The Rev. Clare Fischer-Davies
St. Martin ’s Church
March 19, 2003
Lent III B
“You know that we have no power in ourselves to help ourselves. Oh indeed. God knows that. But I wonder if we know that."
In 1922, Karl Barth gave a lecture to a group of German pastors. This was in itself remarkable, because, though he was still in his thirties, Barth had already made a name for himself as a neo-orthodox theologian; he was a rising star in academic and ecclesiastical circles and there was great demand for his lectures. So this little group of pastors might have been both astonished and delighted that so great a man was coming to speak to them.
But when he arrived, Barth did not deliver a lofty, arcane theological address. He talked to these ordinary, humble clergymen as one who had himself served 12 years as pastor, and he talked to them about the most essential, most ordinary, most terrifying work in all of parish ministry. He talked about preaching.
Barth did not stroke their assembled egos. He told them that preachers are entrusted with the word of God, and that preaching is impossible. “It does not happen,” said Barth. “No one will ever accomplish it or see it accomplished.” Indeed, he said that taking the word of God upon human lips was the very height of brazen presumption. Preaching was not a human exercise at all, but a perilous journey into the heart of the living God. It could not be undertaken without deep humility and devotion. For Barth, poor preaching was not just laziness or inattention; it was blasphemy.
I expect that everyone in the audience was awake by then. No sleeping through this lecture. Barth went on to tell the assembled pastors that they must do more than not underestimate the power and importance of preaching; they must also not underestimate their congregations. The people they served came to church every Sunday with one question on their minds – “Is it true?” This is the question people seek to have answered in preaching and in worship; pious platitudes and sage advice can be had anywhere – only in church can people confront this ultimate question about God’s existence, God’s presence and God’s purpose.
Barth spoke to those pastors in 1922. The first World War left Germany in ruins, racked by the economic and political chaos that would lead to the rise of National Socialism and Hitler’s election only ten years later. These men were serving congregations in stressful, anxious, perilous times, times not unlike our own. Barth wasn’t just an ivory-towered theologian; he put his passionate faith into action. Like Dietrich Bonhoeffer, he was part of the confessing church, that group of Christians that dared to oppose Hitler. He was expelled from Germany in 1933, and continued to write and teach and preach until his death in 1968.
One thing I will never do is underestimate this congregation. I do indeed sit down at the computer and enter the pulpit with fear and trembling. I know that preaching here is honored and appreciated, and I know that you call out the best I have in me.
But I wonder how many of you would agree with Barth’s assessment of what people seek in the sermon. Do 21 st century Christians still want to know “Is it true?” Does the church have a unique purpose, an answer that can be found only in worship, prayer and the discipline of Christian community? Or is the church just one more voice in the cacophony of advice, self-help, spiritual guidebooks and general internet chatter. Instead of is it true, are people today more likely to ask, “Is it fun? Will it make me feel good? Will it affirm what I already think?”
“You shall have no other gods before me” and “stop making my Father’s house a marketplace” are statements about ultimate importance – about priorities and the ordering of our loves and our commitments. They are statements that challenge and provoke. They are statements that take faith and our quest for meaning seriously. They are statements that say, “This is true. You may give your life to this.”
It feels old-fashioned to read the ten commandments in worship. The English Reformation required that everyone being confirmed know the commandments, the Lord’s Prayer and the Apostles’ Creed. In a mostly illiterate society, the only way people learned them was to recite them week after week in the liturgy. Very few churches, even the most fundamentalist, read these in public any more; I expect that those who object think that it sounds too legalistic, too negative, too dogmatic.
But listen to the very first verse of Exodus 20: “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery.” All that follows is a predicate to what God has done for us. It isn’t about controlling human sinfulness; it’s about a grateful response to the love and grace we have already been given. The ten commandments are guideposts that help us look for answers in the right places: don’t get distracted by other idols, give yourself time for rest and reflection, honor and respect the other people in your life, keep a rein on all the things that draw you away from God. If you want answers to ultimate questions – if you want the fruits of deeper relationship with God – these are ways to keep moving in that direction – to stay on track – to stay focused on who God is and on God’s purpose for us and for the world.
The cleansing of the temple gets everyone a lot more excited than the ten commandments – it’s a powerful, cinematic image of Jesus striding through the outer courtyard of the temple, flailing his whip of chords and driving the money changers and the sacrificial animals for sale out before him. Matthew, Mark and Luke all place this event in holy week, only John puts it at the very beginning of Jesus’ ministry and connects it with a saying about how Jesus himself will replace the temple as the primary symbol and focus of faith.
Jesus is refocusing people’s attention. His act here is another way of saying “This is a distraction – a wrong-turning – this won’t take you where you want to go – this won’t answer ultimate questions.”
Bad news from around the world, from within our own country, our own government, our own city continues to bombard us. How can our faith sustain and guide us through perilous and challenging times? We want desperately to make connections between what happens here on Sunday mornings and what we do on Monday morning. I think that everyone wants what happens here to be about more than problem-solving, more than pious sentiments that just talk about how we’re all OK, more than just an affirmation of what you’ve already heard on Oprah or Doctor Phil. I think that, just as Karl Barth said, you may come with a thousand questions, but those questions all point to God. Is it true? Does it matter? Can I give my life to this?
Like St. Paul, we struggle with the gap between the good we want to do, and the evil we find close at hand. We struggle against all those voices that tell us this is sentimental foolishness. We pull against a culture that tells us the highest good is our own gratification. We wrestle with the temptation to put other things in God’s place and give our hearts to anything else but God.
The collect this morning is a very Barthian prayer. We have no power in ourselves to help ourselves. We may be made in God’s image, but we are not God, and we look to God for deliverance from all the things that assail us in both body and spirit.
In the end, in spite of all our sophistication, our education, our power and our affluence, the same things sustain us that have sustained people of faith for thousands of years. We gather as God’s people to proclaim God’s Word, and to offer God worship and praise.
It is true and it does matter. You can give your life to this
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