Sermons
On his second day in office—
after signing draconian executive orders the previous day…
which were aimed at the transgender community…
and immigrants—
Donald Trump attended a prayer service at Washington’s National Cathedral.
In the conclusion to her address, Episcopalian Bishop Mariann Budde looked straight at him and said:
“Let me make one final plea, Mr President…
Millions have put their trust in you. And, as you told the nation yesterday, you have felt the providential hand of a loving God. In the name of our God, I ask you to have mercy upon the people in our country who are scared right now. There are gay, lesbian, and transgender children who fear for their lives. And the people who pick our crops and clean our office buildings…
who wash the dishes after we eat in restaurants and work the night shifts in hospitals—they may not be citizens or have the proper documentation, but the vast majority…are not criminals. They pay taxes and are good neighbors…they are faithful members of our churches, mosques, and synagogues…Have mercy, Mr President, on those in our community whose children fear that their parents will be taken away. Help those who are fleeing war zones and persecution in their own lands to find compassion and welcome here”.
Later that day, Trump went on a social media rant…
decrying the “so-called” bishop’s address as “nasty in tone and not compelling or smart”.
Meanwhile the White House press secretary has demanded an apology from Bishop Budde…
and one Republican member of congress has suggested that she “should be added to the deportation list”.
Bishop Budde has subsequently received a string of death threats.
If there’s one thing that an insecure, narcissistic, wannabe dictator can’t stand…
it’s having a woman rub his nose in his metaphorical poop.
But let’s be honest…
none of us like having our noses rubbed in our inconvenient truths.
None of us like to be reminded of things that we would rather ignore…
or pretend never happened.
And it’s bad enough when disinterested bystanders do it.
It’s far worse, of course, when it’s done by people who we know…
and assume that we can trust.
So, imagine then what it would have been like for the people of Nazareth.
As the author of Luke’s Gospel weaves his story…
there they were, sitting in their synagogue—
a comfortable place;
a place that affirmed their sense of corporate identity;
a place where they were surrounded by family and friends…
doing what they did every week.
And up gets Jesus—
who they all know because it was a small village…
and who they had watched grow from a baby…
into a toddler…
a youth…
and a man—
and, in effect, he lets them have it:
“Truly I tell you, no prophet is accepted in the prophet’s hometown”.
And then he reminds them of two embarrassing stories from their nation’s history:
that the prophet Elijah helped a widow in Sidon—
that is, in Phoenicia—
ignoring all of the needy widows in Israel;
and that the prophet Elisha healed a Syrian with a skin condition—
ignoring all of those in Israel who were similarly afflicted.
In effect, what he was saying…
is that God chose to help despised foreigners—
and people who didn’t even profess belief or faith in Israel’s God—
rather than helping God’s own people…
because God’s people continually fail to recognise where and how God is at work;
and because God’s people are continually closed to what God is doing—
unlike foreigners…
outsiders…
and the sort of people who “insiders” dismiss or despise.
It’s as if Jesus were to get up in our church today…
and inform us that God is at work among the Muslims of Iran or Syria…
and not among us, in the Christian West…
let alone in Australia.
But why?
Why such a pointed reminder?
Why such a stinging rebuke?
Perhaps because sometimes we need to be shocked.
Sometimes we need to be shaken out of our complacency.
Sometimes we need to have our illusions shattered.
Especially when we start to think that we know God;
that we understand God and God’s ways;
and we presume to know what it means to be God’s people.
There are times when we need to be shocked and shaken—
even disillusioned—
because it’s easy to make religion into a sort of prop…
or a lifebuoy…
which we cling to amid the metaphorical storms that we face.
Religion can easily become simply something that gives us a sense of security—
something that helps us to face the perils of our unpredictable and uncontrollable world.
An eternal God—
wrapped up in eternal truths…
fixed, stable, certain, unchanging—
is a comfortable and a comforting thing.
Such a God—
and such a religion—
not only provides a prop or a lifebuoy…
but it also provides us with a shield to hide behind…
which can help us to avoid facing what it is that we’re afraid of.
Such a God becomes “our” God—
a God who exists to meet our needs;
a God who watches over and protects us, and who, we expect, shouldn’t let anything bad happen to us;
a God who blesses us;
a safe, predictable, domesticated God.
And yet…
the God revealed by and reflected in Jesus of Nazareth—
not least in this story from Luke’s Gospel—
is anything but that.
Rather, what we see is a God who isn’t safe and who can’t be domesticated.
What we see is a God who isn’t afraid to upset us or offend us.
What we see is a God who isn’t afraid to remind us of the things that we would like to ignore…
or the things that we would like to pretend don’t exist.
What we see is a God who forces us to embrace our doubts—
to confront our sordid history, our fears, our illusions, and our prejudices—
in order that we might grow.
What we see is a God who is bigger than we can imagine—
and bigger than our experience or our tradition would have us believe.
What we see is a God who continually does the unexpected…
who breaks down the barriers that we erect…
who challenges us to take risks and to embrace change.
But so much of that goes against the grain.
As a community of God’s people we yearn for growth, but we’re resistant to change.
We don’t want our comfort to be disturbed.
We don’t want our traditions or our beliefs to be challenged.
We don’t want our crutches to be exposed for what they are.
And we don’t want to offend anyone.
So, we play games.
We avoid controversy.
We avoid conflict.
We adopt an air of ‘niceness’.
We opt for some bland mediocrity or some banal, inoffensive middle ground.
And, in so doing, we miss our God-given opportunity to
become who, in Christ, we might be.
But the God revealed by, and reflected in, the person of Jesus…
loves us too much to leave us there;
and continues to send us prophets—
whether we recognise them…
or listen to them…
or not.