My Nemesis (2 Samuel 16:5-14)

Preached at Cragsmoor Stone Church in Cragsmoor, NY

Have you ever had a nemesis–someone or something that seemed to exist only to annoy you and make you miserable?

The person who works in your office who has the unique talent of getting under your skin with everything they say, do, or think;

The friend of a friend who interjected themselves into your social group and now makes you the butt of all their jokes;

The gopher who drove Bill Murray the groundskeeper mad in the comedy classic Caddyshack.

Have you ever had to deal with someone or something like that?

I have a nemesis, but I’m a little reluctant to talk about them here, less they get wind of what I say and redouble their efforts to do me wrong.

For the sake of this sermon, however, I’m willing to risk it, and name them publicly.

My nemesis is the boiler in my church’s basement.

Good Lord, this thing drives me crazy.

I’m told that the boiler runs on natural gas, but I’m convinced it just burns money.

$1000 here, $5000 there, $10000–I’ve authorized so many repairs after walking into a freezing cold sanctuary that I just have to laugh at the thought of it.

And just to keep me on my toes, there was even one time that the boiler wouldn’t turn off and I walked into a fellowship hall that was 90 degrees and getting warmer in the middle of winter.

One boiler guy once told me, “You really do have a Ferrari, Rev. Beautiful to look at, but good luck if something goes wrong with it.”

The fun with the boiler never ends.

Last year the heat went out the week of Halloween. We didn’t get it fixed until the Friday before Christmas–a saga that upended the church’s Thanksgiving and Advent celebrations, as well as lowering my holiday cheer to Scrooge levels of bah humbug.

The seasons in which the boiler doesn’t require extensive work are few and far between, a problem that’s exacerbated by the fact that every replacement part apparently needs to be handforged at some undisclosed location that is perpetually eight to ten weeks away from the New York metropolitan area.

And of course I take all of this personally. The boiler obviously wants me to fail, wants me to feel discouraged, and wants everyone in town to go to that other church with the elitiest theology, but dependable heat in the winter and, God help me, air conditioning in the summer.

There’s an inverse correlation between the amount of time I spend in the church’s boiler room and my happiness.

That’s the power of a persistent nemesis.

We’ve read a passage from the Bible this morning about King David, a man with a long list of rivals, enemies, and antagonists.

There was Goliath–the giant who tried to kill him, Saul–the old king who tried to kill him, and Absalom–David’s own son who tried to kill him.

Compared to those figures, it’s easy to overlook Shimei (Chamay-e), son of Gera, but I rather like his story, and I believe that it’s there that we find the point of contact between our lives and God’s Word today.

Shimei was angry enough to kill David, but all he did about it was cuss him out.

It happened at a real low point for David.

Devastated by the personal and political chaos his son Absalom’s betrayal unleashed, David’s life and kingdom were in tatters and Absalom had a real chance of seizing his old man’s throne.

At this moment, while David and his loyal forces were making a rather pitiful retreat from Jerusalem, Shimei, one of Saul’s kinfolk, appears on the scene and, according to the scripture, “he came out cursing.”

He really let David have it.

Shimei shouted while he cursed, “Out! Out! Murderer! Scoundrel! The Lord has avenged on all of you the blood of the house of Saul, in whose place you have reigned, and the Lord has given the kingdom into the hand of your son Absalom. See, disaster has overtaken you, for you are a man of blood.”

“You’re getting what you deserve, you blood thirsty tyrant!”

“You’ve taken other people’s lives and their wives, and I think it’s hilarious that someone has finally taken something of yours.”

Shimei was on fire, bringing down insult after insult upon David’s head.

One of the king’s generals eventually had enough and offered to take Shimei’s head off, but David was resigned to his fate.

“My own son seeks my life,” he said, “[so what’s it matter to me if this guy wants to curse me]! Let him alone, and let him curse.”

So David and his men went on the road while Shimei went along on the hillside opposite him and cursed as he went, throwing stones and flinging dust at him. The king and all the people who were with him arrived weary at the Jordan.

Time passed, David’s foul mouthed nemesis lived, but Absalom’s rebellion didn’t, and as David was settling back into power, guess who showed up?

Shimei, son of Gera. Only this time, he sang a very different tune.

“May my lord not hold me guilty or remember how your servant did wrong.” (2 Samuel 19:19)

“Yeah, I’m really sorry about all those things I said about you, King, but we’re all good, right?”

And the scripture says that the same general looked at David again and said, “Now? Now do I get to kill him?”

But David chose forgiveness. He spared Shimei’s life and sent him on his way.

And there you have it. The story of David and Shimei–a story about choosing forgiveness instead of revenge, a story about being humble in defeat and magnanimous in victory–another shiny treasure pulled from the mess of David’s life.

But wait a minute. There’s a shocking twist still to come–and it’s the twist that’s so important to us.

Years later, as David was dying, he called to his side Solomon–his son who would become king, and said, “[Remember] Shimei son of Gera “who cursed me with a terrible curse,” but who I forgave and promised not to kill? That doesn’t apply to you. Once I’m gone, you should get rid of him, too.” (1 Kings 2:8-9)

And that’s what Solomon did.

So you see, the story of David and Shimei isn’t so much an inspirational tale about forgiveness and taking the moral high road as it is a cautionary tale about how twisted our hearts and minds can become when we hold on to grievances, wrongs, and slights and give our nemesis a power over us that they could never earn on their own.

It shouldn’t be lost on us that when David first came into the spotlight he had the faith and the courage to face down Goliath, but as he made his exit, he was plotting, scheming, and making his own promises worthless because of he wouldn’t let go of one man’s curses and insults. That’s the power of a persistent nemesis.

I’m sure that all of us carry within us genuine hurt, heartbreak, and scars, but I’m convinced that so much of what ails us is attributable to the fact that, like David, we seize upon trivial and insignificant things and allow them to short circuit our capacity for growth, healing, and transformation.

We give small things so much power that we’re too exhausted to tackle the things that really matter.

The opening line of the Serenity Prayer is on point, “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

Bono also provides a bit of wisdom when he sings, “Choose your enemies carefully 'cause they will define you.”

Do I really think the boiler in the church basement is out to get me? No.

Is it annoying when there’s no heat in the building? Of course, it is.

But is being so obsessed with that annoyance that I make my wife and kids miserable when I come home from work really the choice that I want to make, the decision I want to live by? No, that’s not what I want to do. That’s not who I want to be.

Maybe you feel something similar about the impact your nemesis has on you, too.

Saint Paul tells us that one of the gifts given to us by God to help break such unproductive habits and cycles is communion with Christ that is so liberating and transformational, so rooted and grounded in God’s love, that our thoughts and our actions actually become Christlike.

“Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,” Paul proclaimed.

As we go from this place I pray that that’s what we’ll do.

I pray that we will let go of grievance and take hold of God’s gift.

I pray that we will know Christ and walk with him on our path.

I pray that we will face every nemesis, hardship, and challenge with serenity, courage, and wisdom.

And I pray that will never cease to give God thanks for the Good News that makes this and all signs of new life with Christ possible.

Thanks be to God for this Good News. Amen.

Image: The Stone Arch overlooking the Rondout Valley

Don't Cover Your Scars (Romans 8:15-17 & Mark 14:32-42)

A few months ago the band U2 released a song called “Scars” that, to use a phrase my family has heard me say countless times regarding U2’s music, speaks to me.

The song’s lyric is a word of encouragement to one who is tempted to hide the evidence of their life’s heartbreak, failures, and pain–their scars, as it were.

The opening verse sets the stage.

You got lost, love, and you found trouble

When you went looking for your life

You got some scars and some others suffer

But you keep on reaching for the light

Those of you who know how much I like to preach about Dante’s Divine Comedy or who remember our worship series The Gift of the Dark Woods from several years ago should feel your ears perking up a bit at the thought of finding grace in the midst of trouble, or at least the promise that the light that beckons us forward is stronger than the present dark that holds us.

Bono continues,

The doors of your heart were kicked open

But you're leaving history far behind

Can't break what's already been broken

And now it's time

I know, [know, know]

All that you've been through

So I know, [know, know]

Who you are, [who you are]

Let them show, [show, show]

It's your scars that give you beauty

You're a beauty

Don't cover your scars

Now you don’t need to make a spectacle of them either. They’re your scars, it’s your experience, your story, and, ultimately, you should get to tell it or show it how and when you choose to, but this lyric points to a path that leads to freedom found in owning our story and scars–what people mean when they talk about knowing their truth–and discovering that there’s a lot of power in what once felt like weakness.

The interplay between power and weakness is a recurring theme in the Bible, especially in the letters of Saint Paul, and meditating on the relationship between the two is one of the more radical and important spiritual exercises in which we can engage.

Father Richard Rohr brought up this point in a sermon taken from 2 Corinthians 12. That’s the chapter where Paul confesses that he has this enigmatic “thorn in his flesh” that he asked the Lord to remove, but that Lord told him to learn to live with it instead, saying, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Cor. 12:9)

Here’s how Rev. Rohr unpacks that verse.

I must be up front with you. I don’t really understand why God created the world in this upside-down way. I do not know why “power is at its best in weakness,” as Paul wrote in 2 Corinthians 12:9. I cannot pretend to understand God, but this is what I see: People who have moved from one seeming success to another seldom understand success at all—except for their own very limited version. People who fail to do something right, by even their own definition of right, are those who often break through to enlightenment and compassion.

Paul can talk in this paradoxical way about power and weakness because he meditated on the mystery of the cross. The one who was a failure became the redeemer. The one who looked naked and weak and like a loser became the ultimate winner. And so Paul sums it up in his beautiful philosophy, ending with the line, “It is when I am weak that I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12:10).

Let’s honestly admit almost none of us believe that. We think it’s when we’re strong that we’re strong. But no, it’s when we’re weak that we’re strong. It doesn’t make a bit of sense to the rational, logical mind. Only people of the Spirit understand how true it is. The Twelve Step Program made it the first step: We have to experience our powerlessness before we can experience our power. (Strength in Weakness, dated 9/27/22)

Since we are trying this month to mine the depths of our tradition for wisdom about prayer, I want to lift up for you the phrase “Abba, Father” as a tool to help us better understand the relationship between weakness and strength in the Kingdom of God.

We heard this phrase read in our readings from Romans and Mark this morning. Amazingly, those are two of only three instances where “Abba, Father” is found in the entire New Testament. There are lots of references to God as a father, mind you, but the only other example of “Abba, Father” being used is in Galatians.

Now, if you’ve ever heard someone expound upon this phrase in a sermon or a study, you’ve probably heard that “Abba, Father” is something like a term of endearment used by a child and that it means, “Daddy” as in “Daddy God.”

There’s a growing body of evidence in biblical studies, however, that point out that that’s not what it means at all. Rather, “Abba, Father” is an expression evocative of a mature relationship existing between an obedient adult child and a trustworthy parent. (Tonstad, pp 10-11)

And the theme of an obedient adult child and a trustworthy parent is on full display in Mark’s Gospel account of the night Jesus was betrayed and arrested.

They went to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to his disciples, “Sit here while I pray.” He took with him Peter and James and John and began to be distressed and agitated. And he said to them, “My soul is deeply grieved, even to death; remain here, and keep awake.” And going a little farther, he threw himself on the ground and prayed that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him. He said, “Abba, Father, for you all things are possible; remove this cup from me, yet not what I want but what you want.” (Mark 14:32-36)

You can see and hear how reading that as “Daddy” falls short. How it doesn’t really make sense that Jesus would use a child’s idiom here.

No, in Gethsemane Jesus exerts his will and desire to have the cup of his suffering taken away even as he pledges to obey–to walk the path that he must walk–as an expression of faith and trust that with God his steps are not in vain.

The fact that Paul could invoke “Abba, Father” in letters to places like Rome, places that he hadn’t even visited yet, indicates that the phrase had a tremendous reach and resonated with Christian believers from all sorts of backgrounds and perspectives, not because it gave them a familiar and intimate Aramaic nickname for God, but because it connected them to the very source of their faith in Jesus as Lord and Savior of us all–the story of the Passion, the Cross, and the Resurrection.

This is the story in which our scars are redeemed and power is made perfect in weakness.

“The experience of powerlessness is where we all must begin,” writes Rohr, “just as Jesus himself always went where the pain was. Wherever there was human suffering, Jesus was concerned about it and sought to heal it in the very moment of encounter. It is both rather amazing and very sad that we pushed it all off into a future reward system for those who were “worthy”—as if any of us are.”

That brings us to the place where we can make a connection between “Abba, Father,” prayer, and our scars.

I know I’m not alone in feeling, at times, a powerful temptation to regard prayer, doing the right thing, and basically living a life of faith as a hedge or an inoculation against suffering and things in my life going sideways.

The problem with that mindset, however, is that even though prayer and faith can keep some hurtful things at bay, succumbing to that temptation can lead us to believe that suffering is evidence of our failure, that we or they must’ve done something really bad to deserve something so tragic, that scars are signs of shame.

And that is, of course, a lie.

For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you received a spirit of adoption. When we cry, “Abba! Father!” it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs: heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ, if we in fact suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him. (Romans 8:15-17)

Since we are trying this month to mine the depths of our tradition for wisdom about prayer, I want to lift up for you the phrase “Abba, Father” as a tool to help us better understand the relationship between weakness and strength in the Kingdom of God.

Today, hear the wisdom of Christ and his Passion.

In prayer, as in life, don’t cover your scars.

Amen.

Take a Load Off, Colin

Note: Colin Poellot was my good friend and my son's godfather. He died last year of respitory complications caused by ALS. On August 5, 2026, Colin's 57th birthday, his wife Barbara Lynn gathered a wonderful group of old friends at Colin's former workplace in SoHo to remember him. I wrote this piece of that event.

Twenty three years ago, I moved to Manhattan with my wife Laura Leigh Davidson. Within a year of our move, Laura started working here at Scholastic, and soon after that she started talking about a guy she worked with named Colin.

“I really want you to meet him,” she said. “I think you’ll like him.”

The opportunity for that meeting occurred at a karaoke bar in Midtown.

Several people from Scholastic were meeting after work at a place on 38th Street and boyfriends, girlfriends, spouses, and significant others were invited to tag along.

I was genuinely looking forward to going out that night, but I began to wonder what I had gotten myself into as soon as we got there.

I remember a lot of blue and pink lights, and a lot of blue and pink drinks, and the kind of music that one hears at a bar with blue and pink lights that serves blue and pink drinks.

I was quickly getting into that state of mind where I tell myself I’m going to have a bad night before the night even begins, when Laura caught the eye of someone she recognized from work who waved us toward a back room where the Scholastic crew had gathered.

And at the front of that room, there was a guy singing a karaoke version of “The Weight” by The Band, a song that is about as far removed from the vibes of blue and pink drinks as possible.

Take a load off Fanny, take a load for free;

Take a load off Fanny, And (and) (and) you can put the load right on me.

Now if any of you are still going out and singing in bars, you can let me know if things have changed, but back in the mid-oughts not too many people had Robbie Robertson’s greatest hits in their repertoire.

So as this surreal scene of sights and sounds played out all around me, my mind began to race.

What was happening here?

What had I just walked into?

And as I tried to make sense of it all, Laura tapped me on the arm and pointed at the guy.

“That’s Colin!” she said.

Yes it was and my life in this city was so much more interesting and fun, my faith in God is so much stronger, and my appreciation for the weight and gravity of friendship is so much greater because of him.

The memories of laughter and incredible times I shared with Colin are just the best, and I know I’m not alone.

All of us gathered here carry something within ourselves that we count as a gift or a blessing that Colin gave to us—a memory of a Rush concert, riding bikes across Iowa, a photograph, a kindness, a conversation.

Hey Barbara Lynn, remember that time we went to the Astoria Beer Garden to eat pierogies and hear that sketchy band Laura Leigh met up with on the subway?

Remember that time driving around upstate when we saw the sign that said “Beware of the Monkey” and immediately passed a monkey that was sitting in the road, eating an apple, and giving us the stink eye?

Remember the Christmas Eve service at my church when—like a scene straight from Rev—the drunk guy started heckling me while I tried to preach and little baby Oliver made a break for it down the aisle?

What gloriously ridiculous memories we have.

Hey Barbara Lynn, remember when my family had no heat or electricity after Superstorm Sandy and Colin drove into Lower Manhattan during the blackout so that we could join Jeff and Tom as your Superstorm house guests?

Remember when Laura got sick and you and Colin tried so hard to love us and help us even as things got increasingly out of control?

Remember when I came back to the City by myself for the first time after she died and Colin met me for a drink?

I don’t recall a single thing he and I talked about that day, but I remember Colin was there for me, and that’s all that mattered.

That’s what Colin did and that’s who Colin was.

What gloriously messy, beautiful, heart breaking, and life affirming memories we have.

In his book The Four Loves, C.S. Lewis wrote, “Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.”

By the time Colin put down the microphone that night and walked across the room so that Laura Leigh could introduce us, our moment had already begun.

Late last year, my wife Dana, and now-teenaged Oliver, were walking from Grand Central to Madison Square Garden. Navigating our way through the crowds and trying to find a place to eat, we ended up walking down 38th Street, right past that same karaoke bar.

And I thought, isn’t it amazing and wonderful that the one time I ever walked into that place, I met someone who changed my life.

Of course, our fondness for this city will tell us that that’s part of New York’s charm and magic. And maybe that’s true, but let’s face it. Pink and blue drinks under pink and blue lights are more likely to lead to a headache and maybe regret, than meeting someone who you will remember and love forever.

No, even more than this city, it’s the charm and magic of a unique soul like Colin Poellot who touches us, who changes us, who we are blessed to call our friend.

Rest in peace, Colin. Thank you for everything. I love you.

Amen.

An Honest Conversation (Philippians 4:4-7)

Sweet Hour of Prayer: Week 1

It wasn’t too long after Dana, the kids, and I arrived at my parents’ house earlier this summer that my mom handed me a small stack of papers.

I could tell by the age of the paper and the handwriting what they were. They were pages from my Grandma Kemp’s prayer journals.

“I made one last trip to Frank’s house before the auction and pulled out some pages that mention you and your brothers,” mom said.

You see, my mom’s younger brother Frank, who lived on the old family homestead, died suddenly last year and before the property was sold at auction this spring, my cousins invited the family to come and take whatever mementos or keepsakes they wanted.

My brother took some football cards.

My niece got Uncle Frank’s fishing tackle box.

My cousin found an old picture album that we passed around at our 4th of July cookout.

And my mom went through Grandma’s journals one more time.

I’ve mentioned Grandma and her journals in several sermons throughout my career because her example of spiritual devotion and practice still stands out in my mind.

Every day for fifty plus years, she spent time organizing her prayers by writing out who and what she was praying for.

She didn’t compose full prayers, mind you. She’d just write names and maybe a short note, a sentence or two about what was on her mind. She’s circle names as she prayed for them.

And those spiritual doodles hold a treasure trove of memories.

Thumbing through the pages mom handed to me, I saw references to illnesses and accomplishments, as well as other slice of life concerns of our family’s loving matriarch–things going on in our homes, our parents’ jobs, our grades and sports–the stuff that was on grandma’s mind as she read her Bible and drank her morning coffee.

And then, I saw the note that made me burst out laughing.

It was from the autumn of 1979. I was four years old, and, obviously, I’d been testing the patience of those who cared about it.

“Dear Lord,” my grandmother wrote, “please help little Jason to be stable.”

Now, no one remembers the exact circumstances that led Gram to pray that prayer, but we all have our guesses, and no one would’ve blamed Gram, either, if there were times when she questioned whether or not the Good Lord actually heard her.

I was a bit of a handful as a little kid.

Nevertheless, that’s a story for another day and another sermon, or another series.

But holding those papers in my hands, in addition to remembering what a wonderful grandmother I had, I couldn’t help but to feel a great sense of appreciation and admiration for the example she set as someone who prays.

Her prayers weren’t about buttering up God in order to get what she wanted. Neither were they about wallowing in shame and regret, as if God would regard any notion that she was more than a worthless clump of dirt as a damnable sign of pride.

No, Gram’s prayers were never so affected.

They were just the things that were on her mind and in her heart, and since she believed that God cared about her, then it seemed only natural that God would take an interest in those things, too.

That’s the example of prayer that I find most compelling.

We’re beginning a worship series this morning that invites us to think deeply about how we pray. Along the way, each week you’ll be given a chance to take an object in your hand–something like a cross or prayer beads–and, while holding it, you’ll be given a model prayer, too, to help you organize your thoughts and concerns, and to increase your ability to concentrate. We’ll also try to make connections between prayer and other things we do with our hands or bodies—crocheting, drawing, circling names on a paper—or things we do with our bodies—walking, working, exercise.

This emphasis on the “how” of prayer is an acknowledgment that, with all the stuff spinning around our minds and going on in our lives, we need a little more guidance in prayer than just being told to sit quietly, bow our heads, close our eyes, and talk to God.

That might be enough instruction for some of you, but for many–maybe even most–that’s just not going to cut it. We’ll end up thinking about a project at work, or our next trip to the grocery store, or what we’re having for lunch.

The mind does wander.

So, over the next few weeks, we’re going to talk much more than usual about how we pray.

But today, it’s really important that we begin with “the why” of it all.

So, why do we pray?

Because there are people, situations, tragedies, triumphs, aspirations, challenges, hardships, and celebrations on our minds and in our hearts, and since God cares about us, since God so loves the world, then it’s only natural that God would take an interest in those things, too.

Part of loving someone is being invested in what’s happening in their lives, and God is invested in you, and me, and this planet that we share with everybody else.

That is why we pray.

There’s a famous line about prayer in the oldest surviving letter written by Saint Paul. In First Thessalonians, the Apostle wrote,

“Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” (5:16-18)

Words we’ve read this morning echo this same thought.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:4-7)

Now, if anything less than love is the reason God invites us to pray, then calling us “to pray without ceasing” or to pray about “everything” is suffocating and oppressive.

If anything less than love motivates our prayer practice, then our prayers will be guarded, edited, fake, weak.

But prayer rooted in love, fed by love, sustained by love is free, open, powerful.

“To pray,” noted Father Richard Rohr, “is to practice that posture of radical trust in God’s grace, and to participate in perhaps the most radical movement of all, which is the movement of God’s Love.”

The lyrics of an old hymn describe the same truth.

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, unuttered or expressed,

the motion of a hidden fire that trembles in the breast. (v. 1. “Prayer is the Soul’s Sincere Desire”)"

Prayer, at its best, is an honest conversation.

That’s why I appreciate the connection Paul makes in Philippians 4 between praying and experiencing the “peace of God, which surpasses all understanding.”

God’s peace is transcendent, but certainly we can relate it to the peace we’ve experienced by just being able to sit and talk for a while with the people we love and the people who love us.

Everyone in our family knew that Gram spent time praying and writing in her journal every morning, but maybe the best example she set in her prayer life was making her home a peaceful and loving place where all of us knew that we were always welcomed.

More than any model for prayer that you might learn, more than any object that you may grasp, what I want for you over the course of this series is a growing sense and a deepening appreciation for God’s love in your life.

I want you to know the peace of an honest conversation with God.

I want you to know that what’s on your mind and in your heart is enough to keep God interested.

I want you to know that the door will be opened because you are welcomed in God’s presence.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Image: Blunden, Anna E., 1829-1915. For Only One Short Hour, or, The Seamstress, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt University Divinity Library, Nashville, TN.

On Charlie Chaplin, Roman Brutes, and God's Love (Romans 8:26-39)

An impassioned speech delivered by Charlie Chaplin as he plays a character meant to mock Adolf Hitler in the final scene of the 1940 film, The Great Dictator, is widely regarded as one of, if not the greatest speech in movie history.

The Great Dictator was Chaplin’s satirical lampoon of the era’s antisemitism, fascism, and authoritarian despots, including Hitler in Germany and Italy’s Benito Mussolini. Chaplin wrote, directed, produced, and starred in the movie to weaken the hold these movements had on people’s lives and imaginations, to boost the morale of those already in the war against them, and to stir neutral America to join the fight for a free Europe.

In the final scene, Chaplin’s character—a Jewish barber who is trying to escape the repressive regime of a tyrant named Adenoid Hynkel–finds himself mistaken for the very same man. Ushed onto a stage standing before Hynkel’s army, the barber is told that the troops, who are even then on the verge of victory, are waiting to hear from their dear leader.

The barber moves to the microphone and confesses that he, the dear leader, has had a change of heart.

“I’m sorry,’ he says, “but I don’t want to be an emperor. That’s not my business. I don’t want to rule or conquer anyone.”

As the speech continues, the wall between reality and fiction falls, the words transcend the movie’s made up plot, and Chaplin, the concerned citizen–not a character he is playing, speaks directly to his audience.

He continues,

I should like to help everyone - if possible - Jew, Gentile - black man - white. We all want to help one another. Human beings are like that. We want to live by each other’s happiness - not by each other’s misery. We don’t want to hate and despise one another. In this world there is room for everyone. And the good earth is rich and can provide for everyone. The way of life can be free and beautiful, but we have lost the way. Greed has poisoned men’s souls, has barricaded the world with hate, has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed, but we have shut ourselves in. Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical. Our cleverness, hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery we need humanity. More than cleverness we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost…

Then, as grand sweeping music plays in the background, the speech reaches its crescendo.

In the 17th Chapter of St Luke it is written: “the Kingdom of God is within man” - not one man nor a group of men, but in all men! In you! You, the people have the power - the power to create machines. The power to create happiness! You, the people, have the power to make this life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure.

Then - in the name of democracy - let us use that power - let us all unite. Let us fight for a new world - a decent world that will give men a chance to work - that will give youth a future and old age a security. By the promise of these things, brutes have risen to power. But they lie! They do not fulfil that promise. They never will!

Dictators free themselves but they enslave the people! Now let us fight to fulfil that promise! Let us fight to free the world - to do away with national barriers - to do away with greed, with hate and intolerance. Let us fight for a world of reason, a world where science and progress will lead to all men’s happiness. Soldiers! in the name of democracy, let us all unite!

And that’s the earnest speech delivered by Charlie Chaplin playing the character of a Jewish barber who is mistaken to be an antisemitic tyrant in the absurd comedy, The Great Dictator. The power of the speech, of course, isn’t just its content. It’s how the tension between its sincerity and the ridiculousness of the movie’s comedy allows the message to be received more clearly and directly.

I suppose Chaplin could’ve made a really funny movie mocking Hitler and then recorded a public service announcement to role after the credits, “Hey, Charlie Chaplin here with a message about the war in Europe.” I guess he could’ve done that, but it’s hard to believe that would’ve been anywhere near as effective.

Some years later, the great comedian Mel Brooks noted on this point, "Rhetoric does not get you anywhere, because Hitler and Mussolini are just as good at rhetoric. But if you can bring these people down with comedy, they stand no chance."

Charlie Chaplin understood this and understood that the moment in which the world found itself in 1940 and the message that needed to be stated demanded that the earnest and the absurd stand side by side in order for the truth to be revealed about both.

I’m not joking when I say that I truly believe Saint Paul understood this principle, too, and that it informed his writing of words that we regard as Holy Scripture.

I think this is especially true of the Book of Romans or the letter he wrote to the Christians living in Rome in the middle of the first century.

In other words, Saint Paul understood that the moment in which the Roman Christians found themselves at that time and the message that needed to be stated demanded that the earnest and the absurd stand side by side in order for the truth to be revealed about both.

There’s a certain level of ridiculousness at play in Paul’s message to the Romans. The idea that a group gathered together in the name of an executed Jewish carpenter could accomplish anything significant, much less overcome and offer an alternative to the ideological pull of the Roman Empire was beyond foolish.

Couple that with the group’s inherent contradictions—the diversity of the members’ religious backgrounds and economic clout, for example–and the Church’s prospect for being anything more than a bunch of religious weirdos who simply flamed out were laughable.

Honestly, it was most likely that the Church would fall apart because the members would fall back into old habits and prejudices and turn against one another, but even if they overcame that monumental challenge to their survival, the Empire was always there to enforce its idolatrous and authoritarian agenda with violence.

Seeing that the Church had its work cut out for itself, Paul began by encouraging the people to find their identity in Jesus and his love, rather than in their backgrounds or riches.

Using his command of the Jewish scripture, his knowledge of classical philosophy, as well as humor and exaggeration, Paul diffuses the people’s desire to judge one another and divide themselves into factions and cliques.

“You’re impressed with your family’s history and you like your family’s money, but I tell you,” said Paul, “all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.”

It’s who Jesus is and what Jesus did that Paul wanted the people to see as their foundation and guiding light.

It’s Jesus’s love and power that Paul wanted the people to recognize as their source of unity and the strength to overcome whatever trials they faced.

That’s what brings us to the passage at hand, a selection from Romans, chapter 8.

Aware of the forces working against the Christians in Rome, Paul was undeterred.

"What then are we to say about these things? If God is for us, who is against us?"

And then, confronting the enemies to the people’s success that existed within their own hearts as well as those running amok in the culture, Paul delivered a pretty great speech of his own.

He who did not withhold his own Son but gave him up for all of us, how will he not with him also give us everything else?

Who will bring any charge against God's elect? It is God who justifies.

Who is to condemn? It is Christ who died, or rather, who was raised, who is also at the right hand of God, who also intercedes for us.

Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will affliction or distress or persecution or famine or nakedness or peril or sword?

As it is written, "For your sake we are being killed all day long; we are accounted as sheep to be slaughtered."

No, in all these things we are more than victorious…

The more familiar translation of that phrase is “more than conquerors” which really drives home how Paul is poking at or popping the balloon of the Empire’s supposed superiority.

“[There are those who would have you believe that you are nobody and insignificant, but I am telling you that you] are more than victorious–[more than conquerors]--through him who loved us.”

And then comes the mic drop, the crescendo, the gospel truth that exposes all the Pretender’s lies.

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Held fast by God’s love, you can stand firm against whatever comes your way.

That was the substance of Paul’s message a very long time ago, but it is as relevant to you and me today as it was to any disciple anywhere at any time.

Hardships that wreak our hearts or consume our thinking, tragedies that grab headlines or steal our peace of mind–the power at work within us is even greater than these.

Literal and figurative brutes may rise to power over us, but they lie!

It is in Christ, however, that we know the truth, that we know love, and that we know what it is to be free.

Thanks be to God for this Good News. Amen.

Even in Hard Times (Matthew 13: 24-30)

Let us pause in life’s pleasures and count its many tears

While we all sup sorrow with the poor:

There’s a song that will linger forever in our ears;

Oh! Hard Times, come again no more.

That’s the opening verse of the song “Hard Time Come Again No More,” a tune written by Stephen Foster in 1854 that has gone on to take a place in the Great American Songbook.

“Hard Times” has been performed and recorded by countless singers through the years–Dolly Parton, Johnny Cash, Emmylou Harris, and Bob Dylan to name a few. I got turned on to it years ago by a version sung by James Taylor with Yo Yo Ma on cello. Teatro Grattacielo performed it here at Asbury earlier this summer as part of their concert celebrating our nation’s 250th anniversary.

“Hard Times” is a song for those who have “gone through it” or have been “up against it,” who have survived their ordeal and don’t want to go back.

The chorus expresses this thought with a plea, almost a prayer, to keep trouble away.

‘Tis the song, the sigh of the weary;

Hard Times, Hard Times, come again no more:

Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;

Oh! Hard Times, come again no more.

Of course, one of the reasons the song endures is that hard times have a way of not keeping their distance.

This is a sermon about hard times. More specifically, this is a sermon about finding the strength and the will to put one foot in front of the other and move forward even when you’re tempted to believe that if you just stay put, nothing else can go wrong.

In that way, this is a sermon about dealing with the hard times that settle in on us–the type of hardship that is the first thing we think of when we wake up, the last thing on our mind when we finally fall asleep, and the stuff that hovers over us every waking hour.

A parable told by Jesus about a pernicious weed will help us make this connection.

[Jesus said,] “The kingdom of heaven may be compared to someone who sowed good seed in his field; but while everybody was asleep, an enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and then went away. So when the plants came up and bore grain, then the weeds appeared as well. And the slaves of the householder came and said to him, ‘Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? Where, then, did these weeds come from?’ He answered, ‘An enemy has done this.’ The slaves said to him, ‘Then do you want us to go and gather them?’ But he replied, ‘No; for in gathering the weeds you would uproot the wheat along with them. Let both of them grow together until the harvest; and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, Collect the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn.’” (Matthew 13:24-30)

Commonly called The Parable of the Wheat and the Tares, today’s lesson draws on the common experiences of the first generation of disciples to make an important point.

The thought that someone would sabotage his neighbor’s wheat harvest wasn’t unheard of in Jesus’ day. It was, in fact, judged to be enough of a problem that the practice was explicitly condemned in Roman law.

Jesus wasn’t talking about someone blowing dandelion spores into their neighbor’s yard. The weed in the parable is a ryegrass called darnel, and spreading it around was no joke.

Darnel is a nasty little plant. One of its ugly qualities is that in its earliest stages of development, it looks exactly like wheat. You could have a field invested with the stuff and not even know it.

Differences between the two plants don’t become obvious until late in the season, but by then their roots have intertwined and it is impossible to remove the weed without inflicting tremendous harm on the wheat.

Doing nothing about the darnel, however, is not an option because if you ultimately gather it, grind it, and bake it into bread, it can kill you—or at least mess you up in a bad way.

To that point, it’s modern scientific name translates as “drunken ryegrass,” an indication of the impact this stuff could have.

We might, therefore, call the crime of using darnel seeds to settle old scores germ warfare or terrorism and we can understand why the Romans passed laws against it. We can also understand why victimized farmers had to be very careful about how they handled an infested crop.

It seems that they had determined that the best way to separate the weed from the wheat is to pick both, then place all the grain in a fine sieve so it could be sifted. Because the grain from the darnel was smaller than wheat grain, it passed through the sieve allowing, at last, for one to be divided from the other. The preserved wheat could then be put to use, but the darnel, because of its harmful properties, was burned up, lest it be baked into someone’s lunch or fall into another unsuspecting farmer’s field.

The people who first heard this parable understood exactly what Jesus was talking about.

They had probably heard stories of mean people trying to sabotage their neighbor’s harvest with this weed. Maybe they even knew the dreaded feeling of being victimized themselves.

And perhaps as Jesus was speaking, they were already making connections to their own experiences.

“Well, no one has ever tried to poison my fields, but I can still relate to those people in the story who wanted to go pull up the weeds as fast as they could without thinking about the consequences. That sure sounds like something I’d do.”

What a helpless feeling it must be to spend the whole season watching the weed that will hurt you grow up alongside the wheat that will feed you?

Imagine waking up every morning just to look out over your fields and sighing to yourself, “What a mess!”

Or maybe you don’t need to imagine, because that’s exactly what going through hard times does to you.

Be it illness, or grief, or debt, a very real experience of injustice and oppression, a bad relationship, a bad job–hard times come in many shapes and sizes, but they always leave us wondering what went wrong, how did I get here, and how can I possibly get out of this.

I find three lessons in Jesus’ parable that speak to times like these.

First, in difficult seasons, you might not have all the time in the world, but you have the time to take a breath and think.

In the parable, we understand the impulse to start pulling weeds immediately, but the reality is that would’ve destroyed any possibility of a good harvest. Instead, the wise path forward began with a deep breath and the recognition that this thing that I didn’t want or ask for is happening, but now I have to deal with it.

And that leads to a second lesson–whatever you’re dealing with, someone else has dealt with it or is dealing with it, too, so go find them and talk to them.

Having a field filled with poison weeds was a big problem, but it wasn’t unheard of. It had happened before, and people had figured out how to overcome it.

But they needed to be asked, their counsel needed to be sought, and that meant–heaven forbid–someone might need to admit they need help.

How many lives and situations have gone sideways because someone refused to ask for or accept the help and wisdom that was available to them?

How many have suffered alone, when there was a friend, a community, a church, or an AA group willing to embrace them?

Whatever you’re dealing with, someone else has dealt with it or is dealing with it, too, so go find them and talk to them.

And that brings us to the third lesson.

Even more than the good wheat in the farmers field, you are worth saving.

You are worth the time and wisdom that it takes to get things right.

You are worth seeking a solution that works.

You are worth the love of Jesus Christ, they love that will never let you go—even when hard times come.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Loopholes, Limits, and Lordship (Matthew 10:40-42)

Do you know the Parable of the Good Samaritan?

That’s the story Jesus told about a traveler who was beaten and left for dead beside the road between Jerusalem and Jericho. Two members of the local religious leadership saw the man, but ignored him, but a Samaritan, a member of a group of people whom many of Jesus’ neighbors looked down upon, stopped, tended the man’s wounds, and made arrangements for him to get the care and rest he needed.

That’s the Parable of the Good Samaritan.

Do you remember what prompted Jesus to tell it?

It was a conversation about looking for loopholes and setting limits on love.

Here’s how Luke describes that exchange.

An expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he said, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” He said to him, “What is written in the law? What do you read there?” He answered, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind and your neighbor as yourself.” And he said to him, “You have given the right answer; do this, and you will live.” But wanting to vindicate himself, he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” (Luke 10:25-29)

“Who is my neighbor?”

That’s the question that led Jesus to tell one of–if not his most famous parable–a parable about how we shouldn’t equate religious knowledge or standing with compassion, a parable about finding grace in unexpected places from unexpected people.

“Who is my neighbor?’ the expert asked Jesus.

“Let me ask you a different question,” said Jesus.

Which of these three, [the religious leaders or the Samaritan], do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” He said, “The one who showed him mercy.” Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.” (Luke 25:36-37)

So Jesus turned that man’s question on its head.

He wanted to know who his neighbor was, and by extension, who his neighbor wasn’t, but Jesus said, “Don’t go looking for loopholes and limits. Go and show mercy instead!”

I believe the Parable of the Good Samaritan and the circumstances surrounding its telling help us to faithfully unpack the scripture that’s before us this morning–the final verses of Matthew’s 10th chapter.

Matthew 10 recounts the pivotal moment in Jesus’ ministry at which he was sending out twelve of his disciples to serve, heal, and minister in the wider community.

We’ve read a little bit of that passage over the last few Sundays, so here’s a little refresher.

Jesus sent out [the group of twelve] with the following instructions: “Do not take a road leading to gentiles, and do not enter a Samaritan town, but go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel. As you go, proclaim the good news, ‘The kingdom of heaven has come near.’ Cure the sick; raise the dead; cleanse those with a skin disease; cast out demons. You received without payment; give without payment. Take no gold, or silver, or copper in your belts, no bag for your journey, or two tunics, or sandals, or a staff, for laborers deserve their food. (Mathew 10:5-10)

Lest the disciples start doubting their ability to carry out this mission, Jesus continued,

Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. And even the hairs of your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows. (Matthew 10:29-31)

The whole passage reads something like one of the countless ordination sermons or graduation speeches that was delivered this month—a combination of practical instructions and inspiration and wisdom.

On one hand, it’s fair to say that Jesus’ sermon had a very limited scope–the twelve people to whom he was speaking.

On the other hand, People of Faith in every age have always understood that this passage was of greater relevance to their present circumstances than just giving us some interesting historical background.

Jesus might’ve said these things to the Twelve, initially, and the specifics of what he said may or may not be unique to that moment or universally applicable, but, in every age, the Church has said these words are of contemporary relevance, that God still speaks through them today.

Now, of course, if we seized upon this passage as nothing more than fuel for the fire of our opinions about bags, tunics, and sandals, then I think it would be fair to say that we’ve lost the plot about what it means to be faithful disciples in our context.

But is there a lesson in Jesus’ words about grace, a lesson about depending on God to meet our needs, a lesson here about how materialistic priorities and pursuits can encumber and impede the Church’s mission?

Absolutely there is.

“To many modern Christians, this speech seems strange, even fanatical,” notes scholar Eugene Boring, “From another perspective, this chapter need not be alien at all. It reveals in concentrated form what the Christian life essentially is.” (p. 263)

In reading the words Jesus spoke to the Twelve, therefore, we should take on the same attitude and perspective that Jesus tried to cultivate when he told the parable to the legal expert.

We should be less concerned about whether Jesus was talking to us, or them, or those people over there, less concerned about finding loopholes and limits to his teachings, but more passionate about welcoming his wisdom into our hearts and minds, more passionate about discovering how Jesus’ lordship can lift us up and above the small ideas and parochial thinking that leave people broken, divided, and searching for real answers.

This brings us, at last, to Matthew 10:40-42.

Jesus said,

“Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me. Whoever welcomes a prophet in the name of a prophet will receive a prophet’s reward, and whoever welcomes a righteous person in the name of a righteous person will receive the reward of the righteous, and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple—truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward.”

This is the ordination sermon’s conclusion, and, not surprising, it’s ripe to be picked over, to have its meaning parsed, to be neutered of all power.

I mean, sure, it seems to be calling for a level of love, hospitality, and welcome that would stretch each one of us into a new way of living, but, when we read what Jesus said closely, we can find plenty of excuses for our inaction.

It was given to the Twelve regarding their specific ministry, but the days of the Twelve Disciples are long gone.

And sure, we’d be happy to welcome the people Jesus mentions, but we don’t see many prophets walking among us, and welcoming a righteous person sounds fine, but how can we really know someone’s character or heart?

Isn’t it better just to keep to ourselves?

I mean, does Matthew 10 really have anything to say to us at all?

Yeah, I’m afraid it does.

If the Parable of the Good Samaritan was about our calling to be merciful and not, as some might’ve hoped, about identifying the people to whom we are excused from showing mercy, then the conclusion of Jesus’ ordination sermon was about undergirding the disciples’ ministry and their lives, in a culture of generosity, hospitality, and welcome.

And the same goes for you and me.

Jesus expects and empowers those who would follow him–from the first Twelve to you and me–to be generous and kind, to build relationships with those who are committed to doing good in this world, and to approach every conversation, engagement, charitable act done by us, and act of mercy shared with us as a potential encounter with God.

“Whoever welcomes you welcomes me,” said Jesus, “and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.” (Matthew 10:40)

To be less concerned about finding loopholes and limits to Jesus’ teachings, and more passionate about welcoming his wisdom into our hearts and minds, more passionate about discovering how Jesus’ lordship can lift us up and above the small ideas and parochial thinking that leave people broken, divided, and searching for real answers—this is our mission, our duty, our purpose.

May we be found faithful, then, to the vision Jesus sets before us.

May we be merciful, generous, and welcoming.

And may we know the reward of all who go where Jesus sends them to love, serve, and minister in his name.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Image: Anonymous. Jesus Welcomes All, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=57406