Scripture | Luke 19:1-10

Good morning. I’ll begin this morning’s sermon with a song. I invite you to sing along with me, if you know the words. Accompanying motions are highly encouraged.

“Zacchaeus was a wee little man,

And a wee little man was he.

He climbed up in a sycamore tree,

For the Lord he wanted to see.

And as the savior passed that way,

He looked up in the tree.

And he said,

‘Zacchaeus, you come down!

For I’m going to your house today.

For I’m going to your house today.’”

As our collective chorus suggests, this is a popular song in many Sunday School classrooms. Though a significant portion of us did not grow up Mennonite–myself included–this song has crossed denominational boundaries. It seems many Christian traditions are intrigued by Zacchaeus’ brush with Jesus of Nazareth.

Yet, this song does not capture the complexities of the biblical narrative. The song tells us very little of Zacchaeus, and very little of Jesus, who invites himself into Zacchaeus’ home. The song reveals nothing that transpires after the invitation.

Luke’s text tells us that Zacchaeus is a tax collector. This career makes him wealthy, endears him to the Roman Empire, affords him a social and economic status unavailable to his peers. He is a messenger of Roman power, and holds a degree of political prestige, at the cost of communal respect and connection. The people despise Zaccahaeus.

This story comes toward the end of many others that depict Jesus’ life and travels toward Jerusalem, toward his eventual crucifixion. Luke is the only gospel that includes Jesus’ encounter with Zacchaeus. As we enter chapter 19, Jesus passes through Jericho, and the people gather. Zacchaeus is curious–perhaps even desperate–to catch a glimpse of this man, who is either renowned or notorious, depending on who is asked. Zacchaeus is so eager that he climbs a tree for a…

Text: Luke 18:1-8

Speaker: Joel Miller

The river is of the earthand it is free.  It is rigorouslyembanked and bound,and yet is free.  “To hellwith restraint,” it says.“I have got to be going.”It will grind out its dams.It will go over or around them.They will become pieces.

Wendell Berry, “Give It Time,” in Leavings: Poems

Let’s talk about prayer.  That’s what Luke says Jesus is talking about when he tells the parable of the persistent widow and the unjust judge.  “Then Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always, and not to lose heart.” Luke 18, verse 1.

If you’re like me, your relationship with prayer has changed over time.  Different phases, different stages.  Including that point where you step back and question the whole arrangement of making seemingly reasonable requests of the Divine who supposedly has power to affect change in earthly circumstances but has been noticeably non-interventionist during the worst moments of human history.  If prayer doesn’t stop the war, end the genocide, prevent the pogrom, arrest the madness of the capitalist fantasy of profit at all costs, burst the dam, what is it for?          

These are questions one will face if one chooses to persist with the practice of prayer.

One of the directions this can take is toward what’s called contemplative prayer.  This is where I personally have felt most at home in the realm of prayer for many years.  Contemplative prayer is less concerned with changing what God does and more focused on changing oneself.  Or, more deeply, it’s not primary focused on change at all, but simply being with what is.  Contemplative prayer is a way of dwelling with the deepest part of ourselves, which is pure attention and awareness, which is God within us.  It sometimes uses words but welcomes silence.

One of the leading 20th century…

Text: Luke 14:15-24Speaker: Mark Rupp

When I was growing up, one of my chores as a child was to take our leftover food scraps and chuck them into the cornfield that surrounded our country home. I don’t think my parents ever considered this “composting” in any sense that we think of it now, but there was at least a sense that these scraps would serve a better purpose in the field where things were growing than in the garbage bag that got taken away. 

But the thing was, as far as quasi-composting, this was an easy chore. Not only did it not require the sifting, aerating, turning and patient attention that we’ve been talking about with actual composting, we also did not do any kind of sorting with what got thrown into the field. Banana peels? Sure. Bones? Why not? Peach pit? Of course. 

I’m not sure if the farmer who owned the field ever knew we were doing this, and in retrospect, this may have just been well-intentioned parentally-sanctioned littering. Sure, we weren’t throwing pop cans and plastic bottles out there in the field, but I’m not convinced we were doing much more than keeping our garbage can from smelling bad.

Our sub-theme for today is “Gather,” and this week I’ve been thinking about the gathering that takes place with composting, but also about the reality that not everything belongs in a compost pile if it is going to be the life-giving space that it has the potential to be. 

In order to think about the potential that composting has and what lessons it can teach us, I think it can be helpful to think about what is, perhaps, the antithesis of a compost pile and name a simple truth: a compost pile and a landfill are not the same thing.

They may both hold…

Text: Luke 10:38-42

Speaker: Sarah Zwickle

I am grateful, and delightfully surprised, to find myself here today, gathered in this place with you.  My name is Sarah Zwickle. My husband Adam and I lived in Columbus from 2009-2014 as graduate students at OSU, new parents, and neighbors. Our daughters are 14 and 11 now! Time is a swift current. We still very much connect with this congregation, receive your news and prayer requests, and worship via zoom, now from East Lansing, Michigan.

Writing has been my creative expression for years. Speaking is harder. So before I begin to speak these words I’ve prepared, here’s a compost prayer:

May these words settle on each of your internal compost piles, break down into gifts that grow like wildflowers, that transform into what is nourishing and loving. In compost nothing is wasted, not even words, all are incorporated back into the whole. Amen.

Have you come across any snowdrops admiring the snow with their delicate, bowed petals? A crocus or skunk cabbage just beginning to reach towards the sun? We are balancing on the fulcrum of a seasonal teeter totter (what a great word) as it tilts back toward the sun. The cold soil is still keeping most of this season’s growth plans a secret, but Earth’s great inhale, held all winter, is at the very tip top of its exhale, ready to breathe out new life and warmth. Light, plant fibers, and wings are starting to stretch, to lengthen, or in Old English, to lencten, to Lent.

Let’s take a deep breath in through the nose.

Hold the breath for 3 seconds—like a little winter.

Now slowly release inner warmth from your body into the air around you—like newly hatched spring—lengthen your breath, your heartbeat, and your imagination.

Now imagine…in the corner of a garden, behind the barn, and in Rubbermaid…

Text: Luke 4:1-13

Speaker: Joel Miller

It’s hard to enter into the story of Jesus in the wilderness from the comfort of a church sanctuary.  A roof over our heads means we don’t feel the effects of the sun.  Being surrounded by four solid walls greatly reduces the odds of a wild animal roaming by.  There’s no wind.   We’re climate controlled at a pleasant 70 degrees.  There’s a drinking fountain just a few steps away.  There are restrooms with flush toilets and hand soap.  In short, anytime we gather here, and really almost any time in our modern lives, we are far from the wilderness.

It’s difficult to put ourselves inside this story of Jesus in the wilderness, but not impossible.  We have imaginations, and probably most of us have been, at some time in our lives, in a place we would consider wild.   

The wildest place I’ve been the last couple years is the Grand Canyon.  It was with two college friends I hadn’t seen in forever.  Four days and three nights, camping down in the canyon, hiking from the south rim to the north rim, and back again.  It was a lot of hiking with loaded backpacks, and since we hadn’t been together for a long time, a lot of talking.  It was a lot of old rocks, layered down to the exposed metamorphic Vishnu basement rocks, approximately 1.75 billion years old.  When rock is named after the supreme lord who creates, protects, and transforms the universe, it’s old.   

There was a well-worn path, but there were times in the less-traveled parts that felt pretty wild.  Like us soft-bodied relatively new-on-the-scene homo sapiens were flimsy guests in a landscape better suited for California condors and bighorn sheep.  And despite all our walking and talking, one couldn’t help but slow down and feel…