Lord, teach us to pray! Luke 11:1-13

I suspect that when we think about prayer, it’s usually in the context of what we do or, more precisely, in what we should do but we don’t. We think about our obligations to pray as Christ taught us. Pray without ceasing, the Scriptures say, but often our prayers are slap-dash, hit and miss. Let my prayers rise before you as incense, the lifting up of my hands as the evening sacrifice, the Psalmist prays, but our prayers are rarely so sweet and our hands are often lifted in frustration or in demand. Cast all your cares upon Him, St. Paul wrote, for He cares for you, but frankly our prayers are often spoken with more than a little fear, wondering – given the circumstances surrounding us – if He really does care, and if He really does listen, and if He really will answer. And, our Christian conscience knows this, it is troubled by this, and our prayer life – we use the word somewhat loosely – leaves us troubled. For the record, this is true for me as well. So, when the texts discuss prayer, it strikes closer to home for you and for me.

We know we ought to pray. We know we are called to pray. We know we are invited and encouraged to pray. Most of us would like to be people of prayer, faithful in our petitions that ascend in regular, ardent, and sometimes spontaneous moments, not just in times of crisis or need but in times of joy, and thanksgiving and praise.

One of our problems is that we are Americans, most of us of the generations that grew up being taught about hard work, pulling ourselves up by our own bootstraps, and taking care of things ourselves. We don’t like asking anyone for help – and this includes God. Rather, we prefer to manage, hit or miss, sink or swim, on our own.

And our Lord does this to cause us to return to Him. He allows us, in our foolish selfishness, to try to pray on our own, and He allows us, in our arrogance, to fail. That failure turns us away from ourselves and turn back to Jesus. It’s ironic – our success in prayer is in our failure in prayer. When we get out of the way and let Jesus take over, then “our” prayers – and I am using “our” in quotation marks, because it’s not really ours at all, but Jesus at work through us and in us – then our prayers become effective.

I have lost track of the number of times that well-intended Christians, people in the pew just like you, have asked me for a Bible study or a sermon on prayer. Usually what they mean is this: Pastor, teach us how to pray. Give us the right techniques so our prayers are answered by God in the way we want them answered. Tell us what to pray for, tell us the words to use so the prayer is pleasing to God and He hears them. This is nothing new. The disciples make the same request of Jesus in this morning’s Gospel lesson.

Now, put this in the context of the last two weeks’ readings from Luke 10. Two weeks ago, we heard the lawyer’s request, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” Through the parable of the Good Samaritan, Jesus taught that you don’t earn God’s grace anymore than the beaten traveler could rescue himself. The Good Samaritan is like Jesus, who stops and rescues each of us sin-beaten travelers when we cannot help ourselves. Then, last week, we heard the narration of Mary and Martha. Jesus, who comes to serve and not be served, reminds us that when it comes to our justification, He does it all. Don’t just do something, sit there.

What Jesus has emphasized repeatedly and forcefully in these two stories is the importance of faith in Him as Lord and Savior, and man’s inability to rescue and save him- or her-self. It’s about the Word of God in flesh, not our confidence in our own flesh. Jesus takes that same truth and applies it to prayer. God pleasing prayer depends on Him, not the person at prayer.

Jesus is the true prayer expert. Jesus whole ministry was one of prayer, interceding for sinners on earth. He stands before God and represents us in the Father’s presence, as a priest stood before the altar in the Temple. Time and time again, through the Gospels, you see Jesus prays – often by Himself, sometimes with the disciples, occasionally in public.  Jesus takes over for us and fulfills God’s call to be praying people. And, having ascended into heaven, until the day Christ returns, He continues to intercede for us. Yet, in a remarkable way, because He is also present among us on earth, He continues to connect with us.

So, Jesus takes prayer out of our hands, so to speak, and leaves it in His perfect hands and in His Word. It’s worth noting that the Disciples, in their request, are offering a prayer to Jesus. It’s simple, just a few words long. It’s humble, confessing they know not now to pray. It’s a confession of faith, that He is Lord and He will answer. They can’t do prayer, see? They trust Jesus will do it.

We pray the Lord’s Prayer so often that I suspect we have lost the awe and wonder of what Jesus teaches. In these few words, we are given a great insight into the compassionate heart of our Savior.

Father: You see an intimate conversation of a Son to His Father. But, it’s not just any son and any father – this is Jesus the Son speaking directly to His Heavenly Father. It’s unique, something that only Jesus can say. Yet, Jesus invites us to pray that with Him. But it’s not just a casual invitation for you to tag along as a third wheel, an extra who doesn’t really fit in. He shares His Sonship with you. By virtue of your baptism into Christ, you are united to Christ in both death and resurrection, in life and death. Joined to Christ, you are therefore also a child of God. God the Father sees you just as He saw Jesus at His baptism: You are my beloved Son; you are my beloved daughter.  By giving you this invitation to pray to His Father, He is including you in His relationship with the Father. You are able to act as if you were Christ, entering – through prayer – into the presence of God because you are dressed up with Christ and clothed with His righteousness.

Hallowed be your name, your kingdom come. Because you are in Christ, connected with Christ and clothed with Christ, and He is in and with you, you have His identity. You are Christian – little Christ. And, sharing His identity, you also share His vocation.  We live in a strange age when people talk about identity, as if it’s something you can pick up on the shelf at the mega-mart and change like t-shirts and shorts. Your identity, who you are, is grounded in whose you are: God’s. And, because you are God’s beloved Son and Daughter, your prayer is Christ’s: that the name of God is made holy in all that is said and done, and that it is holy-ed in our service to our neighbor in the name of Christ.  In other words, He is teaching us to identify with Him as God’s only beloved and to serve in His mission to the church and to those outside the church. We pray with Jesus that the Father’s Kingdom comes through Christ and with us.

Give us each day our daily bread. Forgive us our sins, for we also forgive everyone who sins against us. And lead us not into temptation.  I want you to notice something here – repeat these three petitions in your head, and pay attention to the pronouns. In the first two petitions, Christ joins us with Himself. Now, in these petitions, Christ joins Himself to us as He prays. Think of it: Jesus doesn’t need daily bread. He certainly doesn’t need forgiveness of any of His sins, nor does He need protection from temptation.  Where before, we gain our identity in Christ, in these petitions Jesus identifies with us and our needs, our worries, our sins, and our temptations. Jesus stands with us – not just in solidarity, but in perfect place of us.  Jesus stands for us.

Earlier I said that want to do things ourselves. But, what do you do when you can’t do anything about it – whatever “it” might be? You get help. God teaches us to pray by placing people in our lives who make demands that we can’t fulfill and with needs we can’t meet from our own resources. This could be a difficult child, a terrible boss, a worse employee, a problematic neighbor, an ever depleting bank account, unending medical tests, whatever “it” is.  Luther said, “People must feel their distress, and such distress presses them and compels that they call and cry out. Then prayer will be made willingly as it ought to be. People will need no teaching, then, how to prepare for it… (Large Catechism III, 26-27).

A couple years ago, a family at church imploded. One barely-legal child ran away from home. I made a bad judgement call and sinned ethically against the parents – maybe I’ll tell you about that another time. When I tried to confess and ask their forgiveness, I was told in no uncertain terms to never show my face again at that house, or else...and the else was clearly articulated. Let me be clear: I don’t blame them that they left the congregation or that that message was given to me. A couple years later, their daughter – still at home – got pregnant. She married the baby’s father. It was, by all accounts, a happy if difficult marriage. Gradually, the daughter’s parents warmed to their son-in-law. All was good. Then, one wet, rainy night, the daughter was killed in a traffic accident. I had confirmed these kids – both the one that ran away and the one who was killed. I watched, first up close and then from afar, as the parents were emotionally destroyed, once and then twice. I wanted to go to the funeral, I wanted to call, I wanted to go see the parents and offer my condolences, but I didn’t want to add even greater pain to what was already nearly unbearable for the parents. And, the echos of the “or else” still echoed in my head. I called my pastor. I cried, asking “What do I do?” I’ll never forget his answer: “Pray – it is the priestly thing to do, and it is effective and efficacious. God will hear, and He will answer, and He will provide for the family.” So, I knelt in our church while the family gathered in a funeral home twenty miles away. With my own heart breaking for them, and with nothing to give, I simply prayed: for peace, for hope, for grace, forgive us our trespasses…and thy kingdom come.

When we have nothing to offer, when we feel the weakest and have no strength in ourselves to do anything, that is when prayer become powerful. That is the prayer of faith that commends all things to the Father’s ears through Christ. Like the grumpy neighbor, we borrow from Jesus by praying for those people. In those moments, Jesus teaches us to pray – not with the right technique, nor with the right words – but with faith, faith that trusts that through our identity in Christ, God will see and hear us, and He will answer us for those people whom He alone can help.

Lord, teach us to pray.
And He does.[1]
Amen.

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[1] Great portions of this sermon are borrowed liberally, either directly or in paraphrase, from Rev. John Kleinig’s work on prayer.

Don't Just Do Something! Sit There!!! Luke 10:38-42

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

I am going to ask your indulgence a little bit this morning, for I begin with confession. The Bible does a lot of things – it convicts, it declares sins forgiven in Christ, it enlightens, it creates faith, hope and love. These things we know, these we expect, but this week I was struck by another and different feeling. As I began working with this morning’s Gospel lesson, the Mary and Martha narrative, I confess that this text has made me envious. Yes, envious. It took me a day to sort it out, and when I did I realized I was envious because it makes me wish that I could, like Mary – like you! – not just this morning, but on any given Sunday or any given day, for that matter. I wish I could be an average, ordinary disciple of Christ, who, on a Sunday morning, gets to sit in the pew and be fed; a baptized Child of God, gets to sit with the Word of God and simply read it and learn and grow from what the Holy Spirit does with that living Word. I am envious of you – you, who like Mary, have chosen the good part and sit to receive the Word.

The temptation for pastors – well, perhaps I should keep this personal and not speak for all pastors – the temptation for me is that the Bible becomes a textbook, or a professional document, that is to be dissected, analyzed and reported from. Think about how you read a math, science of history book, or how you analyze a statistical sales report, or how you consider market futures. You do these things to pass the test, or to report to your supervisor, or to make financial decisions for your business or ranch or portfolio. It’s tempting for me to treat the Bible this way.

I’ve been taught Greek to read the New Testament and Hebrew to work in the Old Testament. We learned how to parse verbs and to study sentences and grammar structure. This gets analyzed, along with historical background of the text, and then interpret the text over and against our modern context. Over the course of four to six hours, a sermon is produced, edited and delivered. Meanwhile a similar process is underway for Bible class.  And in the study of the Bible it’s easy to think of it as just a Biblios – Latin, for “book” – and less and less the Bible, that is, the very Word of God.

Make no mistake: I am not asking for sympathy. It’s a bit of a professional hazard, similar to a doctor losing sight of a patient as person, not just a number, or a teacher seeing just minds to be shaped instead of children wanting to learn. And, when we pastors add in the additional responsibilities of the parish with phone calls and pop-ins, with hospital and shut-in visits, with crisis care and not-so-crisis pitter-patter, with meetings and (let’s be honest) daydreaming, with family needs and personal needs, we get “busy.”

Busy. The adjective is accurate, for there is work, ministry, that needs doing. The other day, someone asked how it’s going and I rushed into my litany of things I was doing. They said, “Sounds like you’re busy,” and I nodded my head. Later, as I thought about that conversation, I realized something.  I was using “busy” more as a badge: I’m worth my time. Eugene Patterson says[1] that a pastor who considers himself “busy” is nothing more than an idol worshipper. The idol is himself.  No, wait…to be more accurate, the idol is myself. Much like Martha, scurrying around, cooking, cleaning, tidying, folding, sorting, fretting and finally fussing at both her sister and Jesus, I got busy being busy. I could argue – unsuccessfully, I might add – about the motives, it was for the good of the church, and so forth, but the reality was this: my Bible was open, but I was looking at it for sermon preparation, not as the living Word of God. Why, even reading for the Bible Book Club, it became a task of getting all 45 pages read for the week.  I forgot the one thing needful.

I suspect I’m not alone.  While our perspectives might be different, we all live in a busy, hectic world. Yes, you are here in the pew this morning, following in the footsteps of Mary, your sister in Christ, but we live in a Martha world. “Don’t just sit there, do something!” is the mantra that surrounds us, from Sunday afternoon through Saturday evening. The world demands production of goods and services. The world values movement, preferably at moderate to high speed. The world expects things to be right the first time. The world teaches us to keep up with the Jones’ next door, and that includes hectic schedules for the entire family. As long as we’re busy, we’re OK, and as long as we keep moving we don’t have time to stop and realize what we’re missing.

Yes, the world is much to blame for this – its temptation of busy-ness is very real. But, there is also the temptation from within us. The old Pogo cartoon, “We have met the enemy and it is us,” is sometimes more right than we care to admit. From within, our old Adam will resist the very Word of God that gives life and forgiveness and hope and joy and certainty. I wonder if there isn’t part of us that is simply afraid to engage with the Word, to be engaged by the Holy Spirit, to sit at the feet of Jesus and simply listen. We are so uncomfortable with being in the presence of God, who became flesh to dwell among us, that we cannot stand to dwell with Him. It’s easier to avoid Him than to be with Him…especially when our old Adam thinks we will be chastised and corrected. Or, or maybe it’s that we think we don’t understand the Bible, we can’t understand the Bible. We buy into the hype that it’s a book of mystery that the average layman can’t grasp, and – besides – that’s what our pastor is for, right?: to tell us what we need to know and get us into heaven and the rest can be skipped over.

Whether it’s the world or our own sinful flesh that temps us to stay busy and stay away, it’s a far cry from, “Be still and know that I am God” (Ps. 46:10). It’s a far cry from sitting in silence with the Word of God. It’s a far cry from letting Jesus speak to us. It’s no wonder that Christians frequently lament how far they feel from God, that it seems He isn’t present in their lives, that it’s almost as if He has left them behind.

Nothing could be further from the truth. I want you to notice something. While Martha scampers around, making food, preparing the table, and all the while getting more and more frustrated at the fact that Mary is doing nothing but sit, Jesus ignores her preparations until she finally stops in frustration. And then, Jesus speaks. He speaks to Martha. He chides her, but He isn’t ugly; He is direct, but He isn’t rude; He is correcting, but with love. Jesus gives her a Word, just as He has been giving words to Mary. He speaks and says, “You are anxious and troubled by many things, but one thing is necessary. Mary has chosen the good portion, which will not be taken from her.” It’s as if Jesus says, “Don’t just do something, sit here. You’re worried about dinner. Sit here, and let me feed you with bread that does not perish and with water that gives life. We can eat and drink, we can dust and clean, we can sort and stack, we can sew and knit another day. But today, today, know that the Son of Man did not come to be served but to serve and to give His life as a ransom for many. Sit, Martha, repent of the busy-ness, repent of the distractions, repent… Don’t just do something, sit here.”

So, as you go back to your homes today, and you go back to the “Don’t just sit there, do something” world of busy-ness tomorrow, do what you need to do.  Be faithful in your vocations. But in the silence – whether it is in the morning, before the busy-ness begins, or as you settle in for the evening, with the day’s work done, open your Bible. Jesus meets you there. And with Mary and Martha, be still. Don’t just do something; sit there. Sit there and receive the good portion, for it will not be taken from you.

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[1] Peterson, Eugene The Contemplative Pastor (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans Pub. Co, 1989), p.

Like a Good Neighbor, Jesus is there! - Luke 10:25-37

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. The text is the Gospel lesson read earlier, Luke 10:25-37.

An insurance company has a jingle that goes something like this – I’m tweaking it to not name names - “Like a good neighbor, [we will be there].” It’s a great slogan. It’s simple and catchy – I bet every one of you knows exactly what company that is. It implies a special bond, a special relationship. This company wants to be your neighbor, not just an insurance company. Your neighbors are people you know, people you like, people who know you. Neighbors, usually, are people very much like yourself. Neighbor brings to mind the good old days when you went next door to borrow a lawnmower or a cup of sugar, you would watch each other’s kids and hang out together. Neighbors are willing to help each other out. Why? Because you’re like your neighbors and they are like you.

But that’s also where the commercial gets in trouble. This insurance company wants you to be their neighbor, and they’re willing to be your neighbor, if you meet their standards. You walk into an agent’s office and fill out some paperwork. They run a background check on you, getting to know you – not as a person, but as data: any criminal history? Speeding tickets? How many miles do you drive? Two door or four door? What’s the construction date on your house? Does it meet all current building codes? What neighborhood do you live in? After all, we want to make sure you have good neighbors before we go too far in this relationship.

But what does it mean to be a good neighbor? That’s the question the lawyer was fixated on in this morning’s Gospel reading. What does it look like to be a good neighbor? To explain, Jesus tells a parable that very well could have been off the front page of today’s newspaper: Good Samaritan Saves Troubled Traveler. You know the story and you heard it again. A traveler gets mugged, beaten and left for dead. Two temple servants, a priest and Levite, pass by on the other side of the road so they can pretend they don’t notice his bleeding body – the very antithesis of a rubbernecker if there was one. The third passerby stops to render aid. The kicker is that this third traveler is a Samaritan. Jews hated Samaritans, and vice versa, so the fact that he stops to help a man – who, presumably, is a Jew (given the travel between Jewish towns of Jerusalem and Jericho) and, therefore his sworn enemy, is what makes the story memorable. He doesn’t stop and ask for references; he doesn’t ask for a background check; he doesn’t even consider his own personal safety – the bad guys could still be out there in the rocks and hills. He stops because he has compassion for the man who needs help.

Compassion is a powerful word. In the Greek New Testament, the word literally means to move one’s innards. We get an inkling of this when we speak of our physiological response to an accident or a terrible piece of news. We might say our heart dropped, or our stomach hurt. It’s because we are moved to compassion. In English, if we break the word down, the prefix “com-“ means “with” – that part’s easy. But the root, “passion,” probably isn’t what you think it is. You probably think passion has to do with love – for example, he gave his wife a passionate kiss. But, passion actually comes from a Latin root that means “to suffer.” Therefore, compassion means “with suffering.” The Good Samaritan suffers with the traveler. He gets down off his donkey, drops to his hands and knees and washes the wounds with wine and applies oil as a salve. He binds up  the wounds to stop the bleeding. He takes the wounded man to a nearby inn and pays two days wages for the man to continue to receive care with a pledge to pay any balance owed the next time he comes by.

In telling the story about a good neighbor, Jesus is actually telling the story of what love looks like. If compassion is a gut, visceral reaction, then love is compassion put into action. Love doesn’t sit idly by. Love responds without regard for the other’s status or ability to return love. You notice the Samaritan doesn’t expect repayment. There is no quid pro quo here, no tit for tat. No strings attached, no conditions, no expectations made on the part of the Samaritan for the wounded man. There is only compassion – love put into action. It is a gift given freely and without a limit. Love is open-ended and it is generous.

Now, Jesus asks the question, “Who was the good neighbor?” The lawyer answers correctly, identifying the Samaritan. Now, flip the question – who could not be a neighbor? Who couldn’t bring anything to the table? Who couldn’t negotiate, who couldn’t argue his case, who couldn’t even beg for mercy let alone demand attention? The traveler. Broken, beaten, bleeding, he was as helpless as a man could be. He couldn’t argue his case with his own countrymen, explaining why he needed their help. He was helpless. Not much of a neighbor.

Take that and go back to the original question: what must I do to be saved?

The Lawyer had answered the question with the summary of the law, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.” Jesus even commends the answer as being correct: do this and you shall live. “Do this and you shall live.” Consider the weight of those six words. Jesus isn’t lying – if you are able to keep the Law perfectly, without any spot or blemish on your record, you will live. But if you think the Law is something you can do for yourself and fulfill yourself by what you do and don’t do, you’re missing the picture. In reality, each of us is as broken down and beaten up as that traveler on the Jerusalem highway, dying in our sins and our sinfulness. Just like a dying man or woman cannot save himself or herself, no more can a sinner, who is dying in their sins, save themselves.

See this parable as a story, not of what you must do to be saved, but as a story of what was done to save you. Jesus descends, not from Jerusalem, but from heaven. He takes on human flesh and, even though He does nothing wrong, is hated and despised by his fellow countrymen, even being called a Samaritan. With no regard for His own life, Jesus’ great compassion moves Him to render perfect assistance. He cleanses our sin-scarred body with His blood and applies the soothing oil of His righteousness. He picks us up and carries us, not to an inn, but to the church where the body of Christ stands ready to carry on the work and ministry of compassion for the wounded traveler. The Church, Luther says, is a hospital for sinners where the soul is able to be restored to health in Christ.

The cost was great – and so is Jesus’ compassion. He pays the full price for our redemption, not with denarii and coins, but with His own blood. In the parable, the good Samaritan was the third passer-by. When the third day passes by, Jesus’ resurrection demonstrates that the payment was made in full and the Father – the innkeeper – marks the debt of sin paid in full. There is no more debt to pay. You do not earn eternal life. It is a gift of God, paid for fully and completely by the blood of Jesus.

Jesus is the perfect neighbor, filled with perfect compassion, enacting perfect love toward those who are loveless and unlovable. And when we realize that this parable is a narrative of what Jesus has done for each of us, something remarkable happens. The questions change.

Instead of the selfish questions “what must I do to be saved,” and “who is my neighbor?” the questions are no longer about me. Instead, the question and the focus change. “Because Jesus has saved me, how can I be a good neighbor and show compassion to those around me?”  

Perhaps you will have an opportunity one day to be a Good Samaritan and stop and render aid at the scene of an accident, putting into use the First Aid and Stop the Bleed training we did a few months ago. That will move you to compassion, trust me, and you will suffer right along with the accident victim, albeit in a different way. But compassion doesn’t have to be reserved for “big” moments and love doesn’t have to be held in reserve for special days. You can demonstrate compassion by calling a grieving widower, eating lunch next to an unpopular kid in class, or by talking with a stranger at Christ’s Kitchen who has missed more than one shower and who the rest of the world overlooks. In those moments, you are putting compassion – what moves your guts – into action and showing that person the love of Christ that rescued you.  

It’s easy to do this with people whom you love. In a sense, it’s easy to do with a complete stranger. But it’s harder to do with people who have hurt you, or you have hurt. That person who hurt you so badly in the past, and whose spouse is now critically ill? Have compassion – suffer with them. But it’s not comfortable to do that, you say. I agree. That’s what compassion is about, remember – suffering with. Reach out, in love, with a kind word, a cup of coffee, a shared meal, and a word of prayer.

And, when you see someone through the lens of the cross of Christ, and you are moved with the compassion of the one who died for you, when you act out of the love that Jesus has showered over you, what you might find out is that they’re not such bad neighbors after all.