Christ, the Derelict King

Christ the King Sunday
Text: Matthew 25:31-46

As you all know, I’m just getting started to get settled in Westport. Its lovely—and my little place is close enough to the ocean that I hear it all night.

I’ve started to meet and talk with people and get to know people. It’s a lovely little community, isolated, small, a little discouraged like the rest of the harbor. One of the things I am always listening for is how people talk about other people. Of course, we have all heard the conversations around immigration this week and the anger at “the illegals.”

And I’ve noticed that Westport, like all of our towns, has a word for people who are poor or who are experiencing homelessness. Derelicts. Now, of course, most people in Westport are poor, just like at least 50% of the harbor is poor. But we always reserve our words of derision for people who are more down and out than we are. In Aberdeen, its “the takers.” In Monte and Elma, its “the undesirables.” In Westport, it seems, its “the derelicts.”

And I started thinking. The word derelict refers to something abandoned—an abandoned home, an abandoned car, an abandoned ship. In this case, perhaps it refers to abandoned people in abandoned places.

Sometimes, on the harbor, like lots of other small towns, it can feel like the world is passing us by. Abandoned in this global race for money and power. Abandoned, after the world no longer needs our timber or our fish or our labor.

So, on to the gospel text this morning. None of you are probably surprised that our gospel text is one of my favorites. We use this text a lot to talk about how we should care for people in need and do the work of God in the world.

But I think its more than that. It is Jesus saying—the poor, the suffering, of the world? They are me. I am them. I take their side.

It seems fitting to me that this is Christ the King Sunday.

Christ, the Derelict King.

Christ, the King of the Abandoned.

The King of prisoners and derelicts, of sex workers and illegals.

Not the king of empires, whether the empires of Rome or old Europe, or even our own American empires.

The King instead of the common people, of the poor. The King of the hungry and sick. The Abandoned King of Abandoned People.

Matthew’s Jesus loves the language of apocalypse and of judgment. And so the Jesus of Matthew today draws us a picture. This Abandoned King, the ragged rabbi who calls himself a king, paints a picture of he himself judging the nations. Just imagine for a moment—this ragged, wandering rabbi who was born into a two bit town with a bad reputation, this preacher who will be arrested in just a day or two and executed—he claims that he will judge the nations.

And he doesn’t tell a story just of individual people who will go to heaven or go to hell. We like to read it this way, but that is not Jesus’ point. It’s the story of Jesus, the ragged rabbi, standing before all the people, all the nations of the world and entering into judgment. Those who have cared for their people, those who have healed the sick and fed and cared for their people, those who have visited and freed their prisoners—they have done it to Jesus himself. But those who have oppressed their people? Who have imprisoned them, who have left them hungry and naked, who have left them to die? They, they will be judged. God will not let them get away with harming others.

I have to say, I find this really good news.

For me, anyway, this judgment is good news.

It is good news that the people who sleep under bridges and along our rivers will be honored and protected.

It is good news that Christ the derelict king will take the side of his people.

It is good news that our tiny towns are not abandoned by God and that God will judge those who have abandoned us.

This is good news.

Every day, I watch people struggle to survive. Struggle to just stay alive in this county. And I watch people die.

And people struggle for a reason. We struggle because this town and these places are abandoned, with so few jobs left. We struggle because health care is so very limited to more and more people. We struggle because land and resources are all in very few hands. We struggle because housing is so poor that people live without running water and electricity, in places overrun with bugs and rodents, and the people who own those places do not improve them and we do not hold them accountable. We struggle because those in power are ok with the way things are. We die because—who cares about derelicts and undesirables and takers and illegals anyway?

It was Thomas Jefferson who said, in what is otherwise a very problematic quote; “I tremble for my nation when I reflect that God is just and his justice will not keep forever.”

And, so, how does God do this? How does Jesus’ justice come?

 Some explosion in the sky?

A bolt of lightning?

I don't think so. I think it happens through us.

Through those who refuse to forget. Who refuse to give up. When we sit down at table together. When you bring us meals. When we demand to be noticed.

Have you been noticed the story coming out of Fort Lauderdale these past few weeks? In Fort Lauderdale, FL it is illegal to feed people on the street. This old guy has gone to jail twice because he refuses to stop. I joked with our team the other day—would they be willing to go to jail? Yesterday, one man called me and said; “I want to you know, I’d be willing to go to jail.” That is how judgment comes. Churches across the country are starting to open their doors and offer sanctuary to immigrant families and individuals in danger of deportation. That is how judgment comes.

When the “takers” take back their power and demand life and dignity. When we begin to hold our leaders accountable for the common good. When we refuse to allow our neighbors to be hungry or live in poverty. That is how judgment comes. Not vengeance—but justice.

The men and women of the harbor—they are Jesus’ people. They are Jesus, living among us, here and now. Christ the Derelict King fights for his Derelict people, here and now. Through us.

And so we are not abandoned after all. God is with us, working through us. Together, we demand judgment and justice. And when we do, the voice of that ragged rabbi rings down to us from 2000 years; “When I was hungry, you gave me something to eat, when I was naked you clothed me, when I was sick you visited me, when I was in prison you came to me, when I was a stranger, you welcomed me. You are doing this for me.”

I Arose, A Mother in Israel

Sermon: Pentecost 23
Text: Judges 4-5

 Do you ever feel too small or too powerless to change your circumstances? Do you ever feel like you can’t do what you know you are called to do?

That is pretty much the situation of the people of Israel in our first reading. We only get part of the story in our reading. This is an ancient story, long before the time of Israel’s kings. The people of Israel in this story are peasants—small farmers and Bedouins, or shepherds. The story is focused on northern Israel, the area that will later be known as Galilee in the time of Jesus. And at this point they are under the rule of King Jabin of Hazor, a powerful Canaanite city state in the region.

And they are pretty sure that absolutely nothing is going to be able to change their situation. That they are far too powerless to change anything, much less go against the powerful king of Hazor, who is oppressing them and robbing them. Even their military leader, Barak, is sure that there is nothing they can do.

And along comes Deborah. Deborah is the only female judge in Judges and the only female military commander recorded in the Hebrew Bible. She is a prophet and she is also a local judge in what appears to be most of northern Israel. She would have heard all of the complaints and disputes of the tribes and would have made decisions for the northern Israelite tribes.

And she is the hero of the story—she and another woman mentioned later in the text, called Jael. These two women are convinced that enough is enough. That God will protect their people as they reclaim their freedom and their liberty. They will not listen to those that insist that they are weak and powerless. Instead, they inspire a whole people to reclaim their liberty and to stand up against King Jabin..

It’s a pretty amazing story. Deborah rides into battle with her people and they defeat the Canaanite king and reclaim their own land. And Jael defeats and kills the Canaanite commander. It’s a little like reading one of those grand old hero stories. Its like an old western with two female leads.

In the next chapter, the people of Israel sing a victory song to Deborah and Jael. Some scholars think that the song is actually one of the oldest written pieces of literature in the Bible.

Honestly, I’ve always loved the story of Deborah. I love her strength and her courage.

The people sing…. “The peasantry prospered in Israel, because you arose, Deborah, arose a mother in Israel” “Most blessed of women be Jael, the wife of Heber the Kenite, of tent dwelling women most blessed.” The people are saved by two women-- an upstart judge and a Bedouin shepherd.

One of the reasons I’ve loved the story of Deborah and Jael is because this story played an important role in my life. I grew up in a Christian tradition that excluded women from leadership in the church. Being a woman and a leader in the church just wasn’t an option.

So, for years and years, I had this call eating away at me. This nagging sense that I was missing what I was called to do in my life. A fire burning in my bones, as Jeremiah says.

And it was stories like the story of Deborah that made me think. Made we wonder if God really could call a person like me.

I remember, so, so clearly, visiting my sister on a military base in England. While I was there, I took a pilgrimage through northern England, riding the train, walking, and asking, begging God to show me a way forward. I ended up in Ely, a tiny town with a giant cathedral. As I walked on a path that had been walked by thousands of pilgrims for hundreds of years, I came upon the story of the cathedral. A young woman had founded it back in 670, a woman who had fled an abusive marriage and decided that God was calling her to start a mission station in Ely. And there I was, almost 1400 years later, feeling the same call.

This sense that I wasn’t going to be able to get away from what God was calling me to do kept growing on me. That I was not powerless. That I was indeed called to ministry.

It was a long journey, but I came home and, about six months later, started the discernment process in the Episcopal Church.

I was at our diocesan convention last week and was able to share a little about my ministry. And, as I was sitting in a room full of representatives from all of the Episcopal churches in Western WA, I thought about all of the places that have affirmed and supported me on this path. Like you all.

All the people who reminded me that I was not powerless. All of the people that reminded me that God could call someone like me.

And that has become a cornerstone of my own ministry. To remind us all that we are not powerless. That God calls each of us. That no matter how powerless we feel, no matter what the world around us thinks of us, we are beloved, we are powerful, we can have hope and a future.

In Aberdeen, we too often feel powerless. Problems are too big. We’re just a small town shafted by a rotten economy. We are powerless to address our housing crisis. Powerless to rebuild our economy. Powerless to stand up and say enough is enough. Powerless to speak up when people are getting hurt. Powerless to demand the common good and better life for everyone, not just town beautification. Powerless to demand anything anymore. We are tired. We are weary.

In ourselves or maybe even in our parish, we too often feel powerless. Like our gifts don’t matter. Those of us who have been knocked around by life, or maybe have experienced abuse, we can feel pretty powerless. Or maybe we’ve just been told too many times that we are.

And I want to call this for what it is. I want to use a non-churchy word. Bullshit.

The God who came to us in a tiny two bit town with a bad reputation—that God cares about us, here and now.

No matter what you have seen in life, you are valuable and loved.

No matter how insignificant you feel, in our tiredness and in our weariness, we are powerful because we are in the hands of a powerful God.

That’s really why I love Deborah.

She refuses to believe that the odds are against them.

She refuses to give up.

She refuses—even when the military leader of the tribes, even when Barak doesn’t think it is possible—she refuses to believe that her people should just give in.

She refuses to let her people give up.

She refuses to let them believe they are powerless.

So, my brothers and sisters, you are loved. You are powerful. Your gifts matter. Your talents matter. Your dreams matter. Every one of us. You are called to simply believe that you are in the hands of a powerful God.

We are called to simply believe that we, in our longing for goodness and beauty and peace and hope, we—every single one of us— are powerful in the hands of a powerful God.