Whenever we are able to spend some time together, my son Oliver and I try to go to a rock concert that bridges our generational interests. Last month in Los Angeles we drove out to Ontario, California to hear Bob Dylan and John Mellencamp. My hearing should be returning shortly. Several years ago, we made a longer trip to Nashville and Memphis to see some of the sacred spaces of American popular music. In Memphis we visited Sun Records and Graceland. In Nashville we went to hear a concert by the great George Jones at the Ryman Auditorium, the original home of the Grand Old Opry.
George Jones humbly bills himself as “the greatest country singer of all time”. In order to prepare for the experience of basking in his august presence, Oliver had bought the CD George Jones 16 Biggest Hits and we listened to it a couple of times on our long drive south from Philadelphia to Nashville. George Jones did a long and wonderful show the night we saw him, but for me the high point was a song from early in his career which was not on the CD. It was a song called “Sinners and Saints,” and when he announced it the crowd went wild. I understood why when I heard the refrain:
The only thing different in sinners and saints:
One is forgiven, the other one ain’t.
Now “Sinners and Saints”, like all George Jones songs, is a sad tale of a guy who cheated on his woman (who of course then left him), so he now is left to sit alone in a honky tonk drinking wine, but with this difference: whereas in most country songs like that, the singer merely laments his new unhappy life, in this song the singer gestures back at those who would point at him the finger of self-righteousness. “I know I’ve messed up my life. I’m not sure you do.”
The only thing different in sinners and saints:
One is forgiven, the other one ain’t.
The song “Sinners and Saints” reminded me of the definition I once heard of a martyr: a martyr, they say, is someone who is married to a saint. Is there anything worse than someone who revels in their own sanctity? The audience at the Ryman didn’t think so, and neither do I. We all stomped and cheered every time George Jones let loose with his refrain.
The only thing different in sinners and saints:
One is forgiven, the other one ain’t.
This morning’s Gospel [Luke 15:1-10] presents us with two of Jesus’s most familiar yet troubling parables: the stories of the lost sheep and the lost coin. He tells these stories because, as Luke tells us, some were complaining, "This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them." By way of answering his critics, Jesus tells us of a shepherd who leaves his 99 safe sheep to go look for the one that was lost and carries it back to rejoin the flock. “Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.” He also tells us of a woman who has ten silver coins and, losing one, turns the house upside down and searches until she finds it. In both cases, the message is clear: “Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.” “Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents."
These stories are well-known and so familiar. But they are also troubling. Do those ratios make sense to you: 99 safe sheep to one lost? Nine secure coins to one missing? Jesus talks of a God who is willing to act rashly on behalf of those who are lost, a God who seems to take for granted those who are found. If you’re listening closely, these stories might make you angry. That’s fine for the shepherd and the woman, but what about rest of us? Is Jesus really saying that one lost person is more important to God than 99 of us who have gotten up early on Sunday mornings week in and week out to be here?
The only thing different in sinners and saints:
One is forgiven, the other one ain’t.
One of the ways I get at the parables of Jesus is to ask myself this question: Who in this story is Jesus asking me to identify with? Remember that Jesus told these stories in the first place because a group of Pharisees were complaining , "This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them." So he tells a story about those who would call themselves “insiders” and those whom the insiders would call “outsiders”. And for Jesus to tell a story in which the shepherd or the woman abandons a large group of insiders to search for one lonely, lost outsider would really make you angry—IF you identified with the so-called insiders. “Here I am, one of the 99. Who does this shepherd think he is to leave me helpless while he seeks for one lost, lonely sheep?” Of course this story will make us angry if, like the Pharisees, we have defined ourselves as people who are worthier of attention than is someone else.
But what if you shift your perspective for a moment and think of yourself primarily as an outsider? In the terms of Jesus’s world, that would mean you’re neither part of the Roman or Jewish elite. You’re a simple, probably poor and hungry, Palestinian Jewish peasant. Because of economic and social conditions you might find yourself doing something disreputable for a living. You inhabit a culture and a world that tells you you’re not worth very much at all.
And then you hear Jesus telling you that he’s willing to sit at a table with you because, like God, he is one who cares for the lost, the lonely, the alienated, the outcast. And he makes the outlandish claim that one of you is more important to him than 99 of the so-called respectable people. Sure, a statement like that would make the respectable people angry. But wouldn’t it make you feel pretty good?
There are all kinds of ways you and I get ourselves into spiritual trouble. But the number one way, in my estimation, is our tendency to rely on our qualifications as a guarantee of our status. The Pharisees weren’t really bad people. They were good, rule-abiding folk who made the common mistake of believing too much in their own sanctity. When Jesus began his teaching ministry in Matthew’s Gospel, the first thing he said was, “How blest are those who know their need of God; the kingdom of heaven is theirs.”[Matthew 5.3, New English Bible] I get myself into spiritual trouble when I forget my need of God. And I forget my need of God when, like the Pharisees, I take my own sanctity too seriously. I get myself into trouble when I see myself and my interests as tied to those of the haves rather than the have-nots. I get myself into trouble when I think of myself as one of the presumptively safe 99 rather than as the lost one.
The only thing different in sinners and saints:
One is forgiven, the other one ain’t
So here is how George Jones would help Jesus pose today’s question: Are you going to think of yourself as a saint or a sinner? Do you want to be holy and self-righteous, or do you want to be whole and forgiven? Are you going to consort only with people as pious and respectable as you think you are, or are you, like Jesus, going to welcome sinners and eat with them? “How blest are they who know their need of God. “ Those who are heavily invested in an image of their own respectability do not know of their need for God and so, like the 99 in the parable, they are pretty much on their own. It’s only those of us who “get” that we really do need some help who can become the ones whom God goes in search of. If you’re like me you can become dazzled with your own accomplishments and so forget your need of God at the drop of a hat. It’s only by God’s grace that things keep happening to us that allow us to open ourselves up to God and our own need.
Today is Homecoming Sunday here and Christ Church Cranbrook, and the tendency for the preacher on occasions like this is to say something self-congratulatory, to the effect that this, and not someplace else, is our home. But if we listen to what Jesus is saying in today’s parables, we might put it somewhat differently. Yes, sure, this is our home. But it’s our home not because we are more pious or more respectable or better educated or higher achieving than somebody else. It is our home because it is the home of all those who know their need of God. It is our home because, like the sheep and the coin in this morning’s parable, when we are honest with ourselves, we know we are those on behalf of whom God continually goes in search. When others point to Jesus and say, "This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them,” we take comfort in knowing that Jesus welcomes and eats with us, that we are the people worth enough to Jesus that he will risk all to seek for us. “How blest are those who know their need of God; the kingdom of heaven is theirs.” We will get this wrong if we think of the Kingdom of Heaven is something we own and others don’t. We will get it right if we see how deeply and consistently God continues to love us even when we inevitably get it wrong. And this will be our home not because we deserve it more than anyone else, but because we have been given grace to see that, for some unfathomable reason, God loves us enough to have left the 99 in search of us, to give us a place where we can, in the company of one another, make our way with those who know that they need God, too.
The only thing different in sinners and saints:
One is forgiven, the other one ain’t
We come now to the Eucharist, the central action of our life and witness as followers of Jesus. This is the meal that characterizes our life together, that connects us to each other and to God, the meal that strengthens us for the living of our lives in the world. Remember who it is that Jesus invites to this meal—not the self-righteous but the ones they would call sinners. We gather to dine with one who welcomes sinners and eats with them. As Jesus welcomes and eats with us, may we remember his promise that the One who goes in search of us will find us, that all of us who are lost will be found. Amen.
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