Joy & Lament

So, I’m going to start out this morning by saying something that may be a bit controversial.

It is unlikely that Jesus turned around and explained his parables.

That’s simply not the way that that type of story-telling—which was a common tool for teaching in first-century Judaism—was used.

The majority consensus amongst biblical scholars is that the explanation of the parable is editorializing by students and followers of Matthew when the oral history was written down.

Now, if it’s important for you to believe that Scripture is the inerrant word of God or even that all of this was written down by Matthew, a disciple of Jesus who was there, I’m not asking you to abandon that.

However, if you are troubled by the disconnect between a loving God who dispenses unconditional grace and fiery furnaces where sinners weep and gnash their teeth, this explanation may help clear up a few things.

So, today’s Parable of the Weeds is a follow-up to last week’s Parable of the Sower.

Some would say there is a disconnect between the picture I painted last week of a God sowing seeds with graceful abandon and this week’s story of that garden being infiltrated by evil.

Perhaps.

But I think the important point to focus on is Jesus saying, “No, if you pull up the weeds, you might take the wheat along with them.”

And I’ll tell you why I think that’s important.

Because we’re not always so good at distinguishing the weeds from the wheat as we would like to think.

We are living in highly polarized times.

Some in our country are celebrating political victories that they believe are just and provide them with hope for the future.

Others, me included, are grieving losses that we are convinced will bring hate, fear, suffering, and exclusion—all of which jeopardize our hope for the coming of the Kin-dom.

Even within this congregation, we sometimes find ourselves sitting beside people whose worldview is entirely different from our own.

Some arrived here this morning carrying nothing but joy.

Others arrived carrying only lament.

Many, including me, carry both.

And that, I think is the message that we need to carry away from today’s gospel.

We Lutherans are a both/and people.

It’s baked into our theology.

We are both sinner and saint.

Jesus is both human and divine.

At the table, there is both bread and body, both wine and blood.

In troubling times like these, we are inclined to focus on only one emotion.

We are encouraged to feel joy because God is good and we are supposed to see evidence of it in the world around us.

But sometimes it feels impossible to see goodness because the injustice and the suffering is just so damn overwhelming.

This week, Joan Sebastian Guerrero was shot and killed by ICE.

He was authorized to work in this country.

He had a social security number.

There was no warrant for his arrest or detention.

He was on his way to work, and his young life was snuffed out.

By a man whose own family has come forward to say he has a history of mental illness and violent behavior.

You may choose to join me or not, but I beg for God’s mercy because this crime has been committed by MY government, supported by MY tax dollars.

Lord, have mercy.

Christ, have mercy.

In another time, we might be able to shrug this off as a one-off—a one-time occurrence that doesn’t reflect our national character.

Unfortunately, this does reflect our national character.

And I hope that really ticks off each and every one of you.

It will tick some of you off because you think I’m being unfair—that we live in a world of laws and, if people would just comply, these tragedies would not happen.

My black and brown siblings would tell you that’s delusional.

They would tell you that “driving while black” is a real thing.

And that having “the talk” with their sons is not about the birds and the bees—it’s about surviving an interaction with law enforcement.

Others of you will be offended because you’re thinking I shouldn’t call it our national character because it doesn’t reflect YOUR character.

Congratulations—it doesn’t reflect mine either.

But your discomfort with my assertion doesn’t make it any less true.

People outside our country looking in see what is happening.

They see people detained under inhumane conditions.

They see people—both immigrants AND citizens—gunned down in the street by our government.

They see foreign governments calling for investigations into the deaths of their citizens.

They see human rights organizations—including the UN—accusing the United States of human rights violations.

The irony should not be lost on you that the United States, a founding member of the United Nations and a country that has never hesitated to point out human rights violations—except perhaps when they are perpetrated by Israel—is now accused of the very crimes we used to love to stand on a soapbox and rail against.

Again, you may choose to join me or not, but I beg for God’s mercy because those acts have been committed by MY government, supported by MY tax dollars.

Lord, have mercy.

Christ, have mercy.

My point here is I want you to be angry.

Because frankly, I don’t think we have been angry enough.

Sometimes, we just want to get lost in grieving the cruelty we see.

Sometimes, it is hard—if not impossible—to feel hope.

But without hope—without trust in God—all is lost.

So it is my hope that, just as it did for the prophets, anger will give rise to hope.

Hope that we can make a difference.

Hope that change is possible.

Hope that justice is possible.

Hope that there is no force more powerful than love—the love of God and the love shared between the children of God.

The parable teaches us that as followers of Jesus, we understand that we live in an unfinished world.

It is not harvest time yet.

The Kin-dom of God is near but not yet.

There will continue to be both good and evil in the world.

Both beauty and ugliness.

Both justice and cruelty.

Remember, we are both sinner and saint, my friends.

The weeds of sin grow alongside the wheat of good works in our hearts.

So, don’t be so quick to judge those you perceive as weeds.

We are the farm workers, not the farmer.

The farmer will dictate the harvest.

Our hope is in that harvest— when the Kin-dom comes.

Hope does not deny the weeds—the existence of evil.

Hope trusts the farmer.

We know that, in the Kin-dom, justice will be complete.

“God will wipe away every tear from our eyes.

And death, mourning, crying and pain will be no more…”

Until then, we live in the field.

We tend to the wheat—in spite of the weeds that may grow alongside it.

We love our neighbors as God loves us—unconditionally.

And we pray for our enemies—because they too are children of God.

Jesus’ story doesn’t end with the weeds.

It ends with the harvest.

And being in that in-between place between the planting and the harvest frees us to be people who can carry both joy and lament.

People who can weep at the sight of a 3-year-old girl in Bluey pajamas with a pink backpack who will never see her papa again.

And yet still rejoice with 11 children singing “I Just Wanna Be a Sheep”.

People who can shake their fists in anger at families separated at the border and in detention.

And yet still revel in the beauty of birdsong in the woods.

May God continue to help us hold the both/and.

And may this place be somewhere where the farm workers trust the farmer’s timing, despite our impatience.

May it be a place where we courageously seek justice for all our siblings.

And may it be a place where we remain full of the hope that the Kin-dom is near and God will have the final word.

May this meditation on God’s word keep our hearts and mind on Christ Jesus. Amen.