Faith, High Hurdles, and Vatican City

Luke 17:5-10

The apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” The Lord replied, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, “Be uprooted and planted in the sea,” and it would obey you.

Who among you would say to his slave who has just returned from plowing or tending sheep in the field, “Come here at once and take your place at the table?” Would you not rather say, “Prepare supper for me. Put on your apron and serve me something to eat and drink. Later, you may eat and drink.” Do you thank the slave for doing what was commanded him? So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, “We are worthless slaves. We have done only what we ought to have done.”

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First of all, I like to point out that the bits of Gospel we’re given from the lectionary this morning don’t really go together. They’re sort of disparate non-sequitors – not necessarily meant to connect, one with the other – so I’m not going to do the theological gymnastics it takes to connect those dots.

Instead, because I spent some time in Vatican City this past week, I have “faith” on the brain in some strange, general, big-picture kind of ways, so I want to focus more on the mustard seed bit than the slave and servant stuff this time around. And it’s short and sweet, really.

“Increase our faith,” the apostles begged Jesus, who replies – almost flippantly, it seems – “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”

As Christa and I, along with some college friends, wandered around the Vatican – through its museums, the Sistine Chapel, into St. Peter’s Basilica and the Square outside, and around the city’s perimeter, in Rome, too – I couldn’t help but wonder what the thousands of people who were wandering around with us were up to. Some were surely just there for the sight-seeing of it all, to admire the beautiful artwork, to learn about the history, to experience the tradition of it all, and whatnot.

But there were so many others who clearly took their Vatican visit very seriously – as a pilgrimage of faith – longing, I imagine, like the disciples in this morning’s Gospel, that their faith would increase … grow … deepen … by way of their proximity to and practice of whatever they were up to on their Church’s home turf.

It won’t surprise those of you who know me that I have some pretty mixed feelings about the grandiosity and opulence of it all. All of those statues… all of those shrines… all of those monuments… and all of the money it takes to make all of that happen. It does put our proposed, pending building program into a different, more meaningful sort of perspective for me – in a good way. (Though I am wondering, now, where we might find room for some statues of me and Pastor Cogan.)

But seriously, as I witnessed nuns, bishops, priests, and people of all stripes rush to St. Peter’s Square upon hearing that Pope Leo was making an unexpected appearance … as I watched men and women kneeling and weeping and lighting candles in prayer … as I and others walked through the “Holy Doors” that are only open every 25 years or on very special occasions, in hopes of some special sort of forgiveness of sins … as I and others spent more money in the Vatican gift shop for the same trinkets you could buy from a street vendor … I couldn’t help but wonder if the goal and hope of it all wasn’t something any more or less than a longing for increased faith.

But, is there anything particularly special about that place … those candles, those doors, those statues, all the stuff of that “sacred ground,” that stands to grow, add to, strengthen, and deepen faith, like so many hope that it will?

After asking for our permission to speak freely, openly, honestly with our little group of four – and not knowing that I was a Lutheran Pastor – our wise, wonderful tour guide, Francesca, confessed, in not-so-many-words, that her faith has actually been diminished by all that she’s seen and learned and shared as a student and teacher of that place and its history over the years. The friends we traveled with call themselves “recovering Catholics” for all the ways they’ve been burned by the Church over the years.

And what I fear … what I’ve heard and know from people in my own life … what saddened me in so many ways over the years … is that faith – this unseeable, unpredictable, ambiguous, immeasurably beautiful relationship with God … is something too many try to quantify, label, or prove in ways that are often impossible. And when that can’t or doesn’t happen – or when faith gets convoluted, confused, and co-opted by practices and people, by popes and priests and pastors, too – when we confuse the ways we practice “religion” with the “faith” it’s meant to inspire, we miss the point, the hope, and the fruits of faith in the first place.

I mean, when someone tells us to believe this, or else. To live that way, or else. To practice our faith like this or like that, or else. When faith becomes something we’re encouraged to accomplish or achieve, rather than something we’re invited to receive and to live, it becomes a measuring stick for our worth by our own standards, rather than a celebration of our value in God’s eyes.

I ran track in high school – the high hurdles, actually. One of the things about running hurdles was that we spent a lot of time on technique. As hurdlers, we would get to begin our workouts and practices with the rest of the team. We’d run a couple of laps and get warmed up but then, when the rest of the team went off to run longer distances or to do strength and endurance training, the high hurdlers got to go down to our end of the track for our own separate workout and practice.

For a long time, we were coached by a guy who spent a lot of time having us run drills and practice our technique. He was very particular about technique. How your toes were pointed, how your legs were bent, how your arms were positioned, and how much room there was between your butt and the hurdle as you ran over it meant a lot, according to him. We would spend hours starting out of the blocks and just running over the first two hurdles until our technique was as good as it could be.

I didn’t mind it, I guess. I did what I was told. I learned some things. And a lot of the time, it meant I wasn’t running long distances or doing the harder work of strength training. Deep down though, I also knew there was a reason I wasn’t getting any faster.

Half way through the season one year, our two coaches swapped responsibilities and, when the high hurdlers broke from the rest of the team to practice our technique, our new coach came along to watch. It didn’t take him long to call us all together and to ask us what in the world we were wasting our time on. He started coaching us that technique was all well and good, but that what wins any race is speed. From then on, we didn’t pay us much attention to how our toes were pointed or where our butts were in relation to the hurdles. Instead, we just ran. Complete races over all ten hurdles. Against the clock. Against each other. Building strength and endurance and speed.

And what we noticed before too long was that when we focused as much or more on just running, we got faster and the proper technique either just happened or wasn’t so important in the end, anyway.

And I wonder if that’s something like what Jesus is getting at in this morning’s Gospel.

Much like the disciples, we like to pretend that faith can be measured or quantified or practiced in ways that are right and wrong. Much like the disciples, we want to be sure we’re “doing faith” the right way. And much like the disciples – and my old track coach – we pretend that the right technique is all we need to get it right, to win, and make it to the medal stand.

It’s why religion divides us over politics, I believe. It’s why religion fights over differing opinions. It’s why religion argues about doctrine and dogma and bickers over worship styles and traditions – all in an attempt to master the perfect technique, forgetting all along the goal of the race – the blessings of faith – in the first place.

It’s why Jesus showed up, like a new coach, with a different way of looking at things. “You don’t need more or better faith,” he says. “If you’ve got even just a little bit – as much as the smallest of seeds – you could do amazing things.” In other words, if you know how to run, do that and it’ll be enough.

So, if you’re wondering about how your faith measures up… If you’re looking to perfect your technique or checking to see how well your butt cleared the last high hurdle you faced… If you’re thinking you need to be perfect in order to share in the blessings God has to offer, feel free to stop that. Jesus tells us this morning that we don’t have to be the best or the fastest or the most faithful, even, in any particular way.

I feel just as confident in the forgiveness we shared here this morning, as I did walking through those ancient “Holy Doors” last week. I feel just as sure God hears the prayers we pray in this place, as anything that’s whispered in the Pope’s cathedral. I’m certain this ground is as holy and this space is as sacred as anywhere I walked over the course of the last couple of weeks, because even my flimsy faith promises that the grace of God we receive and share here, is just that … it’s God’s grace … and it can’t be quantified, earned, or kept from anyone for any reason.

This grace is yours, mine, and ours – for the sake of the world – by way of whatever faith we can muster, in Jesus’ name, thanks be to God.

Amen

Asking for a Friend - Literal v. Literate: Can We Square Scripture and Science?

John 9:1-12

As [Jesus] walked along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Jesus answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him. We must work the works of him who sent me while it is day; night is coming when no one can work. As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.” When he had said this, he spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva and spread the mud on the man’s eyes, saying to him, “Go, wash in the pool of Siloam” (which means Sent). Then he went and washed and came back able to see.

The neighbors and those who had seen him before as a beggar began to ask, “Is this not the man who used to sit and beg?” Some were saying, “It is he.” Others were saying, “No, but it is someone like him.” He kept saying, “I am the man.” But they kept asking him, “Then how were your eyes opened?” He answered, “The man called Jesus made mud, spread it on my eyes, and said to me, ‘Go to Siloam and wash.’ Then I went and washed and received my sight.” They said to him, “Where is he?” He said, “I do not know.”

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[I chose this morning’s Gospel, not because I’m going to spend a lot of time unpacking it, directly, in response to today’s question. I chose it – with the notion of Science and Scripture in mind – to simply show the gulf that exists between the life and times of Jesus in the First Century, and our own day and age. And how differently we are invited to understand Scripture because of that.

The short of the long – and the obvious expression of this – is to see how the people around Jesus believed that that man’s blindness was the result of divine judgment for his sins – or for the sins of his parents – and how he was cast-out and ostracized because of it. We know so much more than that now – and so did Jesus, it seems. Which is why his healing – and the point of the story – wasn’t about a health problem or a physical defect.

Just like those First Century onlookers, we want to pretend this story is about sickness or science, when really it’s all about the forgiveness of sins and showing how wide and merciful God’s love and forgiveness was, is, and can be, when we share it.]

Anyway, shifting gears somewhat to today’s question, which came through in a variety of ways from a variety of sources: Grace Notes, some conversations, the Men’s Bible Study crew, and even a second-hand text from one of our college kids by way of his mother.

I had tried to address it when we kicked off our last sermon series – the one from July, about Genesis, and the primeval mythology of its first 12 chapters. I threw out the phrase “LITERAL v. LITERATE,” and throughout that series Pastor Cogan and I tried to unpack the way those stories in Genesis (Creation, The Flood, The Fall, The Tower of Babel) speak to larger, universal, cosmic Truths, even if we aren’t required to receive them as historically or scientifically accurate accounts.

So, here is a list of the several questions we tried to summarize and roll up into today’s single query:

One was a series of non-sequiturs, asking about Creation in 7 days versus Evolution and the Big Bang Theory, dinosaurs, and how people add up the life-lengths and say that is the age of the earth, …etc.

There was a reference to “Talking snakes,” the Nephilim, and the plural use of God in Genesis 3:22 – where God was apparently concerned that Adam and Eve would become like “one of us.”

Did God actually walk in The Garden with Adam and Eve?

How do you reconcile “time” in the Bible, including the ages of people? (Like how did Abraham live to be 175 years? Or Moses 120? Or Adam 930? Or Methuselah 969?)

I don’t want to be too simplistic, or to dismiss the thoughtfulness and concern over these kinds of questions. But I have to say that faithful people – especially rationally-thinking, scientifically-minded faithful people – have been making more of this than is necessary for far too long. It can be fun to do, don’t get me wrong. And there may even be meaning to be found in some of it.

But all of the math, numerology, guess-work and mental gymnastics it takes to “make sense of” what are often nothing more than literary devices or culturally particular context clues or plain-old hyperbole reminds me of the way Swifties dissect Taylor Swift’s liner notes, album covers, wardrobe changes, or even the tchotchkes on the wall behind her during that interview with the Kelce brothers a couple of weeks ago. Again, it can be fun. And every once in a while you might find an Easter egg. But you don’t have to go into those weeds in order to enjoy or find meaning in the music’s big picture.

The short of the long – where the Bible is concerned, is – we don’t need to get into those weeds, do all of that math, or believe that Moses lived to be 120. Or that Methusela died at the ripe old age of 969. Or that Noah built a boat big enough to hold two of every creature on the planet, including the Tyrannosaurus Rex. Or that God jumped off of a cloud to walk with Adam and Eve.

(For the record, even though I don’t believe God left actual footprints in Eden, I did have a moment once at the cemetery in Lindsay, Ohio, where my maternal grandparents are buried, to the degree that I think I know what Genesis means when it says they heard the sound of God “walking in the garden at the time of the evening breeze.”)

Nonetheless, we don’t always have to connect all of those confusing, confounding impossible dots, either.

To put it plainly, the Bible is not a science book – and it doesn’t pretend or need to be. Every part of it isn’t a history book, either – and it doesn’t pretend or need to be. The Bible is a book of books – oral history, letters, poems, songs, stories, prophecies, and more, that never intended to be collected, assembled, and bound into a single tome. Humans did that. Male humans – with power and privilege – did that. And we should be wary of what male humans with power and privilege can do with things like science, history, and the stories of people. (That may be another sermon or another day.)

But in spite of that … still … by the grace of God, the Bible is beautiful and points us toward God’s love and plan for creation at every turn – or it should. And that is how I hope we are inclined and inspired to read, receive, and report what we find in God’s word through the pages of Scripture.

Now, bear with me, but another way I have explained this, is to tell the story of my dad’s Caesar Salad. My dad makes a mean Caesar Salad. It’s been a while since I’ve had it, but growing up it was a staple, whenever we had family or friends over for a nice dinner. The dressing is made with, among other things, a raw egg, Worcestershire sauce, a ton of garlic, lemon juice, and anchovy paste. And even though I can picture him whipping up this concoction a million times while I was growing up, I never really realized or thought about what I was eating, until I asked for the recipe, the first time I tried to impress Christa for a Valentine’s Day dinner when we were just dating, 500 years ago, back in the 1900’s.

(See what I did there? That’s the kind of hyperbole that makes a point, without needing to be historically accurate. Bible writers did that too.)

Anyway, the problem was, my dad never used a recipe when he made his Caesar Salad, so his instructions, delivered by e-mail and then over the phone, were more than a little vague. There were no measuring cups or Table spoons involved. It was, “Use one egg or two depending how much lettuce you have.” It was, “Use a lot of garlic. You can’t really use too much garlic.” It was, “Throw in a couple of splashes of Worcestershire sauce.” And it was, “Squeeze a line of anchovy paste into it, about the length of a couple of knuckles.”

Actually, the clearest – and most meaningful – instruction I received that first time around, after giving him grief for how impossibly unclear he was, was when he said, “Mark, you know what it’s supposed to look and taste like when it’s finished. Just make it like that.”

All of this is to say – again – in answer to the question about if and how we are able to square Science with Scripture – is that we don’t have to.

Martin Luther described the Bible as a cradle that merely, but meaningfully, bears the Christ child. And it is a liberating relief for me to say that we don’t worship the words in a book, we worship the Word made flesh, in Jesus.

We worship Jesus – and the unmitigated, radical, counter-cultural, uncomfortable love and grace he shares. The love of God in Jesus is to be the heart and soul and goal of whatever we’re reading into and pulling out of Holy Scripture. We are reading the Bible faithfully – we square science and scripture (or we liberate ourselves from checking our brains at the door or from trying to cram square pegs into round holes) – when and only when, the crucified and risen Jesus, the loving and living God, is what we receive and share through our best interpretations and our most humble understandings of what we find in its pages.

My dad suggested that I'd know it when I saw it, tasted it, presented it, and shared his version of a Caesar Salad with Christa. Throughout Holy Scripture we are invited to see a whole picture of God’s love and grace, in Jesus. Some stories seem harsh and unforgiving. Some are packed with immeasurable grace. So many ancient tales just can’t be reconciled with our modern understanding of how the world works.

But when we toss them all together and when we turn them over in our minds with hearts set on God’s larger story and finished product of love, mercy, forgiveness, and hope, these stories tell a story of grace for the whole wide world that can’t be measured or made sense of, no matter how hard we try to do the math or crunch the numbers. It all only makes sense and measures up by grace, through faith – not because of the words in a book, but because of in the Word of love, made flesh, in Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.