The Reverend Seth Ethan Carey
11/19/06
First Congregational Church, Glen
Ellyn, Illinois
Firstconge.org
Most of my friends aren’t exactly what you’d call “down-home church folk.” It’s not that they aren’t decent human beings; it’s just that they’re extremely cynical people. Inspired by vague memories of their traumatic childhood days, most of them think of church as a place to eat cardboard wafers and get yelled at—or just a place to fall asleep.
But the worst thing about the church, many of them tell me in conspiratorial tones, is that the church is after your money. Growing up in the 1980’s, they were weaned on the explosion of TV evangelism that rocked the airwaves in that decadent decade. They saw one too many shady preachers begging for cash:
“Our Lord Jesus Christ is calling out to embrace you. Now I want you to reach deep into your hearts— and your wallets—and take his hand.”
It’s gotten such that a lot of people—such as my friends—don’t really understand what the church does with it’s finances, other than pay for the minister’s Armani suit collection. Not so long ago, a friend of mine told me that if she were to give money to the church, it would have to be for something truly worthwhile; it would have to be for a good cause, something to make people’s lives better, something to make the world a better place.
“Something like a bathroom attendant,” she told me. “The church could hire a bathroom attendant.”
Indeed, there is something irresistible and timeless about a man in a tuxedo standing in the restroom on Sunday morning. But when the apostle Paul talked about the need for servants in the church, somehow I don’t think that’s what he meant.
***
I suppose it’s understandable that those who want nothing to do with the church would have some strange ideas about stewardship and offering. But even those of us who are so heavily invested in this community would surely benefit from a better understanding of sacrifice, and what it means in the larger context of our tradition.
One of the most important things to understand is that the God our spiritual ancestors worshipped several thousand years ago is a little different from the God we worship today. For many mainline protestant churches of the 21st century, God might be described as a gentle, loving force that creates and flows through all things. We see God all around us, in the beauty of nature and in the benevolence of humanity. And while we believe that God has the power to do anything, God’s power is often seen as secondary to God’s love.
But in the ancient world, such concepts would have seemed alien to believers. In those days of tribal warfare, divine power was essential. Most people still believed in a plenitude of gods. And if any given god lacked power, or failed to act in people’s lives in a visible way, then that deity would soon find itself in the heavenly unemployment line, unworthy of worship.
The God Israel called Yahweh, the God of the Old Testament, is not such a God. Yahweh is powerful beyond reckoning, and demonstrates that power in antiquity by liberating Israel from the oppressive Egyptians, crushing the Egyptian army under the weight of the Red Sea. You might say that God passed the interview with flying colors, and from that time on the followers of Yahweh testified to this power.
Now, while the Israelites wandered in the desert, they carried with them the Ark of the Covenant. This housed the tablets of the Ten Commandments, but it was also believed to be a conduit for extraordinary power—the power of God. This power was so dangerous that anyone who touched it would be struck dead by otherworldly electricity. After the Israelites settled in Jerusalem and built the Temple there, this power was transferred to the Temple’s inner sanctum, known as the Holy of Holies.
For Israel, this sanctuary of stone was a gateway to God. Only priests were allowed to enter the chamber, and they did so with rope tied around their waist, lest the divine power overwhelm them and they couldn’t escape.
***
In the ancient world, it was believed that to look upon the face of God, directly, was a very bad idea. And to touch it was certain death. And that is precisely why many theologians have argued that God took human form in the man of Nazareth, Jesus Christ; because it was the only way for God to come to us, to cross that great divide between the Heavens and the Earth, between divinity and humanity. It was the only way we could look God in the eye and live.
Back in seminary, I took a class where we discussed such matters, a class called Systematic Theology. For the most part, it was about as fun as it sounds.
But one thing I did enjoy was arguing with my TA, a young Austrian scholar named Edwin. I gave the poor guy a lot of grief with my often-unorthodox views—so much so that he once took points off of a paper I’d written for heresy. But I remember another conflict we’d gotten into over the power of God. He said that while God had the power to do anything, we shouldn’t take that statement too literally. God could not, for instance, create a rock so large that God couldn’t lift it. He also said that God couldn’t eat ice cream.
I took great issue with this, and angrily told Edwin that God could eat whatever God darn well pleases.
But looking back, I can see Edwin’s point. God can’t eat ice cream because God is too powerful. If God so much as looked at an ice cream cone, it would melt.
And according to the ancient Israelites, so would we.
But while they believed that God was infinitely powerful, the power itself was not infinite. And that’s where sacrifice comes in. In the ancient world, it was commonly believed that gods drew their power from the offerings of their believers. Animals would be sacrificed and burned into ash, thus releasing their life force and slaking the divine thirst, satisfying the almighty hunger, and replenishing God’s power.
These sacrifices were commonly known as burnt offerings.
In our first scripture reading from 1 Kings, we get to see this in action:
“Then the fire of the Lord fell and consumed the burnt offering, the wood, the stones, and the dust, and even licked up the water that was in the trench.”
Just listen to the language here: God “consumed the burnt offering,” and then “licked up the water that was in the trench.” Make no mistake here—this is God’s lunch. Unfortunately for God, there’s no ice cream for desert.
***
Now if all of this sounds kind of weird and anthropomorphic, I remind you: this is rather different from what most of us believe today. In fact, in the modern world, people tend to believe that God doesn’t need anything from us at all; wants, maybe, but doesn’t need. God is supposed to be perfect, after all, and one who is perfect doesn’t need anything from anyone.
But long before this more modern theology became popular, the burnt offerings became stale. There were those in Israel who grew weary of those who sacrificed animals to God but failed to practice God’s commandments. They saw priests burning meat and grain to a cinder while poor people went hungry on the street outside, and what they saw made them furious. Amos was one such prophet, and our other scripture passage this morning is a record of his testimony, in which he gives voice to God’s desire:
“Even though you offer me burnt offerings and grain offerings, I will not accept them…but let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”
And that’s what the church tries to do. We try to pursue justice and righteousness and love in the name of God, in whom love and power are coiled into one. Dietrich Bonhoeffer once said that the church is “the world as it’s meant to be.” And we do our best to live up to that honorable distinction. We do our best to create disciples, to promote spiritual growth, and to engage the world beyond our walls.
But with great power comes greater responsibility. And just as the God of the ancients relied on offerings for power, so too does the church. With enough resources, there’s no end to what we might accomplish. We’re stewards of those resources, of that power, and it therefore falls upon each one of us to be stewards of our church. And with enough time, talent, money, and grace, we can do more than we ever dreamed was possible.
But in all of this, we remember that stewards are not kings. Christ is our king, and our power. And I think our ancestors were right to believe in the immensity of that power.
But if we’re faithful to our God, we can channel that power to give more to the poor. We can channel that power to fight harder for justice, and to grow more deeply in our faith. We can stop worrying about building maintenance and start doing the work God has given us to do.
We can make a difference in each other’s lives. We can make a difference in the world God gave us. With God’s guidance, we can find a new kingdom.
But I wonder: will there be bathroom attendants in the Kingdom of Heaven? I guess we’ll find out when we get there.
Amen.