A Fourth Church Sermon by Dana Ferguson

June 5, 2005 | 9:30 and 11:00 a.m.

Take Your Stand and Your Seat

Dana Ferguson
Executive Associate Pastor, Fourth Presbyterian Church

Psalm 33:1–12
Matthew 9:9–13, 18–26

“Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’
For I have come to call not the righteous but sinners.”

Matthew 9:13 (NRSV)

When we know that God loves us deeply and will always go on loving us,
whoever we are and whatever we do,
it becomes possible to expect no more of our fellow men and women
than we are willing to give,
to forgive them generously when they have offended us,
and to respond to their hospitality with love.
By doing so we make visible a new way of being human
and a new way of responding to our world problems.

Henri Nouwen
In My Own Words

The text for today is jam-packed. The call of the tax collector. The father with the daughter who is raised from the dead. The hemorrhaging woman who is healed. There are probably at least five or six sermons here, if not more. For your benefit, I’ll attempt to keep it to two or three this morning. It is, after all, a communion Sunday.

Our passage starts out with the call of Matthew the disciple. We don’t know much. Just this: Matthew is a tax collector. He is doing his job. Jesus appears and calls, “Follow me.” Matthew leaves his tax booth—no questions, no stalling, no excuses—and follows. That may indeed be all that we need to know. Jesus called one considered to be a sinner of the utmost degree and that person followed. Jesus would have known that if ever you wanted people to accept you, you stayed away from tax collectors. But Jesus asked someone who, because of his profession, would have been assumed to always act in self-interest to become one of his disciples.

Not only that, but we read on to discover that Jesus dines with him and his reprobate friends. Jesus knows better. He lives in a social world that is defined by polarities: the righteous and the unrighteous, the religious and the irreligious, the sinner and the Pharisee. Gentiles were avoided, Samaritians were hated, sinners were outcast, lepers were quarantined, the sick were kept apart, and those who buried the dead were considered unclean for a week.

It’s all a very clearly defined and tidy religious world. Yet Jesus is not bound by such. He comes in and wrecks the place, proclaiming that he has come to save not the righteous but the sinner. Jesus’ behavior disturbs and threatens the tidy world. His association with sinners blurs the lines and uncovers a grace so amazing that religious people, otherwise snug in the security of their religious identities, are left unsettled.

We can understand why the Pharisees are so indignant. Theirs was a world where they had security. They were the insiders, and they controlled who else got in. It was a clearly defined either-or world. And they had a selfish interest in keeping it that way.

A number of years ago, my husband, also a pastor, went through a painful time in his congregation. He pastors a middle-of-the-road church. When I say middle-of-the-road, I don’t mean as far as the value of their ministry; I mean their theological stance. They are neither conservative nor liberal but instead include in their midst folks across the spectrum. It makes for a rich congregation. It also makes for controversy. Because there are people from across the spectrum, they can often disagree with one another. Most often they do this with great integrity, with the desire to understand and be understood, and with love. However, a number of years ago it didn’t happen that way. When my husband arrived as the new minister to Fair Oaks, he discovered an ongoing disagreement between a couple of the most conservative families and the most liberal ones.

It manifested itself in many ways that we might expect in the church: debates over what programs and projects got funded, disagreements over how they worshiped, and not least of all, but maybe most of all, arguments about the Christmas pageant. That’s right: the Christmas pageant. You’re thinking that’s supposed to be the most loving and glowing days of the church year. However it often isn’t. If there’s one thing in the church that people have strong opinions about, it’s the Christmas pageant. Who in the pews hasn’t been to one? Who doesn’t have an opinion about what animals should be featured and how? Who doesn’t want the angels to be the most angelic of all angel choirs? And who doesn’t want their very own child to be Mary or Joseph? It’s packed with the possibility to pick sides and hold grudges. And that’s what happened. It split these already feuding families right down the middle.

The differences continued over theological beliefs and Christian practices until one day the mother of one family made a decision. She decided that she could no longer take communion at the same table with these families that she disagreed with and frowned upon. So she didn’t. At the time in the service that everyone else gathers in the center aisle, approaches the table, and receives communion, she remained in her seat. It was noticeable. It’s a small enough congregation and sanctuary that folks noticed. Even my husband presiding at communion that day noticed. And it was painful for him and those who understood what was happening. A member of their congregation had removed herself from one of the two most important liturgical moments in our church life, a sacrament, a sacrament of God’s grace and love and acceptance. This church member had decided, she reported later, that she believed there were others coming to the table who weren’t worthy. As it turns out, she was right about one thing. There were people at the table who weren’t worthy. Where she went wrong was in not recognizing that she was included in those. None of us is whole but by the grace of God. And, by the grace of God, all of us are deemed worthy.

It’s the same place that the Pharisees went wrong—in wanting some in and some out. And Jesus has no regard for such. The thing is, discipleship isn’t an either-or proposition. You aren’t either a disciple or a sinner. We are all sinners and all called to be disciples, just like Jesus called a tax collector. Our call is that simple, too: “Follow me.” Follow me to dinner with the sinners and reprobates. Follow me to include the lost and the least. Follow me to stand with the outcast and unwelcome. Follow me to extend grace and mercy.

That’s what happens later in our passage today when Jesus encounters two very different people: one a leader in high standing in the synagogue who has confidently come to Jesus seeking healing for his daughter assumed to be dead and one a woman outcast from society because she suffered from hemorrhages for years. She timidly approaches Jesus and touches his garment. And lo and behold, Jesus heals both of them. There is no litmus test. No arguing about their worthiness. No scolding the father for asking Jesus to make himself unclean by standing alongside a corpse. No sending away a woman who has been marked by society as unclean. No, there’s only healing and grace. Everyone gets the same thing: mercy and compassion

That’s the good news and the bad news: Jesus treats both healing stories the same. Jesus recognizes no codes or traditions that should keep him from these people. He applies no test for proper doctrine, no question regarding their political convictions, no calculation of their gender, ethnicity, or social standing. He sees only their need to be touched, to be healed, to be loved, and to be forgiven. Some days we like that news, and others days we don’t. We like it on the days that we see ourselves in need—that like the woman and the father, we need Christ’s healing touch. We don’t like it on the days that we want to consider ourselves insiders, the first in line to be called a disciple or to be healed. We don’t like it on those days, because what we discover is that we will be treated just the same as all of God’s children. We will be loved and supported and cherished, but so will all the other children of God.

Some days this works for us, and some days it doesn’t. Why? Because. Because we want to believe on many days that we are more special than others. But the fact of the matter is we aren’t. That’s also the good news of the day. God loves us all. All of us equally. That means that when we come to this table today, we have no more right to be here than anyone else. It means that there’s a place for everybody—the person who just cut you off in traffic getting to church today; the person who has loved you all the years of your life; the coworker or classmate who has stolen your work and taken credit; the neighbor who, when you needed to take care of a family emergency, took up residence in your home caring for your children; the stranger who has broken into your home and stolen your sense of security; the confidant who has kept your innermost secrets and loved you anyway; the citizen who has taken a different political stance than you and won; the compassionate and the couldn’t-care-less; the one who interprets scripture differently and acts out faith in ways you think unfaithful; the one with different sexual practices and social circles; the righteous and the unrighteous; the religious and the irreligious; the sinner and the saint. There is a place for all of us in God’s kingdom. And some days that sounds good to us because it’s what we need, but other days it doesn’t sound so good because it isn’t what we believe our neighbors deserve. But God’s mercy isn’t about what any of us deserves. It’s about what we get.

And the other part of the news is that it means that’s what we’re expected to give: to exchange anger and hatred for mercy, to exchange exclusiveness with compassion, to exchange grudges and judgment with forgiveness, to take a stand with those outside the inside, to be the first to extend a second chance just as God gives us chance and chance again. We are to be the means by which this world’s people have a second chance.

Many of you have written to our alderman concerning our proposed development here at Fourth Church and have copied us on your correspondence. Last week, we received a copy of a letter to the alderman from a church member. I share it with you not to preach to you in this moment about what stance you should take concerning the development but to lift up her point, the point of standing for something with your life. She writes, “Dear Alderman Natarus, I have left off writing this letter to you for many reasons these past few months, not the least reason of which is because of the critical illness and recent death of my forty-six-year-old brother-in-law. He was a real estate developer in Houston, Texas, and left no discernable legacy.

“At times like this, when humans face change, especially permanent and irrevocable change, we often freeze or panic unless we have a vision. You have the responsibility of choosing between two visions: the one presented by the Fourth Presbyterian Church and its members and friends and the one by the opposition. Whatever decision you make will become part of your legacy.”

She continues to make her case about what stance the alderman should take. She argues that taking such a stance requires vision about the future. The other alternative is a vision that consists of nothing, “just like my brother-in-law’s legacy,” she notes and continues on, “New members tell us each month that they join Fourth Church because of our vision. And they become immediately active in helping us achieve and expand it. They are the kind of people who use their time, talents, and financial resources to create greater good for all. Please help them, and those of us who have been called to serve through the many ministries of Fourth Church for years now, to realize our vision of being an even better ‘Light in the City’ so that our legacy, and yours, can continue to dazzle the world with our daring dreams.”

The point is not whether you agree with this church member in her position about how we continue our legacy of caring for this city. The point is that we are all called to take a stand. That’s our job: to leave a legacy that upsets the status quo, the old notions of who is in and who is out; to follow Christ wherever we find the needs of this world, whether it be the halls of knowledge or the slums of the city, the nursing home or prison cell, the courtrooms of justice or the bedside of the dying; to leave a path behind that others can follow, responding to Christ’s call, “Follow me.”

But before we go out to serve the lost, we must be found. We must be found believing that God cares for our days and our ways, our living and our dying, that God cares uniquely for us and loves us dearly. That’s the first step in responding to God’s call upon our lives. As well-known preacher Frederick Buechner puts it, “Faith is a word that describes the direction our feet start moving when we find that we are loved.” So we must allow ourselves to be found by the love of God. We must be found saying yes when Jesus calls, “Follow me.” And we must be found at this table, taking our seat among all of those who call themselves children of God.

So be found today coming to this table. And when you come to this table today, come because Christ has invited you, not because you outrank your friends or enemies, because you uphold the law more faithfully or are more deserving in your discipleship. When you come to this table today, come proclaiming the saving life of Christ till he shall come again. This means the saving life not just for some but for all. When you come to this table, come as a beloved and cherished child of God whether you’re stuck in the lost place or the found place or can’t figure out the difference. When you come to this table, come believing that there is a place set specially for you whether you are a sinner or disciple or both. And come to take a seat with mercy and healing and to take a stand with compassion and grace.

Come this day to take your seat among the sinners and the outcast, believing that all of us are bid come and welcomed to our own reserved seat. And leave here today to take a stand, to leave a legacy of care and compassion, to respond to Christ’s call, “Follow me.”

“Come and follow,” Christ bids. So friends, come and follow, and in so doing, take your seats and your stands. All to God’s glory and honor and praise. Amen.