“Not Reluctantly or Under Compulsion,” Rev. Jeff Wright, 11/9/14
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https://heartoftherockies.org/wp-content/uploads/_file_mp3/718227-5b913eab.mp3“Not Reluctantly or Under Compulsion”
A sermon preached at
Heart of the Rockies Christian Church
(Disciples of Christ)
Fort Collins, Colorado
November 9, 2014
Generosity describes the Christian’s unselfish willingness to give in order to make a positive difference for the purposes of Christ. Extravagant Generosity describes practices of sharing and giving that exceed all expectations and extend to unexpected measures.
Extravagance does not correspond with giving that is merely dutiful, required, burdensome, or simply doing one’s part. Extravagance denotes a style and attitude of giving that is unexpectedly joyous, without predetermined limits, from the heart, over-the-top, extraordinary, and propelled by great passion. Extravagant Generosity is giving to God as God has given to us.
—Robert Schnase, Forty Days of Fruitful Living
Texts: 2 Corinthians 9:7-12 & Luke 19:1-10
The earliest document we have that refers to Christianity – outside of the New Testament and other Christian writings – is a letter written by Pliny the Younger.1 Pliney was a lawyer in ancient Rome. He had risen through the ranks of civil and military offices. In 110 A.D., Pliny was sent by the emperor Tragan to govern the land of Bithynia, now in modern Turkey. As a part of his rule, Pliny was always on the lookout for groups which might foment rebellion against the state. Around the year 112, Pliny wrote to Tragan about a society called Christians. He expressed concern about the rapid spread of what he called “a bad and extravagant superstition.” He viewed the gathering of Christians as a potential source of sedition.
Pliny wrote, “[The Christians] were wont, on a stated day, to meet together before it was light, and to sing a hymn to Christ, as to a god…; and to oblige themselves by an oath not to do anything that was ill… no theft, or pilfering, or adultery; that they would not break their promises, or deny what was [loaned to] them when it was required back again; after which it was their custom to depart, and to meet again [in the evening] at a common… meal.” Pliny came up with a plan to put an end to what he called “this spreading infection.” He issued a decree. “You will not have the evening meal together.” So the meal was outlawed, because spreading the table would spread the “infection.”
Whatever it is that we’re about as followers of Jesus, it starts around a dinner table. That’s why a table occupies the center of our worship space. This table is at the center of our understanding about God and life itself: the simple act of sitting down to eat and everything that eating together implies – the intimacy, the sometimes difficult conversations, the tears and the laughter, forgiveness and second chances, the healing, hope and nourishment that we share when, by way of gathering to satisfy our physical hunger, we acknowledge our vulnerability and dependence upon one another and upon the grace of God.
When you do this, Jesus says, remember me.
He said that at his last supper when, with his closest friends, they shared in the most sacred meal of the Jewish tradition, the Passover Meal. On the eve of his crucifixion, Jesus took the bread, blessed it, broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “When you do this, remember me.” So throughout the centuries, the Church has remembered Jesus when, during worship, we gather around this table.
But if you read Luke’s Gospel from start to finish, the thought might occur to you that Jesus wants us to remember him whenever and wherever we gather to eat. More than the other Gospel writers, Luke picks up on the importance of hospitality and the centrality of table fellowship in the Jewish community. Eating and drinking together is one of the Old Testament’s primary metaphors for reconciliation, for salvation, for life. Breaking bread together, they used to say. “Sharing the salt” is another ancient expression for fellowship. It’s Abraham and Sarah spreading a table for three strangers who approached their tent, strangers who turned out to be messengers of God. It’s God feeding of the people in the wilderness following their escape from Egypt, and God dispatching ravens to bring bread and meat to the prophet Elijah when he hid from the death threats of King Ahab’s wife, Jezebel. It’s the Psalmist giving thanks that “in the presence of mine enemies, thou preparest a table before me.”
When we get to thinking about God in distant and ethereal ways, it’s helpful to remember that God is interested in very practical things, like a cup of cold water offered to the thirsty, sacks of grain delivered to a drought-stricken village, hotdogs and Coke with friends at the ballpark, the meal served at a Kids at Heart Fundango or in the chapter house of the Tse de Kaan Navajos, or around the tables at La Puente in Alamosa, or in the homes that hosted our progressive dinner last night.
When you do this, remember me.
According to Luke, following Jesus starts in our eating together – as family and friends, then with folks from whom we’re estranged, strangers and enemies (6:26). Luke records so many meals, his Gospel reads like a condensed season of Guy Fieri’s Drive-ins, Diners and Dives. Luke begins with an account of the meal that a famished Jesus refused to prepare after forty days of desert temptation (Lk.4). Luke ends his Gospel with accounts of two meals Jesus shared with his disciples after his resurrection: one, on the road to Emmaus; the other, a breakfast on the shore of Lake Galilee. Always something significant at each meal, often moving acts of compassion: at one, Jesus forgave a woman identified as a sinner who intruded upon the meal in the home of a leading Pharisee (Lk.7); on the way to another, and to the shock of the other guests, Jesus healed a man who suffered a muscular disease (Lk.14); Jesus’ feeding of the 5,000 (Lk.9); his meals in the home of his friends Mary and Martha (Lk.10).
When Jesus described what it’ll be like when the kingdom comes in all of its fullness, he likened it to a wedding banquet. In his parable of the Prodigal Son (Lk.15), a feast becomes the occasion of healing in the life of the younger brother and an occasion of stumbling for the older. In his parable of the rich man and Lazarus (Lk.16), the story turns on the realization that one had lots to eat and the other had nothing. According to Luke, when those in charge wanted to disgrace Jesus, they called him a glutton and a drunkard (7:34). The most common charge against Jesus was not that he healed or forgave sinners, but that he ate with them (Lk.15).
…Which brings us to our morning text. You knew I’d get around to the text at some point. Zacchaeus was a tax farmer, reaping for the Romans from among his own people. When Jesus invited himself to Zacchaeus’ home, “all who saw it began to grumble and say, ‘He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner.'” The word sinner, here, is a technical term. Sinner was the label attached to those whose violations of the Mosaic law had been publicly noted, and who were therefore excluded from participation in the synagogue.
Given the centrality of the synagogue in the life of the community, to be labeled a sinner was to live the life of an outcast. Zacchaeus was an outcast. Up until this point in his life, there isn’t any reason to think that bothered him. He was a wealthy man, clocking in at work each day, collecting taxes and whatever extra he could extort for himself. I don’t want us to feel sorry for Zacchaeus. He was a collaborator with the Roman occupiers. But at our Wednesday morning gathering, where we immerse ourselves in the upcoming sermon texts, one of us suggested that Zacchaeus wouldn’t have gone to the trouble he did to get a glimpse of Jesus if there weren’t something missing in his life.
After all – you and I know this by way of personal experience – a person can only mask an inner need for so long. Zacchaeus had been ridiculed for his short height, judged for his wealth, despised for his collusion with the Romans, and excommunicated from the synagogue. Maybe in spite of his power and riches the chief tax collector was tired of all the finger pointing and threats, and his feeling so small, not physically – emotionally and spiritually. Surely Zacchaeus had heard the criticism leveled against Jesus, how – as Luke reports earlier in his Gospel – Jesus “was a friend of tax collectors and sinners (7:34).” What others were smugly charging against Jesus may have sounded like good news to Zacchaeus. He fit the criteria. He was a tax collector and a sinner. Maybe Jesus would befriend him, too. At the very least, Zacchaeus was curious. He climbed a tree to see Jesus.
This is when Jesus sees him. Jesus looks up and sees Zacchaeus. He says, “Come down. I’m staying at your house today.” Zacchaeus hurries down and welcomes Jesus into his home. We’re not given any of the details. We aren’t told what was discussed around the dinner table. All we know is this: it’s another remarkable meal with Jesus.
…Because Zacchaeus arises to announce that half of his riches he will give to the poor; and those he has defrauded he will repay fourfold. Then Jesus announces something equally remarkable. Jesus says, “Today, salvation has come to this house.”
Salvation. According to Luke, this is what salvation means, what life is coming to: wholeness and forgiveness and joy, the righting of wrongs, overcoming the despair of the past and turning toward the future, the reunion of families and the coming together of the nations. It begins around a table and will be consummated in our eating and drinking, all of us together, around a table with Jesus.
I like our General Fund campaign theme. You knew I’d get around to the campaign: From bread and wine, to faith and giving. This is the movement of faith, what happened to Zacchaeus and so many others who sat at Table with Jesus: from bread and wine around the table, to trust and generosity beyond it. Folks must have been dumbfounded. Zacchaeus must have been dumbfounded. Frederick Buechner says that every experience of salvation has these two things in common: 1) you lose yourself; and 2) you find that you are more fully yourself than usual.2 This had to be what happened to Zacchaeus – what it means to be genuinely seen and deeply accepted: we lose ourselves, yet feel more fully ourselves than ever. Once we realize that we’re on the receiving side of this grace thing, we want to get in on the giving side, not reluctantly or under compulsion, but cheerfully, gratefully, knowing we’re part of something bigger than ourselves, entrusted with a share in something bigger, grander, of great consequence.
This is following Jesus, what our financial commitment effects. Our dollars prepare a place at the table for others – by way of Sunday school classes, small groups and the work of our HeartMinistries; through our E-pistle and other social media; your praying, the choir’s singing and the Praise Band leading, Melissa’s and my preaching; our hosting the homeless and helping to see that every evening the kids at Colorado Christian Home sit down to a meal and eat in peace with folks who care about them.
As you’ve read in the letter that Hugh our Board moderator sent, Janet and I’ll be gone a year when I retire from active pastoral ministry – a healthy separation for the church; a healthy separation for us. We’ll be gone, but our financial gifts won’t take a break. Because like you, we’ve learned a lesson around this Table: every day God invites us to life, as if it were a banquet overflowing with all kinds of good things to eat, drink, experience, and share with each other, with strangers, with our enemies even. God invites us to take the whole of life – the best and the worst that come – and like Jesus bless it, break it, and share it with others.
When you do this, Jesus says, you’re remembering me.
— Jeff Wright
sernb14
1 Thanks to Fred Craddock for first introducing me to the Pliny story.
2 Wishful Thinking (Harper and Row)