Voices

Old Testament: Joel 2:28-32
New Testament: Luke 18:9-14

We need each other. In particular, we need each other’s voices. And sometimes, the voices we need are the ones we’d least expect.

There is a old story, retold by Jonathan Sacks, in which a rabbi’s disciple approaches him with a question.

“Do you think,” the disciple asks, “that God created everything for a purpose?”

“I do,” replies the rabbi.

“Well,” asks the disciple, “Why did God create atheists?”

It’s a good question. It’s one I ask when I hear some of those in the “New Atheist” movement, like Sam Harris, who wrote, “Theology is now little more than a branch of human ignorance. Indeed, it is ignorance with wings.”[1]

Or take the magician/comedian Penn Jillette, whose “This I Believe” essay for NPR begins: “I believe that there is no God.” He goes on to, apparently, ridicule the idea of faith, claiming: “You can’t prove there isn’t an elephant inside the trunk of my car. You sure? How about now? Maybe he was just hiding before. Check again. Did I mention that my personal heartfelt definition of the word ‘elephant’ includes mystery, order, goodness, love, and a spare tire?”[2]

After reading a certain number of these obnoxious quotes, I begin to think, “Thank you, God, that I am not like these atheists!”

But back to the disciple’s question: why did God create atheists? The rabbi takes a moment to think carefully before answering the young man. “Sometimes we who believe, believe too much. We see the cruelty, the suffering, the injustice in the world and we say: ‘This is the will of God.’ We accept what we should not accept. That is when God sends us atheists to remind us that what passes for religion is not always religion. Sometimes what we accept in the name of God is what we should be fighting against in the name of God.”[3]

And so, with that in mind, I try to listen more closely to the rest of Jillette’s essay.

“Believing there’s no God,” he says, “Means I can’t really be forgiven except by kindness and faulty memories. That’s good; it makes me want to be more thoughtful. I have to try to treat people right the first time around. …

“Believing there’s no God means the suffering I’ve seen in my family, and indeed all the suffering in the world, isn’t caused by an omniscient, omnipotent force that isn’t bothered to help or is just testing us, but rather something we all may be able to help others with in the future.”

These are powerful correctives to ways in which the Christian faith has been misused and misunderstood. We believe in forgiveness, but that isn’t a free pass to be thoughtless. We believe God will ease suffering, but that doesn’t let us off the hook from working to relieve suffering ourselves.

We need each other. And we need each other’s voices.

This is something you might not expect from the parable we read this morning. There are two voices in that story: One who says, “God, I thank you that I am not like other people.” And another who says, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” It would be easy to dismiss the first voice – the voice of the Pharisee, who sounds like a self-righteous jerk. But as we have seen over the past several weeks, Jesus’ parables are not easy to interpret. Jesus didn’t need parables to tell people what not to do; instead, he used them to uncover the complexities of life in this world and life in the world to come. On the surface, this story looks like a clear-cut comparison between a haughty religious person and a humble, repentant sinner. But let’s dig a little deeper.

What is it, exactly, that rubs us the wrong way about this Pharisee? He certainly thinks highly of himself: “I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.” And perhaps if that were all he’d said, we could be okay with him.

But instead, he prefaces these remarks by contrasting himself with others: “I am not like other people – thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax-collector!” I don’t particularly like what he says, but how many of us have said something similar? We even have a common expression – “There but for the grace of God go I” – that says, essentially, the same thing: “Thank you, God, for not putting me in the same circumstances as this person.” If we walk away from this parable thinking, “God, thank you that I am not like this Pharisee,” then we will have totally missed the point.

If I’m going to try and elevate the Pharisee (at least somewhat) in your sight, then I also need to take the tax collector down a peg or two. “Be merciful to me, a sinner,” he says. This tax collector is humble. He has an accurate view of himself. Oftentimes, tax collectors would overcharge people, keeping the extra for themselves. They were seen as traitors who were willing to sell out their neighbors in order to collect taxes for Rome. And so, this tax collector confesses his sin. But notice what he does not say.

In the next chapter of Luke’s Gospel, Jesus meets a tax collector named Zacchaeus who seems to be an exception to the rule – he’s honest. “If I’ve cheated anyone of anything,” he says, “I pay four times the damage.”

Our tax collector doesn’t seem to be willing to make the same promise. “Be merciful to me, a sinner,” he says. And don’t you get the sense, perhaps, that he’ll walk out of the Temple still a sinner? That he’ll go back to work on Monday and, more than likely, that he’ll add a few dollars to Mrs. Green’s tax bill?

And speaking of walking out of the Temple, let’s take another look at the last verse of our passage for today: “I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other,” it says. Except, maybe that’s not what it says. As you probably know, the New Testament wasn’t written in English. It was written in Koine Greek, and while I don’t often delve into translation issues in a sermon (because usually it feels like showing off), in this passage I think the translation of one word changes the whole image of what’s happening in that last verse.

“I tell you, this man went down to his home justified para the other.” The Greek preposition para is the word that most translations take to mean “instead of.” This paints a picture of the tax collector being justified instead of the Pharisee. But think about that for a second: isn’t there something strange about that? Is God’s justification a limited commodity? Is there not enough forgiveness for two people? The word para can, indeed, be used to compare two things; however, it is more commonly used to join two things. Think of English words that use para as a prefix: parallel lines run alongside one another; a paralegal works alongside lawyers.

With this in mind, the more straightforward reading of the verse would be: “I tell you, this man went down to his home justified alongside the other.”

How do you feel about that? Does it seem right to you? Does it seem fair? The haughty Pharisee and the unrepentant tax collector, walking out of the Temple, both justified in God’s eyes? I’ll be honest, it unsettles me.

You’ve heard me talk about Amy-Jill Levine, a Jewish scholar of the New Testament, who argues that Jesus’ parables are meant to unsettle us. This story reminds her of the times she had to do group projects in middle school. There was always someone in the group who didn’t seem to be pulling his weight. And then, at the end of the project, everyone got the same grade, regardless of what he contributed. How fair is that? It’s not. By definition it’s not fair! And neither is the story of a corrupt tax collector and a self-involved Pharisee, both of whom receive God’s forgiveness after praying in the Temple.

Jesus’ story provokes us. It pushes us to think more deeply about that gut instinct. That rush to say, “It’s not fair.”

Levine explains what this parable helped her realize: “My sense of justice then was too narrow, my sense of generosity was too constrained, my sense of self-import too great. But that … person, whom we dismissed as lazy, as stupid, or as unable to contribute, may well have done what he could. … And what if he didn’t care at all? What if he depended on us, even thought we were fools for doing his work for him? What we do is still worthwhile. We can afford to be generous. … We all have something to contribute, even if what we give is the opportunity for someone else to provide us a benefit.”[4]

We need each other.

I wonder if Jesus was thinking of the prophet Joel when he told this story. The prophet who said that, in the end, God is not stingy with salvation but is extravagant: “I will pour out my spirit on all flesh; your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, and your young men shall see visions. Even on the male and female slaves, in those days, I will pour out my spirit.”

I wonder if that passage informed his decision to tell a story about complicated people who both receive justification from God. I wonder if that passage sprung to mind when the woman from outside Jesus’ community asked him for help, saying, “Lord, even the dogs eat the crumbs from the table!”

I wonder how this story might change us. Perhaps it can remind us to be more tolerant of the person at work whom we’d rather not deal with. Perhaps it can inspire us, not just to tolerate that person, but to actively look to them for what God is saying to us. Perhaps it can remind us that, when we argue, when our opinions differ, the one option we don’t have is to walk away from each other.

Because we need each other. We need rabbis and atheists; we need the proud, the humble, the arrogant; we need the wise and the foolish and all those in-between; we need the rich and the poor; we need the faithful and the faithless; we need the lovers and the broken-hearted.

And we meet each other at this table, where there is a place set for all those who love God and those who want to love God more.

So come: you who have much faith and you who have little,
you who have been here often, and you who have not been for a long time,
you who have tried to follow and you who have failed.
Come, not because I invite you: it is the Lord,
and it is God’s will that those who desire life should meet God here.[5]

Amen.

Preached November 1, 2015, by Rev. Joshua T. Andrzejewski

---

[1] Sam Harris, The End of Faith (2004).

[2] Penn Jillett, “There is No God,” Nov. 21, 2005.

[3] Rabbi Jonathan Sacks Why God Created Atheists

[4] Amy-Jill Levine, Short Stories by Jesus (2014), p. 194.

[5] From the Iona community

Sharing Our Faith: Annie Eplee

Hi, my name is Annie Eplee. I came to Cove Church because my family comes here. But, I love this church. It is a great community.

The people here are diverse and I always feel accepted when I come here. Even though I am a young person, people ask me about my life and what I have been doing for the past few weeks.

I am going to college this week and everyone has been very supportive. You have asked me about the colleges I was applying to and how the process was going. It seems like you are sincerely interested in my life. As a teenager, to have people interested in your life keeps you positive and helps you keep going when it is hard.

The other reason I come to Cove because I love music. Music affects me spiritually and that is why I sing in the choir. Sometimes life makes me angry and upset. Music helps me to calm down.  It has always been an important part of my life. Our choir may be small, but it is spiritual. Music is the main way that I connect with God and others. Our music is professional and well done.

I will be going to George Mason in the Mason Life Program on Friday. I want to thank you for being so nice to me, helping me grow as a Christian and being an important part of my life. I will miss you, but can’t wait to experience the music when I come home for Christmas.

Thank you!!

Sharing Our Faith: Beth Neville Evans

Today I would like to thank two people for helping me along my journey of faith. 

First, John. Many years ago John said to me that he wanted to go to church but he didn’t want to go alone. He wanted us to attend church as a family. I had not even thought about going to church before that. I accompanied him, not always with the best grace and certainly without much expectation for deepening faith. Over the years, though, all of this attending – sitting in church, sometimes listening, often not; praying the Lord’s Prayer, sometimes paying attention to the words, often not; singing the hymns, sometimes paying attention, more often just trying to figure out the different harmonies – has deepened my faith. 

Something has happened to my faith and it continues to happen because I’m simply showing up at church. The words of the liturgy are deep and true although my belief is not. Or at least it isn’t yet. But the liturgy is taking me deeper. And I’m finding that more and more, I do believe.

So thank you, John, for having the wisdom to know that this might happen when we were only 23 years old and for knowing that I might be freed from limited faith by coming and sitting next to you all these years.

And thank you Linda Blondel, for suggesting that I audition for the Virginia Consort. I’m not sure I would have ever done that without your suggestion. I didn’t think I could sing well enough. I’d started to sing with the Cove choir but the Virginia Consort required another much higher skill set that I was not sure I had. And neither was Judy Gary, the director, who let me try it out to see how I would do. That first Monday evening at rehearsal, we read through the Bach Cantata, Nach Dir Herr Verlanget Mich (I long for you, Lord). The opening melody line starts with the basses, then the tenors, then the altos and finally the sopranos. They all have an octave leap followed by descending chromatic steps. Whoo! There I was in a room full of people singing. There were singing voices resonating all around me, a real surround sound that coursed through our very bodies. All of our bodies rang with the music.

“This is what heaven is,” I thought, I was so sure that God was in that room with us and that we were God’s angels. (Or at least the angels in heaven sing Bach!). I have never forgotten it.

Since that experience, music has become the vehicle to take me closer to God. It can provide me a direct line to the holy. As Alice Parker says, “One of the glories of music is that it says what words cannot say.”

Music invites me into the sacred with its holy marriage of melody and words. I find the sacred when the entire church is singing a familiar and well beloved hymn and I find it when the choir sings and I even find it when I’m singing alone. It has given new meaning to this quote from Revelation:

I hear every creature in heaven, on earth

In the world below and in the sea-

All living beings in the universe

And they were singing:

 ‘To him who sits on the throne and to the Lamb

Be praise and honor, glory and might

for ever and ever.

I’ll close with the words from this anonymous 16th century Lutheran chorale:

Shall I praise my God not singing? Shall I dumb and silent be?

When I hear all nature ringing thanks and praise eternally?

Song is only love resounding from a faithful heart and voice,

Making all the earth rejoice and the echoing space resounding.

All creation clear and strong praises Love in endless song.

Sharing Our Faith: Rachel Horsley

I arrived at Cove broken and I needed a place to heal. 

An alcoholic with 15 years of sobriety in 2003, I was suffering from a dark night of the soul, a disbelief in the cruel god who took my 16 year old son, Khay, away six years earlier. Too many people had told me it was part of God’s plan, that Khay was in a better place.

Intellectually, I didn’t believe God micromanaged, but there was a bit of my being that thought maybe God did reach down and take him; enough of a belief that I rejected that God.

This was a big problem for me because I believe my alcoholism is a three-fold illness: physical, mental, and spiritual, and I had become sober by God’s grace. Without a belief in God, I will abandon my loved ones to pursue oblivion, because life is just too hard for this sensitive soul. For the first time since I had stopped drinking, I was dealing with daily cravings. I needed help. I attended more than my usual allotment of recovery meetings, and I thought attending church would add insurance.

Cove pulled me in with Marcy Orr’s intelligent sermons; plus the fact that I already knew about half the people in the congregation; and, importantly, that my husband, Danny, felt an affinity to Cove also. I awoke from the dark night of my soul with a different comprehension of God, although I can’t really claim I understand it; but I know there is a presence that I pray to that loves, comforts and strengthens me, assures all is well, or that all will be well, not to worry. My cravings abated. And I had found a spiritual home at Cove Presbyterian.

All my life I’ve been a seeker, leaving the church of my youth to practice Sufism for over a decade; followed by a flirtation with anthroposophy; and I attended an Episcopal church during Khay’s illness, and am forever grateful to the clergy at Church of Our Savior for their support when he was treated for and died of bone cancer. I was raised a Christian, I was baptized by immersion when I was eight, my father was a minister in the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (now called Community of Christ), and spiraling back to Jesus feels just right. I like singing the familiar hymns, reading the Bible, listening to people’s gifts of music, paying attention to the sermons. Worship at Cove gives me a place to sit quietly, to listen, and to heal.

Sharing Our Faith: Will Dinwiddie

This World is filled with grief, corruption and Pain. History is written by greed and laziness. Faith is our only Solace. Love is our only hope. And unending Labor is our only reward.

Seems pretty bleak, doesn’t it?

I believe the secret to happiness is deciding to enjoy myself, even when in the depths of despair or crippled by fear or overwhelmed by anger. I remember being broken and exhausted, tired to the point of insanity. I heard the voice of God. I don’t remember what was said. I don’t even remember what it sounded like. But God’s voice rang in my ears and told me a joke, and I laughed and felt renewed.

Or maybe I was just hallucinating. Maybe the entirety of the Cosmos is just some kind of giant, chemical mistake. But I can’t believe that. A cynic would have an easier time convincing me my right arm doesn’t exist. I know God. Let me clarify: I don’t believe in God, I know God.

My God is not a Theory to be argued over by the learned. My God doesn’t fit in a box, or can HE be defined, or SHE be labeled. My God evolved and was intelligently designed. My God can create and lift the unliftable rock. My God is the Cosmos themselves and exists in every sub-atomic particle of it. My God has trillions of faces and all genders, whatever they may be…

And one of my favorite faces of God is the poor carpenter’s son, who walked the earth as a man and was executed like a wretched slave. In an era where gods rode in golden chariots, flinging lightning and having sex like rockstars, I worship a god that walked the earth as a common laborer and taught humility and compassion and love. This is love with the capital El, not a valentine or a cupid. This is the love of which I only get the briefest of glimpses. I might see it for a few moments when I look into my partner’s eyes. Maybe I feel a fleeting sketch of it when I hold an infant.

When I see this Love, when I feel it, I am standing as close to God as I can get. This is as much of God’s presence as I can handle. God may have given me the wondrous gift of pattern recognition, but not the capacity to see the WHOLE pattern. But God doesn’t need me to understand the Cosmos, or even understand Love, or to live selflessly. But God wants me to try, like that laborer’s son. And God wants me to be honest with myself when I fail. And God forgives me.

Sharing Our Faith: Jessica Aguado

Why do I come to Cove?

Curiosity bought me to the doorstep, but once I came in, there was a casual gentleness that made me feel at home, and a sincere inquisitiveness that made me want to keep coming back.

It has unlocked an irreversible love of learning. It has challenged me and given me light in knowing that I don't need all the answers to embark on this journey called life, and allowed me to keep transforming along the way.

It's no small thing to break out of a seed, but I feel that God brought me here to tear down what has been confining to me, and everyone here as a community has been a part of that. That's what we do here at Cove: we help each other grow, we take care of each other, we even challenge each other.

In singing with choir, and watching Beth's hands direct, I have noticed that the music rises and falls, pulses, swells and retreats like a wave, but is always vibrating, just like life. I have learned to keep moving, to keep singing along the rising and falling, along the joys and the sorrows, the celebrations and gratitude that we can so openly release here together.

I come here because God has a lot of weeding and watering to do on my part, and when I'm here I feel like there is space to let God in to do that.

Sharing Our Faith: Kelly Eplee

How does worship affect my life between Sundays?

I chose this question as a challenge and a bit of fun. It quickly took me back to my very conservative church up-bringing.  I was quite sincere and committed as a young Baptist guy. We had a very active youth group doing Bible studies and singing tours.

We were admonished as youth to live all week like it was Sunday. Which meant we were to evangelize and be able represent our faith in a very verbal and doctrinal way. I was supposed to be saving people. This is tough stuff for any kid. In that juxtaposition/gulf between church life and mid-week life, many Baptist jokes are born. (I won’t torture and confuse you with examples!)

The stakes were high. I grew up in the public schools of the 60s and 70s. Pretty much the standard defense shared by my peers was “I don’t go to church, that’s where all the hypocrites meet every Sunday.” Battle lines were drawn. The times and my early brand of religion did not mix easily. I still bear some of the scars. 

To bravely use a ubiquitous church word to describe what happens at Cove Presbyterian Church, I have experienced and continue to experience a sense of “Holy” here. It has little to do with doctrine or religious fervor. It is a different kind of inspiration. It’s a mundane Holiness. Quieter, gentler, still sincere and loving and Christ-like. And it’s so much more exportable. It’s easy to take it amid the bustle of the week.

We come here and sing old hymns, learn new music, share in the timeless biblical narratives and the stories that have inspired so many for so long. We share our joys and pains in this grand old intimate space. It certainly does affect my life between Sundays, because I take you with me.

I remember each of you and what you share. I can mention each of you by name, your commitment to story-telling, justice, sustainability, craftsmanship, farm living, music, onions, all God’s critters. Your commitment and generosity to the “least of these” is real. 

When I am away for several weeks as I am prone to be, I miss it. I have often referred to this church as my little family of quirky activists. What we do here on Sunday seems to do a fine job to INSPIRE and motivate me through the week. 

Now why is that? I can’t say exactly. It’s the place certainly, but it's more what we bring to this place. And it's what we exchange to take from this place. You help me think Holy thoughts all week long. You give me examples of how to live. Thanks.