Sermon 5-12-19
Grace and peace to you from God our creator and from our risen
lord and savior Jesus the Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit, amen.
It’s been quite a May OUT THERE in the world, hasn’t it? And
it’s not even half over. Just in the last week there has been another school
shooting. Some of us are still reeling from the death of Rachel Held Evans, a
Christian writer and blogger, who died suddenly at the age of 37. She was
supposed to speak at the annual Festival of Homiletics in Minneapolis, where I
will be next week. And every other month bring us news of another church in our
synod closing its doors. There is so much pain, fear, and death out there in
the world.
And there is a lot of death in these texts we heard this
morning: the 23 Psalm, which we often only remember from attending the funerals
of our loved ones. Perhaps the 23rd psalm was read at Tabitha’s
funeral, from our Acts reading.
Tabitha certainly left a legacy behind her, didn’t she? She
was a disciple devoted to serving others, especially to marginalized and
status-less people, like widows in her community. She cared for people whom no
one else would care for. But then… she became ill. Her body ceased to function
the way it should, and she died. I’m sure all the people she helped wondered
why God would allow the death of such a faithful and caring servant. Her death
left such an impression that even Peter was summoned to her side, where he was
greeted by all the people she had helped, who displayed her handiwork.
We all know or knew a woman like Tabitha. But more
importantly, we all know or have known a CHURCH like Tabitha. St. Tabitha Lutheran Church would be a great
name for a church, wouldn’t it? So, we’ll use that name for our hypothetical
“every-church.” St. Tabitha Lutheran church doesn’t really exist anywhere, but
it exists everywhere. It is a church that was constantly busy doing acts of
service for the community, taking food into the heart of the inner city,
collecting items to be distributed to the needy, recognizing and cooking meals
for those in emergency service jobs, volunteering to pack any kind of kit to be
send to any country in the world on a moment’s notice.
In her hey-day, this imaginary church’s building was full,
every day of the week, with mom’s groups, Girl scout troupes, AA and Al-Anon
groups, and for a while a day care and nursery school. The confirmation class
was flush (most years), and the youth group nights were full of the noises of
the Foosball table and laughter and too much mountain dew. The Sunday school
rooms and the parking lots were bursting on Sunday morning. Bake sales for the
homeless, spaghetti dinners for the youth group service trip, church baseball
leagues… there was always a big event on the horizon to prepare for at St.
Tabitha’s.
But then, the neighborhood started to change…. New neighbors moved
in, neighbors who were less interested in scoping out local churches … or
neighbors who looked less and less like those who looked the members of St.
Tabitha’s moved in…. or the neighborhood stopped growing and stagnated. The
town stagnated or declined, and everyone’s adult children moved away to find
better jobs, only reappearing at Christmas and Easter, to give the remaining
members a bittersweet reminder of what was.
Year by year, the rooms became more and more empty, as fewer
and fewer kids went to Sunday School, youth group, and confirmation. The carpet
got shabbier, and the walls started to crack, and the basement started to leak,
just as the budget began to go dry, and the great wound of the deficit grew
larger.
Good ministries still happened. The Gospel was still preached
from the pulpit, even though fewer and fewer people where in attendance. The
faithful sang with their hearts, though they struggled more and more to fill
the space with their song. They confessed, and they prayed, and they broke
bread together, till the end. They still gave of their time and their effort
and their money to good causes whenever they could… but they could not keep it
going forever. Their committees dwindled and volunteers grew scarce. They were tired
and tapped out, emotionally and physically. Soon, there was nothing left to
give.
The building started to fall apart, and their vision clouded,
and their heart gave out. It became time for the fictitious St. Tabitha Lutheran
Church to face their greatest fear: Holy Closure. Time to close the books, shut
the doors, and conclude this particular chapter in the great story of God’s
story.
Their greatest fear had just come to pass – the loss of what
they had built together, and who they thought they were. But this loss is not
the same as death, though it may feel like the same thing. They may have feared
they failed… they may have thought they had tasted the finality of death. But
they were wrong. This was not the end for them. And it is not the end for us,
either.
To God, Failure is not an option or reality. To God, Death is
not the final answer. When facing a tomb, God rolls away the stone. In the face
of death, God tells us to rise.
This invented congregation may no longer have buildings, or
copiers, or organs, or choirs, or confirmation…. But they are still disciples… They
are still the church, and they are still the body of Christ, no matter what
happens. That’s what it means to be part of God’s flock – all of us are beloved
disciples, no matter what, and we all have a part in this kingdom work, whether
or not we have fancy instruments or a fellowship hour. After all, Jesus started
the church with 12 people and no building and we’re still here, two thousand
years later.
One of those first disciples, Peter, the Petros, meaning
Rock, that Jesus is building his church, calls God’s servant Tabitha to rise on
behalf of her Good Shepherd… because there is still work to do for God’s flock.
And when she heard the voice, she rose.
Jesus didn’t say, “The sheep who have it all together, who
always do the right thing at the right time, the perfect, those with disposable
income, time, and energy - THEY are the ones that hear my voice and follow me.”
Jesus didn’t say that, because that kind of sheep simply does not exist.
Instead, Jesus has claimed you in all your flawed glory as his own, a sheep of
his own flock, a sinner of his own redeeming.
Jesus, our Good Shepherd, knew the heart and mind of God. Jesus
our Good Shepherd healed people when they were broken and feed people when they
were hungry. Jesus our Good Shepherd stood up to the powers of this world and
beyond and said “No more.” Jesus our good shepherd stared death square in the
face and didn’t blink, and we are four weeks into celebrating his rising from
the dead. We belong to THIS flock, his flock, and we no longer
have to be afraid.
Who else belongs in this flock? During Jesus’ life, his flock
consisted of twelve grizzled working men who had as much finesse as a hammer.
They were selfish, quarrelsome, and often clueless when it came to what Jesus
was trying to say to them. And since then, the flock of Jesus has come to
include all who are in need of God’s grace – the poor and the oppressed, the
addicted and the fearful, the broken and the exhausted, you and me. This is why
the Jewish leaders refused to see – they could not abide the thought that flock
of God including the likes of these. They could not see that God’s flock
extends beyond the walls of their worship space.
The closing of the fictional St. Tabitha’s, though imaginary,
feels very real and very close. And congregations will still close, and the
world is still a scary place – but this I know to be true: from death God
raises us to new life. And there is nothing that would cause our Good Shepherd
to leave our side, nothing that would keep us from his care. Nothing can steal
us from out of the hand of Jesus.
But until then, until we taste of that eternal rest promised
to us in Psalm 23, we have a lot yet HERE to do. The voice of the Good Shepherd
is calling us, get up, rise up. We’re not done yet; we all have some work yet
to do. Thanks be to God, amen.
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