From
time to time, one of my sermons makes someone mad. As you might expect, it happens when I wade
into the troubled waters of race relations, or climate change, or some such hot-button
topic taken from the headlines. And it’s
not like I don’t know that I’m stirring the pot. I labor over those sermons more than the
others, and often have a hard time sleeping the night before I give them. To the extent that the issue has been
politicized, I try not to take sides. My
intention is to find in the scriptures a perspective that reveals a spiritual
dimension to the real problems of the world.
But even as I do this I have to deal with the limits of my experience,
and my own inherent biases, some of which are firm convictions, and some of
which are assumptions of which I am not even conscious. So there’s always the danger that the perspective
I present as “biblical” and “spiritual” truth is really just a clever way to
justify my own opinion.
And
other people have their inherent biases, and limited experience, their
passionate convictions, and unconscious assumptions, as well. So I am not surprised when someone takes offense,
but when it actually happens it is always painful. It reminds me that, among the world’s many problems,
none is greater than our human inability to see them in the same way. Maybe I’d be on firmer ground if I stuck to
questions of personal faith and morality, and the work of spiritual growth, to
talking about salvation, and Jesus, and heaven, and God. These are the common interests, after all, of
almost everyone who comes to church—including me. But,
then, I come to church with a responsibility that other people don’t. I’m supposed to preach, and I’m accountable in
what I say, not just to what I think is important, or what I imagine you want
to hear; I’m accountable to God as God is revealed in the Bible.
This
is a responsibility I took on at the time of my ordination, when I made a
solemn public declaration that I “believe the Holy Scriptures of the Old and
New Testaments to be the Word of God, and to contain all things necessary to
salvation.” Now, there is probably no end to the theological
discussions we could have about what that means. But it has clear practical implications for
the everyday work of a preacher. What it means for me is that at the beginning
of each week I sit down with the scriptures that the church appoints for the
coming Sunday and read them. I read them
out loud, slowly, several times. I read
the Gospel, at least, in its original language.
And as I read them I listen for the word or the phrase, the verse or the
verses, that speak to me in a voice that is not my own. I wait for the word that moves my heart and
my mind, out of their unthinking circular grooves and into wonder, into an
openness and attentiveness to meaning I take to be a little closer to the
truth.
And
for the rest of the week, with those scriptures in my mind, I listen to my
life. I watch for the correspondences between the active
story or the image in the book, and the things that go on in my world. Because, the God of the Bible is infinitely
beyond our knowing, but has also revealed himself, as intimately acquainted,
and concerned, with every aspect of our lives—from our most intimate thoughts,
feelings, and relationships, to the social and political conflicts, and
historic events, that shape the destinies of nations. If I am going to preach to others to believe
in that revelation, not as some abstract, impersonal truth somewhere out there,
but as the light and the life of the world, I have to open my own life, my own
world to the scrutiny, and interpretation, and critique that comes from the
scriptures. And like life itself, that sometimes that
pushes me into places I would really rather not go.
So it’s
not like I sit down at my desk and think, “what can I say this time that will
really piss people off.” But lately,
the lectionary has given us a lot of Jeremiah.
And maybe it is because of this year’s election campaign, and the
general air of anxiety and crisis floating around, but Jeremiah has captured my
imagination recently more than he ever has before. The word of Jeremiah summons the whole house
of Israel to look at some very hard truths, to look at their idolatry and self-deception,
and their injustice to the poor, to contemplate the true nature of war, and to
face a historical reckoning with the consequences of breaking faith with God. And maybe it’s just me, but it feels like
this is a moment when you and I are also being called—individually, yes, but
especially collectively—to look at hard truths.
Anyway, for good or ill, I have felt compelled to give more thought than
usual to Jeremiah, and I have asked you to do the same.
Now,
I’m well aware that there is an aspect of my personality that gets off on this
stuff, a part that is grandiose and angry, judgmental and self-righteousness, which
is exactly why I’ve always wary of preaching in that vein. And as a sinner, everything I do has mixed
motives. But, for what it’s worth, the best
intention of my prophetic preaching, if you want to call it that, is love. It is an invitation to intimacy, to move
beyond the easy friendliness that we maintain by keeping silence about the
things that really make us angry, or sad, or afraid. It is offered in the hope that there is great
reward in making the journey together into the heartbreak of the world,
including the heartbreak of failing to see exactly eye-to-eye, and our reward
is the faith that God’s word speaks even there.
Today
the Hebrew Bible shows us not the angry Jeremiah, the judgmental, accusatory
Jeremiah, the prophet of doom, but Jeremiah the heartbroken. It shows us Jeremiah who longs for the
capacity to express even more fully the pain he feels over the sufferings of
Israel: “For the hurt of my poor people I am hurt; I mourn, and dismay has
taken hold of me…O that my head were a spring of water, and my eyes a fountain
of tears.” The word of God that can be a
sharp arrow of truth, piercing ignorance and denial, or an iron rod, sternly
correcting pride and vice, can also be a human heart breaking, a voice wailing
for the sufferings of her children. It
is in that sharing of the cup of our suffering that the Word seems most human,
most true to our world and our experience.
A God who speaks when we are lost and overwhelmed by personal tragedy or
national calamity, in a human voice stricken with grief, is a source of true hope
and consolation.
Even
in the midst of an unjust and conflicted world, the mercy of God invites us to
have faith in a higher perspective. That
is how the author of 1st Timothy can urge that prayers be made for all people, even though only a small handful
have embraced what he teaches. Because the
source of a godly, dignified, and peaceable life in a messed up world is faith in
the God who desires that all people
be saved. Christians are to pray for
kings and those who are in high places, even when those kings demand sacrifice
and worship as if they were gods, and put Christians to death who refuse to do
it. If we defy such people in the name
of the only God who really is God, how can we harbor ill-will against them whom
God desires to save? If Jesus gave
himself as a ransom for all, who are we to decide who is worthy of our prayers
of concern?
Of
course, 1st Timothy also says that God desires that everyone will
come to the knowledge of the truth. And in
this mercy that moves us all toward the truth we see the dual nature of the
word of God. It is not always easy for
us to hold both parts together. We tend
to splinter off into those who worship the God of certain revelation, of stern
judgment and unchanging truth, on the one hand, or those who preach the God of
mercy and forgiveness, long-suffering kindness, and reconciling love, on the
other. But the salvation of God, as the
Psalmist says, is when “mercy and truth are met together: righteousness and
peace have kissed each other.” This is
the salvation embodied in Christ, who holds our double-standards, our
wishful-thinking, hypocrisy and lack of faith, up to the brightest, most revealing
light possible —the radiant sun of his forgiveness and love.
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