by Matt Fitzgerald
October 8th
Mark 4:1-20

Today my heart is hurting and hopeful at one and the same time.   I am sure you have your own response to the news of my resignation.   And we will try to address that question in a few minutes, but first let's set our response to the news of Epiphany's transition under the pressure and the love of Jesus' story, so that God might take our emotions and shape them.

I remember sitting in an incredibly complex systematic theology class during my third year of seminary.   The professor was in the middle of a lengthy monolog trying to explain the influence of German Idealist Philosophy on the thought of Paul Tillich.  He was performing an expert backstroke in the deep end of the pool, meanwhile, trying to keep up, his students were drowning all around him.  I don't think a single person in that classroom understood a single word of his lecture.  Eventually, a brave evangelical in the front row raised his hand and said, "Why do we need such a convoluted interpretation of Jesus?  What's wrong with the plain meaning of scripture?" The professor wheeled on him and said, "There is no plain meaning.  Jesus has been interpreted since the moment of his birth.  The New Testament is nothing but the complex elucidation of Christ.  If you don't like the interpretation of God's revelation then you can't like Christianity."  Strong words, but this morning's lesson proves them true.   Scholars believe that the parable of the seeds can be neatly divided into the first half which dates back to Jesus, and the second half which he never spoke.  We'll begin by exploring those words they think did cross Jesus' lips.   

If you listened carefully you heard him separate the seeds into four categories.  Those that the birds ate, those that withered in the shallow soil, those that were choked out by weeds and finally, the fortunate ones that found a home in good earth and grew to thrive.  But really, there are only two groupings: the seeds that took root in healthy soil.  And the others that withered, died, failed.   

Imagine that you are in the crowd on the lakeshore, listening intently as Christ reveals the majesty of God.  Even though there are no walls on the beach you are pressed in, elbows at your side, the back of someone's head inches from your nose.  The crowd is huge.  So large that Jesus has to wade out into the lake to address it.  The hem of his robe grows heavy as it soaks up water.  Deep now, up to his chest, he lifts himself, a bit awkwardly maybe, up onto a moored fishing boat and begins to speak, using the water as an amplifier, his voice skipping like a thrown stone across to the shore and the crowd.  He knows these people are eager for his instruction.  And he knows that they must make a choice, will they follow him or won't they?  It is a life and death decision.

And so he says, "Listen! What do you make of this?  A farmer planted seed.  As he scattered the seed, some of it fell on the road and birds ate it.  Some fell in the gravel; it sprouted quickly but didn't put down roots, so when the sun came up it withered just as quickly.  Some fell in the weeds; as it came up, it was strangled among the weeds and nothing came of it.  Some fell on good earth and came up with a flourish, producing a harvest exceeding his wildest dreams.  "Are you listening to this?  Really listening?"

And then, the truly honest men and women in the crowd think to themselves, "Yes.  And I have no idea what you're talking about." Sometimes it seems that while Christ comes to teach us everything we can know about God, we still grasp very little.  As Stanley Hauerwas says, "God's revelation discloses a mystery." Jesus comes and shows us who God is, yet all the while he speaks in riddles.  He beguiles and shrouds in the very act of clarifying. 

This habit of answering our questions with a puzzle is frustrating to anyone who turns to Jesus for advice.  In this regard you and I are much like the members of that crowd on the beach.  His first audience didn't know how high the stakes were, and since then most Christians have forgotten.  We don't turn to Jesus because our very survival depends on him.  Instead, we listen to him, quite carefully at times, for wise teaching.  How to live more joyful lives, how to forgive, how to find God.

Important questions of course, but not as important as survival.  And here is where things get interesting.  In an ironic historical turn, although most members of Christ's first audience did not think of him as a lifesaver, as soon as they formed the church, almost all of their immediate descendants did.

The Gospel of Mark was written about 35 years after Christ's death.  Maybe forty years after the events recorded in this morning's story.  It was written in and to a community that suffered for its commitment to Jesus.  Those second generation Christians were ostracized by their families for betraying the true and Jewish faith.  And their loyalty to the Prince of Peace was beginning to make the Emperor suspicious.  This radical little sect had something unhealthy about it.  Any religion that asked its adherents to serve a King whose name was not Caesar deserved some scrutiny.

With their hearts broken because their parents had rejected them, some left the church and headed home.  And with their reputations threatened because the Emperor was anxious, others left the church and ran back into the world.  The early church was shrinking just as it had begun to grow.  And while the church's leaders were glad to see her, the last member to join their gathering was nothing so much as a fresh face on a dying scene.

And so in their gatherings and in their day-dreams, the early church's first leaders begin to run Christ's words through their minds, searching for a Word to save them.  Very little was written down.  Instead, they have the memory of memories, stories told and re-told.  Including one about Jesus preaching from a boat, comparing his revelation to a handful of seeds.

If we are frustrated upon turning to this vague talk of seeds and soil, weeds and stones for advice, imagine how agonizing it must have been to turn to it for nothing less than survival. 

Those early Christians scratch their heads.  And then they start discussing what Jesus might have meant, what he intended to say, how, exactly, strange words spoken 40 years ago might have meaning in their lives today.  They talk and search and press their best against Chris's words until eventually, they figure it out.  Jesus shines a light.  Inspiration strikes. 

Around the fire one night, they tell the story of the seed sermon again and then someone says, "I've got it! "The farmer plants the Word in our hearts.  We gather together as the Church and God plants a seed in our souls.  Some people are like the seed that falls on the hardened soil of the road.  No sooner do they hear the Word than Satan snatches away what has been planted in them.  And some are like the seed that lands in the gravel.  When they first hear the Word, they respond with great enthusiasm.  But there is such shallow soil of character that when the emotions wear off and some difficulty arrives, there is nothing to show for it.  The seed cast in the weeds represents the ones who hear the good news but are overwhelmed with worries about all the things they have to do and all the things they want to get.  The stress strangles what they heard, and nothing comes of it.  But the seed planted in the good earth represents those who hear the Word, embrace it, and produce a harvest beyond their wildest dreams."

And now, every time they tell the story, they include their interpretation.  Until eventually Jesus' words and the early church's explanation become one story.  One story strong enough to hold their besieged community together.  Strong enough to save it.  Why are people leaving?  Because they are shallow, because they have no character, because they love the world so much, they cannot love the church.  Because the powers of evil are determined to derail the peaceful way of Jesus.  Why should people stay?

Because once God's Word is implanted in your soul you will thrive! Those who stay in the church learn moderation in a culture of excess.  They practice purity in a world of lies.  They learn generosity in a culture led by me mine more.   They teach loyalty to their children even though loyalty is long out of fashion.  They prize constancy over innovation.  Discipline over self-indulgence.  Peace over national security.  Humility over self-aggrandizement.  They strive to be content, not opulent.  Modest, not boastful.  And so those who stay, those who sink their roots down into the church's good soil, they will live joyful and abundant lives.

Imagine some first-century Christian turning to a wavering disciple who wanted to leave her congregation when the going got tough.  "Listen.  Outside this gathering the world will define you by the mistakes you've made, by the wounds you've inflicted on the ones you love, by the scars you carry, the addictions you've suffered.  But inside the Church we are teaching that Jesus has already redeemed you, and we see you for who you truly are: a new and beautiful creation.  Don't go.  Sink your roots down.  The soil is rich.  Stay, thrive."

Now all of this begs an important question: is the portion of this morning's lesson that Jesus didn't speak less legitimate than the words which actually crossed his lips?  Of course not.  The early Church was in a crisis, and Christ himself came walking through the door to save them.  In their hour of need Jesus gave them the insight and the wisdom, the story, that they needed to survive. 

It is probably apparent to you why I chose this particular text for this morning.  My great and somewhat egocentric anxiety is that the news of my family's departure will diminish Epiphany's vitality.  That some of the people who joined this church under my pastorate will leave now that this period is ending.  And so my intention was to use this lesson like a club.  Jesus says the ones who drift away are shallow, they have no character.  Who wants to fall into that category? 

But we've been avoiding shame-based preaching for seven years.  Why start now?  So I reconsidered.  Of course I could have spun the lesson in a positive direction and said that no matter who stands in this pulpit the soil in this is church is good, life-giving.  So stay, stay and thrive. 

That is true of course.  Powerfully true.  But I want to say something else.  The construction of this morning's lesson, the history of its composition, suggests that just when the Church is in a crisis, just when a congregation starts to reel, stumble, wonder, Christ will come walking through the door to guide, inspire, clarify, solidify, to save. 

Thank God.  For in this tradition there is no wise man in an outrageous hat and fancy robe who will appoint a new minister for Epiphany.  Perhaps no other moment in a congregation's life illustrates how radically the UCC takes the reformation as the moment when a local church begins searching for a new minister.  Before the Reformation authority ultimately lay in the teachings of the bishops, and finally in the words of the Bishop of Rome, the Pope.  In the early phases of the Reformation, the rallying cry was "Sola Scriptura," "by scripture alone." But in the later, more radical phases of the Reformation, from whose roots this church has grown, authority was seen to reside in the depths of the individual conscience, the individual experience, the individual understanding.  No more will Church hierarchy tell us what we are to believe.  No more are we bound by a particular particular understanding of the canon.  Instead it is our individual experience of God that will guide us. 

Now to some of you this might sound liberating.  But to my ears it is almost terrifying.  For if modern history has taught us anything it is this: the individual conscience is not entirely trustworthy, individual experience is not the greatest guide.  And so left to our own devices it seems our church should flounder.  And we would.  But we are not left to our own devices. 

There is no Bishop to guide you Epiphany.  And the Bible may well prove a frustrating mystery as you begin to search for a new minister.  But the moment you begin to stumble, wonder, even cry aloud, "who are we now and where will we go?" Christ will shine a light.  Inspiration will strike and this church will emerge even stronger than before. 

Late last week I met with Brenda Weigelt, a woman who has seen Epiphany through great change and several pastors.  I confessed my fear that in the uncertainty before us, some people might begin to drift away.  She smiled and said, "Now pastor, why would they do that?  Things are just about to get exciting." She is right of course.  For if you ask for knowledge Jesus will give it you.  Inspiration will soon strike.  And with it Christ himself will soon come walking through the door.  Praise God.  Amen. 

Pastor Matt Fitzgerald

Epiphany UCC

October 8, 2006