Preached on the Second Sunday after Pentecost (Year A), June 11, 2023, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington by The Reverend Stephen Crippen.
Genesis 12:1-9
Psalm 33:1-12
Romans 4:13-25
Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26
Jerry Stiller as Frank Costanza, in “Seinfeld.”
Some time ago I was talking with someone about renting our space downstairs, and we were discussing the complications of parking and basic safety, given the various challenges posed by our neighborhood, which is of course on the front lines of the ongoing Seattle housing crisis. After several generations of national political and cultural conflict, major cities like Seattle have seen a slow, yet devastating, dismantling of the social contract: we simply do not live in a nation that reliably works together, giving people a hand when they need one, everyone doing their part, all citizens understanding that each of us receives good things from the whole, so each of us therefore should give and serve; we should do our part.
Of course this has always been a problem, down the whole history of the United States, and if I have failed to see that, it is only because I have enjoyed privileges that allow me to look away. Founded by slave owners, our nation gave the vote to women only about a century ago, and we seem always to have been quarreling with one another about how best to build and sustain a just society. It may just seem even worse now, and worse for more people, but the struggle has endured throughout this country’s relatively short life.
St. Paul’s is one of countless faith communities that work to cover the gaps, helping our neighbors while other institutions fall short, or even work against the causes we champion. This is what it was like for Jesus and his followers, too.
That’s the big picture. But in my conversation with the person who wanted to rent our space — like most conversations around the neighborhood these days — the stated topics were small and practical: where will people park? Are they safe walking from their car to our bridge door? How do they handle unwelcome visitors who might walk in during their event?
And then this person said something like this: “It’s a shame,” he said, “that quiet little churches like yours have to deal with all this.” “I’m sorry?” I replied. He clarified: “Well, you know, churches that are getting older, having to cope with all this.”
“Older.” “Little.” “Quiet.” These were not flattering descriptions of this parish I so passionately love and serve. An image flashed in my mind, as I suppressed my irritation at someone who evidently was condescending to us. I indulged a little fantasy. For one delightful moment I imagined responding to this person like the legendary comedian Jerry Stiller, who memorably played George’s father, Frank Costanza, on Seinfeld in the 1990s. When Elaine insulted his son George in the final scene of one episode, Frank looked at her in outrage and said something I honestly would love to have said to this guy, who called my beloved parish “older, little, and quiet.” Frank says to Elaine, “Are you sayin’ … you want a piece of me?” Elaine gives him a look and says, “I could drop you like a bag of dirt.” And Frank says, “You want a piece of me? You got it!”
Of course that’s not how Jesus responds to condescension. They laugh at him when he says the little girl is only sleeping, that she is not dead. Of course she is dead by their reckoning: they are world-wise in a weary world. Of course she is dead. Jesus sounds like a fool, a Pollyanna, a frivolous optimist. And anyway did you see him talking to that woman with a hemorrhage? He is ridiculous; the hemorrhaging woman is ridiculous; that the dead girl is just sleeping is ridiculous. They laugh at him. But Jesus rises above it. He is no Frank Constanza. He just keeps on doing his ministry, noticing and responding to the people who need it the most.
And Jesus notices and responds to sinners. “Sinners”: this is a complicated word. It doesn’t only mean wrongdoers. Depending on where it appears in God’s Word, it can mean wrongdoers; or it can refer to people like Judas who refuse to abide in God’s love; or it could be outcasts in a class-conscious society; or it could be a term for all of humanity buckling under the Power of Sin: we can all relate to the experience of being our lesser selves, messing up, getting lost. The world-wise people with good reputations criticize Jesus for befriending “sinners” like poor Matthew who sits in a tax booth colluding with the hateful empire, probably because he inherited the family business, and so he’s doomed to ply his father’s trade. Jesus doesn’t care if they criticize; he doesn’t care if they laugh. He’s here for Matthew, for the hemorrhaging woman, for the feverish girl asleep on her sickbed. Jesus knows these neighbors need a powerful community of support, not just a clutch of “quiet, little, older” people.
And those who laugh at Jesus — how quickly they forget Abraham, the father of many nations, so old that he was “as good as dead,” by the standards of the condescending world. God chose ancient Abraham and elderly Sarah to parent a whole nation, and eventually to gather all nations into God’s embrace. Abraham: another laughable old fool.
So, who are you? Are you decrepit Abraham or doddering Sarah, overlooked — or looked upon with condescending pity — by our ageist world? Maybe you’re the woman who can’t stop the bleeding: you’re battling chronic illness, and in our ableist culture you are well aware of your low status. Maybe you’re the sleeping girl: vulnerable, weak, unable to advocate for yourself. Or you’re her father, frantically trying to help your vulnerable neighbor. Or you’re sitting in your proverbial tax-collector’s booth, toiling your life away as you uneasily contemplate how your labor perpetuates an unjust and even cruel economy.
If you resemble any of these laughable people, hear this Good News: Jesus isn’t writing you off as dead. Jesus is your truest friend, and he is here to help you. Jesus is visible and tangible — he is incarnate — in this mighty assembly, the Body of Christ. This week a few of us lent our aid to an unhoused neighbor who suffered a catastrophic loss. At one point this person was sobbing with me on the phone, and I wasn’t the only one he called. It is horrible to beg for one’s life. He literally cried out to us, and we did not not look down with contempt, or shrink away in fear.
Our response was not “little” or “quiet.” We were the sleeping girl’s father in this week’s crisis with this neighbor. We were advocating forcefully — and sometimes frantically — for someone we love who is achingly, agonizingly vulnerable, as close to death as that centenarian nomad called Abraham, who (Paul tells us) “hoped against hope,” even though his body was “as good as dead.”
I am fiercely proud of all that we do in this youthful, vital community of faith. I am profoundly inspired and motivated by all that we are, and how we live out what we believe. Our love for our neighbors rises up in might from this mission base; our exquisitely musical prayers ring through creation; our passion — and our compassion — is a sign of the Dominion of God, right here. We often observe solemn silence, but we are not quiet. We are not little. We are not older. Now, sure, some of us are full of years; some of our strongest leaders are senior citizens. But others of us are not yet even ten years old, and all of us are mighty oaks like Abraham and Sarah, formed and sent to proclaim Good News with power and purpose.
God transforms the quiet, little, older ones, so that they will then transform this world. God in Jesus draws alongside hapless government officials and unwell women and ailing children and old crones, clothing them in dignity and raising them up as part of a loud, large, and vigorous mission. We have no reason to be modest about all that God is doing here, with and for us, and for our friends who live outside, and for all who cry out in need. And that’s why, if someone looks down on anyone in this house of God; if someone condescends to my friends at this gate of heaven — whenever someone does that, I may just say, with the fire of God’s own Spirit: “You want a piece of me? You got it!”