[Propertalk] Fwd: GoodPreacher.com Preaching Matthew 11: 16-19, 25-30

Sat Jul 2 10:12:29 EDT 2011

Free Resource from                      GoodPreacher.com!

Preaching Matthew 11:                    16-19, 25-30

Woe to you,                    Chorazin! woe to you, Bethsaida!…And for you,                    Capernaum, will you be exalted to heaven? You shall                    be brought down to Hades. 

Sometimes Matthew sounds                  like such a Monday morning quarterback, doesn’t he?

We are in the thick of a                  long string of judgment texts, here, and I can                  appreciate that Matthew had his work cut out for him;                  really, I can. There were people to teach and                  doctrines to reconcile. There were to sins to expose                  and scores to settle. There were agendas, no                  matter where you looked. Matthew must have felt like                  he was walking on eggshells, which is no way to win a                  football game. If his tone gets a little smarmy and                  I-told-you-so in places, perhaps we can forgive him                  for that; telling a story in retrospect, without any                  commentary at all, is hard for an evangelist to                  do.

There is still the                  matter of all these Woes! to preach.                  Historical context and empathy only takes us so far;                  you can’t preach context. Not instead of                  gospel, anyway. So where to go? 

Look to the end of this                  passage. Did you notice what comes right on the heels                  of the Woes! section? No sooner does Jesus                  finish lambasting those high-and-mighty,                  good-for-nothing towns than he abruptly turns around                  and offers one of the gentlest words in scripture. 

Come to me, all who                    labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.                    Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am                    gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest                    for your souls. 

Does this strike anyone                  else as curious?! Righteous indignation followed by                  warm invitation. Zealous anger paired with tender                  comfort. Judgment—and grace. Even for the cities that                  deserve it least. Even for those who rejected Jesus                  himself.

I don’t think the                  placement is accidental, on Matthew’s part; these                  things rarely are. What an astonishing picture of                  Jesus’ depth of love and spirit that he can extend                  such grace to those who hurt and betrayed him most.

As I reflected on this,                  I was reminded of something that happened to me a few                  years ago.

Everyone knows that our                  Roman Catholic sisters and brothers have lived through                  a very difficult period, as more and more priests were                  brought up on charges of sexual abuse of children.                  Hardly a year goes by that we do not read of yet                  another trial, with its share of secrets, cover-ups,                  and wrecked lives. As Christians, we surely join in                  prayer for all those who have suffered at the hands of                  priests. We pray for their healing, and for the                  healing of the church that betrayed them. We pray for                  new life and truth to renew God’s people.

But the priests                  themselves? Well. That’s a touchier subject. Praying                  for those who have damaged the littlest of these                  verges on the unthinkable, for some of us; the pain is                  just too deep.

For years I thought                  about the crisis in the Roman Catholic Church as                  something that was happening to the family next door.                  I could bring the equivalent of a meal, a hug, a                  shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen, but it wasn’t                  really wasn’t mine, any more than my                  neighbor’s diagnosis of cancer is mine. Then one                  morning I opened The New York Times and                  read a first page article about a number of priests                  who had been arrested in my home state. I scanned the                  list, not really expecting to see a name I                  recognized—and went numb. There he was: Father M. The                  priest in my hometown. The priest of all my Catholic                  friends. The priest who presided over the first                  funeral I ever attended, of a ten-year-old classmate.                  The priest who presided over the many funerals I                  attended in high school, of friends killed in car                  accidents. The priest who ministered to my best friend                  when her father died, our senior year. The priest we                  all loved. The priest the whole town loved. The priest                  who stood for everything good and right and who even                  supported women in ministry, which made an impression                  on me. He was there, on the front page: a                  name followed by a list of accusations. How could this                  be? How?

Woe to you, Father M.                  Woe to you and all those who brought hell to these                  little ones. Woe; oh, woe. You shall be brought down                  to Hades. 

I thought about how the                  list of accusers probably contained people I knew. I                  thought about how the abuse, if it happened, was                  probably going on while we were growing up. This                  wasn’t happening to the family next door, anymore.                  This was my family. I might never know the                  extent of the damage.

Then I remembered                  something else. At every Catholic funeral I attended                  in those years, Father M. always preached from the                  same text: this text. Come to me, all                    who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you                    rest. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

It was an amazing                  sermon—the first sermon I truly remember, actually.                  The church would be packed, since these were the                  funerals of children and young people, and Father M.                  would come down from the pulpit and speak straight to                  us. "How can this yoke be easy?" he would ask with                  quiet intensity and love. "How can Jesus say this to                  us, today of all days? Our hearts are broken. We can’t                  carry anything. But he promises us—I don’t                  know how, but he does—that we will find rest. We will                  find rest in him. He has already taken on the yoke for                  us."

Woe to you, Chorazin.                  Woe to you, Bethsaida. Woe to you who bring hell to                  these little ones and so to us all.

But the promise is for                  all of us, even the damned: We will find rest for our                  souls. Somehow. Some day. In spite of the words we                  preach and cannot live.

Anna Carter Florence
-------------- next part --------------
An HTML attachment was scrubbed...
URL: <http://stsams.org/pipermail/propertalk_stsams.org/attachments/20110702/53d5184e/attachment.htm>