Sunday: 5th Sunday after Pentecost C
Reading: Luke 9:51-62
Preacher: S. James Steen

In 1985 I was involved in a controversy in Washington, DC, that was both the most painful and, possibly, the most transforming event in my life. I had just taken an action that I believed was absolutely necessary for the future of our institution, and it's not an exaggeration to say that all hell broke loose. I was vilified even in the Washington Post. The bishop and parish leadership were solidly behind me; but others were furious, to say the least.

My way of dealing with the controversy was to reach out to those who were displeased, rather than bringing the matter to a necessary but painful conclusion. I kept calling on those who were unhappy, attempting to find a compromise solution. But I soon discovered that this was alienating my supporters, who became angry with me and at one point complained, "You're spending all your time with the enemy. What about those of us who want to support you and move forward?" At that moment, about a month into the matter, I felt more alone than at any time in my life. It literally seemed as if everyone was against me. People called for my resignation. With a sense of utter despair and impending disaster, I lay curled into a ball on the floor of my living room, believing, for the first and only time in my life, that to fall into a black hole would be a blessing.

But as I lay there, a new understanding slowly emerged: Not to act would assure disaster. Committing myself to do whatever was necessary to bring the matter to a conclusion was risky, but it was the only way the situation might be turned around. After awhile I got up and called the bishop and told him that, if he would still support me, I was ready to take decisive action. He said, "Absolutely!" We called a meeting of the parish leadership the next morning and moved forward. What followed was brutal, but this time I remained committed to see the matter through, and later on when it finally came to a conclusion, I knew that both our community and I had been changed by what had taken place. In the years that followed, the parish flourished as never before, and I experienced a new confidence and a new freedom. It was like being given a new life.

About a hundred and fifty years ago, a woman named Annie Johnson Flint, whose most remarkable quality was her refusal to allow crippling arthritis make her turn back from living a productive life, wrote these words:

Have you come to the RED SEA place in your life
Where in spite of all you can do
There is no way out, there is no way back
There is no other way but through?

Annie Flint was, of course, hearkening back to the Hebrew slaves in Egypt, who stood on the banks of the Red Sea, trying to summon the courage to forge ahead, knowing that there would be no turning back once they began to cross, knowing that the path to freedom would pass through terrible hardship. Of course the path is never straight and, even after fleeing Egypt, the Jews moved forward by fits and starts, sometimes celebrating their freedom as a divine gift, but at other times cursing their lot and wishing they were still slaves in Egypt, where at least life had been predictable. Yet in the end, their bold rejection of slavery and staying the course served - and continue to serve - as reminders of what is best in their tradition and in the human spirit.

As we approach the Fourth of July, the 231st anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, we can be certain that, as the signers declared the people of our land free from the yoke of the English King, they found inspiration in that Exodus, which had taken place nearly three millennia earlier.

Yet any student of American history will know that they did not easily reach the point of decision. Our forebears approached and backed away from declaring independence more than once. In fact, there were those who finally returned to the mother country rather than committing themselves to move forward. But how the course of human history has been changed - and mostly for the better - because a few extraordinary people caught the vision and summoned the courage to move forward when they reached their Red Sea Moment!

In today's Gospel, Luke gives us another image for choosing life and freedom: The Gospel tells us, "When the days for Jesus to be taken up drew near, he set his face to go to Jerusalem." I love that image. "He set his face..." To me it speaks of total, resolute commitment, but commitment that grows out of an intense personal struggle. And, as if the challenge weren't already sufficient, from the moment Jesus makes his decision and sets his face, people begin to challenge him and make the journey more difficult because of their own fear of what lies ahead.

The Samaritans reaction to Jesus setting his face toward Jerusalem is to reject him utterly. This is just one more episode in the longstanding controversy between Jerusalem Jews and Samaritan Jews about where is the right location to worship God. But surely this is also the reaction of people who are frightened by the implications of Jesus' commitment to face whatever comes in Jerusalem. "Associating with this guy could get me into big trouble."

But it's not only the Samaritans. As soon as Jesus sets his face toward Jerusalem, his followers begin be equivocate. They want to follow him, but not yet. They say, "I want to follow you; but first let me..." pay my bills or straighten up my house, or whatever! They're not ready to follow Jesus to the Cross, not yet. What we have here is the eternal "not yet." There will always be an excuse to avoid what we're afraid to face.

The people in the story who aren't quite ready to commit remind me of what happens in an intervention with a person who is addicted. I've been involved with several, and it only works if you can get the person to accompany you to a residential treatment program immediately. You must have made all the arrangements, and you must be prepared for every excuse. "I can't go now because there is no one to take care of my dog." "We've already put your dog in the kennel" "I have to wash and pack my clothes before I can go." "There's a bag in the car with everything you need." "I have to make a presentation at work day after tomorrow." "Your boss is so glad you're doing this and is looking forward to your returning to work in a month."

In the Gospel story, one of these "but first let me" statements is pregnant with meaning: ""Lord, first let me go and bury my father," [to which] Jesus [says] ..., "Let the dead bury their own dead." Marcus Borg believes that this may be Jesus' most radical saying. For "within Judaism, the duty to bury one's father was one of the most sacred obligations, overruling even Sabbath laws." It would be radical enough if Jesus only said that it's more important to follow him than to honor this burial custom. However, he goes even further and, in essence, he says that anyone who chooses to postpone the commitment to follow him is making a decision to be spiritually dead.

Yes, "Let the dead bury their own dead..." But we should remember that even Jesus, right up to the night before his execution, prayed to be spared the ordeal that awaited him. And, like many of Jesus sayings, his indictment of the man who asks to postpone following him in order to bury his father also contains an invitation to reclaim life by accepting the call to move forward. I believe that his invitation is always there, no matter how many times we procrastinate or turn back; for the whole point of Jesus' ministry is to announce a kingdom of abundance, a kingdom that comes closer every time we choose life.

Amen.