|
"Salem.....Where a Warm Welcome Awaits You"
|
|
|
STEWARDSHIP
(The following sermon was preached by Pastor Barbara Melosh on November 12th, 2006.)
hese days, we stand at the turn of the year, as each day the darkness comes earlier. It’s the turn of the church year too—a time to reflect on where we have been, what God is doing in our lives, and where God is calling us now. The lectionary for November serves up some strange and disturbing passages—proclamations of the end of time, in these last few Sundays of the church year. We began last week with All Saints’ Sunday. It’s a day that brings us directly to consider the end of our own time, as we remember those who have died this year and all those who have gone before us. Today those end times are proclaimed on a smaller scale, as we hear the story of the widow of Zaraphath, a woman with only one day’s food left for herself and her son. In this extreme situation, God brings her a desperate man with his own radical demand. It’s a story about life and death, and so it’s a story about stewardship. All that we have, all that we are, is gift from God. Our whole lives belong to God. How will we use what we have been given? In 1 Kings, there is famine on the land because God’s people have turned from him to worship Baal. God had commanded Elijah to go to the wadi, a source of water in the desert, and there God sends ravens to feed his prophet with meat and bread. But then the wadi dries up—and again, God provides. This time, God sends his prophet Elijah to seek help from a very unexpected source—unexpected because she is herself in desperate need of help, and also because she is an outsider, a Gentile. He finds her gathering sticks and asks her for a little water and some bread. At first she refuses, and seemingly for the best possible reason. “As the Lord your God lives, I have nothing baked, only a handful of meal in a jar, and a little oil in a jug; I am now gathering a couple of sticks, so that I may go home and prepare it for myself and my son, that we may eat it, and die.” Would anyone here blame this widow for refusing to give her and her son’s last meal to a stranger? It’s a stark example of an economy of scarcity—she is in desperate need, at the end of her limited resources. We often experience ourselves as living in that kind of economy, too. There’s only so much to go around, whether it’s money or time or love, and we worry that if we give anything away, there won’t be enough for us. We’re a small church at Salem, and I often hear you saying that we don’t have enough here--not enough money, not enough people. I recently got a letter from the bishop asking us to increase our benevolence pledge for next year, from about 4 percent to 7.5 per cent. When you hear that, maybe you’re thinking, “Why is the bishop asking us to give more? We’re not meeting our expenses as it is. We need our money for ourselves.” Or, when the invitation goes out to join a ministry at Salem, many people seem to think they don’t have anything to give—they’re not handy with tools, or good in the kitchen, or prepared to serve as leaders. Many times, when we have a project to do, an opportunity for ministry--whether it’s a necessary task of maintenance or some new ministry--there’s no one ready to volunteer. Instead, people start looking at the floor and saying, “We need more people”—we don’t have enough energy or time or skill as we are. Here in 1 Kings, the situation is absolutely desperate—a matter of life and death. But outrageously, Elijah doesn’t take no for an answer. He tells the widow, Go ahead and do what you said—make that last meal for yourself and your son, but first, feed me. And then he tells her that God has promised, “The jar of meal would not be emptied and the jug of oil will not fail” until it rains again and food is more plentiful. She does what he asks, and sure enough, there is enough for all—she gives out of her poverty, and God gives out of God’s abundance. Now that’s radical trust. It reminds me of a story I heard this week—a kind of modern parable. A crowd is gathered at Niagara Falls, that majestic and terrifying natural landmark, where millions of gallons of water go crashing over rocks every minute, throwing up clouds of mist. In this story, a man is doing one of those daredevil stunts over the falls that are the stuff of legend and history. He has strung a cable across the falls, and, as the crowd watches breathlessly, he starts across that wire pushing a wheelbarrow in front of him. The wind picks up, and he leans all the way to one side, teetering almost out of balance, but then recovers. He keeps going, inch by inch, and finally reaches the platform on the other side. The crowd applauds wildly, impressed and relieved. But then, he turns and starts across the wire again, pushing the wheelbarrow in front of him. A little murmur of dismay goes over the crowd—it’s nerve-wracking, watching a man out on a wire over the thundering water and treacherous rocks. But again, inch by inch, he reaches the other side safely. A reporter rushes up to him on the platform, pushes a microphone in his face. The man asks him, “So what do you think? Do you believe I can walk across this wire pushing a wheelbarrow?” “Well, sure,” the reporter replies. “Really?” Now the reporter is a little confused. “Yes, of course I believe you. I saw you do it—twice!” “Get in the wheelbarrow.” Would you get in that wheelbarrow? It’s an outrageous demand, and it would be foolish to say yes to it. The same could be said of Elijah’s request of the widow, and her willingness to feed a stranger. They’re both on the edge, both teetering on the wire. Why does God send Elijah to someone who is in such desperate need herself? We don’t know, but maybe it’s because God knows that people who have less are often more generous givers. It’s true in our own national church. What synod would you guess is most generous in benevolence giving—sending money outside its own congregations? You might think it would be the synod that includes Montgomery County—our rich neighbor in Maryland.—one of the wealthiest counties in the country. Or maybe a synod in the southwest, where the economy is booming in many areas. Actually, it’s the Northwest Pennsylvania synod—a synod that is in the foothills of Appalachia, a region devastated by job loss, drug abuse, and poverty. Generosity isn’t about your wealth—it’s about your heart. Or maybe God chooses the widow because God knows she’s more likely to trust his promise, and get in the wheelbarrow. Sometimes you have to be on the wire before you understand what it means to trust in God. When things are going pretty well, when we’re feeling in control, it’s easy to forget that our security doesn’t come from ourselves. It’s easy to forget that we’re already out on the wire, and that everything we hold on to so tightly can go crashing on the rocks. Or maybe God sees the widow’s desperate need, and recognizes that she needs even more than food. She needs desperately to give, and to have her gifts received. Elijah’s outrageous demand is, in the end, a gift. This widow, on the edges of her society, on the edge of survival, still has something to give, and in giving it, she gains great abundance. Stewardship is what we do after we say ‘I believe.’ So get in the wheelbarrow—God will bring you safely across the water. |
|
E-mail the
Salem
webmaster with
questions or comments about this web site.
|