Mustard Seed of Faith

 

Sermon prepared for Grace Lutheran Church, Scarsdale, N.Y., on July 30, 2023.

Today we observe the awesome power of the littlest things.

This is not a new thing for me. Most of you know my wife, Martha, who is such an enormous presence in my life. She fills my days with unconditional love, support, and – on occasion – constructive criticism. It’s only when I see her from a distance that I’m a bit surprised how petite she is, a small thing with a titanic aura.

Our youngest daughter, Victoria, now a business executive in Atlanta, is even smaller than her mother. Her self-description on Facebook quotes Helena in A Midsummer Night’s Dream: “Though she be but little, she is fierce.” (act 3, scene 2.) 

There is power in little things. 

In our Gospel reading this morning, Jesus’ disciples ask him to make their faith bigger. They think this is a logical request because they know Jesus can do anything he wants and they are eager to increase their faith. They know that their does faith not necessarily grow just because they walk, eat, and sleep with Jesus. Faith is not contagious, and Jesus has been known to criticize them for having too little of it. They no doubt remember watching him sleep serenely on a boat being swamped by a storm, and they shout at him to wake up because “we are perishing.” Jesus awakes, calms the storm, and chides the disciples: “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” So it's not unreasonable that they think they need Jesus’ intervention to increase their faith. (Mark 4:37-40)

But again Jesus seems to chide them. Faith is not measured by its quantity but by its quality.

“If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.” (Luke 17:5-8)

Jesus could have used examples other than mustard seeds. Poppy seeds are smaller. Orchid seeds are smaller. Microscopic spores grow into spritely ferns. In a later era Jesus might have mentioned the tiny atom and it’s incalculable potential for power.

But his point is clear: Faith, even when it is little, is fierce. 

But there is a codicil to this treatise on faith that makes it clear why we are often desperate for more faith. That is the fact that most of us go through life plagued by doubts. And we are eager for a faith strong enough to counter the doubts.

Faith, we tell ourselves, is good. Doubt is bad.

But just as Martin Luther advised us to “love God and sin boldly,” there are also times when we find ourselves struggling to love God as we doubt boldly.

But doubt is not antithetical to faith. As the late great Presbyterian author Frederick Buechner observed, “Doubts are the ants in the pants of faith. They keep it awake and moving.”

I’ve known some serious doubters in my time and quite often I’ve been one of them.

I’ve also known some frivolous doubters who simply wish to distinguish themselves from silly simpletons of faith. They think Christians view God as a white bearded misogynist who sits on a cloud behind pearly gates, glaring at Muslims and grumbling ominously about same sex marriages. 

Those who don’t believe this god exists are welcome to their atheism, and they would include most church attenders.

Some doubters, however, are merely intellectual posers. They find it cool to be an agnostic or atheist. It makes them look smarter than their church going friends and it declares their emancipation from pious, controlling parents.

And there are doubters who doubt out of laziness, either because they don’t wish to trouble themselves with deep questions about the meaning of life, or because it gives them an excuse to stay in bed on Sunday mornings.

But I’m not thinking about bush league doubters. I’m thinking about persons whose doubt is on steroids, mounting daily, cramping the synapses of their frontal cortex, torturing them with illusions of insight while shrinking their cerebral testicles.

Doubt is not a trifling thing. Doubt is pain. Doubt is facing the fact that we can never have what we want most, what we need most. Doubt is the ultimate darkness. It’s ironic that we have been raised to think of Thomas as a man of little faith, when in fact his doubts were logical. “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side,” he said, “I will not believe.” It was a cry of agony, not arrogance.

In 2008, the National Council of Churches was observing the 100th anniversary of the founding of its predecessor organization, the Federal Council of Churches in the USA.

As webpage editor, I was assigned to develop a monthly series of “ecumenical moments” that highlighted special events in the history of the Council. 

I looked for leaders and events that called attention to the special ministries of the Council. There was Arthur Flemming, a Republican member of President Eisenhower’s cabinet who was an eloquent advocate for Civil Rights; Harold Stassen and J. Irwin Miller, often touted as men who should have been president of the United States; Cynthia Wedel, a pioneering advocate for women’s rights and a member of President Kennedy’s Commission on the Status of Women; Eugene Carson Blake, who linked arms with Martin Luther King, Jr., on the 1963 “I have a dream” march with Washington.

All were persons of great faith and all were activists for peace, equal rights, and justice.

But as I leafed through the pages of Outlook, a magazine published by the Council from 1950 to 1953, I realized I was missing an important ministry not always associated with the National Council of Churches: evangelism.

I was surprised to discover the Council had a director of evangelism in the early fifties. He was a fiery, energetic preacher named Charles Templeton, who happened to be a good friend of Billy Graham. A long article in Outlook described Templeton’s homiletical zeal and remarkable success in winning souls for Jesus.

Yes! I thought. Perfect! What better example of the Council’s little known evangelical side? Was Templeton still alive? Was he still in the evangelism biz? I jumped on my computer and began searching for him.

I didn’t find Charles, but I found his son and gave him a call.

“I was just reading an old article about your dad’s years as evangelist for the National Council of Churches,” I said.

“Oh,” he replied, sounding interested.

“Is your dad still around?”

“He died in 2001.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You knew, right?”

“What?”

“You knew he became an atheist and left the Council?”

Whoops.

So much for the NCC evangelism story.

Digging a little further, I discovered Templeton had written a book in 1996, Farewell to God, My Reasons for Rejecting the Christian Faith.

The book includes an account of his encounter with his old pal, Billy Graham.

In the course of our conversation I said, “But, Billy, it’s simply not possible any longer to believe, for instance, the biblical account of creation. The world was not created over a period of days a few thousand years ago; it has evolved over millions of years. It’s not a matter of speculation; it’s a demonstrable fact.” 

“I don’t accept that,” Billy replied.

Charles Templeton had become a man of doubt. And he was no facile doubter. He was a doubter on steroids.

And, like Thomas, his doubts brought him pain.

Lee Strobel, the Christian journalist and author of The Case for Faith, recounts an interview he had with Templeton when he was in his 80s.

Strobel asked the aging atheist to update his thoughts about Jesus. Templeton’s response surprised him.

“He was,” Templeton began, “the greatest human being who has ever lived. He was a moral genius. His ethical sense was unique. He was the intrinsically wisest person that I’ve ever encountered in my life or in my readings. His commitment was total and led to his own death, much to the detriment of the world. What could one say about him except that this was a form of greatness?... And if I may put it this way,” he said as his voice began to crack, “I miss him!”

What happens to the doubters when they near the end of their lives?

The Apostle Thomas does not reappear in the canonical bible after his encounter with Jesus, but tradition says he sailed to India to found some of the world’s oldest Christian churches. It shows what a doubter can do when his faith is renewed.

But – and one might sigh, Alas! – Jesus never appeared to Charles Templeton to invite him to feel his wounds. Templeton remained in doubt to the end of his life.

At the end of his life, Charles Templeton did not retract his doubt. But his words suggest he never lost the ants in his pants, either.

And whatever state his faith was in when he died, it is evident he never lost his fascination – or adoration – for Jesus, “the most important human being who ever existed.”

Jesus has that way of grabbing hold of one, even one who has never encountered his resurrected body or touched his wounds.

What does Thomas have in common with Charles the Doubter and all the other doubters-on-steroids who struggle to understand the secrets of the world?

I think the answer is this:

We may have periods in our lives – long periods, endless periods, when we lose touch with God or Jesus.

But if we have faith the size of a mustard seed – or an Atom - God’s Holy Spirit never lets go of us.

And whether we are able to speak the words or not, whether we know it or not, there will never be a time we are out of the loving presence of our Lord and our God.

That is the fierce power of the tiniest amount of faith. The miracle is, we don’t have to ask Jesus for that faith because grace has already lodged it in our hearts.

Amen.

You Da Man

Once upon a time there was a lying politician who, when confronted with his lie, admitted the truth.

Astonishing. 

We are so used to politicians who hold tenaciously to their lies, as if lies are the only things that will keep them afloat in a turbulent sea of truth.

Most of the presidents in our lifetimes have been accused of lying at one time or another. Ike denied he was sending U-2 planes to spy on the Soviet Union until one was shot down. Kennedy denied he had Addison’s Disease while mounting a massive cover-up of his wanton womanizing. LBJ told us we were winning in Vietnam. And Richard Nixon – well, there is always Richard Nixon.

The fact is, we have become so jaded that we expect our politicians to lie to us. There are even some lies that we prefer to the truth. Remember the classic line from the film, Who Shot Liberty Valance, “When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.” We’ve been printing legends in our heads all our lives. I still prefer the legend that JFK was a faithful family man who inspired millions with his idealism. And, of course, only Nixon could go to China.

What is your favorite legend? 

For me, it’s remembering the Alamo and the courageous men and women who stood their ground for the freedom of Texians. The great hero of the Alamo, of course, was Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier. And when I was eight years old, thanks to the 1954 Disney mini-series, I was entranced by the Coonskin legend.

The historical Crockett was a smaller-than-life, self-aggrandizing windbag who lied about his exploits to make money and win votes. Disney’s Crockett was literally bigger. Fess Parker, at six feet-six, would have been a head taller than the coonskin Congressman. And a lot about the TV Davy was also fabricated.

If eight-year-old viewers didn’t already know it, it was easy to miss the fact that Davy died at the Alamo. The last scene shows Fess swinging his musket to propel dozens of hapless Mexicans like shuttlecocks off the smoking ramparts. When I finally realized, at 9, that Davy died, it was my first sortie into historical reinterpretation. It was many years later that I realized Disney also hid the reality that the Mexican army was defending its legitimate territory against Texian interlopers.

But the big legend about the Alamo was that all the 189 men within its battered walls died at their posts, fighting for freedom until the very end. 

But there has always been some doubt that it really happened that way. In 2021 a book entitled, Forget the Alamo, the Rise and Fall of an American myth, offers credible evidence that the defenders did not keep fighting to the very end. In fact, they surrendered as soon as they could unfurl their white flags. The Mexican general, Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, ordered the prisoners rounded up – Crockett included – and summarily executed. But it is the heroic legend that we have etched in our minds and – if the State of Texas has anything to do with it – we will never let it go.

No one knows what happened to the bodies of Crockett, Bowie, or Travis, but Texas wants you to pay your respects anyway. A few years ago, on a pilgrimage of Texas Spanish missions, Martha and I visited the Alamo. Nearby there was a sign reporting that the scattered remains of these heroes were undoubtedly mixed together in a touted pile of holy dirt at our feet. Or maybe not, but it was a timely reminder that we are dust.

But the truths behind the legend are unremitting. In the 1850s, an aging Santa Anna traveled to Staten Island with a load of chicle, the milky gum of the sapodilla tree, because he thought could be sold for buggy tires. Instead the chicle was used as chewing gum and marketed as chiclets. Truth, very often, is stranger than legend.

We spend so much of our lives trying to separate fact from fiction, truth from legend, that it can be a stunning surprise when a politician or leader departs from lies and cover-ups.

When David is introduced to us in Hebrew scripture, he is the very model of a dauntless Jewish leader, and we sense God is with him every step of his way.

But soon the story descends to a sleazy tale of power and privilege and sex – a story so squalid that we hesitate to leave our bibles open on the coffee table for fear the kids will read it.

In the cinema of our minds, the opening screen warns us we are about to see nudity, rape, and violence. The camera pans to King David rising lazily from his couch. He walks to the edge of his room and sees the beautiful Bathsheba bathing below. Entranced, he orders her to be brought to him and he forces her into his bed, impregnating her. To cover up his crime and to make Bathsheba available to him as often as he wills, the king orders her husband into battle where he will be killed.

Nothing to see here. Just another despicable story of power, lust, entitlement, and cover-up. We see this kind of degradation every time we tune into the nightly news. 

In King David’s day, there was very little chance his lustful indiscretions would get out. Palace aides were sworn to secrecy. There were no investigative journalists, no nosey bloggers, no whistle blowers. The king’s power was absolute, and there was no one to prevent him from doing anything he pleased.

But David was overlooking a warning he had probably read many times:

For human ways are under the eyes of the LORD,

And he examines all their paths.

The Iniquities of the wicked ensnare them, and they are caught in the coils of their sin.

They die for lack of discipline, and because of their great folly they are lost. (Proverbs 5:21-23)

God knows. And because God knows, Nathan knows.

Nathan is one of the most exceptional characters in scripture. A court prophet he was expected to express God’s views to the King. But King David was so secure in God’s good graces – or thought he was – he did not seem unduly threatened by the prophet’s prophecies.

In fact, when Nathan came to him with a story about a poor man and his ewe lamb, David didn’t see it coming. He didn’t even think it strange – as I do – that the man loved his little lamb so much that he shared his food and drink and bed with the wooly creature.

Then, Nathan said, a rich man snatched the lamb away and fed it to a traveler.

David rose from his thrown in a righteous rage.

“As the LORD lives, the man who has done this deserves to die.” (2 Sa 12:5)

At that point, did Nathan take an uneasy breath? Wasn’t his confrontation with the all-powerful king a little bit like a Dietrich Bonhoeffer facing a Hitler to tell him God was not pleased with him? Could any justice come out of this quixotic challenge, this speaking truth to mega-power?

But trusting in God, Nathan went ahead:

“Nathan said to David, ‘You are the man. Thus says the LORD, the God of Israel: I anointed you king over Israel, and I rescued you from the hand of Saul; I gave you your master’s house and your master’s wives into your bosom … and if that had been too little, I would have added as much more. Why have you despised the word of the LORD, to do what is evil in his sight?’”

Up until now, Nathan was assuring David, “You da man.”

But now he put it this way, “You are the man,” and you sinned.

And the whole universe seems to hold its breath, waiting to see how the king will react. We have watched so many conspiracies and cover-ups that we are prepared to expect the worst. Will David order his guards to drag Nathan into the dungeon? Or will he simply order Nathan’s execution on the spot?

As it turns out, David’s reaction is exactly what it should have been.

“David said to Nathan, ‘I have sinned against the LORD.’” (2 Sa 12:13)

Nathan responds by offering David a reassurance and a warning.

“Nathan said to David, ‘Now the LORD has put away your sin; you shall not die. Nevertheless, because by this deed you have utterly scorned the LORD, the child born to you shall die.’” (2 Sa 12:13-14)

Then, anti-climatically, scripture reports,

“Then Nathan went to his house.” Ka-boom.

Brent A. Strawn, professor of Old Testament at Duke University, notes that if we wish to hear more lamentation from David, we need to turn to Psalm 51. Identified as a Psalm of David after facing Nathan, the regrets spew out:

“Have mercy on me, O God,

According to your steadfast love;

According to your abundant mercy, 

Blot out my transgressions. 

Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,

And cleanse me from my sin.

For I know my transgressions,

And my sin is ever before me.

Against you, you alone, have I sinned

And done what is evil in your sight,

So that you are justified in your sentence

And blameless when you pass judgment.”

(Psa 51:1-14)

David is clearly repentant. But as Brent Shawn points out, repentance does not wipe his slate clean.

“But even forgiveness can’t erase the damage that has been done and the judgment that has been announced,” Strawn writes. 

“Forgiveness doesn’t mean that the consequences just disappear — not when a baby is now gestating and a husband has been murdered. David must live with the consequences of his taking for the rest of his life.”

For us, however, we look back on this powerful man’s ultimate decision to face the terrible truth: no lies, no shifting the blame, no cover-ups, just the unvarnished truth. In Second Samuel, when the truth became a legend, they printed the truth. 

That alone elevates David the flawed king to a special place in human history: a truth teller who became a model for all politicians, all leaders, all of us, when the truth seems too heavy to bear. 

David’s song in Psalm 51 offers sentiments to God that we all might share:

Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me.

Do not cast me away from your presence, and do not take your holy spirit from me.

Restore to me the joy of your salvation, and sustain in me a willing spirit. (Psa 51:10-12.)

Amen.

Lead, Moses, Lead!

 Martha and I spent the early part of last week in Rotterdam, N.Y., sitting with our grandson Beny while his parents were at work. This was not hard work because we love Beny dearly and the house has been thoroughly Beny-proofed. He is very good at entertaining himself and he has free range to explore all three floors. All we have to do is put food in front of him when he is hungry and make sure he doesn’t try to go outside.

During the time we were in Rotterdam, Martha – who is superb at multi-tasking – was keeping an eye on Beny and her ear on a Lutheran zoom class for Intentional interim ministers. When Beny was quiet I eavesdropped on the class to get some free education. One of the lecturers was Tod Bolsinger, Vice President of Fuller Theological seminary for vocation formation and assistant professor of practical theology. Tod was using biblical references to illuminate challenges pastors may face with their congregations.

My ears perked up when Tod asked, “What is the greatest miracle reported in the bible before the Resurrection?”

My mind raced for an answer. Was it Noah’s ability to squeeze thousands of animals into a hand-made boat? Was it Daniel in the Lion’s den? Was it Shadrack, Meshack, and Abednego surviving the fiery furnace of Nebuchadnezzar? Was it Balaam’s talking ass? Was it David slaying the giant Goliath with a slingshot?

But the answer should have been obvious to me, given our biblical studies this month. The greatest miracle recorded in the bible prior to the Resurrection was the parting of the Red Sea so the Israelites could escape Pharoah’s advancing army, and the subsequent closing of the waters to drown the Egyptians.

It makes me think of a story we used to tell in Baptist youth camp about a little boy returning home from Bible School.

“What did you learn today,” his father asked.

“We learned how the children of Israel escaped the king’s army.”

“That’s good. How did it happen?”

“Well, the Israelites were trapped at the edge of the water and they could see Pharoah’s army getting closer!”

“Yes, go on.”

“And the people were frightened and begged Moses to help them,” the boy said.

“Then what?”

“Then Moses brought out a hundred pontoon boats and the people got in them. When they got to the other side, Moses called in helicopters and they sprayed Pharoah’s army with tommy guns until they were all dead. And the people said, ‘Yay, Moses!’”

The father looked at his son quizzically.

“Is that what your teacher told you?”

The boy shrugged.

“Well, no, but if I told you what the teacher said, you’d never believe it.”

Unbelievable? Perhaps. But that is the nature of miracles. You don’t believe what you’re seeing with your own eyes. But God’s power is vividly on display.

Professor Bolsinger’s reference to the miracle of the divided waters was a device to study the sociology of congregations – and their pastors – under stress.

When they were sweltering under the heat of oppression, the Israelites endorsed Moses’ platform of “Let My People Go.” They stood by him through ten plagues, even the last one in which they had to scramble to protect their first-born by smearing lamb’s blood on their mantles. What a horrifying night it must have been as the angel of death descended upon them, killing every first-born inhabitant, including Pharoah’s son. How many Israelites went to bed that night thinking, “I hope this works, I hope I smeared enough lamb’s blood, should I go outside and check the door one more time …?”

But it happened as Moses had promised and Pharoah freed them, sending them out of the land of bondage into the bright light of freedom. Moses was the great emancipator, the hero of the hour, and the Israelites patted each other on the back, congratulating each other for choosing such a wise and productive leader. 

They stuck with Moses as he led them on unexpected routes, following a pillar or cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night so they could keep moving. They trusted Moses when he told them to move, when he told them to halt, when he told them to change directions. They trusted Moses when God rerouted them, though the people didn’t realize God was setting a trap for Pharoah by making it appear the people were wandering aimlessly. Seeing that the people had no clear destination, Pharoah – influenced by hardening of the ventricles – resolved to go after the people one more time.

When the Israelites saw hundreds of chariots advancing toward them, they reevaluated their assessment of Moses as a great leader.

In an oral memorandum entitled, “We are concerned,” the people said this:

“Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you have taken us away to die in the wilderness? What have you done to us, bringing us out of Egypt. Is this not the very thing we told you in Egypt, ‘Let us alone so we can serve the Egyptians’? For it would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the wilderness?” (Exodus 14:11-12)

Clearly Moses’ church council is having second thoughts about the direction they are headed. But Moses, who is not the sort of pastor who seeks to compromise with the factions in his flock, stands firm. He doesn’t exactly tell them to shut up, because that would be impolite, declares “The LORD will fight for you, and you have only to keep still.”

What happens next is recorded in scripture with almost understated simplicity:

“Then Moses stretched out his hand over the sea. The LORD drove the sea back by a strong east wind all night and turned the sea into dry land, and the waters were divided. The Israelites went into the sea on dry ground, the waters forming a wall on their right and ion their left. 

“Then the Egyptians pursued and went into the sea after them …

“So Moses stretched out his hand over the sea … The waters returned and covered the chariots and the chariot drivers, the entire army of Pharoah that had followed them into the sea; and not one of them remained.”

Not one of them remained. 

We’ve heard this story so often that we missed sheer awesomeness of it: the greatest miracle of scripture just short of the Resurrection. 

So let’s take a breath and consider the power of God that is on display here. And say to ourselves: wow.

But the march toward freedom must have been confusing to the Israelites, moving first in one direction, then in another, marching, standing still, marching again to the edge of the Sea.

Cory Driver, Assistant to the Bishop for Emerging Ministers & Ministries of the Indiana-Kentucky Synod of the ELCA in Indianapolis, puts it this way:

“There were so many confusing reversals in the process of being freed. An ancient Jewish commentary compares the rescue at sea to a man walking alone with his son in a dark night. They walked single-file to remain on the narrow road. When the man sensed a thief ahead, he moved his son behind him to protect him. When the man sensed a wolf behind them, he moved his son in front of him. When both a thief and a wolf approached at the same time, the man put his son on his shoulders to protect him from both threats (Mekhilta d’Rabbi Yishmael 14:19). The son, no doubt, felt confused at being jostled back and forth by his father, though he trusted his father to keep him safe on the dark path.”

But, confusing as it was, God did not fail the people. As we follow their 40-year pilgrimage to the promised land we shall see confusion again. They wandered in so many different directions that one humorist imagines Moses saying, “Recalculating … Recalculating.” Reading on we will see many more occasions when the people doubted, when they were confused, when they kvetched, when they rebelled, when they resolved to fire Moses and, even worse, when they tried to replace the LORD God of Israel with a golden calf.

Sometimes it was too much for Moses, as in Numbers 11 when he cried out, “I am not able to bear all these people alone. The burden is too heavy for me.”

This, Bolsinger observes, is a case of post-traumatic church syndrome. 

But as a leader of a congregation, Moses must realize how deeply his people are affected by the confusing twists and turns of their journey.

We have all been through these ups and downs. Martha and I celebrate the joy of children and grandchildren, and perhaps you have, too. But we have also grieved when close friends lose children to diseases, birth mishaps, traffic accidents, or overdoses. And perhaps you have, too.

I have celebrated professional successes, promotions, and journalism awards, but I have also been fired by non-profit church organizations that could no longer afford me.

I’ve celebrated relative prosperity, but I also know what it’s like to live hand-to-mouth in stringent times.

I’ve celebrated the love of parents and grandparents, but I’ve felt the pain of watching loved ones succumb to cancer, cardio-vascular disease, and dementia.

Life is confusing and it’s not unusual for any of us to blame our spiritual leaders for failing to teach us that life has its ups and downs. And every day with Jesus is not necessarily sweeter than the day before. You’d think Moses’ people had experienced enough in 40 years to know the journey will not always be smooth, and it will not always be Moses’ fault.

Cory Driver writes:

“As we walk along the uncertain path of this life, God’s leading can be deeply confusing. Make no mistake, God calls us all to freedom from sin and death, including freedom from structural sin, like the Egyptian slavery. But sometimes the path is confusing, and our act of faithfulness is to stop standing still and crying out and instead to move forward into what the LORD is doing.”

And when we are able to see the marvelous good the LORD is doing, it’s time to celebrate and dance.

Remember the words we heard today:

“Then the prophet Miriam, Aaron’s sister, took a tambourine in her hand, and all the women went out after her with tambourines and with dancing. And Miriam sang to them:

“Sing to the LORD for he has triumphed gloriously; horse and rider he has thrown into the sea.”

Life is not easy and sometimes it is very hard, as the migrating Israelites knew.

But in the end they cling to the hope that would be sung by the psalmists who came after them:

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” (Psalm 30:5)

Amen.