Sunday, June 16, 2013
1.
However it is, whenever it is Jesus comes to your
table, you want to brace yourself. Expect the unexpected. Because things
happen—quirky things, unusual things—when Jesus comes to supper. He chooses THAT
moment to tell his most provocative, puzzling parable. He looks around, JUST then,
and asks why you haven’t invited the sick and destitute to your table. Or
somebody sneaks in behind him (isn’t this what happens this morning?)—somebody
sneaks in behind him unannounced and embarrasses just about everybody.
All we really know, all we can say for sure is that
the woman kissing Jesus’ feet wasn’t invited to this particular party. Maybe
it’s reasonable to speculate. About her mistakes. About her lifestyle. Maybe
there are clues enough for that. But all we can say for sure is that the woman
in Luke’s story sneaks in behind Jesus and embarrasses everybody. And we know
that she wasn’t invited. This isn’t her party.
But shockingly—that doesn’t stop her. The fact that
the table’s surrounded by men, by men only, by invitation only—it doesn’t stop
her. The fact that they’ve already judged her, that they’ve already rejected
her, before she’s said a single word—it doesn’t stop her. And the fact that she’s
breaking a dozen different religious laws, just by showing up—it just doesn’t
stop her. So she steps over to Jesus, recognizing him from—somewhere. She trusts, somehow,
that there’s an island of compassion in this sea of patriarchal hostility. And
she stands behind him for a minute, behind Jesus, her eyes adjusting to the dim
light of the Pharisee’s house. And then she shocks them all—every Pharisee,
every invited guest, every rabbi, even Jesus himself. She shocks them all by falling to her knees, weeping
without shame, and bathing Jesus’ feet with her tears.
Like I said, however it is, whenever it is Jesus
comes to your table, you want to brace yourself. Expect the unexpected.
You’ve heard today’s story. How Simon, their host,
is more than embarrassed by her shameless intrusion. How he’s mortified,
humiliated by it; and how he can’t—for the life of him—understand how Jesus is
not. We get the impression, from Luke’s telling, that she persists and lingers,
that she kisses and kisses and kisses Jesus’ feet, that she empties a jar of
ointment and anoints his feet lovingly and tenderly and even patiently. What an
amazing moment! What an amazing woman! She is defiant and proud, and generous and
meek, at the same time. And she is not at all intimidated, it seems, by their
judgment, by their standing, by their disgust. She doesn’t just dash in and
out. She lingers there. With Jesus. This delightfully receptive and remarkably
unperturbed Jesus. She lingers there on his island of compassion.
And Simon, can you feel Simon’s agitation? He’s
really just a curious fellow. He only wanted an evening of stimulating conversation.
But now, now he’s just about beside himself. Watching all this. All this
lingering. All this weeping. All this touching. And he says to himself: “What
have I done? Who is this guy? If he were a prophet (as advertised), he’d have
known what kind of woman this is who touches him like this: a sinner, a reject,
an outsider to the kingdom of God.” At his table, at Simon’s table, the two of
them—Jesus and his new friend—the two of them are an embarrassment. Embarrassing
Simon. Embarrassing his guests. Maybe even embarrassing God. So much touching. So much loving.
So much compassion.
2.
Interesting, isn’t it, that the four gospels, the
four evangelists locate so much conflict right there at the table. Again and
again, Jesus is invited to supper; and, at the table, he encounters opposition.
At the table, he chooses to confront tradition and challenge old school values.
At the table, he tells a story that tests his host and reimagines the kingdom
of God. Interesting. So much conflict at the table.
And it makes some sense, doesn’t it? Because the
table is a place of gathering, a place of community and collaboration. And the
table is a place where a community practices generosity, where collaboration
becomes sustenance and friendship becomes bread. OR the table is a place where divisions
are exposed. OR the table is a place where a few are welcome and many are not. OR
the table is a place where grudges and grievances are kindled and justified.
So not only is Jesus unafraid of conflict. He seems
often to welcome it, to relish the opportunity to teach at the table, to encourage
boundary-busting and then soul-searching at the table. His heart is set on the
kingdom of God. His soul aches for peace and genuine human community. What
better place for forgiveness and formation than the table? What better place
for truth-telling and peace-making than the table?
You know, conflict has been a companion on our
journey together this last year. Right here at First Congregational Church.
Right here at this table. It’s not at all unusual in human community and
certainly not in religious community. In fact, I might even say that, where
there is no conflict, there’s usually very little energy, very little hope,
little or no sense of purpose. And that’s not the case here.
So we’ve had our share this year. We’ve vigorously
debated the process around which we evaluate our staff, and what those
evaluations mean. We’ve opened the door to new possibilities for the name and
identity of our church. And that has you and me thinking about what matters
most and sometimes disagreeing about what matters most. And then there’s that
persistent conflict around how and when and why we worship in this space. Whether we’re really
two different communities worshipping in two different languages. Whether we
choose to break bread at two different tables, because our needs are just
different, or whether we risk the discomfort of the same table each every Sunday.
I’m not saying there are easy answers to any of these questions, easy solutions
to any conflicts out there. Just that tension comes with religious life.
Disagreement comes with discipleship. And our challenge now, our challenge
here, is moving forward in faith.
3.
And this is where Jesus is so perceptive. This is
where Jesus is so courageous and enlightened. You remember that Simon’s beside
himself. You remember that Simon’s incredulous around Jesus’ tolerance of the
woman’s shameless, reckless touching. What was supposed to have been a feast
looks something now like a courtroom. Supper unravels, and the table becomes a
battleground of sorts.
But Jesus’ eye is on a bigger prize. And he’s on to
Simon. And he tells Simon about that certain creditor who had two debtors—one
owing a lot, and the other just a little. And when the creditor finds that
neither can pay off his debt, he cancels both of them. Forgives them both. And
Jesus, of course, asks Simon: “Which of them, which of the two debtors, will
love him more?” “I suppose,” says Simon, somewhat sheepishly, “the one for whom the creditor
cancelled the bigger debt.
Always with Jesus, there’s some playfulness in the
parable. These tales are never quite
what they seem. And he doesn’t want us
to be too sure of ourselves. Of course,
both of these debtors will love their benefactor. Both will appreciate his generosity—and who’s
really to say which will love him more.
The point, I think, is that those who truly experience love inevitably
become love’s ambassadors. Those who
know forgiveness as freedom are most likely to forgive freely. And that makes all the difference.
So what I’m hearing in this text today—from the
woman’s intrusion to the teacher’s story—is a word about forgiveness and grace
and human community. There’s no doubt that Jesus is concerned with this one
woman’s story and her own journey to wholeness. There’s no doubt about that.
But he’s every bit as interested in the practice of hospitality and human
community: How is it that we navigate our differences? How is it that we grow
and learn even and especially in the midst of conflict? How is it that we overcome
our fears and overcome our suspicions and overcome old habits to feed one
another and serve one another and honor one another at tables like this one?
I think Jesus is offering this woman and her daring
example as our way forward in Christian community. Even ours, right her at
First Congregational Church. I think Jesus’s insisting that forgiveness and
grace make for resilient friendship and courageous community. Our mission goes nowhere
without them. Our vision is dim and dark without forgiveness and grace. If
you’re going take on the cynical spirit of the day, Jesus seems to say, if
you’re going to model the healing spirit of the gospel, you’re going to have to
draw on grace and compassion and forgiveness. Especially when differences
threaten to divide you. Especially when anxieties threaten to overwhelm you.
So I want you to know that I’m not afraid of the
conflicts before us. Better to serve a church that cares enough to be conflicted
than to serve a church that going through the motions and sleeping through
Sunday morning. You know what I mean? Our conflicts reveal our passions. And
that’s a good thing, a very good thing.
And—as we move forward—let’s draw on God’s grace.
Let’s drink deeply from the wells of forgiveness and compassion. Let’s risk
greeting one another even as the woman in our story greets Jesus: generously,
patiently, lovingly, shamelessly. I’m not saying you have to fall the floor
every Sunday and weep wildly on one another’s
feet! I’m not expecting you’ll pull out the ties in your bun and fling your hair enthusiastically around the room! But let’s
take our cue from a woman who is so convinced of God’s grace, a woman who is so
grateful for Jesus’ love, a woman who is so comfortable in our own skin—that
she extends that same grace to others. Let’s walk in the steps of a woman who
is so beloved, so awash in forgiveness—that she risks everything to build new
bridges and initiate new friendships.
If we live that way, if we show up in that spirit
every Sunday, I’ve got to imagine God’s got all kinds of wonder in store for us
in this place. I have to think that Jesus is working out his grace, his power,
his vision in us. If we build this ministry on grace. If we set this church on a foundation of forgiveness.
Amen.
