be a priestess of the snake.
She had the spirit of the serpent.
Paul, of course, had a different view of the snake --
The pages of Genesis and Revelation and all that lies in-between see the Python in a less-positive light.
The snake is something to be avoided --
The dragon a force to be fought.
As far as Paul was concerned, this little girl was under the bondage of the devil, and she must be freed.
The Book of Acts treats the story like an exorcism, just like Jesus --
Paul commanded the spirit of the Python to exit:
"I order you in the name of Jesus Christ to come out of her."
And it came out that very hour.
Which is when we find what this was really about.
It was about money.
This was a traveling freak show.
Gypsies with corporate sponsors.
What really counted was ticket sales.
The owners of the slave girl were making a living off the fortune-seekers.
People then and now would pay good money to the Psychic Friends Network.
And as Paul found out, you don't want to make the Psychic Friends your enemies.
With the spirit of the Python gone, there would be no more fortune-telling.
And someone was going to have to pay.
Paul and Silas, being the most suitable someones, were dragged off to the authorities.
Lies were told, half truths.
You never went wrong playing to the fears of the Roman public.
You can say anything, as long as you know the buttons to push:
Blame it on the Jews, blame it on foreigners.
You know, those people just aren't like us.
Nowadays, Paul and Silas would have simply been subjected to a lashing on talk radio.
But this was a more brutally honest place and time.
They took the concept of deterrent seriously, and what could not be seen was not going to deter.
Punishment was public as well as bloody.
It was the ultimate reality show, and you did not have to wait until prime time:
"Real Life Danger in the Public Square": "Evangelists on Trial: You Make the Call" --
Dial 1-900-THUMBSUP or THUMBSDOWN.
Most people in that marketplace that day were holding their thumbs down.
Paul and Silas were stripped and lashed and beaten with rods.
Thirty-nine lashes were the customary punishment, for it was said that on the fortieth lash, you would certainly die.
Only then was it off to jail, maximum security, with feet in the stocks.
And that's where we find them, singing.
Singing!
What kind of person do you have to be, to be singing at a time like this?
What kind of spirit has gotten into you?
Most people I know find their very belief in God tried by the slightest setback in life.
I personally would be happier at home in the La-Z-Boy.
But here were Paul and Silas, the blood still oozing from the welts in their backs, their feet up not in recliners but in chains, and they "were praying and singing hymns to God, and the prisoners were listening to them."
Not only had they kept their faith through the torture, but they continued to proclaim it.
Which was when they got a big assist from on high.
Jesus promised release to the captives, and Paul and Silas got to take that promise quite literally --
As did everyone else in that jail that night, as the foundation shook and the doors swung open and the chains unlinked.
Even the jailer was saved by Paul that night, as his sword of honor was stopped in midair by Paul's words: "Do not harm yourself, your prisoners are all still here" --
Those words, and the other words Paul used in answer to the question, "What must I do to be saved?"
"Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and you will be saved, and all your household."
After all this, I think it's safe to say that we should be on high symbolism alert as we finish the story --
We watch the jailer take Paul and Silas into his own house.
He washed their wounds.
He and his whole now-baptized family invited their new brothers to the table.
I don't think it's any accident that these people who were just baptized immediately begin to serve wounded humanity and gather together for a meal.
What else would you do, once you've been "saved"?
There was a story on the radio the other day about a black woman named Desi who moved into what had once been an all-white neighborhood.
Rumor had it that Joe and Bev, the white people next door, were racists.
Joe and Bev had been hostile when black people had moved into the neighborhood thirty years earlier.
The story had it that when one of the new black neighbors had come over to introduce himself, Joe had looked at the dark extended hand and refused to touch it.
So Desi kept her distance. A friendly wave as you pass by, a nod of the head, but nothing more -- no harm in being nice, why put your feelings on the line for people who will just hurt you?
But as time went by, the boundaries between the two houses loosened; the kids would go over into Bev and Joe's yard to retrieve a football or a frisbee, and come back with a ginger snap or a quarter.
And after Joe died, Bev would be on the phone, wanting one of the kids to help her carry groceries or lift a potted plant, and they would come back with vegetables from Bev's garden, or a box of popsicles.
Was Bev just being friendly now because she was lonely? Did she think of these children as her servants?
One day Desi came home to find a message from Bev: "Hi, Desi, I need your opinion on something -- you're just like a daughter to me."
And there was Bev at her front door, in a dusky rose dress and string of pearls.
"I'm going out of town," she said as she hustled into the living room, "and I wanted to know if this looked okay. I've just had it altered, and look what they did with the lining."
The next thing Desi knew, Bev had whipped off the dress.
And Desi found herself wondering how it came to be that she was standing there with this person she had made it a point to keep away from, and now this person was half-naked in her living room, the two of them like mother and daughter, a couple of girlfriends sharing a secret, like kids at a slumber party.
When all is said and done, this is how you know it took:
God doesn't just save people; God changes people.
To be baptized is the beginning.
To believe is to be changed.
Fingerprints
Epiphany 4, Year C
Jeremiah 1:4-10 -- "The Lord put out a hand and touched my lip." and Luke 4:21-32 -- "Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing."
January 28, 2001
There are some who contend that in order to preach without a net, the sermon must rely on story, and be extremely short. Unless you're telling one long story, or a series of little stories, so the theory goes, you are going to be dependent on your notes and manuscripts. And if you try to preach longer than eight to ten minutes (the average length between television commercials), you will surely lose it. Here is a counterexample; this sermon was my average length, almost fifteen minutes long, and it really has no stories at all, though it comments on two biblical stories. I did not have any problem preaching it without a manuscript of notes. This is not because I have an exceptional memory, either -- though I do have a practiced one. It has more to do with the nature of the sermon itself, which was conceived from the beginning with delivery -- and therefore memory -- in mind. The style is story-like, in that it makes maximum use of concrete nouns and vivid verbs, in an attempt to make the sermon something that can be seen, tasted, smelled, and touched as well as heard. It is the use of language, not story form per se, that makes a sermon memorable. This sermon was preached at Grace and St. Peter's Episcopal Church, Hamden, Connecticut.
As usual, God has it backwards.
Everyone knows what this means:
The finger to the lip.
It means: Be quiet.
Don't speak.
Shut up.
Everyone knows that.
Except, of course, God.
"The Lord put out a hand and touched my lip," said the prophet Jeremiah.
And did God say, "Sssh"?
No.
The opposite.
"I have put my words in your mouth," the Lord told Jeremiah.
"Today I appoint you over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck up and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant."
This is the kind of thing that can ruin your whole day.
Isaiah said that when he met up with God, an angel of the Lord took a hot coal from the altar with a pair of tongs, and touched it to his lips.
How much more searing must have been the direct touch of the finger of God on the lips of Jeremiah.
Ouch!
That's got to leave a scar.
What is it like, I wonder, to walk around the rest of your life with that thing right there where everyone can see -- the fingerprint of God on your lips?
If they don't seem to notice the mouth, they can hardly ignore the words.
Some people think that preachers should keep out of politics.
"It's dirty," they say. "It will soil you."
They point their fingers at the pulpit and say, "You must stop saying such things."
God, however, must have missed that memo.
Once again, the Lord has it backwards.
"I appoint you over nations and kingdoms," God told Jeremiah -- pluck up, pull down, destroy, overthrow, build, and plant.
Evidently God did have something to say to the nations.
And the only way to say it was through the disfigured lips of a prophet.
This sort of preaching is not just a rehash of what you heard on Nightline:
Pundits glazed over with a bit of Scripture and a smidgen of piety.
This is something new.
Because it does not come from any mere human being.
"You shall go where I send you," said the Lord to Jeremiah.
"You shall speak what I command."
"I am with you," said the Lord.
And sure enough, when the time came, Jeremiah was right there on the op-ed page of the Jerusalem Post, saying the exact opposite of what everyone else had to say.
All the other prophets -- the people who claimed to be prophets -- told the people that no way would the Babylonians ever take us, the People of God, from our land.
Jeremiah alone told the truth, that they would have to learn to sing God's song by the rivers of Babylon.
The people of Jerusalem would be taken out of their city, and they would spend seventy long years in exile.
Because it wasn't good enough just to sit back and let things be the way they were.
Life is always changing, and God keeps asking us for that response to the change that we call faith.
What the people needed to hear was not the regurgitation of what they already believed.
They needed something from outside of themselves.
They needed a word from God.
The problem being that God keeps getting it backwards.
Ask anyone from the synagogue at Nazareth.
There they were, waiting for the preacher to take the pulpit.
It's the new guy.
Well, not new new.
You remember him.
Son of the carpenter.
I hear he's been doing great stuff all over Galilee.
I can't wait to hear what he's going to tell us:
His old friends.
The people he grew up with.
We're practically family.
Why, I remember him when he was so tall.
Just think, finally a prophet of our own in Nazareth.
On the map at last, a city on the move.
Mr. Mayor, what do you think?
It'll be like having a gold mine in our own backyard.
But no prophet is accepted by the hometown crowd.
As Luke tells the story, when Jesus got up to preach, it was no boost to the local economy.
It was not even a comfort.
Any more than Elijah was a comfort to Israel, when the heavens were shut up for three and a half years, and where did the prophet go? To a foreigner, a widow of Zarephath up north in Sidon.
No more did Elisha play to the hometown crowd, bypassing all the lepers of Israel to heal outside the walls, Naaman the Syrian.
Far from playing the local connection, Jesus all but insulted them in Nazareth.
It's not just that he refused to join the local Jaycees.
He touched a tender spot in the national psyche.
Up and down the land of Israel in Jesus' day there was that sense of privilege, the pride of being chosen God's people.
There was that feeling of being exclusive.
Yet their own tradition said there was more to being a Jew than simply birthright.
And their own most famous prophets reached beyond the walls.
You can't rely on heritage, Jesus seemed to say.
God doesn't care where you came from, or what's on your resume.
The only thing God is interested in is what you are doing now.
And it doesn't do any good to heckle the preacher.
"Hey, Jesus, we heard what you did at Capernaum; cut the politics and do something for us."
You can't tell a prophet to shut up.
Not even under threat of being run out of town and off a cliff.
Because the prophet, the true prophet of God, has the distinctive swirl of a hot fingertip on the lip.
And even after all these years, that scar still burns.
Lord, "Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal." (Book of Common Prayer, p. 372)
I suppose there are some people who would not hesitate to get into their little window on Nightline and say, "Yes, Ted, this is the Promised Land."
But given God's penchant for getting things backwards, I would want to be careful about that sort of thing.
If I read Jeremiah's op-ed page right, the conventional wisdom won't cut it.
And if I hear Jesus' sermon in the synagogue in Nazareth correctly, historical and cultural boundaries do not contain God.
I suppose that there are some people who think that their baptism and profession of the Christian faith is some sort of entitlement.
Entitlement to what, I don't know; I suppose there would be different versions of what that baptism and faith might entitle you to --
A spot in heaven, perhaps --
Solace in adversity --
Admission to the club -- I don't know.
Maybe just the chance to sit in the pew and listen to sermons like this one.
But I would suggest that if you think about it, baptism is actually membership in the ranks of the prophets.
It's all in the Book of Common Prayer.
Think of the words that you have to say as part of the baptismal covenant (pp. 303-04):
"Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?"
Sounds like prophecy to me -- not telling the future, but prophecy in the proper sense, speaking that word that comes from outside of ourselves.
"Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?"
"Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?"
Sounds like a prophetic message to me -- maybe even a political prophetic message.
At any rate, these are words to burn the mouth.
How could we possibly say, "Yes," to those questions unless we had at least a trace of God's finger on our lips?
Oh, maybe it would take Sherlock Holmes and his magnifying glass to see it on some of us, but it's got to be there.
How else but the finger of God could anyone possibly say, "Yes, I will, with God's help"?
Someone once asked the question: If being a Christian were illegal, would there be enough evidence to convict you?
I believe that the case will be solved through good old-fashioned detective work.
The question will be answered when they test our lips for fingerprints.
For each sermon manuscript, I've included an introduction that addresses some of the homiletical issues involved. My hope is that the sermons, with their introductions, will stand as practical illustrations of the results that can be obtained with the method I've proposed in this book.
All of these samples were preached without a net -- I used no notes or manuscripts in their delivery (you will see that I have retained the original "oral manuscript" form of each sermon). They are examples of what can be done with the process outlined in this book. They were delivered pretty much as given here, though I am always editing and revising up to the moment I open my mouth. As such, they are merely written reminders of what was said -- not the sermons themselves. What I cannot reproduce here are the gestures and voice that brought the words to life; the sermon was a vocal, bodily interpretation of these words. For maximum benefit and to come as close as possible to reproducing the experience, I suggest you read the manuscripts aloud.
Sermon composition is never done in isolation from the community that receives it, so a few words about specific congregations are in order. Christ Episcopal Church in Avon, Connecticut, is a medium-sized parish in a well-off suburb of Hartford; the architecture is modern, the parish young, the people prosperous. Grace and St. Peter's Church in Hamden, Connecticut, outside New Haven, is the product of a successful merger of two diverse congregations, and while its ethos is strictly middle-class, it has accumulated a substantial endowment. I served both parishes as an Interim Ministry Specialist, and these sermons reflect the transitional dynamics at work.
Dog/God
Proper 9, Year B
Mark 6:1-6 -- "Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown."
July 9, 2000
Sometimes our sermon study uncovers a tidbit that is not common knowledge, but crucial for understanding the scriptural passage. Sometimes, as in this case, what is uncovered is just the tip of an iceberg. The ancient Mediterranean honor/shame dynamic is essential to understanding not only the reaction to Jesus' sermon in Nazareth, but much of the social dynamics reflected in the New Testament. This sermon seeks to give the congregation this clue in order to open up the text theologically. You may note that my interpretation of the Nazareth sermon in Mark is quite different from my view of Luke's version of the story, which will appear later in this book. The literary and theological diversity of the Bible can and must be reflected from the pulpit; it simply won't do to color Mark with Luke's pen. It was preached at Grace and St. Peter's Episcopal Church, Hamden, Connecticut.
I saw a bumper sticker the other day.
It said, "My Boss is a Jewish Carpenter" --
I thought that strange.
Shouldn't it read, "My Boss was a Jewish Carpenter"?
Jesus isn't in Nazareth anymore.
But that's the problem with bumper stickers.
My father would never allow a bumper sticker to be put on his car.
We used to visit family in Chattanooga, Tennessee, which was Bumper Sticker Heaven: See Rock City. Visit Ruby Falls. Ride the Incline. Confederama.
My brothers and I would beg for bumper stickers.
But my father would always say, "The problem with bumper stickers is they never come off."
Just ask anyone with a twelve-year-old car that reads: Vote Dukakis.
Of course the other side would be rejoicing that what goes around comes around, if only they didn't have to scrape off the name Quayle.
The problem with bumper stickers is that they never let you change your mind.
And if Chattanooga is Bumper Sticker Heaven, then Nazareth in Jesus' day was Bumper Sticker Hell.
And now I'm not talking about the things that you paste on the back of your car, but the things you paste on the inside of your head.
Jesus walked into his hometown and began to do what he did in all the towns he visited: he began to teach in the synagogue.
But the people of Nazareth saw and heard only what they were expecting:
The carpenter.
The son of Mary.
The brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon and all his sisters.
They could not see who he really was.
Only the carpenter.
Part of this is familiarity.
I read somewhere about a guy who went to Yellowstone to see Old Faithful.
Every twenty-four minutes the geyser erupts, and there's actually a clock that ticks down the time.
This guy was sitting next door in the Old Faithful Inn, having lunch.
Everyone in the place was watching the clock.
When it got down to one, the tourists would jump up from their tables and go to the big picture windows to watch the water show.
This guy went to the window with everyone else.
At the window, he turned around to see that all the waiters took this opportunity to sweep down on the tables and clear dishes and fill water glasses.
It was as if they all moved on cue.
Not a one of the staff looked up to watch the geyser.
They had seen it.
This is why preachers hardly ever go back to serve the congregations that sent them off for ordination.
Except, of course, for that one very painful sermon right after you get out of seminary, where you preach the prophetic word, but all they do afterwards is smile and pat you on the head and say, "I remember when you were this tall."
If they hear anything, it's only to respond, "So that's what they're teaching in seminaries these days."
Yet it was not just familiarity in Nazareth.
It was also honor and shame.
Ancient Palestine had a highly-developed code of honor and shame, as many societies still do today.
The most important thing that you could do was to follow the code, to act with honor. The worst thing you could do was to bring shame on your family.
This is one of the reasons, I think, that they call him "the son of Mary," and not, as would be the normal custom, "the son of Joseph."
It was the oldest son's responsibility to take care of his mother.
Joseph is presumably gone, so the honor falls to Jesus -- and he's out and about, preaching in synagogues, healing the sick, casting out demons -- not taking care of his mother.
It doesn't make any difference that he's got four other brothers to help out.
It was his job.
But there's a little more to it than that.
This was not a pull-yourself-up-by-your-sandalstraps kind of place.
You were a carpenter; that is what you were trained to do; that is what you were born to do.
You didn't get above yourself.
Educated people, rich people with time on their hands and clean fingernails, studied the Torah and taught in the synagogue.
Not the carpenter.
The carpenter certainly did not leave town and go to other towns preaching the Kingdom of God and yada yada yada yada.
They were offended at him -- deeply, mortally offended.
In their way of looking at it, Jesus had brought shame.
Even his own family thought he was crazy, Mark tells us.
So Jesus said, "Prophets are not without honor, except in their hometown, and among their own kin, and in their own house."
And yet there's even more going on here than shame and honor.
There's also the monkey factor.
In India, the time-honored method for catching monkeys is to use a coconut shell.
You take half of the shell and put a hole in it just large enough for a monkey to squeeze a hand through.
Then you pin the shell to the ground, and put some food inside of it.
The monkey will come along, smell the food, and wiggle his hand down inside to grab the food.
But then the monkey is trapped, because no monkey is ever going to drop a bit of food, and there's no way to get its hand out of the hole, as long as it's closed in a fist.
All the hunter has to do is come along and collect the monkey.
The people of Nazareth, along with the rest of the human race, share the monkey factor.
There's no way we're going to let go, once we get something in our fists.
You live in Nazareth, you know that Messiahs come from heaven in power and glory. They do not apprentice as carpenters.
Crucified people do not become the Son of God, nor do bands of ex-fishermen constitute the people of God.
Bread and wine do not become body and blood, any more than a couple of dozen people sitting in a white building in Hamden, Connecticut, could be God's hope for this world.
We get it in our fists, there's no way we'll let it go.
Mark tells us that Jesus could do little or nothing in Nazareth.
His power was limited by their disbelief.
But then Mark tells us the most important part of the story:
Mark says simply, "He went about among the other villages teaching."
Because if people are like monkeys, then God is like a dog.
In particular, God is like the most famous dog in Japan, Hatchiko.
Americans have Lassie; the Japanese have Hatchiko.
Hatchiko used to go with her master to the train station every day to see him off to work.
And every evening at 5:00 p.m. Hatchiko would return to the train station to wait for her master to come home.
One day the master did not come home. He had died that day at work.
Hatchiko waited for him at the station at 5:00 o'clock, as always.
In fact, so the story goes, Hatchiko the dog came to the station every day at 5:00 o'clock, for the next eleven years, for the rest of her life.
Jesus kept going; he kept on teaching.
Even though we human beings keep holding on to that which is not worth our lives.
God keeps coming back, keeps waiting, doggedly waiting for us.
Accident Report
Proper 10, Year C
Luke 10:25-37 -- "Who is my neighbor?"
July 12, 1998
This sermon, which was preached at Christ Episcopal Church in Avon, Connecticut, is set along a main road that leads from Avon toward Hartford (the insurance capital of the world). It is an example of a sermon that takes its form from the Scripture in a very direct fashion -- it simply retells the Scripture in modern guise (and to be honest, owes no little inspiration to Clarence Jordan's Cotton Patch Gospel). The problem with this particular parable of Jesus is that its message has been obscured by layers of sentimentality; we no longer think of the main character as scum (as Jesus' contemporaries did), but as a hero. The thing I pondered was how to recapture that sense of shock and disbelief that the original parable must have invoked among its hearers, and yet still move my congregation in a positive direction. The reader can judge how well I've done here; I can certainly report that some people in Avon were shocked. Others in this media-saturated, positivistic culture were merely surprised that I could "know" about these events -- had I seen it on television? I wonder if Jesus had the same problem.
A man was carjacked the other day on Route 4 outside Farmington.
He didn't see it coming.
It was early, not even 6:00 a.m.; he was hoping to get an early start on his workday down at Aetna.
He was sitting at the intersection, waiting for the light, listening to a CD, thinking about the day's To-Do list.
He hadn't even thought to press the door lock button on his Lexus.
One of them came through the passenger side with a gun.
The other pulled him out the driver's side like he was nothing more than a sack of potatoes.
They pistol-whipped him, knocked the wind out of him, and smacked him a couple of extra times for resisting.
They tore his suit.
They took his wallet and his watch and even his Italian loafers.
They kicked him in the head one last time before they drove off in his car.
Of course by that time he had already passed out.
The first car that came along was driven by an Episcopal priest.
He was on his way to officiate at an early service at the Cathedral.
Afterwards he had a very important meeting with the Bishop that morning. They were planning an addition to the parish hall at his church, and a big celebration for the hundredth anniversary of the congregation. Things were going well, booming.
He saw the man with the torn suit and no shoes on the side of the road.
At first he didn't think much of it -- about what he expected to see when driving into the city, just another one sleeping it off.
But he wasn't in the city yet, and when he passed by he could see that the man was hurt.
He thought about stopping, but then he'd be late for the service. And it's awfully hard to get an appointment with the Bishop, and there was that deadline for the loan application for the addition.
He prayed a little prayer as he punched 911 on his cell phone.
911 put him on hold.
After a few minutes, he passed out of range, and the phone disconnected.
The next car that passed by held three people who all worked with the man at Aetna.
They were on their way to an early morning ecumenical prayer breakfast downtown.
One was on the planning committee of the prayer breakfast and was scheduled to deliver the opening prayer.
The other two were members of the board at their own churches.
They saw the man in the torn suit and no shoes on the side of the road.
They didn't recognize him.
One of them said, "Looks like the guy's hurt."
Another said, "You know, sometimes gangs will set out a decoy, someone to play dead, and when you stop to help they jump you."
The driver kept driving.
One of them dialed 911 on a cell phone.
Another said, "Nice suit."
911 put them on hold, the car passed out of range, and the phone disconnected.
The third car that passed thumped with rap music.
The driver wore a leather jacket, wrap-around shades, and rings in his nose and eyelids.
He was a drug dealer.
He saw the man on the side of the road, and he knew a mugging when he saw it.
He pulled over and got out to take a look.
It was obvious the guy was in pretty bad shape.
The drug dealer patted him down -- no wallet, no watch, no nothing, but he did have a pulse.
So the drug dealer pulled the man over his shoulder, dragged him to his car, and put him in the backseat.
He drove to the emergency room of the hospital.
He stopped in front of the door and went around to the back to pull the man out.
A security guard called across the parking lot to him, "You can't park there. Ambulances only."
The drug dealer ignored him. He took the man inside and laid him on the closest empty gurney, and wheeled him through the double doors.
A nurse took over, wheeled the man into an alcove, and began to work on him.
The drug dealer turned to go.
Somebody with a nametag stopped him: "Wait a minute. We need proof of insurance."
"Oh, man's got insurance all right," said the drug dealer.
"We need proof of payment."
The drug dealer pulled a roll of cash out of his pocket, and peeled off a couple of hundred dollar bills. "This do?"
Behind him the security guard said, "You'll have to move your car."
That night, the Episcopal priest met with the Vestry to plan the new addition.
The three insurance executives all had dinner at home with their families.
And the drug dealer took up his post, watching the white kids who drove in from the suburbs as soon as the sun went down.
The man who had been mugged woke up that night in the hospital confused and disoriented.
"Don't try to sit up," the nurse said. "You've had a concussion. Can you tell me your name and address? Your family must be worried by now."
"How did I get here?" he said.
"I don't know," the nurse said. "Someone found you and brought you in. Must have been one of your neighbors."
The man said, "Who is my neighbor?"
The Gospel According To Bart
Epiphany 4, Year B
Deuteronomy 18:15-20 -- "The Lord will raise up for you from among you a prophet like me." and Mark 1:21-28 -- "What is this? A new teaching -- with authority!"
January 30, 2000
I am sometimes accused of using pop culture in my preaching. I don't feel the need to apologize. Quite the opposite. To say that my preaching style is influenced by the culture of the day is nothing to me but a compliment. Gradations in culture are largely a matter of taste, and as we all know, the taste of our congregations varies widely. After this sermon, there were people who were happy to tell me that they had never watched Bart Simpson (fortunately I told the story in the way they could follow, even without being familiar with the characters), but there were just as many people in the congregation who had never read a lick of Graham Greene, or would never go to see a movie like The End of the Affair, which I cite at the end of this sermon. It seems to me that preaching has to reach both audiences. Show, don't tell, must for this reason be our rule, no matter what the content. We can't assume they know Bart or Barth; whatever we glean from our study, we must show it to them so they can appreciate it on its own and for itself. This sermon was preached at Grace and St. Peter's Episcopal Church, Hamden, Connecticut.
Bart Simpson is out of time.
It is the night before the big test, and he needs to pass, not only to avoid flunking the course, but to move on to the next grade.
One more "F," and he will be held back to repeat the whole year.
It is lights out, bedtime, and he is not ready for the test.
So he does what a lot of people do when times get desperate: He prays.
"Dear God," Bart says, "you held back the sun for Moses. Give me one more day to study."
"Prayer, the last refuge of the scoundrel," says his sister Lisa.
But the next day a freak snowstorm sweeps in and covers Springfield, giving Bart one more day.
"I'm no theologian," says Lisa later, totally flabbergasted. "All I know is that the Lord is a force more powerful than Mom and Dad put together, and you owe God big."
"Yes," says Bart, clutching his test, "part of this D-minus belongs to God."
If speaking to God is serious business, speaking for God is something else entirely.
I read in the newspaper that the New York State welfare office will no longer refer its clients to jobs at the Psychic Friends Network.
No longer can you call 1-800-PSYCHIC and pay four dollars ninety-nine cents a minute to speak directly to a New York welfare mother.
It's too bad for the welfare mothers, because apparently it was nice work -- the pay was good, and all you needed to apply was a pleasant, sympathetic telephone voice.
And, oh, yes, what if you weren't actually psychic? That's okay, said the Psychic Friends. We train.
It reminds me of the psychic hotline that went out of business a few years ago, because, a spokesperson said, they had financial difficulties they could not foresee.
The people of Israel were told right off not to waste their $4.99.
"When you come into the land the Lord your God is giving you," said Moses, "do not do what the people of the land do -- "
Keep away from soothsayers, sorcerers, witches, mediums, necromancers, psychics trained or untrained.
If you have something to say to God, you can get down on your knees and say it directly.
And if you want to hear something from God, you will have from God a prophet.
"The Lord your God will raise up for you from among you a prophet like me," Moses told them.
Moses said a couple of important things about this prophet.
One is that the prophet comes from "among you"; the prophet is one of your brothers and sisters, a fellow Israelite.
You don't have to consult anyone from the outside, Moses said. It will be one of you.
One of our friends just started working on the staff of an Episcopal Diocese in New England.
The bishop introduced her to the convention, and rattled off all of her experience and her qualifications for the job.
Last of all, and "Best of all," said the bishop, "she is a native New Englander."
And they all started cheering.
There's something about being "one of us" that gains you the credibility to do the job.
The prophet will be one of you.
The other thing about that prophet, said Moses, is that the prophet will be like me.
That's not just his big head talking.
It's fundamental to the whole plot.
The prophet is going to look like something familiar, Moses said.
The prophet is going to hold you accountable to what you already know.
You have to remember that by the time we get to the book of Deuteronomy, we're at the fifth of five books of Moses.
We're talking about all the traditions that have been gathered around the name of Moses -- not just whatever Moses actually wrote, and we know he didn't write all of it himself --
But all the accumulated wisdom that extends back through the line of Moses.
That's five thick detailed books --
This is what the prophet is going to have to look like, said Moses.
It's not so much like being psychic or telling the future; the Old Testament prophet looks backward as much as forward, or rather the prophet looks at the present in light of the past.
The prophet is someone with moral courage, who can look at society with an eye trained by Moses, and say, this, and not that, is how things should be.
The prophet stands up in a corrupt court, next to the unbalanced scales of justice, and points back to the ideal.
There's really nothing new about this prophet.
It's all in the library.
It's a lot of bedtime reading.
You try reading the first five books of the Bible at two or three chapters a night, and see how long it takes you to get through it all.
Genesis alone will take you almost a month at that rate.
And that's without all the commentary.
By the time we move from Deuteronomy to the days of Jesus, there's another half-a-millennium of tradition to deal with.
It's no wonder that the people of Israel could not come to a consensus about this new prophet in their midst.
There was so much material to wade through.
A good deal of the New Testament was written to prove that Jesus was in fact the prophet like Moses.
We get an early glimpse into the issue in Mark's story about what happened at the synagogue in Capernaum.
Any Jewish man could be invited to teach in the synagogue, so it was no particular surprise when Jesus stood up to speak.
Even what he had to say wasn't particularly new -- the prophet like Moses will sound something like Moses.
It was the way Jesus said things --
"Not as the scribes," Mark tells us, "but as one who had authority."
Apparently what they were used to was commentary on the commentary, an endless parade of quotes and citations and "So-and-so says this but Thus-and-thus says that."
Somebody was telling me the story the other day, about the Sunday school class that was learning proper church behavior.
"Why is it important to be quiet during the sermon?" asked the teacher.
"Because," said one little girl, "people are sleeping."
Maybe the expectation in the synagogue was no greater.
But no eyelids grew heavy as Jesus taught.
Just as no one could sleep through the cries of the unclean spirit that interrupted the sermon.
"What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us, you Holy One of God?"
"Shut up," said Jesus, "and come out!"
After Jesus finished off the demon, they were even more amazed.
Moses had power to do signs and wonders in the courts of Pharaoh, and here was Jesus with authority even over the unseen powers of evil.
"What is this?" they said to one another. "A new teaching -- with authority!"
They were flabbergasted.
But, you know, "amazed" is not the same as "believed."
In fact, Mark usually uses that word "amazed" to describe the people who don't believe in Jesus.
He tells us that Jesus' fame spread through the countryside, but he does not say that the whole countryside came to faith.
Because it's one thing to see the prophet like Moses, and another to recognize him.
With recognition comes responsibility.
You have to realize that you are accountable for what you see and hear.
If it's truly God speaking, you're not going to be able just to hang up that phone.
You're going to owe big.
There's a movie out now, The End of the Affair, starring Julianne Moore as a woman named Sarah living in London in the middle of the Blitz, in World War II.
Without giving too much of the movie away, I can tell you that the pivotal scene finds Sarah on her knees by the side of her bed in the rubble, praying her heart out for the one thing that means more to her than life itself.
As we watch, her prayer comes true.
Her life from that moment undergoes electric shock treatment. She cannot go on as before. She will never be the same again.
You cannot let God into the deepest part of your heart without coming away scorched.
Later on Sarah will say that as much as she tried to resist it, "On that day, a love was born."
Now theologically, I would say that Sarah's prayer was no more mature than Bart Simpson's.
Prayer is more than getting what you asked for.
Just as a prophet does more than tell your future.
And listening to the word is more than staying awake through the sermon.
But Sarah's prayer was a start.
All God needs is a little crack to slip through.
Faith is a little seed, and worship and teaching are the sun and the rain that make faith grow.
The real test of faith is what happens next.
The Power Of The Python
Easter 7, Year C
Acts16:16-34 -- "These men are slaves of God, who proclaim to you a way of salvation."
May 27, 2001
I include this sermon because it presents a problem of memory, and because the problem was solved. The Seuss-like rhyme of the opening (no one seems to know where this poem came from, Dr. Seuss didn't remember writing it, and it exists on the Internet in enough variations to make a textual critic drool) was the hardest part to learn by heart, since I did not write it. It had the advantage of rhythm and rhyme, but the memory work was still much harder than with my usual sermons. The solution was simply to spend more time with it. Most of our memory problems are fixed either by revision, if the problem is structural, or as in this case, by more rehearsal. Was it worth it? (I could have started the sermon with "You have to make a choice"). Yes, if for no other reason, delight -- not the least of which was the delight I saw on their faces as they gradually realized that my opening lines were not ordinary. One of the joys of preaching at Grace and St. Peter's Episcopal Church was the creativity of the congregation -- there were a number of Suess lovers who after the service gave me their own Suessian evaluation of the sermon, complete with rhymes. Here's a footnote: the final story came from Desiree Cooper and was aired on All Things Considered, May 24, 2001.
Did I ever tell you about the young Zoad
Who came to two signs at a fork in the road?
One said, "place one" and the other, "place two."
So the Zoad had to make up his mind what to do.
Well the Zoad scratched his head, his chin, and his pants,
And he said to himself, "Now, I'll be taking a chance.
"If I go to place one, that place may be hot.
"So how will I know if I like it or not?
"On the other hand though, I'll feel such a fool,
"If I go to place two and find it's too cool.
"In that case I may catch a chill and turn blue.
"So place one may be best and not place two.
"On the other hand though, if place one is too high,
"I might get a terrible earache and die.
"On the other hand though, if place two is too low,
"I might get some terrible pain in my toe.
"So place one may be the best," and he started to go.
And he stopped and he said, "On the other hand though ...
"On the other hand, other hand, other hand though ..."
And for thirty-six hours and one half that Zoad
Made starts and made stops at the fork in the road,
Saying, "No, don't take a chance; you may not be right."
Then he got an idea that was wonderfully bright.
"Play safe!" cried the Zoad. "I'll play safe. I'm no dunce.
"I'll simply start off to both places at once."
And that's how the Zoad who would not take a chance
Got to no place at all with a split in his pants.
-- Anonymous, sometimes attributed to Dr. Seuss
You have to make a choice.
That was what was so annoying to Paul.
It was not just the persistent drip, drip, drip --
Day after day of the slave girl and her singsong voice:
"These men are slaves of the Most High God, who proclaim to you a way of salvation."
What annoyed Paul so much was the fact that she spoke the truth --
Yet she was unable to live that truth.
She was under the power of the Python.
Our translation calls it "a spirit of divination," but any citizen in the Roman colony of Philippi would have recognized the Python --
That great mythical dragon who rose out of the mud to rule Delphi.
The snake was slain by Apollo, but was still said to inspire the priestesses of the Delphic Oracle, where people would come to ask questions about their future, and get a thumbs up or thumbs down on their plans.
The Romans thought that all fortune-telling came from spirits like the Python, so even this little slave girl could be a priestess of the snake.
She had the spirit of the serpent.
Paul, of course, had a different view of the snake --
The pages of Genesis and Revelation and all that lies in-between see the Python in a less-positive light.
The snake is something to be avoided --
The dragon a force to be fought.
As far as Paul was concerned, this little girl was under the bondage of the devil, and she must be freed.
The Book of Acts treats the story like an exorcism, just like Jesus --
Paul commanded the spirit of the Python to exit:
"I order you in the name of Jesus Christ to come out of her."
And it came out that very hour.
Which is when we find what this was really about.
It was about money.
This was a traveling freak show.
Gypsies with corporate sponsors.
What really counted was ticket sales.
The owners of the slave girl were making a living off the fortune-seekers.
People then and now would pay good money to the Psychic Friends Network.
And as Paul found out, you don't want to make the Psychic Friends your enemies.
With the spirit of the Python gone, there would be no more fortune-telling.
And someone was going to have to pay.
Paul and Silas, being the most suitable someones, were dragged off to the authorities.
Lies were told, half truths.
You never went wrong playing to the fears of the Roman public.
You can say anything, as long as you know the buttons to push:
Blame it on the Jews, blame it on foreigners.
You know, those people just aren't like us.
Nowadays, Paul and Silas would have simply been subjected to a lashing on talk radio.
But this was a more brutally honest place and time.
They took the concept of deterrent seriously, and what could not be seen was not going to deter.
Punishment was public as well as bloody.
It was the ultimate reality show, and you did not have to wait until prime time:
"Real Life Danger in the Public Square": "Evangelists on Trial: You Make the Call" --
Dial 1-900-THUMBSUP or THUMBSDOWN.
Most people in that marketplace that day were holding their thumbs down.
Paul and Silas were stripped and lashed and beaten with rods.
Thirty-nine lashes were the customary punishment, for it was said that on the fortieth lash, you would certainly die.
Only then was it off to jail, maximum security, with feet in the stocks.
And that's where we find them, singing.
Singing!
What kind of person do you have to be, to be singing at a time like this?
What kind of spirit has gotten into you?
Most people I know find their very belief in God tried by the slightest setback in life.
I personally would be happier at home in the La-Z-Boy.
But here were Paul and Silas, the blood still oozing from the welts in their backs, their feet up not in recliners but in chains, and they "were praying and singing hymns to God, and the prisoners were listening to them."
Not only had they kept their faith through the torture, but they continued to proclaim it.
Which was when they got a big assist from on high.
Jesus promised release to the captives, and Paul and Silas got to take that promise quite literally --
As did everyone else in that jail that night, as the foundation shook and the doors swung open and the chains unlinked.
Even the jailer was saved by Paul that night, as his sword of honor was stopped in midair by Paul's words: "Do not harm yourself, your prisoners are all still here" --
Those words, and the other words Paul used in answer to the question, "What must I do to be saved?"
"Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and you will be saved, and all your household."
After all this, I think it's safe to say that we should be on high symbolism alert as we finish the story --
We watch the jailer take Paul and Silas into his own house.
He washed their wounds.
He and his whole now-baptized family invited their new brothers to the table.
I don't think it's any accident that these people who were just baptized immediately begin to serve wounded humanity and gather together for a meal.
What else would you do, once you've been "saved"?
There was a story on the radio the other day about a black woman named Desi who moved into what had once been an all-white neighborhood.
Rumor had it that Joe and Bev, the white people next door, were racists.
Joe and Bev had been hostile when black people had moved into the neighborhood thirty years earlier.
The story had it that when one of the new black neighbors had come over to introduce himself, Joe had looked at the dark extended hand and refused to touch it.
So Desi kept her distance. A friendly wave as you pass by, a nod of the head, but nothing more -- no harm in being nice, why put your feelings on the line for people who will just hurt you?
But as time went by, the boundaries between the two houses loosened; the kids would go over into Bev and Joe's yard to retrieve a football or a frisbee, and come back with a ginger snap or a quarter.
And after Joe died, Bev would be on the phone, wanting one of the kids to help her carry groceries or lift a potted plant, and they would come back with vegetables from Bev's garden, or a box of popsicles.
Was Bev just being friendly now because she was lonely? Did she think of these children as her servants?
One day Desi came home to find a message from Bev: "Hi, Desi, I need your opinion on something -- you're just like a daughter to me."
And there was Bev at her front door, in a dusky rose dress and string of pearls.
"I'm going out of town," she said as she hustled into the living room, "and I wanted to know if this looked okay. I've just had it altered, and look what they did with the lining."
The next thing Desi knew, Bev had whipped off the dress.
And Desi found herself wondering how it came to be that she was standing there with this person she had made it a point to keep away from, and now this person was half-naked in her living room, the two of them like mother and daughter, a couple of girlfriends sharing a secret, like kids at a slumber party.
When all is said and done, this is how you know it took:
God doesn't just save people; God changes people.
To be baptized is the beginning.
To believe is to be changed.
Fingerprints
Epiphany 4, Year C
Jeremiah 1:4-10 -- "The Lord put out a hand and touched my lip." and Luke 4:21-32 -- "Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing."
January 28, 2001
There are some who contend that in order to preach without a net, the sermon must rely on story, and be extremely short. Unless you're telling one long story, or a series of little stories, so the theory goes, you are going to be dependent on your notes and manuscripts. And if you try to preach longer than eight to ten minutes (the average length between television commercials), you will surely lose it. Here is a counterexample; this sermon was my average length, almost fifteen minutes long, and it really has no stories at all, though it comments on two biblical stories. I did not have any problem preaching it without a manuscript of notes. This is not because I have an exceptional memory, either -- though I do have a practiced one. It has more to do with the nature of the sermon itself, which was conceived from the beginning with delivery -- and therefore memory -- in mind. The style is story-like, in that it makes maximum use of concrete nouns and vivid verbs, in an attempt to make the sermon something that can be seen, tasted, smelled, and touched as well as heard. It is the use of language, not story form per se, that makes a sermon memorable. This sermon was preached at Grace and St. Peter's Episcopal Church, Hamden, Connecticut.
As usual, God has it backwards.
Everyone knows what this means:
The finger to the lip.
It means: Be quiet.
Don't speak.
Shut up.
Everyone knows that.
Except, of course, God.
"The Lord put out a hand and touched my lip," said the prophet Jeremiah.
And did God say, "Sssh"?
No.
The opposite.
"I have put my words in your mouth," the Lord told Jeremiah.
"Today I appoint you over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck up and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant."
This is the kind of thing that can ruin your whole day.
Isaiah said that when he met up with God, an angel of the Lord took a hot coal from the altar with a pair of tongs, and touched it to his lips.
How much more searing must have been the direct touch of the finger of God on the lips of Jeremiah.
Ouch!
That's got to leave a scar.
What is it like, I wonder, to walk around the rest of your life with that thing right there where everyone can see -- the fingerprint of God on your lips?
If they don't seem to notice the mouth, they can hardly ignore the words.
Some people think that preachers should keep out of politics.
"It's dirty," they say. "It will soil you."
They point their fingers at the pulpit and say, "You must stop saying such things."
God, however, must have missed that memo.
Once again, the Lord has it backwards.
"I appoint you over nations and kingdoms," God told Jeremiah -- pluck up, pull down, destroy, overthrow, build, and plant.
Evidently God did have something to say to the nations.
And the only way to say it was through the disfigured lips of a prophet.
This sort of preaching is not just a rehash of what you heard on Nightline:
Pundits glazed over with a bit of Scripture and a smidgen of piety.
This is something new.
Because it does not come from any mere human being.
"You shall go where I send you," said the Lord to Jeremiah.
"You shall speak what I command."
"I am with you," said the Lord.
And sure enough, when the time came, Jeremiah was right there on the op-ed page of the Jerusalem Post, saying the exact opposite of what everyone else had to say.
All the other prophets -- the people who claimed to be prophets -- told the people that no way would the Babylonians ever take us, the People of God, from our land.
Jeremiah alone told the truth, that they would have to learn to sing God's song by the rivers of Babylon.
The people of Jerusalem would be taken out of their city, and they would spend seventy long years in exile.
Because it wasn't good enough just to sit back and let things be the way they were.
Life is always changing, and God keeps asking us for that response to the change that we call faith.
What the people needed to hear was not the regurgitation of what they already believed.
They needed something from outside of themselves.
They needed a word from God.
The problem being that God keeps getting it backwards.
Ask anyone from the synagogue at Nazareth.
There they were, waiting for the preacher to take the pulpit.
It's the new guy.
Well, not new new.
You remember him.
Son of the carpenter.
I hear he's been doing great stuff all over Galilee.
I can't wait to hear what he's going to tell us:
His old friends.
The people he grew up with.
We're practically family.
Why, I remember him when he was so tall.
Just think, finally a prophet of our own in Nazareth.
On the map at last, a city on the move.
Mr. Mayor, what do you think?
It'll be like having a gold mine in our own backyard.
But no prophet is accepted by the hometown crowd.
As Luke tells the story, when Jesus got up to preach, it was no boost to the local economy.
It was not even a comfort.
Any more than Elijah was a comfort to Israel, when the heavens were shut up for three and a half years, and where did the prophet go? To a foreigner, a widow of Zarephath up north in Sidon.
No more did Elisha play to the hometown crowd, bypassing all the lepers of Israel to heal outside the walls, Naaman the Syrian.
Far from playing the local connection, Jesus all but insulted them in Nazareth.
It's not just that he refused to join the local Jaycees.
He touched a tender spot in the national psyche.
Up and down the land of Israel in Jesus' day there was that sense of privilege, the pride of being chosen God's people.
There was that feeling of being exclusive.
Yet their own tradition said there was more to being a Jew than simply birthright.
And their own most famous prophets reached beyond the walls.
You can't rely on heritage, Jesus seemed to say.
God doesn't care where you came from, or what's on your resume.
The only thing God is interested in is what you are doing now.
And it doesn't do any good to heckle the preacher.
"Hey, Jesus, we heard what you did at Capernaum; cut the politics and do something for us."
You can't tell a prophet to shut up.
Not even under threat of being run out of town and off a cliff.
Because the prophet, the true prophet of God, has the distinctive swirl of a hot fingertip on the lip.
And even after all these years, that scar still burns.
Lord, "Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal." (Book of Common Prayer, p. 372)
I suppose there are some people who would not hesitate to get into their little window on Nightline and say, "Yes, Ted, this is the Promised Land."
But given God's penchant for getting things backwards, I would want to be careful about that sort of thing.
If I read Jeremiah's op-ed page right, the conventional wisdom won't cut it.
And if I hear Jesus' sermon in the synagogue in Nazareth correctly, historical and cultural boundaries do not contain God.
I suppose that there are some people who think that their baptism and profession of the Christian faith is some sort of entitlement.
Entitlement to what, I don't know; I suppose there would be different versions of what that baptism and faith might entitle you to --
A spot in heaven, perhaps --
Solace in adversity --
Admission to the club -- I don't know.
Maybe just the chance to sit in the pew and listen to sermons like this one.
But I would suggest that if you think about it, baptism is actually membership in the ranks of the prophets.
It's all in the Book of Common Prayer.
Think of the words that you have to say as part of the baptismal covenant (pp. 303-04):
"Will you proclaim by word and example the Good News of God in Christ?"
Sounds like prophecy to me -- not telling the future, but prophecy in the proper sense, speaking that word that comes from outside of ourselves.
"Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?"
"Will you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?"
Sounds like a prophetic message to me -- maybe even a political prophetic message.
At any rate, these are words to burn the mouth.
How could we possibly say, "Yes," to those questions unless we had at least a trace of God's finger on our lips?
Oh, maybe it would take Sherlock Holmes and his magnifying glass to see it on some of us, but it's got to be there.
How else but the finger of God could anyone possibly say, "Yes, I will, with God's help"?
Someone once asked the question: If being a Christian were illegal, would there be enough evidence to convict you?
I believe that the case will be solved through good old-fashioned detective work.
The question will be answered when they test our lips for fingerprints.
