What is a merciful heart?  It is the heart’s burning for all of creation, for men, for birds, for animals, and even for demons.  At the remembrance and at the sight of them, the merciful man’s eyes fill with tears that arise from the great compassion that urges his heart.  It grows tender and cannot endure hearing or seeing any injury or slight sorrow to anything in creation.  Because of this, such a man continually offers tearful prayer even for irrational animals and for the enemies of truth and for all that harm it, that they may be guarded and forgiven.  (St Isaac the Syrian, quoted in The Illumined Heart, by Frederica Mathewes-Green)

It’s the heart of the father in the prodigal son story.  It’s the heart of God.

At that very time there were some present who told him about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. He asked them, ‘Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.’  Then he told this parable: ‘A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, “See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?” He replied, “Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig round it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.” ’  Luke 13.1-9 NRSV

Kae Evensen is a Lutheran pastor in Minneapolis. She grew up in a church that talked a lot about an angry God. God was always angry with us and our sins. As a teen she rebelled against this negative imagery and left the church. She said, “If I was going to go to hell, I was going to do it on my one terms.  I knew I could never be good enough to go to heaven anyway.”  It took her many years to return to church. Along the way she discovered the grace of the gospel, the great Yes behind the No. Her experiences are mirrored in the lives of many people. Maybe some of you here today grew up in churches that emphasized an angry God. So for you, Jesus’ words today may be hard to hear. “Repent or Perish” sounds so negative.

News was spreading quickly through the city of Jerusalem. Pilate, the Roman governor, had done a terrible thing. Some people from Galilee had been worshiping at the Temple. Pilate had them killed – for reasons we don’t know – and then mixed their blood in with the blood of animals in the Temple sacrifices. An awful atrocity. The news made it to Jesus, and they wanted to know his opinion on it. As I imagine the scene, Jesus is sitting near the marketplace then, and the afternoon sun is casting long shadows on the stone pavement. People around him are wondering how he will respond.

Jesus thinks for a minute, then speaks. He doesn’t condemn Pilate or the Romans. He doesn’t seem outraged at all. He uses the incident to make a theological point. “Do you think those people were worse sinners than anyone else?” he asks. (This was a common assumption of the day. Those people were punished for their sins.) “No,” he says. “But unless you repent, you will perish too.” Then Jesus mentions another recent tragedy, when the Siloam Tower fell and killed 18 people. It was part of the water system of the city. Jesus said the same thing. Those people weren’t worse than anyone else. “Unless you repent and turn to God, you too will die, just like them.” Then to anchor things, he tells a little story about an unproductive fruit tree. It takes up valuable space in the garden, but it produces no fruit year after year. Management decides to give the tree one more year before they pull it up and plant another. It’s the same message. The tree must repent – bear fruit – or it will die. Repent or perish… a stern warning from Jesus.

This message runs against the current of how we imagine Jesus, if that image is kind and never harsh. Philip Yancey is a Christian journalist. He grew up imagining Jesus was always kind and gentle, like Mr Rogers, only with a beard. Only as an adult did Yancey realize that Mr Rogers would never have gotten himself crucified. You have to offend people to do that. Now Fred Rogers was a wonderful Christian man, but he was also not the kind of man who would say, “Repent or perish.” Jesus was. So how do we hear this warning from Jesus?

A couple of things. First, “change your ways or suffer the consequences” is not an uncommon message. It’s something your physician might say, for instance. Or for someone who has just gotten out of jail, it’s something a parole officer might say. We hear “repent or perish” more than we know. Second, we can invert the negative language to positive. If you’ve ever developed film the old fashioned way in a dark room, you are familiar with the negative of a photo, where all the lights are dark. “Repent or perish” is a negative. The positive image is “repent and live.” Choose life so that you may live. Jesus is giving an invitation to live here. He is offering abundant life. But the gateway, the doorway, is repentance. The question for us now is, What does repentance look like?

In the 18th century a Prussian king was visiting inmates in a Berlin prison. They crowded around the king and protested their innocence. They had all been unjustly condemned and put in prison. There was one man, though, would sat quietly by himself and said nothing. The king was curious about him and called him over. “Why are you here?” the king asked. “Armed robbery, your Majesty,” the man replied. “Were you guilty?” “Yes, I deserve my punishment.” Then the king said to the guards, “Release this man. I don’t want him corrupting all these other innocent people.” The man was set free that day.

This is an image of repentance. It means to rethink things. It begins with admitting our guilt. We are all guilty sinners, stuck in the prison of our own sin. But we resist the idea that we are guilty, like all those prisoners did in Berlin. The guilty are all those we hear about in the news, people who have committed crimes. “I’ve broken no laws,” we say. “I’m an exemplary citizen. I volunteer at the soup kitchen. And above all, I’m nice.” It’s good to be nice, of course, but it’s not the same as being holy. Instead of comparing ourselves to others, we can compare ourselves to God. God of absolute holiness, infinite purity and boundless love. That’s the standard. If we compare ourselves to that standard, we realize how far short we fall. God expects us to be like him – holy, pure and loving.

Out at a desert monastery, an old monk was found weeping one day. A young brother asked him, “Father, why are you weeping.” “I am weeping for my sins,” the old man said. “But Father, you lead a pure and blameless life.” The old man was indeed known for his holiness. “If I were allowed to see my sins,” he said, “There would not be enough men to weep for them.” Perhaps God in his mercy shields our eyes from our own sins. But then the day comes when the crack appears and widens. Something happens, and we see our sins… maybe for the first time. That’s when repentance begins, and we set out on the new life Jesus offers us.

But the key thing to know is that we don’t repent to avoid hell. Kae Evenson, the Lutheran pastor, had to learn this. We don’t repent to avoid hell. We repent to seek health and healing. Sin is a sickness deep within us. We have a Great Physician, Jesus, who wants to heal us. But for that to happen, we must GO TO THE DOCTOR. We admit our infection, our disease, and we acknowledge we cannot cure ourselves. Our doctor has the right medicine, the right treatment, to make us well and set us on the road to health. The road begins with repentance.

Dear friends, it’s Lent. This is what we do in Lent. Lent begins with ashes, a sign of our mortality. Ashes remind us to repent while there is still time. We turn from our sins. We turn to God for healing. Amen.

On its own, coal is nothing lovely.  It’s inert, dusty, and cold.  But it has this capacity:  It can burn.  In fact, it might be said that coal is created to burn, that receiving flame is the telos, the destiny of coal.  The Holy Spirit likewise comes to burn within us, though we don’t deserve it, and we bring nothing of beauty to the process.  Our main task is to get out of the way, to remove impurities bit by bit so that one day we can be wholly engulfed by divine fire, and become a living flame of love.  This is theosis.  (Frederica Mathewes-Green, The Illumined Heart)

Theosis, or deification, is a key theme in Eastern Christianity.  It bears similarity to the Wesleyan emphasis on holiness and Christian perfection.

The night was calm and uneventful.  S and I watched two episodes of Grey’s Anatomy with the homeless folks before lights went out.  Then we moved over to the volunteer room for the rest of the night.  A volunteer must stay awake at all times, so one of us kept vigil while the other tried to sleep.  I think we each got a couple hours.  The couch I attempted to sleep on reminded me that I have the best bed in the history of beds. Mostly I learned that volunteering overnight at a homeless shelter involves lots of waiting for the morning.  I did sermon work, read a bit, and finished one Sudoku puzzle in the hard category.  Proud of myself on that last accomplishment.

The person at the shelter who intrigues me is one the others call “The Professor.”  He does look like a college professor, with his white beard and pullover sweater.  He subs as an English teacher at area schools during the day and returns to the shelter at night.  He stacks his belongings neatly next to his blue cot.  I’m sure he has a story.  His circumstances now have simplified his life.  He is Shakespeare’s classic “Unaccommodated Man.”

Other volunteers served breakfast for us this morning, each one made to order.  They made me the best scrambled eggs I’ve ever had, with bits of steak and onion mixed in.  Now it’s time to go home… to the best bed in the history of beds.

Our congregation is sponsoring a week of Share the Warmth, a homeless shelter through the winter housed at the Salvation Army.  We are responsible to provide two volunteers, a man and a woman, for an evening shift and an overnight shift over seven days.  The shelter is available to people from 7 PM to 8 AM the following morning.  During the day folks must go elsewhere, but at night at least they have a warm place to sleep. We have other volunteers who provide snacks and do laundry.

We’ve covered two nights at the shelter so far.  18 men and 4 women have slept there.  They hang out together in a common area until the lights go out and the doors are locked at 10 PM.  I am the “key holder” for the week, a title that sounds like something from Harry Potter, but it only means I’m the one to open the shelter in the evening and lock the door again later.  I’ve been spending extra time there with my volunteers, both evening and overnight shifts, and helping them get settled in for their duties.  This is a new thing for my church, and I’m proud of the way people have stepped up to help.  There isn’t that much for the volunteers to do, actually; it’s more a ministry of presence.  But it’s new for a lot of us.  My overnight shift comes Thursday night, so I’ll probably have more to say about it later.

I arrived this morning just before 8 AM to check on my volunteers, I noticed a woman leaving the shelter in heels.  She had her work shoes on.  It reminded me the homeless are probably not who we expect them to be.

And I’ve located my chief fear, or at least a principal one.  I’m not thinking of rational, normal fears.  I am afraid of jumping off a three-story building, as any sane person would be.  No, I’m looking at the irrational fears, buried deep in our psyches, that hinder us from being who we might be.

I am afraid of being an intruder.  I fear being in a place where I am unwanted, where I don’t belong.  It took time to unearth the fear, but there it is.  I had to watch my behavior and work backwards.  If someone is afraid of making a mistake, they may micromanage details.  Or if someone is afraid of being overlooked, of not being noticed, they will insert themselves into situations in ways that attract attention — they unconsciously bend the focus of things to themselves, like a child saying “look at me.”  But if your fear is being an intruder, as mine is, you shrink back from encounters.  You are reluctant to remain where there is a possibility, however slight, that you do not belong.  If you are in the presence of other people, you may leave too soon so as not to overstay your welcome.

When I was born, my parents were married to other people.  I am the product of an extra-marital affair.  It was a complicated, messy thing, especially for its time in the early 1960s.  So I entered the world literally as an intruder, with no settled place to belong.  I wonder if this identity seeped into me in my earliest years — years they say are the most formative for us.  Please forgive my attempt here to psychologize myself.  But identifying the origin of fears helps drain them of their power and mystery.

This fear of being an intruder can hinder my work as a pastor.  It deprives others of the benefit of my presence and perspective.   The only way I can think of to counter it is to meditate on 2 Timothy 1:6-7.  “I remind you to rekindle the gift of God that is within you through the laying on of my hands; for God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.”

Some time later, the Lord spoke to Abram in a vision and said to him, “Do not be afraid, Abram, for I will protect you, and your reward will be great.” But Abram replied, “O Sovereign Lord, what good are all your blessings when I don’t even have a son? Since you’ve given me no children, Eliezer of Damascus, a servant in my household, will inherit all my wealth. You have given me no descendants of my own, so one of my servants will be my heir.” Then the Lord said to him, “No, your servant will not be your heir, for you will have a son of your own who will be your heir.” Then the Lord took Abram outside and said to him, “Look up into the sky and count the stars if you can. That’s how many descendants you will have!” And Abram believed the Lord, and the Lord counted him as righteous because of his faith. Then the Lord told him, “I am the Lord who brought you out of Ur of the Chaldeans to give you this land as your possession.” But Abram replied, “O Sovereign Lord, how can I be sure that I will actually possess it?” (Genesis 15.1-8 NLT)

Abram was sitting in his tent one evening. Sarah his wife was with him mending clothes. Abram was pretending to carve new tent pegs, but he was really lost in thought. He had recently come back from a military expedition. He had gone to war to rescue his nephew Lot, who had been kidnapped by some tribal chieftains. Lot was safe now, as was Abram. But the venture reminded Abram of his mortality. What if he had died? People often die in wars. What then? His life – the life of a nomad – was precarious and fragile.

It was especially hard because Abram and Sarah had no children. No heirs to leave a legacy to. He had no land to call his own. Long again he had obeyed a voice that told him to come here. It was years later now, and he and Sarah had little to show for it. They were still strangers in the land of Canaan. Abram wondered if he had been a fool to leave Ur, his homeland, his roots. He was afraid, and he wondered if he had committed his life to an illusion.

Then in the silence, he heard the voice again. It spoke in his heart. It made the same astonishing promises: “Don’t be afraid, Abram. I will protect you and reward you.” Abram got up immediately. He and God needed to have a talk. Abram left the tent and took the conversation outside. He was always nervous to talk with God when other people were around. He went for a walk. He made his way to the top of a hill, where the wind and sand blew freely. Then the questions poured out of him. “What good are all your promises, God?” I don’t have a son. I don’t have any land. When will these things happen? How can I be sure? Abram’s questions hung in the air – he waited for answers.

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We have questions too. We carry them in the deep places of the heart. Our questions are like coins in a pouch. Some have a few. Some have a lot. Why did this happen, God? And why did that not happen? Our questions wait for answers, often for a lifetime.

It was 1950. Two teenage boys were driving to a basketball game. They were laughing, joking, looking forward to the game. The driver missed a stop sign. There was an accident. The driver walked away with bruises and scrapes. But the passenger, his best friend, was killed instantly. It’s sixty years later. The driver is now an old man. And every day he carries the guilt. And the question: “Why did I live and he die? WHY?! Why?” So we carry our questions, big ones and small ones, about life and suffering and faith.

Timothy Keller is the pastor of Redeemer Presbyterian Church in New York City. After worship each Sunday he has a question and answer time. It lasts up to an hour. People can stay and ask the pastor any question they want. Over the years Keller has heard all the major questions. Why is there so much suffering? How do I know the Bible is true? Don’t all religions teach the same thing? Hasn’t science disproved Christianity? Why would a loving God send anyone to hell? Keller listens patiently, and then he offers his answers. I imagine his answers have changed and deepened over the years as he has learned more. I think one of the factors that has led to the growth of this church is Keller’s willingness to take questions seriously. Redeemer Presbyterian now as 6000 members, and they have a pastor who is not afraid of questions and who is willing to hunt for answers.

Some religious people are afraid of questions. There is an unwritten rule that says, “Don’t ask!” Don’t upset the basket of fruit. We like how the fruit is arranged.” Then there are other people who are afraid of answers – they are comfortable in their skepticism. If they admit an answer is true, they might have to commit their life to it, and that’s scary. Both groups – those afraid of questions and those afraid of answers – are similar. They both want security and safety. They want to avoid risk.

It’s better to affirm the value of questions and answers. Don’t be afraid of questions, and be willing to seek answers. And when you find an answer that satisfies your mind and heart, be willing to commit your life to it. Those who seek will find, but it often takes a long time and a lot of patience.

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Abram asked his questions. God listened patiently to him. Then there was silence. It was night now. The sky was choked with stars. Then the voice said to Abram, “Count the stars. That’s how many descendants you will have. This land will be theirs. Trust my promises, Abram. Trust me.”

Abram’s deeper question – under the questions about children and land – his deeper question was this: “Can I trust you, God?” “Can I trust this God who speaks to me, who calls me, who leads me?” Trust was the issue. You see, Abram has a problem. He only has one piece of a puzzle. He can only see the colors and shapes on his own little piece. He has no idea what the larger picture looks like. But God can see the big picture. And God’s promises to Abram are predicated on a vastly larger picture than Abram can see. Centuries and centuries of unfolding time. Abram must trust God’s vision. And trust can be a hard thing.

It will take years for Abram to begin to see the promises fulfilled. When he dies he will have two heirs – Isaac and Ishmael. Just two stars in the sky. And the only land he will own will be a cave he bought for 400 pieces of silver – a burial place for Sarah after she dies. So when he dies he has two kids and a cave. Not much to show for a lifetime of trust. But apparently it was enough for God. God was pleased with Abram’s faith and with his willingness to wait.

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Earlier I said we as believers carry our questions and wait for answers, even if it takes a long time for them to come. Sometimes the answer comes unexpectedly.

Watching the Olympics on TV, between events there are inspirational stories about the athletes. One story was narrated by Tom Brokaw. It was about Kevin Pearce, a snowboarder who had been a favorite for this Olympics. But a couple of months ago he had an accident. He hit his head on the lip of the half-pipe. It was a miracle he even survived. Now his family is coping with what will be a long rehabilitation. Kevin has an older brother, David, who has Down Syndrome. So the family has been caring for David his whole life. In the interview with Tom Brokaw, the mother said something striking: “Now I know why we had David. We had David so we would learn the patience to take care of Kevin.” It was an answer to a question she had carried for many years. Someone might dismiss her answer, but you could tell for her it was the answer she was looking for. You could see it in her face.

For me, I’m now finding answers to questions I’ve struggled with for over 20 years. And I have more questions waiting for answers. But in my waiting I have learned two things: First, I believe Samuel Johnson is right. He said “We must wait until we are in another state of being to have many things explained to us.” This is true. And second, I have learned that the ability to live in the space – the open space – between our questions and answers that haven’t come yet, this ability is faith. Faith trusts that even though we only see our little piece of the puzzle, God sees the whole picture. Abram and Sarah model this faith for us. I believe this faith can be ours, if we ask for it. Faith is a gift of God.

We can remember, too, that faith is pleasing to God. God says, “Trust me. I see not only who you are but also who you will be. I see how your life will touch as many lives as there are stars in the sky.” Ask for faith, and trust God with it. Amen.

(Sermon preached on 2/28/10)

But theological questions about supernatural causation aside, the historical question as to whether many people believed that they witnessed people cured by Jesus is more easily answered. Even today, literally hundreds of millions of people claim to have witnessed events that they interpret as miracles. Why should we deny that first-century followers of Jesus’ ministry could have had analogous experiences, however we explain them? Most historical Jesus scholars today, regardless of their personal theological orientation, do accept that Jesus drew crowds who believed that he performed cures and exorcisms.

I’ve not experienced any healing in my life I’d call a miracle, but my parishioners have spoken to me of miraculous healings they’ve witnessed.  Their testimony has deepened my wonder and gratitude.

When Plushenko skated out for the medal ceremony, he shook the hand of bronze medalist Daisuke Takahashi of Japan, then hopped onto the podium — in the gold medal winner’s position. He then walked down to the silver level. The crowd let out a collective “oooooooo,” and the camera focused in on Plushenko’s face. He was not abashed. He was sending a message.

Plushenko won gold at the last Olympics and then retired.  He came out of retirement a few months ago, thinking he would easily reclaim the top of the podium.  When it didn’t happen, he got snarky about it.  Apparently all Russia thinks they’ve been robbed by the Americans on this.  The irony here is it was Russian cheating at a prior Olympics that led to the new scoring system Lysacek tailored his program to.  Under the old system, Plushenko would have won in Vancouver.  He’s mad now.  Honor, nationalism and ego at work.

In our home we’ve been amused at Plushenko’s silliness.  But to be honest, there are times when I too am disappointed not to stand on the gold medal podium.  I want to be the center of attention, but life reminds me I am not — or rather, I am one center among a multitude of centers.

It took a few seconds for my brain to right itself again.  It seemed a lot longer, of course.  Then I doubled the error by calling attention to it:  “Sorry, lost my train of thought there.”  The lapse later amused my listeners.  “I’ve never seen you blank like that before.”  I was embarrassed but also, thankfully, able to laugh at my flaws.

The problem for a preacher when this happens is you lose momentum.  Momentum in physics is mass times velocity.  A sermon has mass, and preaching has velocity.  Once it stops abruptly like this, though, it’s difficult to overcome inertia and get moving again.  It’s much different than an intentional break for a sip of water.  It took a minute or two Sunday to regain speed.  Fortunately I recovered enough momentum by the time the sermon reached its final point, how emptiness can be an asset.  This I wanted to emphasize.

I felt like a figure skater who fell down on a triple axel.  You have to get up and skate on.  Everyone saw you go bump.  It won’t be the last time.