This sermon was preached for Sunday, September 11, 2022 at St. Mark's Episcopal Church. The texts for this sermon were Jeremiah 4:11-12, 22-28, Psalm 14, and Luke 15:1-10.
One of my favorite books to recommend to parishioners is a comic memoir by Roz Chast. Written in the style of a graphic novel, it chronicles her journey caring for her elderly parents as they declined physically and mentally. It’s raw, it’s true, and it’s hilarious in all the right ways. And I love its title: “Can’t we talk about something more pleasant?” The title springs from her parents’ earnest desire to stay in denial about what was happening to them, to sweep it under the rug. Of course, throughout the book it becomes clearer and clearer that it is what we refuse to talk about directly, transparently, that holds the most insidious sway over us. To resign something to silence is to give it power.
One thing I love fiercely about church is that church, at its best, is a place where we don’t just talk about what’s pleasant. We talk about what matters. Not just to grumble and wallow - but to lift up the truth of life. And as we do, we often discover the authenticity of the good news waiting for us in God. We break free from the fear and shame of all the big, unspeakable things holding us apart.
In today’s Gospel, the Pharisees and the scribes are grumbling again. “Can’t Jesus just hang out with people a bit more respectable and upstanding?” They are disturbed by how the sinners and outcasts flock to Jesus, and how he welcomes them.
In response, Jesus tells three parables: the parable of the lost sheep, the parable of the lost coin, and the parable of the lost son, otherwise known as the parable of the prodigal son. Each follow the same pattern, increasing in detail and drama. Something, or someone precious is lost, then found and celebrated to great fanfare. I want to draw our attention this morning to that act of rejoicing. The shepherd and the woman could have recovered their sheep and coin and quietly went about their day. The lamb would be reincorporated into the flock, the coin slipped into the purse with relief. In some ways, that would have made more sense. Why announce to the world that you accidentally let a lamb wander off or that you are not as careful with your coins as you should be? Why gather friends and neighbors all around and proclaim, this was lost and now is found?
There are many types of welcome - here’s two that I’ve encountered. The first is the type of welcome that says, “Hello, come on in. We don’t care who you are or where you have been. We just care that you are here and that you fit yourself in.” That welcome can feel like an amazing opportunity to start afresh, it’s a celebration of one’s presence in a community, and yet there’s something missing. The second type of welcome says, “Hello, it’s great to meet you. We can’t wait to hear your story. We can’t wait to learn what brought you here and how you will change us.” This type of welcome invites the whole self, even the baggage, even the ways you’ve been lost and broken, even the ways you are still falling short. It is a fuller celebration, a more real joy. It lifts up the truth of who you were and are becoming, and uncovers the good news of God's movement in your life.
When Jesus sits with outcasts and sinners, he welcomes their stories, too. He doesn’t ask them to hide who they are or who they’ve been. Their identities, what they have overcome, that’s an integral part of the great story God is telling in their lives. You have been lost but now, now you are being found. You have been held back, by fear, by shame, by cruelty. But now you are free.
Your whole story is precious to God. Your whole self is beloved.
Growing up in my family’s New England culture, money was one of the top unpleasant topics you weren’t supposed to talk about. You might be familiar with this kind of culture, too - where you pretend not to notice the cash that falls out of the birthday card, where checks at the restaurant are whisked away, and price stickers on gifts hastily scrubbed off. The mention of money was profane, dirty, even just downright rude. But as I’ve gotten older and worked across many different cultures and relationships to money, I’ve come to learn that the silence and shame about money - whether its abundance or lack - only increases its power over us. I learned how hiding secret debts and financial losses can isolate and break down relationships, how company policies prohibiting the discussion of wages and compensation have led to decades of exploitation and inequality. Money may not be pleasant to talk about, but it matters. It matters, and there is good news to be found in how God can use what we give and earn.
A huge part of the healing work of ministry is helping people learn to tell their story. Once they can tell their story - all the parts that matter - it no longer has power over them. And when they tell their stories to others, they lift up the truth and uncover the joy. Turns out telling the whole story of our faith journeys, telling the whole story of our life as a community, includes reflecting on and talking about our relationship with money. So that’s what we are going to do today, and the next few Stewardship Sundays. We’ve got four brave folks who’ll be reflecting on their relationship with money and faith through their own powerful stories. We’ll practice being transparent about our fears and hold-ups around money, and how God can transform that into giving from a place of gratitude and joy. Today after service, you’re invited to stick around for brunch to share your stories of faith and community, the times in your life when love has cast out fear. Today, we rejoice in one another.
I believe there is a story of God’s triumph to be told in your life, and just as that story is here to tell at St. Mark’s as a whole. You may not have reached the end of that story, we may be in the midst of it. But we trust that when God guides a story, love wins out, every time. There is joy to be found and shared.
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