Sermon: "Why Church? Part 3: Kneel," January 26, 2020
Part of our series "Why Church?" The series is loosely based on Scott W. Sunquist’s book, Why Church: A Basic Introduction. Each week looks at a movement in worship to answer this question, in worship we:
come together
stand to praise God
kneel to confess
sit to listen to the Word of God
go out into the world
“Jesus went out again beside the lake; the whole crowd gathered around him, and he taught them. As he was walking along, he saw Levi son of Alphaeus sitting at the tax booth, and he said to him, ‘Follow me.’ And he got up and followed him.
And as he sat at dinner in Levi’s house, many tax-collectors and sinners were also sitting with Jesus and his disciples—for there were many who followed him. When the scribes of the Pharisees saw that he was eating with sinners and tax-collectors, they said to his disciples, ‘Why does he eat with tax-collectors and sinners?’ When Jesus heard this, he said to them, ‘Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick; I have come to call not the righteous but sinners.’”
Well, here we are. Week three of our series, “why church?” Here we’re looking at the shape of a worship service. How weekly worship provides us for answers to that question. Answers for ourselves, and answers for others when they ask. Or when we feel called to share.
The first week the movement was “Come.” We come to church. Last week, the movement was “stand.” We stand, and we sing songs of praise.
This week the movement is “Kneel.” We come to church to kneel. Now, we don’t literally kneel in this church, or in our branch of the Christian family tree. But we metaphorically, or symbolically kneel every week when we join together in the prayer of confession. We spiritually kneel each week to confess our sins.
Now, generally, I think this is the least popular reason for church there is. To kneel, to confess, generally has a pretty bad rap. Even among church people.
One summer I spent a few days at a United Church of Canada retreat center as a youth leader. They had chapel—a sort of mini worship service—at least twice a day. I was told by a fellow youth leader that there were guidelines as to what words should be avoided in worship services. One of those words, I was told, was the word Sin. I was told that “Sin” carried so much baggage for some, that hearing the word itself would trigger a reaction so intensely negative that it would disrupt worship altogether. No Sin allowed.
Now, this might not be entirely surprising to those of us familiar with the culture of the United Church in general. There are many United Churches that have dropped confession altogether.
But in some ways it’s understandable. The word “Sin” has been a source of anxiety. Something to be avoided at all costs. Don’t do this—or else. Or maybe it was used as a weapon. Sin and sinner would be words used to coerce, to manipulate, and to shame for undesirable behavior. Those of us who are gay likely have a particularly painful experience like this. But to be a “Sinner” would mean the opposite of being saved. Outside the realm of God’s grace. Headed to hell. In a handbasket or otherwise.
So no wonder so many of us have become averse to the word sin. To confessing it, or being called a sinner. Cuz it’s the worst thing ever.
It’s understandable. But the truth is that sin—the concept and confessing it—is a crucial part of Jesus’ ministry in the gospels.
The difference, though, is in the way Jesus uses it. Because for Jesus, to be a sinner isn’t something to be avoided. It’s something necessary. And embracing it changes us for the good.
Today’s scripture passage has Jesus hanging out at a dude named Levi’s house. Now, Levi isn’t the kind of guy upstanding, respectable people would wanna be seen with. Levi’s a tax collector. Which means he’s a dirtbag. Not only is he a traitor because he works for the Romans. He’s a cheat, because tax collectors squeeze cash out of people for a living—especially the poor and the defenseless.
So when Jesus ends up at a party at Levi’s house, people talk. Some Pharisees, it says, see Jesus rubbing shoulders and having a few drinks with this guy, and they can’t believe it. “Why’s this guy hang out with sinners?” they ask. And you know, they aren’t just being judgmental. They’re right about him, remember. This guy’s a sinner if there ever was one. To get a sense of how controversial this moment is, imagine what happens when the chief of police is caught having dinner at the local drug kingpin’s house. It’d be like a high profile Democrat accepting an invitation to Trump Tower. Why’s someone who is purportedly so good, and righteous, and holy like Jesus spending time with a guy like Levi? If you’re all friendly with a guy like this you’re enabling his bad behavior. Endorsing it, even.
But Jesus doesn’t see it that way. “Look,” he says. “People with a clean bill of health don’t need to visit the doctor, do they? Doctors are for people who are sick. I haven’t looking for the virtuous, the upstanding, or people with it all together. I haven’t come to call the righteous, but sinners.”
Here Jesus talks about sin not just as bad things we do, but as an illness.
And he portrays himself as a doctor, a physician, who comes to bring treatment to those who suffer. And the implication here is, of course, that it’s an illness that infects everybody. Because Jesus comes not to treat only a select few bad cases, but the entire human race. Even the Pharisees who are good, justice-loving, pious dudes are called by Jesus as sinners due to their self-righteousness. “I haven’t come to call the righteous,” he says, “but sinners.” Meaning everybody.
You see, we’re all human. We’re finite, we’re mortal. We’re born with limited perspective. Each of us is inhabited by varying degrees of self-centeredness. And even our best intentions can be clouded by self-interest. Whether we are outright scoundrels like Levi, or good folks caught up in self-righteousness like the Pharisees the truth is that we all fall short of God’s intention for us. Sin is universal. “No one is righteous, not one,” in the words of the Apostle Paul. We are all sinners. It’s not a bad name to call bad people, but an essential truth about life. Because sin is simply the human condition in its fallenness, in its brokenness as a whole.
So for Jesus claiming the title of sinner isn’t something to be avoided. Rather, it’s something to be accepted and embraced.
And he says that when we do, we’re actually opening the door in our healing, in our being freed from sin and its power. Because coming to terms with a diagnosis is always the first step in treatment. That’s what confession it all about.
It’s kind of like what the great blues musician Buddy Guy says—“Funny thing about the blues,” he says. “Funny thing about the blues—you play ’em ’cause you got ’em. But, when you play ’em, you lose ’em.”[i] That’s the paradox of faith, that in telling the truth about our brokenness we actually begin to transcend it. Funny thing about sin is you confess it cuz you got it. But when you confess it you start to lose it. We confess because confession’s part of the pathway to healing. We confess because it transforms us for the better.
Now I’m reminded of a story told by Jim Nestingen, a giant 6’6” Lutheran pastor from Minnesota.[ii] Jim tells this story of flying cross country in a tiny airplane shoved in a seat beside another guy who was just about as big as him. Thanks to their size things were pretty intimate, so conversation was pretty much unavoidable.
The guy started by asking Jim what he did for a living. Jim replied, “I'm a preacher of the Gospel.” But “I’m not a believer!” the man shouted over the loudness of the engines. Jim assured him that was okay, and they kept talking. Turned out that the man served in the army in Vietnam. And ever since he'd carried with him all the awful things he’d seen and done there. As they flew from one end of the country to the other he spilled out all of his guilt, his shame, and his hurt to this complete stranger.
When he’d finished, Jim asked the man, “Have you confessed all the sins that have been troubling you?”
The man seemed surprised. “Confess?” he said, seeming confused. “I haven’t confessed anything!”
“You’ve been confessing your sins to me this whole flight long,” Jim replied. “And I’ve been commanded by Christ Jesus that when I hear a confession like that to hand over the goods and speak a particular word to you. So, you have any more sins burdening you? If so, throw them in there.”
“No, that’s all," the man said. But then he grabbed Jim’s hand. “You don't understand,” he said. “I’m not a believer! I don’t have any faith in me!”
Then Jim did something odd. He unbuckled his seatbelt mid-landing and stood over the man, which made the flight crew nervous to say the least. “Well, that’s quite all right, brother,” he said. “Jesus says that it’s what’s inside of you is what’s wrong with the world. I’m going to speak faith into you.” And he raised his hands—like Ingrid and I do every Sunday in the assurance of grace: “In the name of Jesus Christ,” Jim said. “In the name of Jesus Christ, and by his authority, I declare the entire forgiveness of all your sins.”
The man was even more bewildered than the was before: “You can’t do that!” he shouted. To which Jim responded, “I can! And I just did! And I will do it again!” And he said it again.
The man began weeping uncontrollably until finally he began laughing uncontrollably, all the way down the tarmac to the gate. As the two men were grabbing their overhead luggage, Jim grabbed the man’s hand and gave him his card and said, “You’re likely not going to believe your forgiveness tomorrow or the next day or a week from now. When you stop having faith in it, call me and I’ll bear witness to you all over again and I’ll keep on doing it until you do—you really do—trust and believe it.”
The man did. He called him—literally, called him on the phone—every day until the day he died, just to hear those same words. “You are forgiven.”
Like Levi in the story approaching Jesus, this man was taking the first step on the path to his own healing. You see, in coming to terms with who he was, speaking the truth, confessing his sin, this man was accepting the truth of his diagnosis—our diagnosis—as human beings. And in speaking words of forgiveness, pastor Jim was simply applying the cure of Christ. A cure this man returned to day, after day, after day, until the day he died. Simply to be reminded of its truth.
Why church? Because here, we don’t have to pretend that we’ve got it all together. We don’t have to delude ourselves into thinking we've got all the answers, or that if we’re not good and right about everything somehow it’ll all come crashing down. Nor are we imprisoned by our pain, or our past deeds. No. It’s here we’re able to confess. To kneel, to tell the truth about our lives, and about our common spiritual condition without fear, but with the glad expectation that there is indeed a cure. That our failures are met with mercy. That our hurts are met with healing. And that our sins are met not with punishment, but with forgiveness. A forgiveness that promises to not only bring us joyous release like an afflicted man, forgiven by a stranger on a plane. But one that also promises to make us the kind of people who extend, who proclaim, and practice that same forgiveness. Like Pastor Jim.
Why church? Because Christ didn’t come to call the righteous, but sinners. He calls you, he calls me, as we are—not as we oughta be. And that’s good news. News worth hearing every week. Every day, even.
AMEN.
[i] David Remnick, “Buddy Guy is Keeping the Blues Alive,” The New Yorker https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2019/03/11/buddy-guy-is-keeping-the-blues-alivev
[ii] The following story was adapted from this sermon: Jason Micheli, “Nude Faith,” http://tamedcynic.org/nude-faith/