Sermon for the Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, Year B, "Finish It," 2 Corinthians 8:7-15 (Proper 8B, Ordinary 13B)

*Posted out of order, but here's a sermon from earlier this summer.

Sermon 6/30/24

2 Corinthians 8:7-15

Finish It

Have you ever seen an unfinished building or construction project? I remember growing up one of my best friends lived in a home that her father had just built. Only there were little bits and pieces that he never quite finished. For example, there was a door that was meant to go to a porch and stairs into the yard - but the porch and stairs never got built. Be careful - that door led to a ten foot drop! Years later it did get finished, but I was well into adulthood before that happened. There are several famous building projects around the world that have never been completed like some of these we see on the screen,  including this one, the National Monument of Scotland, also known as “ Edinburgh’s disgrace.” (1)  Closer to home, many of you have probably visited Boldt Castle in the 1000 Islands region, the castle built in the early 1900s by millionaire George C. Boldt, and then abandoned while still mid-construction because of the sudden death of his beloved wife Louise. Some of you may have even visited the castle years ago, as I did as a child, when not much had yet been done to restore the property, and everything was covered in graffiti and it all radiated: abandoned project.   

There is something both fascinating and sad about these unfinished projects. A lasting and visible reminder of plans someone had that ultimately weren’t completed, a vision that couldn’t be carried out for whatever reason. What about projects in your own life? Are you the type of person who always finishes whatever project you begin? Or do you have a tendency to get intrigued by many things and give them a try, but maybe leave some partly done and move on to the next thing? My own record is kind of a mixed bag on this.  I tried to teach myself how to knit, for example, and worked on the project of trying to knit a scarf at irregular intervals over the course of several years before I finally acknowledged it was never going to happen and gave my 2/3 of a scarf away for someone else to finish. Sometimes, I’m sure I’ve found a new passion - but then I lose interest.  Other times, though, I’m pretty disciplined about following through. For example, the ordination process in The United Methodist Church took me 9 years to complete, start to finish, and at the time I was ordained, that meant I had been in the process for more than a third of my life! But I never wavered. I pasted the document listing the steps of the process on my wall, and checked them off one by one. Sometimes, I’m committed to finishing what I started, no matter what. What’s something you were determined to do and committed to seeing your vision through to completion? 

Foremost on my mind these days is finishing my PhD. I’m in what is hopefully my last year of a five year program, working on writing my dissertation. The PhD student drop out rate is incredibly high - some statistics I’ve seen suggest that more than 50% of people who start a PhD never finish it. Sometimes people drop out right at the start, because they find out the program is more rigorous than expected and they weren’t quite prepared. But there’s a lot of other reasons folks drop out too, even quite near the end, when all that is left is the dissertation. It’s expensive, being a PhD student, and sometimes people drop out for financial reasons - they don’t have enough income, they need to go back to full time work, they can’t make ends meet. Sometimes they don’t have enough support from advisors and faculty who encourage them and check in. And sometimes people who do well with the structure and deadlines of the coursework part of a PhD really flounder when there is no structure or clear timeline when you get to the dissertation part of the program and have to be very self-directed. Sometimes people just decide all the struggle is not worth it. I’m quite certain every PhD student has at least considered throwing in the towel. I know I’ve had my moments. But I am determined. I will finish this thing. 

 That’s the apostle Paul’s advice in his letter to the Corinthians from our text for today. “Finish it,” he says. The church at Corinth had committed a year ago to take up a collection, a financial offering to go and support the work of the church in Jerusalem, the “home base” congregation of Christianity in the early church, a community that was frequently in financial need and relied on the support from congregations in wealthier communities. The Corinthians had pledged their support and started gathering funds. But for some reason, they’ve delayed in completing their task. Things are taking longer than planned, and maybe some folks aren’t even sure they want to give anymore. Early in 2 Corinthians and elsewhere in his letters, Paul alludes to tensions between the Jerusalem church leadership and other parts of the growing Christian movement. There were many disagreements and debates to work out over who was leading the movement, who could be included, and how people could become part of Christianity. Perhaps, in the midst of the struggles, the fervor of the Corinthian church for supporting the church in Jerusalem had waned. Perhaps, with the passage of time, people were no longer as excited about the mission as they’d once been. Perhaps they’d encountered more struggles, more demands on their resources. Whatever the reason, Paul’s letter seems to imply that there’s a real question of whether or not the Corinthians will complete the task to which they’ve committed themselves. 

But if they listen to Paul, they will finish it. Paul builds them up, reminding them of their gifts, their love, their excellent generosity. He doesn’t command them, he says, but he does want to see if their promises were genuine or not. He reminds them of Christ’s generosity, and of the generosity of congregations that have less abundant financial resources than they do. And he says to them: “Finish doing it, so that your eagerness may be matched by completing it.” You had a vision, you planned to give from your abundance - now do it. See the task to completion. 

 Friends, I know that you are in a season of transition. It’s been a season of upheaval and change in our denomination, and though I have longed for some of the changes that have been made, I know they’ve also come at a cost to congregations and clergy and resources. We’re in a long and ongoing season of transition around the role and influence of the church in the larger society that can be discouraging. And I know that you are also in a season of pastoral transition, which is always one of the most difficult times for congregations. I’ve been through lots of pastoral and congregational transitions - I know it can be exceptionally easy to sort of “opt out” during seasons of change. It can be easy to lose sight of the plans and vision that you once had, especially if now, carrying out that vision looks different than it did when you were first dreaming together. I know that the lure of complacency, of apathy, of taking the path of least resistance and least effort can be so strong. 

 But I also know that staying the course is worth it. Where do we find the strength? As Paul urged with the Corinthians, I think we find strength by remembering the gifts God has given us. We recall the commitments we’ve made. We remember how God has been with us, and how God promises to go with us into the future. We put our faith in a generous Christ, who calls us to follow him. We count our blessings. And we declare: We will finish it. In this season of change, I encourage you to think about the plans and visions, the hopes and dreams you have both in your personal journey of discipleship, and as a congregation. What plans and promises have you made? When you were dreaming big, what did you see in the future? Where have you felt God’s presence, and God’s leading? What have you felt inspired to do? How did you feel when you were first stepping out on faith? In the past, what has helped you stay motivated, dedicated? Remember, and renew your commitment. Recommit to the vision. God is still present, still leading, and still giving you all the resources you need to move forward with purpose. Speaking to another congregation, the church in Philippi, Paul says, “I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work in you will continue to complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.” (Philippians 1:6) God is faithfully completing good works in our lives day by day. Let us be faithful too, completing what we’ve begun. With God by your side, finish it. Amen. 

1.  https://www.fodors.com/news/photos/10-famously-unfinished-buildings-around-the-world

Image source: https://foundr.com/articles/leadership/personal-growth/finishing-the-project

Sermon for the Ninth Sunday after Pentecost, Year B (Proper 11, Ordinary 16), "Of Sheep and Shepherds," Mark 6:30-34, 53-56, Jeremiah 23:1-6

 

Sermon 7/21/24

Mark 6:30-34, 53-56, Jeremiah 23:1-6

Of Sheep and Shepherds

I’ve been thinking a whole lot about leadership lately, and who it is we want to lead us and why. Yes, as you can imagine, I’ve got the upcoming presidential election on my mind. No, don’t worry, I’m not about to get into who to vote for - or who not to vote for - or why. Today I’m more interested in thinking about what we value in leaders. What kind of leader do you think the President of the United States should be? I found an article that addressed several characteristics that seem to make for effective presidencies in American history, and the top qualities include: A strong vision for the country's future, an ability to put their own times in the perspective of history, effective communication skills, the courage to make unpopular decisions, crisis management skills, character and integrity, wise appointments, and an ability to work with Congress. (1) That sounds like a pretty decent list. But it is a rear view mirror list. In other words, it was a list made reflecting on presidencies after they were over, not in the midst of electing a new president. I tried to find something that gave a good sense of what we’re looking for when we’re electing a new president. The best I could find was a recent survey that asked people how they rated a pre-selected list of attributes. So, the survey decided on some important traits, but people got to rank them. There were some party-line differences, but people valued strength, honesty, and competence. Most of all? Across party lines, people said “taking responsibility” was their most desired characteristic in a leader. (2) Now, that desire can be interpreted in a lot of ways, but I suspect at least part of why people say they want someone who will take responsibility is because they feel like our leaders don’t do this already. How often do we hear our leaders - presidents or governors or members of congress or otherwise - say: that mistake was my fault and I accept responsibility? Examples do not immediately spring to my mind. 

I read recently on social media some words from John G. Stackhouse Jr.: “God, after all, has a long record of allowing societies to reap what they sow and get the leadership they deserve. It's called judgment, not blessing.” I’ve been thinking about that a lot. This idea: God gives people the kind of leader they want, even if it turns out to be an awful decision, even when it turns out the people are really bad at choosing leaders. Are we bad at choosing leaders? Stackhouse is certainly commenting on current events, but he’s also making observations about the biblical record. Our history, as people, of choosing poorly when it comes to leaders, is not new. It’s in fact a quite, quite old problem. That’s what our text from Jeremiah is talking about. When God first called together a people, Israel, God said that God would be the only ruler they needed. But eventually, the people started clamoring for a king, because they wanted to be like the other nations around them - they all had earthly rulers, and the Israelites wanted one too. And so God gave them what they wanted. And, as Stackhouse suggests, it mostly turned out to be a terrible decision. With few exceptions, ruler after ruler did what was evil in God’ sight, leading the people down destructive paths, resulting in wars, and poverty, and hardship, and most of all: idolatry and alienation from God. 

In Jeremiah, God has had it with rulers who are not the shepherds God intends them to be. Shepherds are supposed to care for and protect the sheep - at all costs! But instead, God says, the rules of Israel have been destroying and scattering the sheep - God’s people. There are consequences, God says. But as always, God makes promises too: God will be the shepherd earthly rulers are not, and gather the people. And God will raise up shepherds who will lead with righteousness and justice so that the people can live in safety. So what kind of leader do we want? What kind of shepherd does God seek out for us? Can we accept the shepherd God longs for us to have, instead of insisting we know better? 

There’s more talk about sheep and shepherds in our gospel lesson, where we start out with Jesus just seeking some peace and quiet after the relentless pace of his teaching, healing, and ministry. Picture this: you are exhausted. It has been a long week at work. Some things have gone wrong. And all week, you’ve been looking forward to a quiet Saturday at home, where you can sleep in. You’re just going to relax. No agenda. No schedule. No plans. And then, there’s a knock at the door. Or the phone rings. And suddenly, that time for rest and relaxation has vanished. And it’s not even that whoever interrupted your time is not a friend, a person you enjoy. It’s just that you were so exhausted, and you so needed a break. Has this ever happened to you?  

That’s what happens to Jesus and the disciples. They were trying to take just a little break, because with all the work they’ve been doing, they haven’t even had time to eat. But the people, who so want to see Jesus, experience his teaching, his healing, find out where he’s going, and while Jesus is traveling by boat, they hurry ahead on foot, so that by the time Jesus reaches his destination, they’re already there waiting for him. And Jesus doesn’t groan when he sees them all waiting. He doesn’t huff and puff and demand that he needs his alone time. Instead, we read: “As he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd.” Jesus is moved with compassion. The Greek word in the Bible for compassion is my very favorite. The word is a mouthful: ἐσπλαγχνίσθη - esplangchnisthe. It means something to the effect of: your guts are tied up in knots with the level of concern you have for someone. You are physically moved with emotion for the person you’re considering. You feel such concern, such care that it affects you physically. And this word is mostly used in the Bible to describe how Jesus feels about the crowds, the people. In fact, this word is used more times about Jesus than all others instances in the Bible combined. When Jesus sees people, his guts twist with the deepness of his concern. Compassion. His intestines twisted in knots in deep concern for what he saw. A true shepherd, like the one the prophet Jeremiah wrote of, is like this one: one who laments when the sheep are without a shepherd, and is moved to the core of their being to step in and lead, to step in and be that shepherd. 

I wonder: is compassion a leadership skill? Do we want a leader who is compassionate? What kind of leader does it make you if your best skill is that you have gut-wrenching compassion for people like Jesus does - all kinds of people, in all kinds of situations, some of their own making, some deserving more than they’ve gotten, some deserving less - all kinds of people? What kind of leader does it make you if your best skills are compassion, mercy, grace? Well, we can see what kind of leader his signature compassion makes Jesus into: It makes Jesus the kind of leader who can’t seem to stop pouring himself out for others, even when he’d really love a nap. It makes Jesus the kind of leader who says that he came to be a servant of all. It makes Jesus the kind of leader who eschews every attempt to elevate and glorify himself, to take a throne, to rule over. It makes him the kind of leader who cherishes children as those with important wisdom to share. It makes him the kind of leader who notices the widows, the poor, those who have been deemed sinful, those whom no one wants to touch,even the ones who are considered enemies - he notices and sees and embraces. It makes Jesus the kind of leader who gives his life for others. It makes him a true shepherd, a good shepherd, who cannot just pass by when he sees lost sheep. 

Sometimes I think we need reminding of just who it is we’ve committed to following. As people of faith, we’ve committed to following someone whose leadership skills may not be on the top list for presidential candidates. Elections matter. Secular leaders matter. Of course they do. I think we should vote, and vote thoughtfully, faithfully, trying our best to vote in alignment with our deepest held values. But I’m reminded of a post that was going around on Facebook way back in the Obama/Romney election in 2012. It showed Romney and Obama each with a statement near them that read: “Hope of the world.” But then it was crossed out. And it said at the bottom: “That job’s already taken.” I love that. Jesus is the hope of our world and the only one we should seek to follow. The empires of the earth - all of them - rise and fall. But Jesus is eternal, and our place in God’s heart is forever, and God’s love and compassion for us is everlasting. Let’s be followers of the leader God chooses for us. Let’s have the characteristics and qualities of Jesus be the ones we seek out. Let it be the compassion of Jesus that we long for the most, and most strive to imitate. Let’s be sheep in the fold of the shepherd who loves us down to his very guts. Amen. 

1. https://www.ushistory.org/gov/7e.asp

2. https://today.yougov.com/politics/articles/31249-leadership-qualities-president-poll-data

Sermon, "In Denial," Mark 8:31-37

Sermon 2/20/24

Mark 8:31-37

In Denial

My sermon title is both a reflection of our gospel text for today, and a reflection of how I felt about preaching today. I’ve come to this moment kind of dragging my feet, for a variety of reasons. And one of them was that I just did not want to preach on this text. Of course, I didn’t have to - we don’t demand lectionary preaching in chapel. But I just felt like I wanted to preach from the lectionary during Lent. The other texts for today are all about Abraham and Paul’s take on Abraham, and let’s just say those passages were not filling me with inspiration. Briefly, I was imagining a sermon on the Transfiguration text - it is an alternate text for today. But then our wise friend Leah Wandera chose that, appropriately, for Transfiguration last week when it is the primary lectionary choice, and preached a powerful message - you should give it a listen if you missed our online service last week. So here I am, and here we are.   

Truthfully, I’ve always liked this text, and specifically, what I consider the heart of this passage - “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” Please don’t tell this to my dissertation committee and give them encouragement to come up with more questions to ask me about my prospectus draft, but I’ve always liked it when things are challenging rather than easy. I mean, easy things have their place, for sure. But I like a challenge, and Jesus’s words are certainly that. Whenever Jesus describes discipleship in ways that seem demanding, I’ve found them motivating rather than discouraging. I like to think that rather than setting the discipleship bar low so we can all just step over it, Jesus sets the bar high and then helps us reach high enough. So, this call to deny one’s self and take up a cross is a challenge I want to rise to meet. What good is easy discipleship? 

But my dear friend Heather, another clergywoman, and now also a Drewid, a DMin student here, has always hated this text. It raises her feminist hackles. Women, she says, are always being asked to deny parts of themselves already. They are always being asked to give up pieces of themselves, to give up parts of themselves for the good of others. She doesn’t need Jesus asking her to do it too, making women denying themselves into an act of religious faithfulness. 

Is that what Jesus means when he asks for self-denial? Sacrificing parts of ourselves? Our contemporary culture, at least in the United States, has tended to interpret self-denial like a second opportunity to make good on New Year’s Resolutions that have failed shortly after January 1st. Lent becomes a kind of season of self-improvement. We can deny ourselves chocolate for Lent and get a two-for-one deal: obeying Jesus, and trimming some excess from our diets and our bodies. Our Lenten journeys become disordered reflections of our disordered views of ourselves. If we don’t love ourselves very much already, and we don’t love our bodies, and we don’t love the skin that we’re in, and we don’t love who we are, perhaps we welcome a chance to deny ourselves - we’re ready to shed the person we are that we’re so ready to and so easily able to find fault with anyway. Deny myself? Yes please! Lent in this way becomes just another promise of new and improved selves that can never meet our hopes. 

If not that, what, then, does Jesus want from us? What is it, exactly, that we need to deny of ourselves, about ourselves? Does self-denial mean stripping ourselves of our individual identities? We’re all one in Christ - we’re disciples, united in cause and purpose - and identity? Is this the self-denial of the way of the cross? This doesn’t fit right either. One of the things I’ve learned at Drew is that denying myself, denying pieces of myself, can actually be a privilege that gives me power over others. I am, to draw on a favorite essay by Donna Haraway, situated. (1) I have a particular perspective. I am White. I am a citizen of the United States. I am a cisgender straight woman. I am a Christian in a Christian-majority nation. I am a middle-class person, even if I’m also taking on the role of broke grad student for a few years. I’ve had access to - let’s be honest - excessive amounts of schooling. I am situated. Is self-denial about denying all the particulars of who we are? Haraway likens that to what she calls the “god trick” - pretending that we have the same all-seeing and all-knowing perspective of the divine being, looking down from on high. Jesus does say we should set our minds on divine things, doesn’t he? Is self-denial about striving for God’s point of view instead of our own? Can we accomplish that through self-denial, and trying to shrug off labels of our particularities? 

In the midst of all of these unappealing ways of denying ourselves before we’ve even gotten to the part about taking up a cross, is there any chance for saving our lives here? I’m pretty sure I remember that in the text somewhere. Losing our lives, yes. But saving them too. That’s in there, right? How do we deny ourselves, lose our lives, and save them all at once? Are there ways that we can understand the call to self-denial that lead to life? 

As Yeongrok and I were talking about music for chapel today, he said my sermon text made him think of the song The Summons. I almost didn’t include it, but I had been thinking about it too, and the words from John Bell in one of the verses. It’s a question from God to us: “Will you love the ‘you’ you hide if I but call your name?” What is the “you” that you’re hiding? 

I think when Jesus talks about self-denial with the disciples - in the particular context of the oppressive state violence that Jesus believed was in his future as a person who kept relentlessing prodding at systems of injustice - I think he’s telling his disciples that they need to lay down their clinging to self-protection, to safety and security, so that they can take on the cross - rather than the sword - with courage, as they face off against Empire. Our particular context is different, of course. But these words call to us all the same. 

What if denying ourselves looks like denying our obsession with individualism? Not as in denying that we are situated, and acknowledging the positionings that sometimes give some of us extraordinary power and place. Rather, maybe denying ourselves looks more like putting away the misguided notion that we are somehow self-contained. Putting away a notion that we are in control, and a contained, boxed-in self that stands alone. Thinking again of our music for today, I’m amazed at the number of Lenten songs that put us in isolation - it’s just me and Jesus in the lonesome valley, doing it all by ourselves. I’m always wary of anything that suggests that it’s just between us and God, when Jesus so firmly and frequently reminds us that all of our neighbors fill the spaces between us and God. Maybe denying ourselves actually means we can deny this privatized notion that we have that we are solo, contained, doing it on our own, so “unique” that we cannot be in solidarity and in community.

Taking up a cross and confronting injustice and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves isn’t the work of an individual. I think maybe taking up the cross is always the work of a community. In fact, the image of Simon of Cyrene being called on in the gospel to help Jesus carry the cross comes to my mind. Jesus needs help carrying the cross too. Denying ourselves is the ongoing, difficult work of shedding the beliefs that we can or should do it on our own, that we are on our own in our pain and struggles, on our own in confronting the powers and principalities, that we’ve got it figured out on our own, that we only need our own perspective, that we can box ourselves in. Deny this understanding of what self means. Take up the cross, the work of a community - the work of solidarity, of kinship, of working for justice. The work of carrying the cross, together. 

For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it. Amen. 

1. Haraway, Donna. "‘Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspective'." (1988) In Space, gender, knowledge: Feminist readings, pp. 53-72. Routledge, 2016.

Sermon for Fifth Sunday after Epiphany, Year B, "All Things," 1 Corinthians 9:16-23

 Sermon 2/4/24

1 Corinthians 9:16-23

All Things

“You can’t please everyone.” “You can’t make everyone happy.” “You can’t do everything.” “Know your limits.” “Don’t try to do it all.” “You can’t be all things to all people.” Have you heard these words? Said them? Felt them? I know I have. I’ve been having a busy semester this Spring, and my mother frequently says something like this to me. And I’ve certainly doled out these words more than once. “You can’t make everyone happy.” Being a people-pleaser can be exhausting. Now, I’m not saying we can’t try to be kind and loving - I think we absolutely should do that! But trying to make everyone happy all the time usually leads us to exhaustion, which is bad enough, but it also means we end up compromising ourselves, our values, our integrity, because we’re working so hard to make sure everyone else is happy with us, that everyone likes us. There are limits to what we can do, right? We can’t be all things to all people. 

And yet, what springs to mind is a scene from one of the best movies I’ve seen, a movie that’s on many people’s lists of best movies: the 1993 film Schindler’s List, the Steven Spielberg film about a man named Oskar Schindler, who worked to rescue Jews from being sent to concentration camps during the Holocaust by employing over a thousand workers in his factory. His motives begin with profit for himself, but eventually his mission becomes one of compassion and urgency. In the end, in one of the most moving scenes from the film, Schindler expresses his deep despair that he could have done more but did not. He says: 

“I could have got more out. I could have got more. I don't know. If I'd just... I could have got more.” Stern, the man to whom he’s speaking, replies: “Oskar, there are eleven hundred people who are alive because of you. Look at them.” But Schindler goes on: “If I'd made more money... I threw away so much money. You have no idea. If I'd just...I didn't do enough! This car. [He] would have bought this car. Why did I keep the car? Ten people right there. Ten people. Ten more people. This pin. Two people. This is gold. Two more people. He would have given me two for it, at least one. One more person. A person, Stern. For this. I could have gotten one more person... and I didn't! And I... I didn't!”

There’s a tension that Schindler’s dilemma exposes. Was he solely responsible for every life saved or lost in his sphere of influence? That’s a lot of weight to put on one person. He did so much! But could he have done more? Should he have? What kind of expectations are reasonable for him to place on himself? Must we try to be all things to all people, as much as it is in our power? And if we’re thinking about how hard we’re working to make sure others know of God’s love and grace, if we do less than we could, if we are not all things to all people, are we at fault?

That’s a question that our reading from Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians seems to answer, and in Paul’s usual definitive way, he seems to have a clear and bold answer for us. “An obligation is laid on me,” Paul says, “and woe to me if I do not proclaim the gospel! . . . I have become all things to all people, so that I might by all means save some.” Paul’s words come in a chapter when Paul is trying to show the Corinthians who he is as an apostle of Christ. When I read Paul’s words, I am struck by two feelings. First, I’m filled with a deep level of exhaustion. Trying to be all things to all people sounds like an impossible task with ridiculously unreasonable expectations. Have you ever tried to be all things to all people? How did it work out? How long could you sustain it? It comes with a cost, trying to be all things, and I think in the long run, we cannot sustain it. No matter what we try to do, it seems it is never enough, and that we always carry the burden of knowing that we should be doing more. This burden is a tremendous weight to bear, a sometimes immobilizing weight. We could be giving more. We could be feeding more people. We could be volunteering more, serving more. We could be, we could be… We know we should be doing more that we aren’t doing, and so we do nothing at all. 

Was Paul actually doing everything he said he was? Was he all things to all people? I think we need a bit more context to his words. See, there is a bit of tension in the New Testament between Paul and the other apostles, Peter and James and the rest of the twelve who were Jesus’ first followers. And the tension comes from a couple of sources. First, Paul never met Jesus in person. Yes, he had a powerful encounter with Jesus on the road to Damascus where he heard Jesus’s voice and turned from persecuting Jesus-followers to inspiring others to become Jesus-followers. But he did not follow Jesus during his earthly life for years like the other disciples. And at first, that’s a source of tension. Does Paul have equal claim to leadership and authority with the twelve? Should he? Does it matter? So Paul is out to prove himself, a bit. Earlier in the chapter, he compares himself not so subtly with other disciples, noting that he does not take advantage of all the privileges that some of the other apostles do. Paul wants to be in it for serving Jesus, and he wants his purpose and integrity to be above question.

The other source of tension is that while some of the other apostles wanted to focus on sharing the gospel of Jesus with other Jewish people - after all, Jesus was Jewish, and the twelve were Jewish, and Jesus himself mostly taught and worked and healed among Jewish communities - Paul wants to share the gospel with Gentiles, who might be eager to hear about Jesus and God’s grace even though they have no intentions of converting to Judaism. So, in his words to the Corinthians - a community of Gentile Christians - Paul is trying to tell them that his only interest is in sharing the gospel, and he’ll share it with anyone and everyone. He’s ready to be in community with anyone so he can share the good news. 

That brings me to my second feeling I’m struck with when I first read this text. Being all things to all people? I am not sure being all things to all people is really desirable even if we could somehow pull it off. My first read of this passage makes Paul seem like a chameleon, generously described, and manipulative and inauthentic, if I’m going with my gut. Do I want to be in relationship with someone who is going to pretend to be more like me in order to have an “in” with me? I don’t think I really want someone in my life who is going to pretend that they think like I do, so that they can better persuade me to whatever end they have in mind. “To the Jews I became as a Jew in order to win Jews. To those under the law I became as one under the law … so that I might win those under the law. To those outside the law I became as one outside the law … so that I might win those outside the law. To the weak I became weak, so that I might win the weak.” Do we want to hear good news from someone who is just pretending to share an identity with us? 

Fortunately, I’ve had some help in thinking beyond my gut reactions to Paul’s words. This week at one of Drew’s weekly chapel services, professor of Christian history and Methodist Studies at Drew Rev. Dr. Kevin Newburg preached on this text from 1 Corinthians, and I found his sermon both challenging and inspiring. He summed up both Paul’s message and his own approach to pastoring as “Love people and preach the gospel.” I like his way of interpreting Paul’s words. What if, instead of Paul trying to deceive people into believing he’s just like they are in order to convince them to follow Jesus, Paul is trying to tell us that he’s committed to building relationships with anyone and everyone so that they can all share in Christ? What if we think about Paul as modeling for us that we can be in deep, authentic, meaningful relationship with all kinds of people. 

When we think over our lives, we might find that we spend a lot of time with people who are just like us. Sure, they might have different hobbies, or like a different sports team than we do. But we tent to spend most of our time with people who are in the same economic class as we are, who have the same amounts of education as we do, who are in the same racial or ethnic group as we are, who share our religious identity already. Studies even show that our social media pages tend to reflect our own perspectives back at us. We develop cultivated facebook feeds, for example, where we see people supporting the political candidates as we do, and holding the same point of view on social issues.  

Paul is committed to something different. When I hear Paul saying that he’s become all things to all people, I’d like to think that he means that he is always crossing boundaries and spending his time not with people just like him, who think like him, and worship like him, and act like him, but with all kinds of people, building relationships that are built on his openness to the other. It is hard work. It is indeed costly for Paul, the amount of work he puts into fulfilling his commission, his calling, his commitment to the good news of Jesus. But I don’t think he means it to be the recipe for exhaustion that it seems at first glance. 

Instead, I think about it like this: When we are our whole selves, and we allow others to be their whole selves, I think the gospel can flourish so much more easily. Because we believe, I hope, that the gospel, the love and grace and forgiveness and reconciliation that we’ve experienced in Christ - that’s news that is so good that it is for all people, in all places. Paul’s vision of God’s work in the world is expansive, and inclusive, and I hope ours is too.  

All things to all people? I’m not sure we’re up to that task. But I believe we serve a God who is all things for all people. And we’re called to be messengers of that most excellent news, crossing boundaries, building relationships, and loving people, all people, in the name of Christ whom we serve. Amen. 

A Sung Communion for the Season of Advent - Updated - Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus

Note: I recently updated my "Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus" text from Singing at the Table for our Advent Lessons and Carols service at Drew Theological School. (You can hear the liturgy at the end of our service here.)

A Sung Communion Liturgy 

for the Season of Advent/Lessons and Carols

(Tune: HYFRYDOL, 87.87 D, UMH #196)

Text: Beth Quick, 2019, 2023. 

Incorporating phrases from “Come Thou Long-Expected Jesus,” Charles Wesley, 1744,

and “Comfort, Comfort, O My People,” Johann Olearius, 1671, Catherine Winkworth, trans. 

To the table, you’re invited. 

Lift your hearts to God and sing. 

Praise to God, who has created 

All the earth, each living thing. 

God, we lift our hearts in longing

as we trek the Advent road.

Seeking peace, yet still we struggle. 

Crumbling under sorrow’s load. 

Holy, Holy, you are Holy!

Blessed is the One who comes. 

All your works are full of glory.

Join in the unending hymn:

Sing Hosanna! Sing Hosanna! 

Now your gracious kin-dom bring. 

Child of Peace shall come among us.

Let the earth with praises ring!

Come, oh long-expected Jesus. 

Teach us how to work for peace. 

From our fears and wars release us. 

Let us now your justice seek. 

You’re our strength and consolation;

Hope of all the earth you are. 

Source of goodness, well of wisdom:

You’re the joy of every heart.  

On the night he was arrested, 

Jesus shared some bread and wine. 

Thanking God, he blessed and gave it:

Grace for all of humankind. 

“Bread - this is my body given. 

Wine - My life, poured out for you. 

Eat and remember that you are forgiven. 

Reconciled, you are made new.” 

Come, O Spirit, we call on you:

Be poured out upon these gifts 

Take these signs and make them into 

Body, spirit, life of Christ. 

Send us out now to serve your people 

Sharing in Christ’s gracious ways.  

By your strength we work for justice,

God of peace, lead us always.