A Reformation Sunday sermon preached October 27, 2024, at Putnam United Presbyterian Church
Photo by Frank Hoffman on Unsplash
Photo by Frank Hoffman on Unsplash
Of all the stories of Jesus told to us by the Gospel writers, this one is—hands-down—the least flattering. In the first part of the Gospel of Mark, Jesus is wandering around, teaching and performing miracles, but largely staying out of the spotlight, for he has decided that the time has not yet come to reveal himself in full to the world. In that spirit, he sneaks into a house in the region of Tyre, presumably with a sympathetic follower, perhaps to catch a meal and some rest. But his reputation precedes him, and soon a woman intrudes and sits at his feet. This woman is a Gentile, which in biblical parlance means that she is not Jewish. And in case we didn’t catch that important detail, the storyteller emphasizes that she is Syrophoenician. She is not Jewish, but she comes to this Jewish healer with a dire need. Her daughter is ill. In that ancient worldview, the girl is considered to have a demon, and she needs help. So her mother falls at the feet of Jesus and begs him to come and lay hands on her daughter.
Jesus’ response is abrupt, and, to readers of this story ever since, very puzzling. He says to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” Translation: I am here for the people of Israel, not for Gentiles. But not only does he refuse to help her because she is not Jewish, the way he puts it peddles in insults. Dogs he calls her kind. The Messiah of God refers to Gentiles as animals.
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Holy Week can be a particularly difficult week for Christians to focus, because there is a lot going liturgically and theologically. This one week puts before us the trajectory of Jesus’ final days, from popular hero to humiliated scapegoat. We witness the crowds hearing what they wanted to hear and seeing what they wanted to see in Jesus early in the week, only to reject him when they realized he was preaching a kingdom message that would challenge them, not placate them. They realized that he was unwilling to play the game that other would-be political leaders played. He would not promise to overthrow the Romans and their vermin sympathizers on day 1 of his rule. Instead, he talked on and on about a kingdom of love and righteousness and peace. And for this, the people’s chants of “Hosanna in the highest!” turned into mob taunts to hang him, and they abandoned him to the brutal devices of the Roman Empire.
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Artwork: Satan Arousing the Fallen Angels, John Martin, 1824
When I was young, my mom had a record collection that included a couple of Flip Wilson’s comedy albums. Flip Wilson was a comedian popular in the 60s and 70s. For a period of time in my teenage years, I listened to those albums constantly. This was before the internet, before cable or satellite TV made it to the boondocks where I lived, so this was my entertainment. Listening to Mom’s Flip Wilson records over and over again.
Flip Wilson had one particular series of sketches I found absolutely hilarious. These sketches featured him telling stories about Geraldine, who he sometimes imagined as a preacher’s wife, who had a penchant for spending her husband’s money on things she didn’t need and blaming it on the devil—the devil made me do it, she would say. In his TV comedy skits, he dressed the part of Geraldine, which of course didn’t come through on the albums, but the voice he did for Geraldine was funny enough.
The sketches were hilarious because Geraldine would concoct elaborate stories for how the devil made her do things of which her husband disapproved. The devil made her buy that expensive dress, she protested. The devil made her go into the store and try it on. The devil told her how good she looked in that dress. She would put up a fight—“devil, no,” she would say—but ultimately, the devil made her sign her husband’s name to a check. The devil made her buy that dress.
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Happy Super Bowl Sunday! Now, I know that the church calendar calls this Transfiguration Sunday, the Sunday before the beginning of Lent when we observe the story of Jesus climbing a mountain with three of his apostles, communing with great Hebrew prophets, and being revealed as the Messiah of God. But let’s be honest: you did not wake up this morning thinking, “Oh goody, it’s Transfiguration Sunday!” But many of us probably did wake up and say to ourselves, “Hey, the Super Bowl is on today!”
Super Bowl Sunday has become a ritual of American life. Even if your favorite team is not playing, even if you are not a regular football fanatic, chances are pretty good that you will sit down in front of the game tonight. Millions of Americans will do just that. And not just for the game: the hours-long pregame shows, the commercials, and the halftime show have become cultural events as well. The Super Bowl brings Americans together like few things do these days.
The Super Bowl is a religious event in some ways—a ritual of civil religion. About seven or eight years ago, I wrote a sermon called “Why God Loves Football.” A revision of that sermon ended up as a chapter in my most recent book, American Liturgy: Finding Theological Meaning in the Holy Days of US Culture. The point of that book was to say that many holidays in American culture can be understood as significant from a Christian point of view; Super Bowl Sunday is no exception. In that book chapter, I made a tongue-in-cheek case for why football was the holiest of all sports, and why I think it holds a special place in God’s heart. The real point of that sermon, though, was that football—and sports—can symbolize some good things about God and human life and culture, like the importance of family, community, and the gift of fun and leisure.
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