Plowing the Field
1 Kings: 19:15-16, 19-21
Galatians 5:1, 13-25
Luke: 19:51-62
I was a born and bred city girl of the
worst kind — smugly confident that, by virtue of my residence, I had
advanced beyond my countrified peers. Even after my first year at
Kansas State College of Agriculture and Applied Sciences (now known as
Kansas State University), I remained convinced of my greater
sophistication.
Until the first time I visited the farm home of the boy I was
dating. Eager to please his family, I readily accepted the
invitation of his ten-year-old brother to tour the hen house and help
gather the eggs. I noticed several hens among the dusty straw and
roosting on the timbers of the hen house, but something was
missing. I turned to the boy. “Where is the rooster?” I
asked.
He eyed me suspiciously. “Why do we need a rooster?”
Well, duh, I thought, and then proceeded to totally humiliate myself. “How can you have eggs without a rooster?”
I will never forget the withering look he shot me. “Dumb, dumb, dumb,” it said.
Given my ignorance of all things agricultural, perhaps you
can understand why Jesus’ admonition to his disciples in today's
passage from Luke never made sense to me. “No one who puts a hand
to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” [Luke
19:62] What I learned in researching for this sermon opened my
eyes to what any farmer worth his salt has always known. If one
looks back when plowing a field, the furrows will be crooked.
A theme in today's readings is the cost and necessity of leaving the
past behind and looking forward — of plowing a straight furrow.
We heard this morning about Elisha, who, coincidentally, was plowing
when Elijah cast his mantle over him, thereby anointing him as his
successor as a prophet. Elisha bids farewell to his mother and
father to follow Elijah. But his devotion to Elijah and to God
involves a significant sacrifice and commitment. Elisha
returns and slaughters his oxen, thereby by eliminating any possibility
that he could ever return home and resume his livelihood.
Likewise, Paul exhorts the Galatians to leave behind the desires of the
flesh and the customs of their pagan society — fornication,
licentiousness, idolatry, sorcery, and drunkenness, among others — in
order to embrace the fruit of the Spirit — love, joy, peace, patience,
kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.
In other words, to seek a new way of living and being.
Finally in Luke, we puzzle over Jesus’ seemingly harsh responses to
those who sought to follow him. When the first so confidently
says, “‘I will follow you wherever you go,’” [Luke 9:57] Jesus points
out that doing so includes deprivations and will result in
homelessness. Even animals have dens and birds, nests, he
warns. But the Son of Man has no such sanctuary and, by
implication, neither will his followers be guaranteed something even as
basic as shelter.
When Jesus invites the second man to follow him, he is ready . . .
except for one thing. “Lord, first let me go and bury my father.”
[Luke 9:59]. A seemingly understandable request, until we hear
Jesus’ answer: “Let the dead bury their own dead; but as for you,
go and proclaim the kingdom of God.” [Luke 9:60] Jesus points out
that there can be no return to life as it once was, lived among people
who are dead to the Spirit. The call is to go forward — to
proclaim the kingdom.
The third volunteer is quite willing to follow Jesus, but only after he
says farewell to his family. A reasonable condition, but,
nevertheless, a condition. “No one who puts a hand to the plow
and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God,” Jesus says in response.
This passage from Luke is difficult, because it teaches us so very
clearly that we can put no conditions on discipleship. Jesus
surely lives this in his own life. Think about it. There
were no conditions on his final journey to Jerusalem and the
cross. How he must've longed to linger on that journey,
perhaps to return to the safety of Nazareth, and even at the end to
sidestep his destiny as he prays. “My father, if is possible, let this
cup pass from me.” [Mark 26:39] But to fulfill God's purpose,
there was no turning back, no “conditional” Calvary.
Our Lord's teaching and example call us to task, we who so often put
conditions on our life in Christ. Perhaps, like me, you sometimes
respond in this manner. I will follow you, we say, when:
It's convenient.
If I'm comfortable with what I'm supposed to do and be.
If I can be in control.
If I don't have to give up too much.
If it doesn't disturb my routine or the life I'm happy with.
For me, one of the most humbling aspects of serving on the
diocesan Commission on Ministry is being privy to what can happen to
human beings when they explore a call to the ordained ministry.
Their “yes” cannot be conditional. In many instances, they
struggle with following their call because responding so often
involves radical changes in lifestyle and direction.
What Jesus is saying to his followers in Luke, he says to us today.
Following him involves nothing less than unconditional commitment.
So what might it look like, in this day and age, if we were to put a hand to the plow and not look back?
Let me share one such example. When I last preached, I spoke
about how Larry and I, some years ago, helped to start a new mission
church in Edmond, Oklahoma, called St. Francis in the Fields.
This work involved a handful of dedicated souls willing to meet in a
day care center and dreaming of creating a Christian community and
ultimately constructing a building that would attract our unchurched
suburban neighbors.
It wasn't easy. Each Sunday morning we had to move the daycare
tables and chairs, the molded plastic forts and playhouses, the
tricycles and easels, in order to set up folding chairs and a makeshift
altar, and then reverse the process following the service. Music
was provided by the one lady who could play the piano, albeit not well,
or by the lone guitarist in our midst. Not the most ideal worship
situation.
But that's the thing about the Holy Spirit. God dwelt in that
sanctuary, and lives were transformed around His table. People
who would never before, under any circumstances, have volunteered to
read aloud, read the lessons. Those brand new to the Episcopal
church took classes to become acolytes and chalice bearers. The
choir was comprised not of trained voices, but of those who could carry
a tune and were willing to “make a joyful noise unto the Lord.”
No talents or gifts went unused.
One of the insights we all gained at St. Francis is that Church is not
a building. And yet we were thrilled when the diocese bought land
and helped fund the construction of a sanctuary, one into which we had
all put much prayer and thought. Our joy knew no bounds when the
Bishop celebrated that first Eucharist in our new home.
But this is not a happily-ever-after story. Or maybe it is.
You decide. Our new church was geographically wedged between the
established Edmond church and a larger Oklahoma City church,
which also had a new and even bigger building than we did.
Both churches could each offer more amenities, programs, and services
than could we at St. Francis. And, alas, our mission field was
transient. No sooner would we attract new members than they would
be transferred out of state. During those years, many people
came, were fed, and left. Ultimately we lacked the financial
resources and critical mass to sustain our existence.
A year and a half after we moved into that beautiful sanctuary, the
Bishop deconsecrated the building and closed the church. There
was grieving, of course. For our community and for our shared —
and failed — dream.
How easy it would have been, my friends, for the people of St. Francis to look back.
To be angry with the Bishop or
To become disenchanted with the institutional church
To feel that their enthusiasm and individual talents had been
rejected
To figure why go the trouble of serving God if, despite one's
best efforts, it all falls apart
Easy to be governed by the “what might have been” rather than the what can still be.
For a time, as you might expect, there was some of all of
that. But in the end, the actions of the men and women in that
congregation reflected the theme of our readings today. They left
behind the old ways to embrace the new. They “put a hand to the
plow” and didn't look back. Although we scattered to different
churches, even in some cases to different denominations, so far as I
know each and every person sought involvement in their new church
homes, something most might not have done if they hadn't found and been
blessed by the community at St. Francis.
Spiritual growth and change come with a price — in this case the
dissolution of a church. But also with unimaginable rewards.
It occurs to me that we at St. James’ have come to a time of prayer and
reflection concerning what it might mean for us to “put a hand to the
plow” and not look back. If we are to reach those who are hungry
for the Gospel, perhaps we, like those at St. Francis, must embrace
what lies in front of us, not cling to what is behind us.
Currently, Edie is guiding us in re-examining some of our assumptions
about the culture in which we live and about the notions of “church” we
hold — guiding us also to consider fresh ways of being the church in
this time and place.
Thinking about my own life, as I “look back,” I realize how strongly I
do, indeed, cling to the familiar: to the liturgies I love, the
convenient times of services, the music I grew up with, and the comfort
of people rather like myself. How easy it is to preserve that
view of church and to reject any change. We humans take solace
from things remaining the same, but there is grave danger in such
paralysis. In so doing, we risk plowing a crooked furrow, one
that will yield a meager harvest.
We live in an era different from that in which most of us grew
up. Young people today do not assume Sunday morning is sacred or
that their time would be better spent in worship than in recreation or
much-needed rest. They do not subscribe to the theory that
children should be seen and not heard; quite the contrary, being
together as a family is a priority. Yet even in what some of us
might label as indulgent and hedonistic times, there are those, young
and old, who hunger for God's word, who thirst for the Eucharist, and
who would be loved into the Body of Christ.
Perhaps we might ask if we can afford the luxury of “looking
back.” Or whether we choose to turn our hands — and our wills —
to the plow. Outside our church doors lies a fresh and fertile
field ripe for planting. Do we look back, content to plow a
crooked furrow, or do we, with God's help, steady our hand and fix our
eyes on the path ahead?
As Jesus told those early would-be followers, the cost may be
difficult, but the alternative? Listen again: “No one who
puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”
The field is waiting.
Amen.
Laura Shoffner
1 July 2007
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