Luke 11:1–13
Presented July 29th, 2007, by J.D. Kline
The Ninth Sunday after Pentecost
Preaching professor Tom Long tells the story of a Presbyterian congregation in Princeton, New Jersey which became concerned about hunger in its community. After a number of members became involved in an inner city ministry that made them aware of the vastness of the problem in their midst, the congregation began taking regular special offerings where people were invited, much as we do with our offerings for the Global Food Crisis Fund, to bring hunger gifts forward during the singing of a hymn. But the more the congregation gave, it seemed, the more many became overwhelmed with just how deep was the need in their community, and some began to lament that their gifts were little more than a drop in the bucket.
But then, one Sunday, an older woman, one of the town’s “bag ladies” who had shown up for worship, made her way forward during the hunger offering. The congregation was all eyes as she walked down the aisle, shopping bag filled with all her possessions in hand. Many wondered if she would take something out of the offering plate rather than putting something in, knowing she likely had little to contribute. But when the bag lady reached the front of the sanctuary, she quietly knelt before the plate, folded her hands reverently, and mouthed a prayer of gratitude. The homeless woman’s presence that morning served as a reminder to the congregation that, while they likely would not solve all the hunger issues of the community, what they were doing was touching lives in a significant way; the congregation was planting noticeable seeds of compassion and care.
This morning’s Gospel lesson centers on prayer, how it is that we experience communion with God. But even more, this morning’s lesson speaks of persistence, the call to “hang in there” as we endeavor to live faithfully, even when the results are not clearly visible. In the business of doing justice, proclaiming peace, living compassionately, loving tenderly, walking humbly with our God—in all this, our primary calling is to remain steadfast as we seek to reflect Christ’s gracious love, and then to trust that God will bring forth the results.
Look with me more closely at today’s lesson, which opens with the request of the disciples to Jesus, “Teach us to pray.” At one level, it seems an odd request. The disciples, we would assume, follow the practice of first century Judaism, pausing three times daily for set prayers, with each prayer containing eighteen petitions. But apparently the disciples sense a different quality in the prayer life of Jesus that far exceeds ritual and routine. Jesus does not pray only when required or when finding himself in a tough spot; rather, Jesus’ life is immersed in prayer. In truth, prayer and life are inseparable for Jesus.
Harry Emerson Fosdick, noted preacher in the mid-20th century, once wrote that “the practice of prayer is necessary to make God not merely an idea in the mind but a Presence recognized in one’s life.” As the early disciples spent time with Jesus, they soon discovered God to be a very real presence in his Jesus. In truth, then, when the disciples ask, “Lord, teach us to pray,” they are seeking ways that they themselves might move more fully toward a similar experience of God’s presence in the midst of all life, in the struggles and ambiguities of life every bit as much as during times of relative calm.
Jesus responds to the request by sharing the prayer we have come to know as the Lord’s Prayer, a prayer that invites us to recognize God in all of life. The Lord’s Prayer takes us beyond self-centeredness and self-focused living to God-centered living. At the prayer’s heart stands a yearning for God’s kingdom, God’s realm, to fully establish itself on earth—a passionate thirsting for the coming of that day when all peoples will embrace the goodness of God, when nations shall no longer teach the ways of warfare and destruction, when pathways of justice and compassion will be embraced and lived to the fullest. Overflowing with confidence in God’s abundant grace, the prayer exudes hope for the future, while at the same time conveying the assurance that God touches us here and now, in our present living, that God responds to our current hungers: Give us this day our daily bread; forgive us our sins; save us from the time of trial.
The theme of dogged persistence continues in the parable that follows. It’s the story of a friend who, late at night, receives an unexpected guest. In ancient Palestine, hospitality stood as a sacred duty, but there is a problem. In order to avoid waste, bread was baked daily, and generally only enough was made for that day’s needs. As a result, the friend who welcomes an unexpected guest finds himself empty-handed. Since bread was generally baked in common courtyards in the Galilean villages of that day, neighbors would have some sense of who might possibly have some bread left at the end of a day. And so, in spite of it being midnight, the friend caught in this dilemma hurries to a nearby neighbor who had that day made a large supply of bread.
Because families in that time lived in simple one or two-room structures, a knock on the door not only disturbed the neighbor, but even more, the entire family, and likely, the family’s animals as well. No wonder the disturbed neighbor cries out, “Do not bother me; the door has already been locked, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot get up and give you anything.” Still, the determined host will not be deterred, and the story concludes, “I tell you, even though he will not get up and give him anything because he is his friend, at least because of his persistence he will get up and give him whatever he needs” (Luke 11:8).
Episcopal preacher Barbara Brown Taylor, frequent leader at the annual Festival of Homiletics, reminds us that parables are wisdom literature, in the tradition of the Proverbs, Psalms, and the book of Job. The parables, like other wisdom literature, are far more focused on starting conversation than on ending conversation. Parables ask hard questions, inviting us to grapple with life and faith’s deepest meaning. Rather than providing simplistic answers to life’s complexities, parables are stories that compel us to seek our own answers to life’s challenges. And clearly that’s what’s happening in this story of the neighbor at midnight.
The Greek word translated as persistence literally means shamelessness. The one who bangs on the door at midnight does so shamelessly. Yet the one who chooses to get up and share his bread does so, not simply because of the neighbor’s shameless persistence, but because of his own shamelessness—that is, his own sense of honor that demands that he not ignore the neighbor’s pressing need. In other words, the one with bread chooses not to bear the shame of being hard-hearted; stated more positively, he chooses to live and respond compassionately. All of which suggests that we, too, are challenged to grapple persistently with what it means for us to be a community of God’s people, where you and I are being called to bear Christ’s compassionate grace and mercy, and how we are to live faithfully in a world filled with ambiguity, uncertainty, and pain.
Leo Tolstoy once observed that certain questions are put to humanity not so much that we should answer them but that we should spend a lifetime wrestling with them. I suspect Jesus had a similar thought in mind when urging the disciples to Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. Through the years, many have been tempted to read this matter of asking, seeking, and knocking as a kind of blank check promising us whatever we selfishly desire—a “prosperity gospel” guaranteed. The Greek verbs suggest continuing action, Keep on asking, keep on seeking, keep on knocking. But what are we to ask for, what are we seeking, but a deeper sense of God’s unfolding realm, God’s kingdom of justice and peace, mercy and compassion, kindness and self-giving love.
In truth, it is a call to live lives of integrity, to share honestly the struggles and challenges before us. In his book Reaching Out Henri Nouwen puts it this way,
Often it is the dark forest that makes us speak about the open field. Frequently prison makes us think about freedom, hunger helps us to appreciate food, and war gives us words for peace. Not seldom are our visions of the future born out of the sufferings of the present and our hope for others out of our own despair. Only few happy endings make us happy, but often someone’s careful and honest articulation of the ambiguities, uncertainties, and painful conditions of life give us new hope. The paradox is indeed that new life is born out of the pains of the old.
You may remember that my first sermon back in the pulpit following my wife Janice’s accident and death was entitled When Certainties Fail. While many would far prefer a nailed-down faith, a faith in which everything is prescribed, the challenging truth is that faith that sees itself as offering simplistic answers in the face of life’s challenges and difficulties is no faith at all! Rather, faith is finding courage, wisdom, support and strength to walk through life’s challenging times. Along the way, we may well find ourselves offering strength and encouragement to others as we share our own experiences of moving through life’s ambiguities, uncertainties, and times of pain, grief and loss.
The gospel’s call to dogged persistence in life and prayer and faith, therefore, does not mean that we will arrive at a time when we have all the answers. What it does mean is that we find the courage to spend a lifetime wrestling and living with critical questions before us: What does it mean for us to be a community of God’s people? How do we live creatively and faithfully in the midst of life’s uncertainties and ambiguities? Where do we find our hope?
As the psalmist proclaims,
I lift up my eyes to the hills—
from where will my help come?
My help comes from the Lord,
who made heaven and earth (Psalm 121:1).
Amen.