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William Willimon, the long-time chaplain at Duke University, tells about an afternoon when he was walking across the campus with Stuart Henry, a retired professor of religion. It was the first day of "Octoberfest," a period of bacchanalia set aside that is justified, Willimon said, as a means of letting everyone blow off the steam which is alleged to be built up by overexertion in the library during the first two weeks of classes. "We stood there, Professor Henry and I, in front of the Duke Chapel and surveyed the breakdown of Western Civilization, the drunken brawl taking place before us, the carousing and carnality on the lawn."
"And Professor Stuart said to me, 'Do you know what is, for me, the ultimate proof of Our Lord's divinity?'" 'No,' I said, 'what is the ultimate proof of Our Lord's divinity?' 'It's that verse,' said Professor Stuart, 'He looked upon the multitudes and had compassion.'"
"Listening to those words of Our Savior," said Willimon, "I knew how utterly different was Jesus from me."
For it is not only the students on the Duke campus that day who are the objects of Jesus' compassion. It is also the multitudes shoving and pushing at the malls and at the football stadiums, and those elbowing for advantage and money at the markets, and those jockeying for position and power in the offices downtown and in the departments of academia, and those engaged with drugs and mayhem in the streets of our cities.
"He looked upon the multitudes and had compassion, for they were like sheep without a shepherd." Like a herd without direction or purpose, without God. He had compassion upon them and reached out to them. And he began to teach them and to meet their needs.
How utterly different Jesus is from us!
For it was Jesus, as St. Paul reminds us, who brought near those who were far off and made them one. One with him, and therefore one with each other. Roman and Galilean, Parthian and Mede, Cretan and Arab and Egyptian, Jew and Gentile, Iraqi and American, male and female, circumcised and uncircumcised, baptized and unbaptized, washed and unwashed, musician and accountant, friend and stranger, responsible and irresponsible, young and old, entrepreneur and mystic, black and white, rich and poor -- Jesus looked at the multitudes and had compassion. And he reached out to those who were strangers and aliens to God, and strangers and aliens to each other, and brought them near to him and made them one. And this, not through doctrine or dogma, not through right thinking or right behavior or liturgy or music or programs, but through blood, through his blood shed on the Cross.
How utterly different Jesus is from us! How different he is, he who, because he loved us, gave his life so that the dividing wall of hostility between us might be abolished. And so that we, being redeemed, might be the Church, the community in which God himself dwells!
He looked upon us, the multitudes wandering in the wilderness, elbowing for position and advantage, and had compassion!
Time out!
We already know all that. And besides, to learn something is not the purpose of what we're doing right now. To learn something is not the purpose of a sermon. The purpose of a sermon is to create a possibility, the possibility for us to do something and to be something. The purpose of a sermon is to create the possibility for us respond to Jesus, to create the possibility for us to share the life Jesus makes possible.
Sometimes we just move along too fast. So, in a moment we're going to "take five." We're going to stop for a few minutes to take advantage sacramentally of the breach in the wall of hostility, the breach created by Jesus on the Cross. We're going to pass through the wall. In a sacramental way, you and I are going to go and greet and welcome the stranger and alien among us. Not with our latest good idea, not with a doctrine or truth or dogma, not with chit chat about last week's bridge game with those you already know, but with flesh and blood. With your flesh and blood, and with Christ's. With a handshake or an embrace and a smile and a greeting.
Do one of two things: Welcome to Christ's Body here someone who is a stranger to you. Or, if there is no one here you don't know, then thank someone for what he or she has done for Christ's church, and for us.
Those up in the choir loft can come down to the nave. Those in the back pews move up to the front, and those in the front move back to the back. Those who are old seek out the young. Those who are tired of living look for those who are full of life. Those who are full of life seek out those who are tired of living. Those who sing find those who are tone deaf. Those who have a word of life to speak find those who are searching. Those who are searching find those who have a word of life to speak.
As Willimon once said, "We've got to let go of the illusion that we can be Christians and remain strangers to each other," which is just another way of saying what Augustine said before him -- that the whole purpose of Scripture and Church is "to build up charity toward God and neighbor."
Because that's the work of the Cross, the work of blood and sweat and tears. The work of the Cross is that we, each of us who were once strangers ourselves, aliens separated from God, have been brought near to God and to each other. We have no "right" to be here, no right to be the Church. We didn't earn our way here. We were welcomed here by our crucified Lord. We are here because Christ reached out to us, paid a price for us, kicked down the wall separating us from God, and won us back to God, and to each other.
We need to remember this act of reconciliation as we attempt to get along with one another in the church. The thing that often sets us apart here is that we remain strangers. We are not from the same biological families. We're not all of the same social classes or ages, and all this works to make us appear strange to one another.
In our land today we tend to be separated in ways we were seldom separated before. Separated by age. Many of us live in neighborhoods where everybody is about the same age. Some even live in areas where those of other ages are excluded by covenant. Separated by wealth. Many of us live in neighborhoods where everybody is similar in income. Separated by education. Many of us spend most of our time with those whose schooling has been similar to ours. Separated by race. Many of us live in neighborhoods where everybody has the same color of skin. And it's all pretty boring at times.
Except in the Church! Here, in Christ's Church, we are all together in Christ. Because, as Paul says, that's the purpose of Christ's dying on the Cross -- to reconcile us to God and to one another. To destroy the dividing wall of hostility between us. To bring us together. To make us one. To make us church, a holy temple, the place, here, among us, where God himself dwells.
"This is a big crowd," said the disciples, "and it's getting late, Jesus. Send them away so they can find something to eat." But what Jesus saw in his mind's eye -- in his Spirit's eye -- was the messianic banquet promised by God. And when he looked at the multitudes, he saw that they were like sheep without a shepherd. Not a one of them had been baptized or confirmed. And he had compassion on them and said to his disciples, "You feed them."
I guess that means that if the folks out in the world are ever going to see any hope of our overcoming our painful divisions, if they are ever going to see any real chance for unity and peace being actually lived out, then they are going to have to see it here, in us. We, Christ's Church, here at the Chapel of Our Saviour and elsewhere, are the only concrete, visible, tangible evidence the world has that, in Jesus, God was reconciling the world to himself and to one another.
So, take five. Not to chit chat, but to build the community Jesus built by the seashore that day when he saw the multitudes, who were like sheep without a shepherd. He had compassion on them, and formed them into communities of fifty and one hundred, and fed them.
Welcome someone who is a stranger to you. Or, if no one here is a stranger to you this morning, then feed someone in the Name of Christ. Thank someone for what he or she has done for Christ's Church.
Take five to do this as we prepare to go to that Table where, with compassion and tears and sweat and flesh and blood, Our Lord feeds us.
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Time Out
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Let us pray.
Lord Jesus, even before we dared to reach out to you, you reached out to us.
Even while we, like the prodigal, were far off, living as strangers in a strange land, you waited for us, called to us, embraced us and welcomed us home.
Before we even realized that our lives were so messed up that we needed to look for you, you were busy looking for us, ready to gather us and welcome us to yourself.
We remember how we were once strangers to you. So help us to pay special attention to those who are strangers among us. Help us to pay special attention to those who live in other lands, yet who are also your beloved brothers and sisters. Help us to pay special attention to those who worship other gods, yet who are also created by our Father and loved by you. Help us to pay special attention to those who are of an economic class or a race or creed different from our own, yet who are cherished by you as much as you cherish each of us. Help us to pay special attention to those who live next door or down the street or across town who may need a kind word or a thoughtful, welcoming gesture.
Lord Jesus, you stretched out your loving arms upon the hard wood of the Cross because you loved us who were strangers to each other, but family to you. Help us to receive others into our fellowship here so that even as your blood, shed for us on the Cross, has changed us from strangers to you into your friends, just so may our life here be such that all the peoples of your world might see in us your dwelling place, and therefore their home.
In the Name of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen. |