Sunday, February 5, 2017
Matthew
9:27-38
27 As Jesus went on from there, two blind men followed him,
crying loudly, “Have mercy on us, Son of David!” 28 When he entered
the house, the blind men came to him; and Jesus said to them, “Do you believe
that I am able to do this?” They said to him, “Yes, Lord.” 29 Then he touched
their eyes and said, “According to your faith let it be done to you.” 30 And their eyes
were opened. Then Jesus sternly ordered them, “See that no one knows of this.” 31 But they went
away and spread the news about him throughout that district.
32 After they had gone away, a demoniac who was mute was brought
to him. 33 And when the
demon had been cast out, the one who had been mute spoke; and the crowds were
amazed and said, “Never has anything like this been seen in Israel.” 34 But the
Pharisees said, “By the ruler of the demons he casts out the demons.”
35 Then Jesus went
about all the cities and villages, teaching in their synagogues, and
proclaiming the good news of the kingdom, and curing every disease and every
sickness. 36 When he saw the
crowds, he had compassion for them,
because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. 37 Then he said to
his disciples, “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few; 38 therefore ask
the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.”
Sermon: “Our Values:
Compassion and Caring”
There is a reason I like to
write my sermons in coffee shops. (And no, it’s not just because of my affinity
for that glorious gift of God that is coffee.) I write in public because it
forces me to engage the biblical text with what’s happening around me. Rather
than in the quiet solitude of my office, I find that I’m interrupted by people
walking by, drinking, talking, laughing, crying even. It challenges me to engage
the Word of God with the world around me.
And so, just as I was beginning
to get into the rhythms of this here sermon, God decided to interrupt me with
that world. A woman who worked as a volunteer at the little charity bookstore connected
to the coffee shop I was in came over to me, having seen me meeting with her
pastor earlier. Her name is Marge. Marge wanted to tell me her faith story. To
be honest, what I wanted was to get
this sermon written. A little internal struggle began, we all know it well, where
I could nod along and pretend to listen, all the while thinking about what
words might fill this page, or I could choose to really look at her, and
actually listen.
I’m so glad the Spirit nudged
me to choose rightly. Marge told me that she wound up at my friend’s Presbyterian
church after a long time without church. She was raised Catholic, but then she
got a divorce. She was allowed to come to mass, but couldn’t take communion.
So, she eventually left, and had what she described as “a long time of
wandering.” Then, Marge found a place where her faith was nurtured and she felt
supported.
In the span of 5 minutes, I
actually learned a lot about Marge: that she’s reading a book I love (called
Ireland, of course), that her son was born on St. Patrick’s Day, and that, as
much as she loves books, she always puts people first, and welcomes
conversation.
I think God brought me Marge
to interrupt my tedious Greek study of the word “compassion” used in this
chapter of Matthew and remember that, while that word study matters, it matters
more than I practice compassion, even
if it interrupts my best-laid sermon writing plans.
Jesus welcomed these sorts of
interruptions, better than any of us ever could. He would be walking along, after
endlessly doing his Messiah thing, trying his best to get a little “me” time,
but it never worked. Crowds followed him
everywhere. No matter how many times he told the newly-healed to keep it
quiet, word of his compassion got out. Compassion is like that; it can’t be
shushed or forgotten. It’s contagious, in the best possible way.
Jesus had healed so many
according to Matthew: a leper, a demoniac, a whole household, a paralytic, but
it was never enough. There was always one more. And Jesus, no matter how tired,
no matter how desperate he was for some alone time, always made time for that
one more. This is what was meant when Matthew said, “When Jesus saw
the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and
helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.”
Jesus
didn’t think first of his own inconvenience and weariness, but instead he
focused on their feelings of harassment and helplessness. That is as good a
definition of caring as any: putting the
helplessness of another before our own.
That
helplessness comes in many forms: certainly Jesus’ compassion for people was
nearly always moved by illness, and the helplessness those suffering and those
who suffered with them felt. He also saw helplessness in a hungry crowd, and
like a tutting grandmother worried they would faint on their way home, and so
fed them with more food than anyone could possibly eat.
We
see helplessness in our day in illness and in hunger. We also see it in
loneliness, or the desire for human connection, even if just for 5 minutes in a
coffee shop. We see it in those who feel the world is changing too much for
their liking, and we see it in those who long for it to change more. We see it
in those whose faith has inexplicably left them, or who have been burned by the
bitter experience of an uncaring congregation.
When
Jesus spoke of the harvest being plentiful, and the laborers few, he wasn’t
urging those uncertain disciples to militantly proselytize with hellfire and
damnation. He was telling them to do what he had been doing all along: to see
the helpless people, that one more, and have compassion on them.
If
we say that a value of our church is to be caring and compassionate, this is
our starting place. The harvest is indeed plentiful: you need only spend time
in a hospital waiting room, or a struggling Cameron antique store, or a lonely
living room, or a weary child pick up line at the elementary school, to see
that. So many people feel helpless, even within our own walls. We can keep our
heads down, focused on the next item on our to-do list, prizing productivity
above all else, or we can stop. Look up. Look around. Look another human being
in the eye and see Christ looking back at us.
Being
a people who value compassion and caring really is that simple: we choose not
to get so caught up in our stuff that we don’t see people longing to be
noticed. We choose to be honest with each other about our own helplessness, and
let this faith community show care to us. We choose to be laborers in Christ’s
harvest of compassion, even if this means it interrupts our carefully laid
plans, in order to find that one more person in need of hope.
Think for a
moment about the last time you felt really, truly cared for. What made you
feel that way? I’m betting it wasn’t someone buying you something expensive.
I’m betting it wasn’t someone validating your opinion as better than another’s.
I’m betting it wasn’t someone looking through you but not really listening, or
someone impatiently demanding a bunch of confusing information from you. I’m
betting it wasn’t someone telling you to trust God without being honest about
how hard that is sometimes.
I’m
betting it was someone looking you in
the eye, and smiling. I’m betting it was someone who heard you’re automatic
“I’m fine” answer, but then gently nudged, “but how are you, really?” I’m
betting it was someone getting you a cold glass of water before you could get
it for yourself, or asking you how they could be praying for you (and you knowing
they will).
This
labor of compassion isn’t complicated: it’s making each other feel valued and
important and heard. Don’t we have time
to do that? The laborers are few, not because people don’t want to care, but because they think they don’t have time. We always
have time, friends. Let the dishes pile up. Let the grass get a little long. Let
the to-do list be forgotten for a day. Let the lunch take longer than you have
scheduled. (Let the sermon be mediocre!) But don’t ever let that one more
person feel forgotten or alone.
Thanks
be to the Caring Creator, the Ever-Compassionate Christ, and the Interrupting
Spirit, helping us see and care for that one more person, amen.
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