An Epistolary Sermon - take 2 - (three years later)

Matthew 22:1-14

Dear God,

Well, here we are again, back for another round of liturgical shadowboxing. Three glorious years have passed since I’ve had to tackle this parable in a sermon, and I must admit, it was delightful to pretend to be oblivious that this impossible story exists in our canon. But here it is again, like a bad penny, determined to have me questioning every part of my faith, and the church, and what does all this mean anyhow? I mean, not that I needed this particular parable to ask these questions this week. As you know, your kids are fighting again, and both sides think they have you on their side. Meanwhile, they’re both murdering innocent children. Go figure. Your land is on fire. I’d like us to stop being on fire, please. Maybe you could do that, in exchange for giving me some brilliant insight on what this insane story means. Seems like a fair trade.

Sincerely, your ever doubting child,

Jenn

Dear God,

Hey, um, you there? 

Here’s this story about a king who is supposed to be you, right, God? At least that’s what all the commentators say. That’s what all the smart white men in our two thousand years of Christian history who know all the Greek and who’ve studied the scriptures and written all the books and decided all the heresies are saying.  The king is you, the invitees are Israel, the servants who are abused and killed are your prophets, and the city you burn down is Jerusalem, or maybe it’s just the temple, we’re not sure, and the people you invite to your party are the Gentiles. There. The kingdom of heaven. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

But God, this story is crazy. This story is nuts. Everybody is freaking out in this story. The whole city is on fire. Nobody’s being rational, except, maybe, the poor guy who gets kicked out of the party for not wearing the right clothes. And his response to all this chaos? He’s speechless. He is without words. So here I am, God, full of a whole bunch of words that are really coming to nothing. Here I am, God, feeling a little bit speechless. I mean, What the hell, God?

Meanwhile, your actual country, with your actual, real people, are on fire. 

So. Yeah. Amen.

And all that stuff,

Jenn

Dear Jenn - 

You know that I am just a figment of your imagination and probably not really God, but anyway, you’re imagining some kind of a response from some kind of benevolent being, so here goes:

You don’t know a whole lot about me, so listen to those white guys, they’ve thought long and hard and they know all the Greek and they’ve written all the books and historical criticism is important and so is the history of interpretation and they’re also all a part of that “Great Cloud of Witnesses” you like so much, so maybe read a little bit about what they have to say. You  know, the parts about how we don’t really want to be about “cheap grace.” The parts about how this parable does, in fact, tell us what the kingdom of heaven is like, where everybody is invited, and how grace is free, but how it also requires a response of us, a right action, and that being a Christian does mean that we change what we wear, what we’re “clothed” in, you know, in a metaphorical sense. There’s some good stuff there. Good stuff.

And hey, for what it’s worth, I’m right there on ground zero, crying with every bomb-burnt baby, weeping with every scorched and desperate mother. 

Now, go change your clothes. You have work to do.

I love ya,

God

PS

Also, don’t let a bunch of old white guys tell you what to think about me. They’re not the boss of me.

Well, good luck tomorrow. You’ll do great, kiddo.

God.

Dear God - 

Yeah, that response wasn’t really what I was looking for. I need an answer of some kind, you know something hopeful and good and true about who you are and what you have to teach us. I need to be able to offer these folks something, something they can hold on to to give them hope and solid ground to stand on during these troubling times. Maybe that’s why the history of interpretation is just not helpful here. Seems like they all have the same decoder ring they got from the same brand of breakfast cereal and they’re applying it to this passage and it’s all just so obvious. This is a story about you and the Israelites and how they rejected you even though you gave them a special invitation to join the party, and they responded by killing your prophets and then you responded by tearing down their temple and inviting the Gentiles in to the party. Except some Gentiles don’t have what it takes, so they get kicked out when they’re not wearing the right clothes for this particular occasion. There. Done. The Moral of the Story: don’t reject God’s invitation, and always keep your wedding robe somewhere handy, and preferably, fireproof. 

It’s like they’ve ignored all the violence and destruction of this parable. I mean, I have questions. Why wouldn’t those invited to the party not want to come? If the champagne is flowing and the filet mignon is being served with a wine reduction sauce and the five tiered cake has a raspberry cream filling, who wouldn’t want to be a part of that? Seems like something went wrong in that relationship between the king and the folks he’s invited, otherwise, they’d be excited to come, otherwise they’d drop everything to get all fancy, drink too much, and jump on to the dance floor when the DJ spins out the electric slide. So what happened? Why don’t they want to come anymore? And then when the king asks them to come a second time, they beat up and kill his messengers. I mean, why the crazy response? Seems way out of proportion if you ask me.  And the king responds in kind, as if that’s going to solve the problem. He sends his troops in, destroys the murderers and burns down the whole dang city. Then, while his city is still in an uproar, while people are fleeing their houses with whatever they can grab, their arms full of babies and pots and pans and photographs and family heirlooms, the king still insists on his silly wedding banquet, and so the slaves go out, grab anyone they can find, and bring them in for a little champagne and filet mignon. Did these guests even have a choice in the matter? I mean, they’re fleeing from their city, their houses are burning to the ground, and the last guy who rejected the king’s offer was killed. So. What choice do they have, really? Do they all rush back to their burning houses and dig their formalwear out of the mothballs in the back of their closets? But then, but then, when they do come, when they do respond to the king’s invitation, they watch as some poor sot gets kicked out, tied hand and foot, thrown into the outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth simply because he wasn’t wearing the right outfit. I mean, that’s crazy, right? What am I supposed to do with this story?

Sincerely questioning,

Jenn

P.S. All these people think they’ve come in your name, but they’re wearing fatigues and machine guns and carrying hand grenades. They think they’ve come in their proper attire. But instead, they’re setting the city on fire. I just don’t get it.

Anyway, I should go to bed soon.

Dear Jenn - 

Once, I was stripped of my clothes and accused of being the King of the Jews. I’d spent a lot of time hanging out with the tax collectors and the sex workers and the sick and rejected and I healed some people and told them to eat and drink for the kingdom of God is at hand. I guess that made folks nervous. I just stood there. Said nothing.

Anyway, I know what you’re asking for. And that’s just not how I work. Imma just gonna let you sit here, in this mess of a story. Maybe you’re looking for answers where there aren’t any. Maybe, you know, my grace is sufficient for you and all that. Maybe you’re just supposed to read the story again. Then go for a walk. Go to Starbucks. Come home and take a nap. Eat some frozen pizza. Keep holding all those people in the Gaza Strip and the West Bank up to the Light. Oh and drink some water. Have you had enough water today?

God.

Dear God -

Ok. So I read the story again. And again. And one more time. I drank some water. The laundry is piling up. The dog needs a walk. And there’s something sticky on my kitchen counter. 

But God. You just can’t be the king. You just can’t. The king is…scary. He’s hotheaded and impatient. He has unreasonable expectations. He kills and destroys. He does this horrible bait and switch thing where he invites everyone to his banquet but then punishes the guy who isn’t wearing the right clothes. He calls him “friend,” and then throws him into hell! Everything I’ve come to know and trust and love about you, God, gets undone if you are the king. Everything I’ve come to know and trust and love about you, God, gets undone if you’re taking sides in Israel/Palestine. How can you be the king? What do I wear to your party?

But all the smart white guys say that you’re the king. They say that we need to be sanctified as well as justified. They say that we need to say yes to the invitation, but also work to be worthy of that invitation. They say this is a story about the eschaton, the end of times, when you will gather everybody to yourself and determine who’s in and who’s out. You’ll decide who’s worthy and who’s not. And how can they be wrong? It’s right there, right in the Bible. Jesus says, “The kingdom of Heaven is like this.” Can it really be true? Is the kingdom of heaven really like a tyrannical king and like some folks who reject his invitation and like a burning city and like the good and the bad all being gathered together for a party until the king finds the really bad guy, the one who isn’t playing his part, and kicks him into the outer reaches of hell?

Because if these old church fathers have it right, then I think maybe I’m out. I think maybe I don’t want to go to your party. I think maybe I’d rather hang out with the folks who show up just as they are, who don’t hide their unworthiness behind wedding robes or righteousness or perfect choices. I’m not really interested in the ones who are hiding their singed and blistered skin behind a fancy wedding robe. I’m not really interested in the ones who are hiding their burns by lighting another city on fire. I’m not interested in the ones who throw the bombs in the name of You.

We don’t need any more fire, God. We’ve had enough.

And God, I keep thinking about that guy who gets kicked out of the party. I want to hang out with him. He’s the only one in the story who is being his true self, the only one in the story who shows up when he’s called, just as he is, with all that he has. He shows up. But he doesn’t dress himself up. He just comes. He stays. And when he’s questioned, when he’s asked, “Who do you think you are? How’d you get in here? What have you to say to these charges” he just stands there, silent before his accusers. And he gets kicked out of the party, through really, no fault of his own. He’s bound, hand and foot. He’s thrown into the outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. He enters in to the pain and stays there. He goes where the hurt is. He participates in the hurt himself. He weeps with the Palestinian and the Israeli mothers.

And then what happens to him? Is he crucified, dead and buried? Does he descend into hell? Is he raised again on the third day? I want to belong to that guy. I want to go to his party. I want to sit around his campfire and hear the stories of his descent into the city on fire, and then hear how he fought his way back out. 

But God, if you’re the king, you can keep the robes and the filet mignon, you can have the champagne fountain all to yourself while the city burns. If I come to your party, I’ll come broken and bruised with nothing to say for myself. I’ll come hungry and tired and dying from smoke inhalation, but decidedly NOT on fire. I’m not going back for my wedding robe. I’m not going to burn for that. I’ll burn to rescue the kitten caught in the third floor attic, or to help Mary and her six kids get out of the house. But I won’t burn for that. If that’s not good enough, then kick me out too. If I need to be my best self in order to stay at your party, then I just quit now. I’ll never be enough. Let me join the others who are struggling and hurting and trying to survive. Let me join the guy who said yes to you but still didn’t quite fit, who got kicked out of the party anyway. If I have to pick sides while your city is burning, I choose him.

Jenn.

Dear Jenn - 

It’s enough. 

Go to sleep.

I was serious about that water thing.

God.

Thanks be to God.

Monty Python and the Theology of Change

 

                                                                    *A knight who says "Ni"

Matthew 21:23-32

You might need this link too: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VvSO5KEnaVE

We call it wavering. Wishy-washy. Uncertainty. Doubt. “Make up your mind!” We say to politicians on TV and children at the candy store. My mom, albeit in more colorful language, says, “It’s time to go to the bathroom or get off the toilet!” Or it reminds me of that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, when the knights are trying to cross the bridge and they come up to this troll and have to answer three questions. And the first knight goes through easily, so the second knight comes up, all sure of himself, gets an answer wrong, and gets thrown into the abyss. So the third knight comes up with much trepidation and he’s asked, “What is your name?!” He answers “Sir Galahad of Camelot.” And the troll asks, “What is your quest?” “I seek the Holy Grail,” he says. So far, so good. Finally, the troll asks him, “What is your favorite color?” And Sir Galahad responds, “Blue! No. Yelloaaaahhhhhhhh” and gets thrown into the The Gorge of Eternal Peril for changing his mind. Then, not to be swayed, King Arthur comes before the troll. “What is your name?” The troll asks. “Arthur, king of the Britains.” “What is your quest?” “I seek the Holy Grail!” “What is the airspeed velocity of a laden swallow?” And the troll, thinking that he’s stumped the king, awaits his answer. But the king responds with his own question, “African, or European swallow?” And the troll says, “What? I don’t know that!” And, in the dry absurd humor that only Monty Python can do, the troll is catapulted into the air and sent off into the abyss. Ahhhhhhh!!!  

Such is the power of being sure. Know the right answers, and you can go further, you can cross the bridge, you can make the decision, and you can make something of your life. And even if you’re wrong, as long as you stick to your guns, you can still win the election, you can still sell the product, you can still win the war. As long as you’re sure.  If you’re unsure, well, too bad for you. Off to the The Gorge of Eternal Peril you go. Ahhhhhh!

We humans love to be sure. We want answers. Guarantees. Promises. We thrive in the either/or. The this or that. The black or white. Make a choice, hope it’s the right one, and God help you if you change your mind. Heaven help you if you’re not sure. 

Now, for sure, I want my neurosurgeons, my pilots, my Subaru technician, and my dentist to know some right answers. Precision has its place. Science is important. But we’ve all met that pastor who refuses to say, “I don’t know.” We all know that teacher who made something up, or learned it wrong, and refuses to change her mind. We all have that fear of being tossed into the abyss if we get something wrong. And some of us are so hardheaded that we’d rather live in the abyss than admit that we’ve been wrong. We’d rather live in our wrong than change our minds. We’d rather make something up than say, “You know, I’m just not sure.” 

So what do we do with a Savior who doesn’t give us the answers? What do we do with a Savior who answers questions with more questions? What do we do with a Savior who seems to not only praise repentance - literally - to change one’s mind - but who requires it? 

Now I haven’t personally gone through and counted, so this could be wrong, but it is said that Jesus asks 307 questions in the Gospels. That 183 questions are asked of him. And that of all those questions, Jesus answers, sort of, 3 of them. We get three answers. That’s it. Three. And one of them is about paying taxes.

It’s important to know what has happened right before the chief priests and elders confront Jesus in our reading today. He’s thrown a huge temper tantrum. He’s flipped over the money changer’s tables, he’s freed the doves from their cages, he’s made a giant mess of the temple, upending and criticizing a system that has rested in its “rightness” for centuries. And the priests and scribes who take pride in all their rightness, who have all the answers, who know all the things, and would never find themselves in the abyss of the unknown come up to Jesus and ask him, essentially, “Who do you think you are?” “What right do you have to do this?” “Where does your authority come from?” Like the troll from the Holy Grail, Jesus had better have the right answer here, or else he will be thrown into the abyss.

And Jesus doesn’t reply, “Oh. Easy question. I got this. My authority comes from God. Or from the scriptures. Or from my dad. Or from my eight years at yeshiva.” 

Nope. 

Jesus doesn’t give us - or the scribes - an answer.

Instead, in typical Rabbinic fashion, he answers their question with a question of his own. Like King Arthur, he turns the tables, and he asks the question. “Did the baptism of John come from heaven, or was it of human origin?”

And like the troll who has been beaten at his own game, they’re stuck. They don’t know the answer. “We do not know,” they say.  Ahhhh!

And I mean, we’ve got to give them some credit here, even if the motivation for their “I don’t know” is to keep themselves out of trouble, at least they’re willing to say it. 

But instead of Jesus catapulting them into the abyss for not knowing the answer, he gives them a story instead. A story full of more questions.

A man had two sons. He asks them both to go out into the vineyard to work. The first one says, “Nope. Not gonna do it,” but then “changes his mind and went.”  The second one says, “Sure, Dad, I’m on it,” but doesn’t go. “Which one,” Jesus asks, “does the will of the father?” The priests and the elders know the answer to this one. Obviously, the first kid, the one who changed his mind, the one who went into the vineyard and did the work, he’s the one who did the will of the father.

But before they get their A pluses and their gold stars for the day, Jesus tells them that they’re not the ones who have it all right. It’s not the ones who have all the right answers that get to cross the bridge and continue on their faith journeys. No. It’s the prostitutes. It’s the tax collectors. It’s the ones who have changed their minds who will enter the kingdom before all those folks who insist that they have the right answers. And to emphasize his point, Jesus repeats the same exact word to the leaders in the temple that he uses for the first son. Metanoia, in the Greek, usually translated “to repent,” more literally means “to change your mind.” And this is Jesus’s critique. Not that they didn’t know the answer. Not that they had the wrong answer. But that they didn’t change their minds. He says, “For John came to you in the way of righteousness and you did not believe him, but the tax collectors and the prostitutes believed him; and even after you saw it - even after you saw me - you did not metanoia - you did not change your minds and believe him.” 

I cannot emphasize this enough. I will preach this until my dying day. Jesus isn’t looking for right answers from us. He’s not going to throw us into The Gorge of Eternal Fire if we change our minds or if we get it wrong. Jesus is literally asking us to change our minds. Again and again and again. 

As kids we used to joke that the right answer to every question the Sunday School teacher asked was “Jesus.” If we answered “Jesus,” to whatever question that was asked, we’d be praised. “Who parted the Red Sea?” “Jesus?” We’d answer. And somehow the teacher would do theological backflips to assure us that yes, it was through the power of Jesus that the Red Sea was parted. Or, she’d ask, “what was the sign to Noah that God would never flood the earth again?” “Jesus?” We’d answer. And, well, ok, I guess, in some way, Jesus did send the rainbow. 

All jokes aside, though, maybe this wandering questioner in first century Galilee is the answer to all the questions. Because Jesus doesn’t let us land on one solid explication, one clear solution. He’s not looking for answers; he’s longing for metanoia, he’s begging us to change our minds, to be transformed, to see the world differently than we did before. And this is a never-ending, life-long process. Change is inherent to the Christian life. The mark of a Christian is that we change our minds. This is what the first son does. This is what the chief priests and scribes refuse to do. 

Christians aren’t the ones who have the right answers. We’re the ones who ask the questions. We’re the ones who are changed by the questions. Jesus is always turning the tables on us. There’s always more to learn.

Change your mind and go. Welcome to the Kingdom of God. 

Thanks be to God.