Sermons & Meditations

Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52
Presented July 24th, 2005, by J.D. Kline
The Tenth Sunday after Pentecost

I don’t know about you, but as I consider my early learnings of the Christian faith, I quickly gathered the sense that discipleship—following Jesus—is serious business. And for good reason. As disciples of Jesus, we carry a high calling—to be salt for the earth, light to the world around us, representatives of Christ’s compassion and mercy and grace in our relationships with others, citizens of God’s kingdom or realm on earth. Floyd Mallott, professor at Bethany Seminary a couple generations ago, in his book Studies in Brethren History asserts that “from the beginning Brethren had no basic test of a Christian except to ask whether he [or she] would try to live in exact imitation of and obedience to Jesus.”

This morning’s Gospel lesson includes a series of parables told by Jesus to give us a taste of what it means to embrace life in God’s kingdom and embark upon a journey of discipleship. Each parable reminds us that something remarkably new is unfolding, something well beyond the customary, something little anticipated yet worthy of the investment of all our energy, all our passion, all our commitment. Serious business, indeed!

But sometimes, I fear, we take not only the gospel story, but also ourselves, so seriously that we miss the joy. Biblical scholar John Dominic Crossan asserts that two of this morning’s parables—the parables of the buried treasure and of the pearl of great cost—may well form the foundation for all the other teachings and parables Jesus tells. For at the heart of these two parables is a call to joyful abandon, surrendering ourselves to Christ and Christ’s manner of living. It’s an intriguing combination, isn’t it? Joy and abandonment; celebration coupled with the call to deny self, take up the cross, and follow Jesus. Indeed, should this element of joy and celebration be lost, should we lose sight of the joy that comes as we entrust our lives to the care of Christ Jesus, something critical is missing. Rather than a being a radically new way of living we freely embrace, discipleship instead becomes little more than drudgery and obligation, duty and requirement.

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Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43
Presented July 17th, 2005, by J.D. Kline
The Ninth Sunday after Pentecost

Irish author Maeve Binchy has a short story entitled “The Home Sitter,” in which a couple, James and Maura, are looking for someone to house-sit their home in Dublin, Ireland for several months. James has been invited to serve as visiting lecturer at a small Midwestern university here in the states. Over the course of several years of marriage and in the aftermath of the sudden and painful death of their infant son, James and Maura have drifted apart, with James spending more and more time at the university and Maura more and more time at her office. Maura has grown fearful of losing James, and senses that their time together in America might well be their last chance to make a go of it. Yet who might care for their home while they are gone? Maura is certain that none of their family members fits the bill, nor do James and Maura have much relationship with the neighbors. There are no friends ready and able to house-sit, but one day Maura learns of a house sitter named Allie.

Allie comes for an interview, and turns out to be one of those individuals able to communicate genuine interest in each person, gifted at drawing others out. Maura finds a growing jealousy rising within her, certain that Allie will somehow bring danger into her life. But James is so positive about Allie as a house sitter, even asserting, “Well, wasn’t that the direct intervention of God,” that Maura covers up her feelings and agrees that, yes, Allie is indeed marvelous. Still, Maura is disturbed by Allie—by her long golden legs and arms, by her ability to ask all the right questions, by her easy smile, and most of all, by James’ enthusiasm for Allie.

During the time that James and Maura are in the Midwest, Allie writes faithfully each week to Maura, but Maura convinces herself that it is only a ploy—that in truth, Allie is after James. Allie writes of enjoyable outings with James’ mother and with Maura’s sister, neither of whom Maura considered capable of caring for her home. And Allie writes of pleasant experiences with the neighbors. In response, Maura finds herself even more threatened and her anxiety level skyrocketing, for James and Maura had never been close to any of the neighbors. While James begins to look forward to letters from “our Allie,” Maura dreads them.

The couple’s time together in America did afford ample opportunity for drawing closer together, with new experiences, evenings on their own, and lengthy walks together. But Maura’s unspoken jealousy and suspicion left many of those experiences less than satisfying. And as Maura and James returned home to a welcome home party arranged by Allie, complete with family members and neighbors, Maura tried her best to communicate warmth and appreciation. But inside, she was seething with resentment, and at the end of the story we read:

Allie was leaving that afternoon; she would not stay and destroy Maura’s life by taking her husband. Her next job was abroad. Minding a farmhouse . . .

But Maura had been right that day . . . . Allie had ruined her life; she had opened up golden doors and shown everyone else how wonderful things could be, but would never be again.

The story carries an intriguing mixture of sadness and possibility, hope and despair, opportunity and fear, good and evil—and fits quite well with this morning’s Gospel lesson, the parable of wheat and weeds.

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Romans 8:1-11
Presented July 10th, 2005, by J.D. Kline
The Eighth Sunday after Pentecost

Some years ago, well before we came to associate the towers of the World Trade Center with the tragic events of September 11, 2001, a tightrope walker named Philippe Petit was arrested for walking across a tightrope that he and several friends had extended from one of those towers to the other. Upon Philippe’s arrest, the first thing the police did was to take him to the city hospital for a psychiatric examination, assuming that nobody in his or her right mind would do such a thing. When Philippe was judged to be perfectly sane and in good spirits, questions followed. “Why would you want to risk your life walking on a rope stretched between the city’s highest towers?” The story has it that Philippe appeared initially baffled by the question, then after some moments of consideration responded, “Well… if I see three oranges I have to juggle, and if I see two towers I have to walk.”

Philippe Petit was one always on the lookout for that which would bring additional challenge to life. Few of us here, I suspect, are drawn to the challenge of tightrope walking, but many of us—I trust—recognize that the life of faith involves a significant element of risk taking. Indeed, if our faith is not leading us into new experiences, new ventures, new opportunities, perhaps it is not faith at all. Perhaps it is not leading to life at all, but to spiritual death.

I have read that the physical experience of freezing to death, near the end, becomes quite easy. There is a false sense of warmth, drowsiness, and comfort just prior to the end of life, and to trust that feeling is to insure death. Should companions be present, therefore, it is their task to force you beyond the comfortable—prodding you to move, to act, no matter how painful. Just so, our life of faith loses its growing edge when we value comfort and security more than we value adventure and movement. One cannot read the New Testament for long without sensing that the early Christians found in the gospel that which led them beyond the security of the familiar, beyond the comfort of the way things had always been done, into a new community, a new life, centered in Christ Jesus. Acts 17, for example, tells the story of community leaders disturbed by the presence of the early Christians, lamenting, “Those people who have been turning the world upside down have come here also” (Acts 17:6).

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