Like Father, Like Son

Like Father, Like Son

Pastor Mark Havel

Matthew 10:24-39

“A disciple is not above the teacher, nor a slave above the master; it is enough for the disciple to be like the teacher, and the slave like the master. If they have called the master of the house Beelzebul, how much more will they malign those of his household!

“So have no fear of them; for nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known. What I say to you in the dark, tell in the light; and what you hear whispered, proclaim from the housetops.

“Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul; rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell. 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.

“Everyone therefore who acknowledges me before others, I also will acknowledge before my Father in heaven; but whoever denies me before others, I also will deny before my Father in heaven.

“Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; and one’s foes will be members of one’s own household.

“Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”

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My oldest son, Jackson, who is 22, spent a rainy morning with me on vacation in South Haven, Michigan, this past week, milling around a couple of antique stores there. (“Antique malls,” actually, is what the call them.) It has to be raining and/or vacation for me to do much resembling “antiquing,” but I was there for the nostalgia of seeing old toys from my childhood and whatever vinyl records I might find. Jack was there for the sports memorabilia and baseball cards. He scored a few of the latter and I found myself a pretty clean copy of Bruce Springsteen’s “Darkness on the Edge of Town.”

While we were looking through a treasure trove of old Sports Illustrated magazines – mostly from the 1970’s and 80’s – a stranger walked by, looked at Jack, then looked at me, then probably back at Jack, and declared, “Well that apple didn’t fall far from the tree, did it?” We both laughed and I told him we’d heard that before. To which he said, with awe, “It’s remarkable.” I don’t always think we look THAT MUCH alike, though many of you have said so, over the years. But when a stranger notices and feels compelled to call it out in public, I guess there’s no denying it.

And it’s always been a compliment to me – even if I can’t always see it – that I share a resemblance with either of my boys. But anyone who’s ever been 12 or 13 or 16 or 17 knows the LAST thing you’d count as a compliment is for someone to think you look like one of your parents.

You know, those times in childhood and adolescence when you can’t stand being seen with, let alone be seen as looking like, your mom or your dad. You know, those moments when kids stop holding mom’s hands at the store; when they cringe anytime dad makes conversation with their friends; or when they rush from the car in the school drop-off line as if the vehicle was on fire.

And all of this had me thinking about some of what I hear Jesus saying in this morning’s Gospel. Specifically, it made me think of what it means when Jesus talks about acknowledging or denying God, the Father, in our daily lives.

See, Jesus uses all sorts of images, illustrations and hyperbole today – and it’s okay … important … faithful … and a relief, actually, to recognize some of this as exaggeration and hyperbole. All of this talk about peace and swords, setting family members against one another, about not being worthy of Jesus, is nothing more and nothing less than naming the seriousness of our call to be disciples and followers of Christ in the world. So I don’t we need to take Jesus LITERALLY at every turn, this morning, as long as we take him SERIOUSLY. Because discipleship is a serious thing. It was in the days of the Jesus and it is meant to be, still. It calls for bold confession, faithful practice, and courageous action, more often than we’re always inclined.

And, remember, Jesus is talking to his first disciples today, knowing all sorts of persecutions and temptations are in store for them because of what he’s asking. When he talks about coming “not for peace, but with a sword,” he’s not doing away with his title as the Prince of Peace or with his command to love one another – AND our enemies. Jesus is saying that, too often, the kind of amazing, radical, counter-cultural, life-changing grace, mercy, and peace God offers is more than some people can handle. And that in order to really get it and to truly proclaim it and to faithfully share it means to surprise and to separate and to send people reeling from time to time.

(If you need proof of the kind of threat that sort of grace is to some people, you should see some of the hateful, frightening comments I hid from my Facebook feed after posting just a clip from my last sermon. Among other things, you should know, I’m an evil, demonic, blaspheming, false prophet who’s going straight to Hell – I deserve it – and I’m bringing all of you with me.)

All of this is to say, Jesus wants his people – his people – to be realistic about, and ready for, the consequences of what real, faithful, kingdom-living may lead to in our lives and in this world.

Because doing that well – living faithfully, I mean – is hard work. When you stand up for justice for the “least of these,” that often means challenging the systems that protect the powerful. When you speak truth to power, power doesn’t always like what you have to say. When you speak the truth, even in love, the response is often denial and fear and hatred of that very truth and of those who proclaim it.

And that kind of faithful living gets people like Martin Luther excommunicated. It gets people like Nelson Mandela thrown into jail, people like Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Martin Luther King, Jr., Renee Good, and Alex Pretti, killed. It gets women in some denominations thrown out of the pulpit. And, of course, all of it got Jesus, himself, crucified, too.

And those are some tough shoes to fill. I wonder how many of us have had the opportunity or would have the courage and the faith to live out our faith like some of these giants. So we do our denying on a smaller scale, don’t we? When we drive by the hungry person on the street corner… When we let the racist comment slide… When we laugh with the bullies or at the queer kids and the sexist jokes on the White House lawn... When we add our two cents to the gossip mill... When we vote with our self-interests, first.

So what are we to do with Jesus’ promise – or threat – when he says, “Everyone who acknowledges me before others, I also will acknowledge before my Father in heaven. And everyone who denies me before others, I will also deny before my father in heaven”?

What I hear him saying isn’t so much that those who deny Christ or fail at this call to faithful discipleship are doomed or damned for all eternity. It’s not that if we don’t live up to the high bar of King or Mandela or Bonhoeffer, we’re out of luck. Remember, he also promises that we hold more value than many sparrows, who, even though they fall, are never beyond the reach of God’s care.

What I hear Jesus acknowledging is that God – the Father of all creation – knows, like so many good parents know, what it feels like to have his children deny or be embarrassed by their likeness to their Creator: to drop his hand at the grocery store, you might say; or rush by with friends to avoid any awkward conversations; or to shrink down in the seat and hurry from the car hoping no one notices who’s in the driver’s seat.

What I hear Jesus saying to his disciples and to each of us, is that it’s time to grow up. He’s inviting us to embrace the claim of God, the Father, on our lives and to start living in the joy, responsibility, and challenge of that holy calling.

Just like it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when children begin distancing themselves from their annoying, embarrassing parents, it’s difficult to pinpoint a precise moment when they begin to turn around and to start re-building those more mature bridges of relationship, connection, respect, and admiration, too.

But, believe it or not, kids, it happens! There comes a time when the comparisons and resemblances to our parents seem pretty small in the grand scheme of things – and even beautiful and holy and remarkable, the more mature we get, if we’re lucky. I got a glimpse of it with Jackson last week in that antique store. And I hope my mom and dad have noticed it over the years, too.

And I hear Jesus calling our attention to that same reality when it comes to our relationship with God. He’s inviting us to embrace our call to discipleship, to look and act more and more like our maker – all the things an immature faith might fear and resist – because following Jesus puts everything into a different perspective.

It’s an invitation and a holy challenge, because Jesus knows that when we do it – when we let the call to discipleship change the way we live, what once seemed like work (stuff like generosity, gratitude and grace) will become a way of life. What once seemed beyond us (stuff like sacrifice, selflessness, and suffering, even) actually bears fruit for us and for others. What once seemed unbelievable (stuff like healing, wholeness, and real joy) will become Truth, with a capital T, for our lives. And what once seemed impossible (forgiveness, freedom and eternal life) will belong to us all.

Amen

Matthew, Mario, Micah, and Mike

Matthew, Mario, Micah, and Mike

Pastor Mark Havel

Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

As Jesus was walking along, he saw a man called Matthew sitting at the tax booth; and he said to him, ‘Follow me.’ And he got up and followed him.

And as he sat at dinner in the house, many tax-collectors and sinners came and were sitting with him and his disciples. When the Pharisees saw this, they said to his disciples, ‘Why does your teacher eat with tax-collectors and sinners?’ But when he heard this, he said, ‘Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. Go and learn what this means, “I desire mercy, not sacrifice.” For I have come to call not the righteous but sinners.’

While he was saying these things to them, suddenly a leader of the synagogue came in and knelt before him, saying, ‘My daughter has just died; but come and lay your hand on her, and she will live.’ And Jesus got up and followed him, with his disciples. Then suddenly a woman who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years came up behind him and touched the fringe of his cloak, for she said to herself, ‘If I only touch his cloak, I will be made well.’ Jesus turned, and seeing her he said, ‘Take heart, daughter; your faith has made you well.’ And instantly the woman was made well.

When Jesus came to the leader’s house and saw the flute-players and the crowd making a commotion, he said, ‘Go away; for the girl is not dead but sleeping.’ And they laughed at him. But when the crowd had been put outside, he went in and took her by the hand, and the girl got up. And the report of this spread throughout that district.

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These days after Pentecost are a long season in the church calendar. They are meant to be a time for us – after the arrival of the Holy Spirit, at Pentecost, which we talked about a couple of weeks ago – to focus on a season of growth and discipleship as God’s people in the Church. A lot of Christians call it “Ordinary Time,” which couldn’t sound like more of a snore. So it takes some work to see that what Jesus was up to – and what we’re called to be about, still – is anything but “ordinary” for people in our day and age, who want to be more like Jesus.

See, all along – even before the Holy Spirit showed up like it did at Pentecost – Jesus is just trying to love people … and trying to show people how to love people, too. He’s milling around Galilee collecting followers. Building friendships. Growing relationships. Getting invited to dinner and sharing time with the cool people – and by “cool people,” I mean the tax collectors and sinners.

Because I think Jesus, like Billy Joel, would “rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints … because the sinners are much more fun!”

Jesus just sang it differently: “I have come to call, not the righteous, but sinners.”

And it’s fair to assume Matthew, who Jesus found at the tax both, measured up to the all the sinful stereotypes of a First Century Jewish tax-collector, otherwise there wouldn’t be much to this story. See, the reason it was surprising, if not scandalous, for Jesus to be having dinner at Matthew’s house, remember, is that Jewish tax-collectors were known to have made nice with the powers of Rome. That means Matthew would have been in charge of exacting taxes from his fellow Jews – his friends, family, and neighbors, at his discretion – to line the pockets of the occupying, oppressive Roman Empire. And tax collectors, like Matthew, were known for lining their own pockets – unfairly – along the way, too.

So, imagine Jesus breaking bread with some of the richest, most corrupt people you can imagine, in our day and age. Imagine your least favorite politician. Imagine your least favorite billionaire. And just to bring it a little closer to home, imagine your least favorite boss, co-worker, teacher, coach, neighbor, ex. And now that we’ve each created our very own personal guest list from Hell, imagine Jesus at the head of the table … pull up a chair … and pass the mashed potatoes, please.

This is why what’s happened this past week in our own backyard – with the words, tweets, posts, and podcasts from certain politicians – in the name of Jesus Christ – is so maddening.

I’m talking about the invitation to hate muslims, by our Lieutenant Governor, of course.

And, since it’s PRIDE month, I’ve really been struck by all of the nonsense from other powerful people who feel the need to steal the thunder from the LGBTQ+ community by declaring June “Nuclear Family Month,” instead, as some sort of middle finger to the celebration of “PRIDE.” It is the opposite of what Jesus would do – “reclaiming the rainbow,” as they say – in a petty, selfish, self-centered, close-minded, hateful, exclusionary, version of what they call “Christianity,” but which is anything but “Christ-like.”

You might say, these people are sick and in need of a physician. Or a lobotomy. Or a spiritual heart-transplant. Or maybe (more kindly, Pastor Mark) they’re in need of a meal, shared around a table with the very people – the children of God – they are judging, hating, afraid of, or pretending they want to – or could – save, as if that was their job – which it is not.

[And let me be clear. I’m not equating the LGBTQ community with the tax collectors and sinners – or suggesting their sexuality makes them somehow sinful. I’m equating the judgment of them by the powers that be as having no more sway over Jesus’ capacity to love all people, regardless of who the world says he should or should not love.]

My apologies to those of you who’ve heard this story before. I’ve talked about it in our book studies of Colby Martin’s UNCLOBBER, but never in the context of a sermon, surprisingly. But it came to mind in light of all that Jesus is up to this morning.

When I was in elementary school, back in the 80’s, my family traveled to New Orleans to see the culmination of my grandmother’s latest hobby – the grand finale showcase of her time at something like an Arthur Murray Dance Studio. It sounds terribly cheesy. And maybe it was, but I doubt it. My grandmother was a pretty classy lady.

And, to my childish sensibilities, it was a classy affair. It took place in a hotel ballroom downtown. We had to wear shirts and ties, hard pants and uncomfortable shoes. As part of it all, my grandmother hosted a gathering with several of her new friends – the dancers, instructors, and whatnot – at her home, for drinks and hors d’oeuvres. And that’s where I met Mario, my grandma’s much younger dance partner. I think he was – to my grandmother – like the professional dancers they pair with the B-list celebrities on “Dancing with the Stars.”

Mario was also a Black gay man. Going by stereotype alone, it was as obvious that Mario was gay as it was that he was Black, even to my elementary-aged eyes … he had a longish jheri curl hairdo and long, polished finger nails, too, which he waved flamboyantly and without shame as he walked, talked, and danced.

And this was the 1980’s remember. And there was this thing called the AIDS epidemic running rampant in the gay community. And even my elementary-aged eyes and ears had told me to be very afraid of gay people – and to stay away from them – if I didn’t want to get sick… or die… or probably, “catch the homosexuality.” And this guy, Mario, was in my grandmother’s house. And they had danced together. And we were eating from the same buffet table. And I shook his hand when we were introduced.

And I was afraid. And mad, I think. And worried about my grandmother, too.

But bear with me, because what I learned, thanks to that party and around that buffet table, was as powerful as anything I’d learned around the altar of Holy Communion up to that point in my life. And it has something to do with what Jesus meant when he said he desires mercy not sacrifice.

See, sacrifice was the way of worship for believers before Jesus, remember … bring a goat or a lamb, bring some incense or two turtledoves, bring a partridge in a pear tree to the house of God, set them afire as an expression of your love and repentance, and your way was made … your sins were forgiven … your prayers were lifted … your devotion, awe, and worship were offered up to the Almighty. And that was that.

But Jesus, like the prophets before him changed the game. Like Amos who despised the self-righteous songs of the people and had no regard for their fake fellowship… like Isaiah who hated and was burdened by the phony festivals of the people… like Jeremiah, who found burnt offerings unacceptable… like Hosea this morning… Jesus wanted to see, to feel, to inspire among God’s people mercy, compassion, love, and forgiveness – over and above all the rest.

And I’m convinced that you can’t scare or shame or preach or punish people into any of those things. But you can model mercy. You can practice compassion. You can offer forgiveness. You can be generous. You can love one another.

And Jesus does that today, not from behind a TV screen or a computer keyboard or a pulpit, even. Jesus does that up close and personally – at Matthew’s dinner table … and so near to that hemorrhaging woman she could touch him … and in the home, at the bedside, of that little girl, too.

And what I think is most telling and beautiful about what Jesus was able to do for the people he met, is what he did when he healed that hemorrhaging woman. We’re told, very deliberately, that Jesus sees her. And I imagine, he sees more than just what she was wearing – her red hat or her rainbow bracelet, her jheri curl or her long fingernails, let’s say. I imagine he could see what twelve years of sickness and shame do to a person. I imagine he could see how exhausted and afraid she must have been. I imagine he could see how desperate and lonely she felt. I imagine he could see that she had no other option but to put her faith into someone so unbelievable and something so utterly new, for a change.

We can’t begin to show mercy, compassion, or forgiveness … we can’t begin to love one another … until we take the time to see, to listen to, to understand the wants, needs, fears, longings, lives, and loves of others in this world – especially those who are so very different from us.

I didn’t learn anything about Mario that night at my grandmother’s when I was a boy – acting like some kind of 5th grade Pharisee. But I’ve learned about him since – because I’ve learned to see, listen to, learn from, and love the friends I know who are like him in so many ways.

It’s why I pray this communion table, our worship, and the ministry we share will look more and more like where we find Jesus this morning: that we’ll make room for more Matthews, more Marios, and more sinners of all stripes – and that we’ll acknowledge that that includes each and every one of us, too, every day of the week. And I pray we’ll work hard to see one another – really see each other and ourselves – the way God sees us all: with a wide mercy, with an abiding love, with a steadfast grace – no strings attached – that can change us, change others, and change the world our God so loves.

Amen