The readings can be found here
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Today is complicated.
It’s the last Sunday of our annual pledge campaign—the campaign we rely on to equip us with what we need to sustain our faith community.
It’s also the Sunday before Thanksgiving.
It’s also the Feast Day of St. Clement and Christ the King Sunday.
Oh and, lest we forget, all of the above is happening during a pandemic surge and in the midst of major political turmoil that has real implications for each and everyone of us.
So…it’s complicated.
And the temptation emerges to spend the next 15 minutes unpacking Jesus’ thoughts about livestock.
That seems safe enough.
But, I suspect that you’re not here because you want safe. You are here, because you are called to something better than safety—you are called to live into the fullness of the loving, liberating, and life giving, Christ.
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So, let’s begin by going back to the historical context into which Christ entered the world.
Roughly the year I think of as zero—the pivot point between life before Jesus’ birth and life after, the pivot point of time that changed the trajectory of creation. In the year zero, in the midst of Roman occupation, everyone was looking for a messiah.
There were those who anticipated a prophetic messiah. Someone, perhaps, like John the Baptist who would castigate the proud and cast down the mighty. Whose words would inspire and whose judgments would be clear.
There were others who anticipated a priestly messiah, someone whose religious life was exemplar and whose edicts were as law. Someone who would bring Israel to God and embodies the glory of God. The priestly messiah, in this, would be an object of worship.
Then, of course, their were those anticipating a kingly messiah. A governmental leader able to force out imposters to the throne and who will lead the people of Israel to victory over their oppressors.
Prophet, priest, king or some combination of the three. Everyone was waiting—waiting in hope for the fulfillment of God’s promise.
Everyone.
Well, perhaps not everyone…
Those who were comfortable with the status quo. They were not waiting.
Those who were satisfied with their economic security. They were not waiting.
Those who benefited from the current systems’ inequities. They were not waiting.
So who was waiting in hope?
The poor, they were waiting.
The exiled, they were waiting.
The prisoners, they were waiting.
They were waiting because the messianic hopes of the Jewish people were born of the collective, historic, trauma of exile. They were hopes formed by the contemporary experience of an oppressive Roman regime. They were hopes informed by Jewish scripture’s articulation of God’s purpose, “I myself will be the shepherd of my sheep, and I will make them lie down, says the Lord God. I will seek the lost, and I will bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak, but the fat and the strong I will destroy. I will feed them with justice.” (Ezekiel)
So prophet, king, or priest, the messiah’s purpose is the feast of justice!
And as far as proclamations go, this is a powerful one.
The prophet Ezekiel was writing during the Babylonian captivity and his words were to a people who had experienced years of exile and war. These were people who knew what it was to be hungry. To be hungry, not just for food, but for justice. They were experiencing a spiritual hunger, a cultural and collective yearning for a righting of wrongs and a correction to the inequality of wealth and power in their world. The metaphor of the shepherd who prioritizes the health of the weak and assures their access to “good pasture” would have been a comforting one to those whose pastures were quite literally being occupied by people who’d grown fat through the hoarding of good land—good land with fertile pastures and access to water.
Over the past month, my ten year old has been studying the history of Minnesota in his social studies class. Because he is distance learning, I’ve been privy to learning about aspects of Minnesota history that I had not learned in my own schooling—such as the treaties the United States Federal Government brokered with the Dakota peoples in the mid-1800s. And while I had no intention of making this sermon about how so many of us have benefited from historic injustices that disadvantaged our countries original inhabitants, the juxtaposition of this text and my kid’s Minnesota history textbook has been striking.
So, I’ve written myself into this corner and I cannot help but see the parallels—westward expansion fueled by the story of inexpensive, or even free, access to “unoccupied” land. Depictions of fertile land with access to water—good grazing for the cattle and even sheep that were herded west for pasturage. Cattle and sheep. Sheep who would grow fat at the expense of the sheep who would be, quite literally corralled into places like the Pike Island Internment camp where 1600 Dakota women, children, and old men were held from 1862-1863. I am mixing metaphor with history here, so lest we devalue ourselves and our brethren as literal sheep—let us remember that these were 1600 women, children, and old men. As many as 300 of whom would die during the internment.
I don’t have any easy answer to how we might rectify these historic evils and truly reckon with the reality that many of us have benefitted from the legacy of these acts. One thing I do know, is that a critical part of the work of reconciliation is telling the truth. Truths unvarnished, inconvenient, and told with love. Truth juxtaposed with the good news of the Gospel as provided to us through the texts assigned for Christ the King. The truth of our history in jarring contrast to the good news we proclaim
[pause]
It’s complicated.
And, so it’s tempting to allow ourselves to be distracted by thoughts of literal sheep and goats. To spend our time caught up in the question of what Jesus has against goats. But, that’s not the point of the metaphor. We no longer live in an agrarian society and westward expansion is a subject of history text books. But, the metaphor of sheep grown fat at the expense of the rest of the herd? It still applies in a world filled with disparities between rich and poor, haves and have nots.
It is undeniable that far too many people in the year of our Lord 2020 are still waiting for justice to be served. And regardless of where any of us stand on the political, partisan, spectrum—objectively there are far too many people who are hungry. Far too many who are poor. Far too many who have been denied a fair and equitable education. Far too many who can’t access health care. Far too many in prison. Far too many without shelter. Far too many.
The metaphor still applies.
Sheep and goats. Blessed and cursed. Reparation, reconciliation, righting of wrongs…
So, these words today—do you hear them as hope or indictment? Are they a precursor to the end of the world or an invitation to new life? Are we filled with eager expectation or dread at what might come?
For me, the answer to these questions is, “yes”. Yes, hope because it pains me to see the suffering in the world around us. Yes, indictment because I know that I’ve not been as generous as I could be. Yes, end of the world because I know that the system, which has benefitted many of us, must change. Yes, new life because in the change there is liberation. Yes, eager anticipation because I trust God’s every will for us is love. Yes, dread, because it feels scary to consider letting go of my own worldly security.
It’s complicated.
It’s complicated because the Gospel wasn’t written for our security, it was written for our liberation.
So let us wait in hope. And, in our waiting, act with love. Because, my God and king, we need liberation and this world needs our love.
Amen.
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