16 September 2007
Carolyn L Roberts
Luke 15.1-10

Last week, I had an extended telephone conversation with someone who wanted to know if our church was one of the ones that believed in music. Obviously, he’s never visited us in person, or he would know we have fantastic music! It took half a nano-second for me to figure out “Sam” thought he was talking with someone from the “Church of Christ.” It’s a pretty common misconception among churched people—especially for those coming from the more fundamental end of the theological spectrum. Once I identified the United Church of Christ as distinct from the Church of Christ, he wanted to know a bit about us. I talked about the merger in 1957 that brought two already-merged denominations together. Then I talked about taking scripture seriously, not literally, about ordaining women. That’s where I stopped. Sam’s response was mostly “Hm-m,” with a summary comment that at this point, he’s much more of a ‘live and let live’ kind of guy. Apparently, that’s a change from the authoritarian home in which he’d grown up, where God was viewed primarily as judge, but Sam doesn’t believe that so much any more. Now he sees God as more compassionate, caring about people in need. In essence, Sam now understands God to be in the business of grace.

That sense of grace lies behind our trilogy of parables about ‘the lost’ in this part of the gospel according to Luke: the lost sheep, the lost coin, the two sons—each of whom is lost in his own way. We read two thirds of that trilogy this morning. These parables are staples of Christian art and children’s Sunday School lessons. But even in their familiarity, Jesus is inviting his hearers to join him in re-imagining. Not re-imagining of the Star Trek variety, that draws not on aliens and outer space, but re-imagining that uses the very common—a shepherd, a homemaker—to sketch out a world different than the all-too-familiar world dominated by kings and armies, power and might. Re-imagining that ties his hearers to their theological heritage—“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” and then exaggerates for both comic and theological impact. A shepherd who abandons 99 sheep—his livelihood—will not be a shepherd long. A flock without a shepherd soon falls prey to wolves and other predators.

Re-imagining is an increasingly-critical theological practice in our time too. As I speak, we see a world seduced by power and might, rushing like lemmings after the most recent option for economic leverage, or latest weapons system, or the most disciplined militant followers. And lest we think this is confined to Iraq or Pakistan, last week’s news held yet another report of an ostensibly Christian group here in the United States that is training its children, military boot-camp style. At least from my perspective, this training is different from militant Islam and Judaism only in its theological underpinnings. If Karen Armstrong and Marcus Borg are correct, and I believe they are, fundamentalism in all of its guises, is a modern phenomenon that came about precisely as one reaction to modernity. Incidentally, Armstrong’s history of fundamentalism, The Battle for God, has been around for several years now, but it is a tremendous resource to help us understand some of the dynamics behind contemporary fundamentalist movements in Christianity, Islam, and Judaism. Their roots trace back to the beginnings of modernity in Europe from the time of the Renaissance. And as she notes in her analysis, the common denominator is fear—fear of fundamental challenges to a particular world view.

Armstrong is right to call it “the battle for God.” We are witnesses to a period like the Spanish Inquisition—effectively initiated the same year that Christopher Columbus bumped into the Americas on his way to the Indies. This isn’t just a battle over whether the sacred name is Yahweh or Allah or God. It’s also a struggle as to how we understand the God we worship. And therein lies the rub. When we hear the majestic strains of the “Hallelujah Chorus” of Handel’s Messiah, we hear praise to the “Lord God Omnipotent,” reigning as the “King of kings,” and “Lord of lords,” titles taken piecemeal from the book of Revelation in our Christian scriptures. It’s exquisite music, and it thrills me every time I hear it, but I am no fan of the images it lifts up, no matter how biblical they are. Not only are they exclusively male, but even making God superior to the most notorious of the world’s kings—Caesar, King Henry VIII, or Napoleon—is hardly a compliment.

This is a comparison Jesus avoids. Even the prayer Jesus teaches his followers, the Lord’s Prayer, or “Our Father,” emphasizes the relational, the familiar. And of course, in today’s reading, includes the commonplace, casting images of God as those of people with no social standing. Forget the Christmas carols. All our romantic notions of fluffy white sheep, rolling green hills, and bucolic days is precisely that: romance. The shepherd’s task is 24/7. It is smelly, dirty work, and those who do it are not invited to king’s banquets or black tie events. But a good shepherd takes care of his flock and keeps them from harm. It is a rough-hewn image that carries suggestions of perseverance and dedication and attentiveness, coupled with a deep understanding of the needs of the sheep.

Luke pairs this image of God with that of a woman who has lost one of ten silver coins, so she lights a lamp and sweeps her home until she finds it. I was vacuuming the other day and heard the recognizable sound of something small and metallic being sucked up in the nozzle and corrugated tube of the vacuum. Only I didn’t hear it thud as it was pocketed in the disposable bag. Sure enough. When I turned off the machine, the thin dime lodged in the tube tumbled out. That plus the change I collected in the recesses of the couch netted me about $.87. Not bad. But $.87 is not enough even for a macchiato at Starbucks or a gelato at Rita’s. For me, a few coins don’t amount to much. It’s pocket change even if Bank of America is betting that their ‘keep the change’ program will have a noticeable impact on the saving habits of American participants.

But if you are very poor, even a single coin can make a difference. My housecleaning was routine; the woman’s is desperate. One of the many stories of World War II is that of the Jewish mother sending her two young daughters away with instructions to walk a certain direction. Only in cases of dire emergency was the eldest to remove a fabric-covered button from her coat. The buttons were actually four gold coins, and in fact, they bought safety for her and her sister during that horrific time. Think about this: God sifting through house dust, retracing her steps till she finds the coin she’s lost. Jesus counters images of God as high and lifted up—enthroned in the holy of holies and served by the seraphim and cherubim, along the lines of Isaiah’s vision—with images taken from daily life and experience, images that are simple and accessible. But the most important part of these images is that God is not enthroned, served by the adoring multitudes. Instead, God is down and dirty, doing the hard work of finding the lost.

Ultimately, the images of God we find in the book of Revelation rival the images of Caesar. This is in stark contrast to the image of Jesus’ birth we find in the gospel according to Luke, the image of Jesus in a manger. And once again the choice is before us. Do we follow Jesus, who parodied Caesar and Rome’s military entrance into Jerusalem with his own entrance on a donkey? Do we follow Jesus, who cast images of God as one frantically but carefully, intentionally searching for the lost? And for throwing a party once the lost is found? It depends on the kind of world we are creating. But only one of those worlds bears the marks of grace.