"Oxygen Masks & the Turbulence of Life" – Luke 21:25-36

Luke 21:25-36

"There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken. Then they will see 'the Son of Man coming in a cloud' with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near."

Then he told them a parable: "Look at the fig tree and all the trees; as soon as they sprout leaves you can see for yourselves and know that summer is already near. So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that the kingdom of God is near. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.

"Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day does not catch you unexpectedly, like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man."

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Whenever we board an airplane with our boys, the stewardess takes the time during the safety demonstration to stop by our aisle to personally remind us that in the case of an emergency, should the oxygen masks drop from the overhead compartment, we are to put our masks on first, and then assist our children with their masks.

Makes sense, right? Take care of yourself first, and then you can help others. After all, you can’t help anyone else if you’re passed out on the plane.  

In this case it absolutely makes sense to save yourself first. Save yourself, and then you can save others.

But what about the turbulence of our daily lives? What about those perilous times when no metaphorical oxygen masks automatically fall into our laps? What can we do when we can’t save ourselves?

That’s not an idea we like to think about. We’d prefer to believe that we can save ourselves. We’d prefer to believe that we can overcome any adversity through hard work, determination, and innovation.

Some of our Christian brothers and sisters have been instructed and trained to go out into the world and ask people this question: “If you died tonight, do you know where you would go?”  Or maybe you’ve heard this asked with the phrase, “Are you saved?”  

If you answers “no”, the evangelists will take the occasion to urge you to accept Jesus as your personal Savior. They want to make sure that when you die, Jesus will save you from spending an eternity in hell.

The problem with I have with this approach to discipleship…well, there’s several…but one problem I have with this approach is that it utilizes Jesus is an oxygen mask that you put on yourself; as if believing in Jesus is an action that you can do on your own accord; or a decision you can make for yourself. If that’s true, than that means we have the power to save ourselves. Just believe and you’ll be saved. The problem is that belief in Jesus as the Son of God – the Messiah, the Savior of the Nations – is not a decision we make for ourselves.  

No one makes a logical, well-reasoned, rational decision to believe in Jesus. No one would choose to believe in Jesus. After all, he died on a cross, condemned on all sides.  And what is his instruction to anyone who would follow him?  “Take up your cross and follow me.”  In other words, “This is how it will end for you too.”  

Anyone using logic and reasoning would run away from Jesus; or perhaps even be among those shouting “Crucify him!”  

We don’t believe because of logic, reasoning, and scientific calculations; we believe because we have been given the gift of faith, which is what we call the work of the Holy Spirit.  

Only one person in the history of the world ever truly had the option to save himself. Jesus could have put his oxygen mask on first; he could have chosen a different path and avoided his fate on the cross. He could have amassed an army.  He could have hidden until things calmed down. He could have tried to work better with the Romans and the religious leaders.  He could have called upon God to destroy the unrighteous.  

But self-preservation was never Jesus’ goal. His entire life was lived with the objective of making sure that everyone else had their oxygen masks on first. He could have saved himself; but he didn’t.

If Jesus wouldn’t or couldn’t save himself; what gives us any reason to believe we can save ourselves?  

The brilliant poet W.H. Auden, in his Christmas poem For the Time Being wrote, “Nothing can save us that is possible: We who must die demand a miracle.”

And a miracle is exactly what the gospel offers...
– an impossible possibility
– a reality that transcends the everyday real
– a Truth deeper than all else we have been told is true
– a story that stretches beyond and encompasses all our stories so as to give them meaning, integrity, and purpose.

The Bible does not tell us of things we have seen and know for ourselves. Instead, it describes a reality that stretches beyond the confines of our finite, mortal existence and therefore has the capacity to redeem us and this life and world we share.

Each of us faces oppression in our lives.  

Some are oppressed by physical limitations and poor health. Some are oppressed by people in authority.  Some are oppressed by debilitating thoughts of negativity and depression. Some are oppressed by an overwhelming sense of powerlessness, inadequacy or past failures.  

Today’s gospel text reminds us that there is only one constant in the universe – the saving word of Jesus Christ. Everything we think is permanent, even the sun, moon and stars, are passing away.  

Which means that whatever it is that is oppressing you; whatever it is that is holding you back from being the person God has created you to be…your oppressor, real as it may be, is temporary. Your oppressors will fall and you will be saved by the eternal word of Jesus Christ.  

So stand up, raise your head, for your redemption is drawing near. Not because of anything you have done, but instead because of what God has done for you. In your fear, panic, and desperation, Jesus has already firmly affixed your oxygen mask. So breathe deeply; inhale God’s presence, for God is all around you.  

My prayer for you I that you would have irrational hope and exuberance because God loves you. My prayer for you is that you would fall in love with the God who loves you above all else. And my prayer is that God would lead you to unexpected encounters with amazing people who desperately need to know that Jesus has already affixed an oxygen mask on their heads; all that’s left to do is to breathe deeply.

Amen.

"Snarks on a Plane" – Matthew 20:1-16

If I did the math correctly, I figure I flew on 16 different airplanes over the course of my last four months of this summer’s sabbatical. (Lots of trains, boats, buses and automobiles, too. And I know many of you travel quite a bit, but 16 planes is a lot, for me, in that short span of time.) And, do you know what one of the things is that has the potential to stress me out as much as almost anything else? Yeah…flying in an airplane.  Specifically, waiting to get off of an airplane.  (I’m talking about anxiety and stress, here.  Not a fear of flying.)

It’s small and petty, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things and I’m aware of this, even as it’s happening.  But it ranks right up there, for me, with stubbing a toe, or installing car seats (especially the ones with that little metal clip), or with the feeling I get when I open the door that leads from the garage into my house after someone has left the pantry door open – that sits just beyond it – in a way that stops me in my tracks with a sharp, loud bang. It’s an annoying, frustrating kind of design flaw in our kitchen that both doors can’t be opened at the same time. It’s especially maddening when I’m holding onto an armload of groceries for dear life.

Anyway, these things – the toe-stubbing, the car seat installing, and that god-forsaken door – small and petty and inconsequential as they are in the grand scheme of things, can make my blood pressure shoot up and my frustration peak, in an instant. And I think and feel and say very un-Christian things in those moments, if you know what I mean.

And the same thing happens more often than I’d like to admit almost every time I get off of an airplane. And it’s all because of those people who don’t wait their turn. Do you know what I’m talking about?

Common sense and common courtesy and a simple ability and willingness to pay attention should tell any traveler that the people at the front of the plane get off first; that row two follows row one; that row three follows row two, and so on; that you wait your turn; that you are patient; that everyone is anxious to be out of that floating metal tube no matter how long or short the flight has been.

But there always…always…always seems to be that person – those people – seated at the back of the plane in row 37 who think they need to…that they HAVE to…that they DESERVE TO…get up and muscle their way off of the plane before it’s their turn. And more than once this summer – because of my predilection for stress and frustration on airplanes in the first place, remember – I let these knuckleheads get the best of me. By that I mean, when my blood pressure shot up, as my ears started steaming, I thought some things that weren’t very Christ-like.

I even said some things… I even DID some things… on more than one occasion that weren’t very nice, or pastoral, let alone anything like what Jesus would do.

To one woman who barreled her way past me as I tried to stand, I said, with as much snark and sarcasm as I could muster, “Oh, you just go right on ahead.” She turned around, completely unaware of her transgression and simply, genuinely said “Thank you.”  And after another long flight, I pretended not to notice the passenger or their suitcase that had snuck up beside me as I waited to stand up, and I kicked it (the suitcase, not the passenger), pretending to trip on it, hoping they might get the point. Jesus would be proud, don’t you think? What’s funny is, they just apologized and hurried on past, so that they ended up getting off the dang plane ahead of me anyway!

I didn’t think it at the time, but when I read our parable for this morning, I couldn’t help it: “The last will be first and the first will be last.” That’s the lesson we learn from those workers in the vineyard, right? Most of us have heard this story before. It’s a good one for Lutherans, because it paints such a clear-cut picture of what grace is supposed to look like in God’s kingdom.

No matter how much time you put in, or not… No matter how hard you work, or not… No matter what you think you or him or her or “they” deserve, or not… everyone gets the same pay, the same reward, the same forgiveness, the same seat at the table, the same fullness of God’s love. And, in fact, in some cases because of what some have done or left undone – the last, the least, the most prolific of sinners, I mean – their measure of grace and mercy and peace and reward is even greater than those you and I might believe have earned the blessings we all desire.

“The last will be first and the first will be last.”

And that may be hard to wrap our hearts and minds around, but we can’t deny the simplicity of it. The parable is clear, confounding as it may be. And we can smile and nod our way through it, familiar, at least, with that moral to the story: “The last will be first and the first will be last.”

What worries me though, to be honest, is that if I struggle to honor it when I’m getting off of the airplane, what will it look like when and where it really matters?

Can I stop keeping score enough to forgive others – or at least enough to suggest that God can forgive when I can’t manage it? (The last will be first and the first will be last.)

Can I stop protecting my own self-interests to let the refugees in? (The last will be first and the first will be last.)

Can I stop justifying and judging enough so that I don’t have to take sides in Ferguson, or Israel, or Palestine; in Egypt or Syria or Iraq? (The last will be first and the first will be last.)

Can I stop quantifying and qualifying and comparing sins in ways that would let others in and keep others out? (The last will be first and the first will be last.)

Again, I’m afraid – because of all the snark and sarcasm and luggage-kicking on airplanes – that I’m not equal to the task. My hope, though… Our hope – thanks be to Jesus – is that God is better at all of this than we can ever be.

This is not an excuse to leave it up to Jesus. This is not a cop-out that lets us keep on kicking and screaming and snarking our way through life as we know it – holding grudges or keeping score or laying low and letting God sort it out in the end.

This is an invitation to remember that we have all been – and will all be – allowed to pass, with full benefit of God’s grace and mercy and love, whether we earn it or deserve it or work for it, or not, in the end. And the truth of that calls us to let go of the hard work of judgment – all of that score-keeping is hard, destructive, life-stealing work.  And God’s grace – like the Landowner in the parable – means to release us from the wear and tear and stress and destruction that it pours into our lives. (“Take what belongs to you and go. Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am so generous?”)

Our invitation, then, is to let God’s love be God’s love and to start practicing that kind of love and generosity, here and now – on airplanes, at the grocery store, in our classrooms, at the kitchen table, around this altar – to reverse the order of things right where we live; to forgive the sin; to drop the scorecard; to make room for the other; and to get out of the way so that the last will be first, for a change, for a CHANGE, trusting that we are already and that we will all one day be right where we belong: in the arms of God’s amazing, abundant, all-consuming, all empowering, all-loving grace.