Day by Day

April 13, 2008

Acts 2:42-47; Psalm 23; John 10:1-10

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”

The second chapter of Acts tells us that once there was a people who actually believed that and lived it out, day by day.

They took what they gained, by way of this world’s goods, and used it to meet the needs of this world’s people. The story doesn’t give us much by way of detail – this is not a blueprint for the perfect social order. Were these the “deserving poor”? Did the community use any form of “needs testing”? Were the poor folks kin to the wealthy ones? Did they look alike or believe the same things? Were the poor folks dirty; did they smell bad? Were any them obnoxious? Did anyone suffer “donor fatigue” or “compassion fatigue” and just get tired of giving their stuff away? Did anyone receiving gifts become dependent on the gifts? Were there any work incentives tied to the gifts? What were the outcomes?[1]

Who knows? The author of Acts seems blissfully unaware of the kinds of concerns that so often arise in contemporary conversations about rich, poor and money. The story does not care overly much about those broadly social questions. As I just said, this is not a blueprint for the perfect social order.

It does seem, however, to be deeply concerned with what it means to be church. As such, I have always read the second chapter of Acts as a description of what Martin Luther King named the beloved community, what I believe Jesus pointed toward when we spoke of the kingdom of heaven being among his followers.

During the past couple of weeks, as I have enjoyed a fortnight of study leave, I’ve done a bit of reading and writing. Somewhere down the line, I will share with you some of what I’ve been writing, but I can tell you this morning that the best of what I read was a wonderful Katherine Patterson young adult novel about striking textile workers in early 20^th-century New England; most of the rest of what I read was mystery novels. But I also read some of the most recent writings of Walter Brueggemann, who remains, for my money, the most provocative and prophetic theologian writing in the United States right now.

His most recent publication, The Word Militant, is a collection of essays written primarily about preaching for those engaged in the practice. In the introduction, Brueggemann suggests that preaching is foolish, dangerous and a risky self-exposure.

Lest you imagine that I spent the past two weeks navel gazing, what I want to suggest to you this morning, borrowing from Brueggemann’s observation, is that church is – our ought to be – foolish, dangerous and a risky self-exposure, and that the young church in Acts embraced precisely these aspects of the enterprise in living day by day.

Brueggemann argues that preaching is foolish “because in the congregation some know more and because in every congregation there are those ideologically committed in ways that preclude serious listening. As a result the preacher’s utterance is already determined to be disputatious even before it is heard (1).”

I suppose I’ve personally never had much problem with being disputatious! More to the point, however, I believe that what Brueggemann says here about the practice of preaching is equally true about being church, for if one of the great ends of the church – indeed, the first one of our principle purposes for being according to The Book of Order – is “the proclamation of the gospel for the salvation of humankind (G-1.0200),” then we are always already engaged in a practice concerning which many are ideologically committed in ways that preclude serious listening.

Look, for example, at the church in Acts 2. They were selling off their goods and possessions in order to meet the needs of the poor. How far from home do any one of us need to look before we encounter objection to this gospel word? How far from the mirror do most of us need to look before we encounter a determined ideological commitment that keeps us from seriously listening to this good news about salvation? Indeed, what’s in it for me, in this giving up and giving away? Is it any wonder then, that we who ourselves have so little faith in the abundant life Jesus shares with us – is it any wonder then that we should be so reluctant to share good news with others?

Doesn’t it feel utterly foolish to believe that the Lord is our shepherd, that we shall not want, that a table has been set for us in the presence of all those who would doubt its reality? I don’t mean in the sweet bye and bye, but right here, right now in the day by day living of our lives as a community of faith. Doesn’t it feel foolish, then, to be the church?

Brueggemann also suggests that preaching is “dangerous if it is faithful, because the powers of retrenchment are everywhere among us, a passion to keep things as they were before the utterance (1).” I suppose I have a small bit of personal experience with that, in terms of the faithful preaching act and the question of job security, and a small bit of personal experience with that, in the same terms, with regard to the question of personal security and the occasional late-night threatening message left on the answering machine. Some folks do not want to hear a word of liberating love, and some of them are not reluctant to say so.

But what of the danger of being church?

I suspect that those of you who have done so much of the immense amount of work that has gone into the restoration of this old place during the past few years have risked and experienced aches and pains in backs and arms and shoulders, not to mention the pinch it has put on many a purse. But those pains and pinches are not unique to the work of church. Anyone of us who has owned an old house, knows well that reality.

The building, as important as it is, is not the church. Thus, any danger in being church comes not from climbing ladders and changing light bulbs – these old fixtures notwithstanding.

No, the danger of being church involves precisely the risks of living out some of those other great ends of the church: the maintenance of divine worship; the preservation of the truth; the promotion of social justice; the exhibition of the kingdom of heaven to the world.

In an age of disbelief, a worshipping community threatens the dominant ethos of a society. In an age of lies, preserving the truth threatens the powers that be. In an age of social injustice, promoting justice threatens all those whose power and profit rest on unjust foundations. In an age of empire, exhibiting the kingdom of heaven to the world threatens the empire itself. Being the church is dangerous, and, sure enough, you do not have to read far beyond the second chapter of Acts to find the first Christians being hauled into court, thrown into prison, and martyred for their faith.

We don’t think so much in those terms these days, although perhaps we should. Indeed, we are all reminded this month, on the 40^th anniversary of the death of Dr. King, the authentic faith remains and dangerous enterprise. Most of us will not know such threats in our day to day living, but we can and often do feel the risk of offering genuine hospitality to others, of loving without expectation of return, of imprudent generosity – in other words, the risks of living authentically Christian lives day by day in countless small ways.

Still, the biggest danger, the most serious threat, may be the one that comes from within our own souls, because being the church involves risky self-exposure.

Brueggemann says of preaching that we are “vulnerable in the precariousness of the utterance. [That is] every preacher knows with some regularity that what is said and what must be said inescapably expose the preacher as something of a fraud, for good preaching must speak truth to which the preacher’s own life does not always attest. […]But such discrepancy is inevitable unless preaching is confined to the small truths verified in the preacher’s own life (2).”

That is to say, and I certainly include myself here as the example that I know best, all preachers are hypocrites. We, like Paul before us, say one thing and do another – often the very thing that we hate. We call on folks to act without fear, yet we huddle fearfully, too timid and too tepid to act ourselves in ways that authentically show forth the unbounded love and justice of Jesus.

Nevertheless, we cannot fall silent in the face of our own failures.

Moreover, what is true for those of us who preach is also true for the church as a whole. We are a body of hypocrites. But, then again, why would we imagine that it would be otherwise? We live in a world of hypocrites. You do not have to be a person of any faith whatsoever to have aspirations that exceed your actions. All of us tend to judge ourselves according to our highest aspirations; others tend to judge us according to our last worst act. Whoever is judging us, the truth of our lives reveals the gap between hope and reality.

Thus, from a God’s-eye perspective, all of us are hypocrites. The only difference between those in the church and those outside of it – and this is no small thing – lies precisely in the willingness to be vulnerable and exposed to this truth. We begin our worship in confession, making ourselves vulnerable in the honesty of naming the gap between aspirations and actions. We make ourselves vulnerable in the honesty of acknowledging that we cannot, on our own, bridge that gap. We make ourselves continuously vulnerable, moreover, by naming and proclaiming quite publicly those high aspirations revealed in God’s call and claim on our lives.

This is fundamentally necessary work, not just for those of us called to a preaching office, but also for each and every one of us. We are called to be a city on a hill, a lamp on the highest lamppost, light for the world. Thus we are called to articulate – in and through our lives – the highest aspirations, even when – especially when – we are not able to live completely into such dreams and visions. For it is not the failure of humanity to live into such dreams that constrains our lives, but rather the lack of such dreams in the first place. “Where there is no vision, the people perish.”

If Jesus came that we might have life, and have it abundantly, then he is alive in our midst precisely to the extent that we give voice and passion to our dreams and visions.

The church in Acts did precisely this. I do not for a moment suspect that their common life as described in the second chapter of Acts came any easier to them than it would to us – if we first had the courage to lift it up as our aspiration and trust one another enough to give it a try. Indeed, the struggles of the early church are not papered over in Acts. Just a few chapters after the text that we read this morning we find the startling story of Ananias and Sapphira, who do not live into the promises they make and it kills them.

Theirs is a story not so much of the failure of will, but rather of the failure of trust. Ultimately, they do not trust the abundance of life. They do not really believe that God has set a table of enough, so they hold on tightly to what they have and are unable to open their hands and hearts to receive the grace upon grace evident in their community.

We tend to grasp most tightly when we are in the grip of fear, and our biggest fears tend always to be that we will not have enough: enough food, enough fame; enough power, enough of a purse; enough time, enough talent; enough luck, enough love; enough savings, enough salvation.

But Jesus came that we might have life and have it abundantly. The young church in Acts demonstrated a way to live into that abundance. God grace is real, and it is enough for the day.

The beloved community is a close to us as the air we breathe, if we would be let go of our fear enough to breathe it in. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. Someday, someday, I hope to be authentically foolish enough, fearless enough, vulnerable enough to overcome my own faithlessness and experience the abundant life Jesus calls me into. Someday, someday, we shall be foolish enough, fearless enough and vulnerable enough with one another to overcome. Amen.

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[1] Walter Brueggemann, The Word Militant (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007).