Difference between revisions of "Sermon for July 30th, 2017"
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Once, when I was 15 years old, I made my mother cry. I'm not proud of this in any way, but it's a painful memory that, for a variety of reasons, stands out in my mind after all these years. | Once, when I was 15 years old, I made my mother cry. I'm not proud of this in any way, but it's a painful memory that, for a variety of reasons, stands out in my mind after all these years. | ||
| − | One of those reasons is because, when it happened, it really surprised to me. It would still be surprising for anyone who knew (or knows) my mother! She was an army officer in an era before that was a common thing for women. She was the daughter of an infantry Colonel, one of six children | + | One of those reasons is because, when it happened, it really surprised to me. It would still be surprising for anyone who knew (or knows) my mother! She was an army officer in an era before that was a common thing for women. She was the daughter of an infantry Colonel, one of six children. She was raised to be strong and tough even before she officially became "Major Locke," which was her rank and title in the Army, and sometimes at home, too. |
| − | + | Her other nickname, coined by my Dad while driving the streets of Germany with her, was Einbahnstraße (one way street). In our family, if you wanted compromise, negotiation or flexibility, you went to Dad. If you wanted a decision, an ultimatum, or an irreversible judgment, you went to Mom. Or more likely, she found you. | |
| − | And it wasn't anything I did | + | But as far back as I can remember, my mom was an unmoveable, unshakable, solid rock. I didn't think it was possible for anyone to make her cry, let alone me. And it wasn't even anything I did. That's probably how most teenage boys make their mothers cry. |
| − | Usually, as I noted earlier, arguing with my mother was an exercise in utter futility, and a potentially dangerous exercise at that. I | + | No, in my case, it was something I said. I don't even remember what exactly my words were, what we were arguing about that time in the car on the way home from somewhere. I have a vague recollection that it was about money, and that I was being a spoiled brat about not getting something I thought I was entitled to. |
| + | |||
| + | Usually, as I noted earlier, arguing with my mother was an exercise in utter futility, and a potentially dangerous exercise at that. If I was really pushing my luck in an argument with her, it might end with a sudden slap across my face. If she was in a more charitable mood, I would just be grounded one week for every additional word that came out of my mouth after she determined that the argument was over. | ||
But for some reason that day, I risked it, and happened to push all the right buttons--probably some combination of guilt, status shaming, perceived parental responsibility and teenage angst all rolled together in one rapid-fire burst of words. | But for some reason that day, I risked it, and happened to push all the right buttons--probably some combination of guilt, status shaming, perceived parental responsibility and teenage angst all rolled together in one rapid-fire burst of words. | ||
| − | And right there in the car with my younger siblings watching, my mother, Major Locke, broke down in tears, stammering something about not | + | And right there in the car with my younger siblings watching, my mother, Major Locke, broke down in tears, stammering something about not being able to afford to give her children all the things she wanted or hoped to. |
| − | I felt like dirt. And rightfully so. My callous words had been calculated to win the argument, but I never considered at what cost that would come. I certainly didn't feel like I had won anything worth winning. | + | I felt like dirt. And rightfully so. My callous words had been calculated to win the argument, but I never considered at what cost that would come. I certainly didn't feel like I had won anything worth winning. To this day, I can't even remember what it was that I had wanted so badly in the first place. |
| − | Sometimes I wonder if all these words I say to you each Sunday morning, if all my efforts to inspire people, reconcile people, and give people hope, if all these hundreds of thousands of words I preach are all just an attempt to undo the damage done by those few ugly words spoken to my mother when I was 15. | + | Sometimes I wonder if all these words I say to you each Sunday morning, if all my efforts to inspire people, reconcile people, and give people hope, if all these hundreds of thousands of words I preach are all just an elaborate attempt to undo the damage done by those few ugly words spoken to my mother when I was 15. |
Sticks and stones, it is said, may break our bones, but words will wound us to the very core. | Sticks and stones, it is said, may break our bones, but words will wound us to the very core. | ||
| + | |||
| + | And that's precisely what James is getting at in chapter three of his letter. In previous chapters, he has emphasized the importance of the things we do over the things we believe, or the things we say. But here he takes things a step further: | ||
| + | |||
| + | "How great a forest is set ablaze by a small fire! And the tongue is a fire." That's a great metaphor. Fire gives us light and warmth; the harnessing of fire was the beginning of civilization. But unchecked, untamed, fire rages out of control and is tremendously destructive, deadly. | ||
| + | |||
| + | It didn't take me long, as a teenager, to realize the power and influence of words. While other boys were far more athletic or good-looking than I was, when it came to girls and dating...I could write poetry, stories and beautiful love songs. I kind of exploited that. | ||
| + | |||
| + | In college, I became involved in student government, and realized a whole new avenue for my words. I wrote and delivered persuasive speeches, first for other students running for this office or that, then for myself. | ||
Revision as of 12:43, 29 July 2017
James 3:1-18
1Not many of you should become teachers, my brothers and sisters, for you know that we who teach will be judged with greater strictness. 2 For all of us make many mistakes. Anyone who makes no mistakes in speaking is perfect, able to keep the whole body in check with a bridle. 3 If we put bits into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we guide their whole bodies. 4 Or look at ships: though they are so large that it takes strong winds to drive them, yet they are guided by a very small rudder wherever the will of the pilot directs. 5 So also the tongue is a small member, yet it boasts of great exploits.
How great a forest is set ablaze by a small fire! 6 And the tongue is a fire. The tongue is placed among our members as a world of iniquity; it stains the whole body, sets on fire the cycle of nature, and is itself set on fire by hell. 7 For every species of beast and bird, of reptile and sea creature, can be tamed and has been tamed by the human species, 8 but no one can tame the tongue—a restless evil, full of deadly poison. 9 With it we bless the Lord and Father, and with it we curse those who are made in the likeness of God. 10 From the same mouth come blessing and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this ought not to be so. 11 Does a spring pour forth from the same opening both fresh and brackish water? 12 Can a fig tree, my brothers and sisters, yield olives, or a grapevine figs? No more can salt water yield fresh.
13 Who is wise and understanding among you? Show by your good life that your works are done with gentleness born of wisdom. 14 But if you have bitter envy and selfish ambition in your hearts, do not be boastful and false to the truth. 15 Such wisdom does not come down from above, but is earthly, unspiritual, devilish. 16 For where there is envy and selfish ambition, there will also be disorder and wickedness of every kind. 17 But the wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, willing to yield, full of mercy and good fruits, without a trace of partiality or hypocrisy. 18 And a harvest of righteousness is sown in peace for those who make peace.
James 3: Wisdom From Above
Once, when I was 15 years old, I made my mother cry. I'm not proud of this in any way, but it's a painful memory that, for a variety of reasons, stands out in my mind after all these years.
One of those reasons is because, when it happened, it really surprised to me. It would still be surprising for anyone who knew (or knows) my mother! She was an army officer in an era before that was a common thing for women. She was the daughter of an infantry Colonel, one of six children. She was raised to be strong and tough even before she officially became "Major Locke," which was her rank and title in the Army, and sometimes at home, too.
Her other nickname, coined by my Dad while driving the streets of Germany with her, was Einbahnstraße (one way street). In our family, if you wanted compromise, negotiation or flexibility, you went to Dad. If you wanted a decision, an ultimatum, or an irreversible judgment, you went to Mom. Or more likely, she found you.
But as far back as I can remember, my mom was an unmoveable, unshakable, solid rock. I didn't think it was possible for anyone to make her cry, let alone me. And it wasn't even anything I did. That's probably how most teenage boys make their mothers cry.
No, in my case, it was something I said. I don't even remember what exactly my words were, what we were arguing about that time in the car on the way home from somewhere. I have a vague recollection that it was about money, and that I was being a spoiled brat about not getting something I thought I was entitled to.
Usually, as I noted earlier, arguing with my mother was an exercise in utter futility, and a potentially dangerous exercise at that. If I was really pushing my luck in an argument with her, it might end with a sudden slap across my face. If she was in a more charitable mood, I would just be grounded one week for every additional word that came out of my mouth after she determined that the argument was over.
But for some reason that day, I risked it, and happened to push all the right buttons--probably some combination of guilt, status shaming, perceived parental responsibility and teenage angst all rolled together in one rapid-fire burst of words.
And right there in the car with my younger siblings watching, my mother, Major Locke, broke down in tears, stammering something about not being able to afford to give her children all the things she wanted or hoped to.
I felt like dirt. And rightfully so. My callous words had been calculated to win the argument, but I never considered at what cost that would come. I certainly didn't feel like I had won anything worth winning. To this day, I can't even remember what it was that I had wanted so badly in the first place.
Sometimes I wonder if all these words I say to you each Sunday morning, if all my efforts to inspire people, reconcile people, and give people hope, if all these hundreds of thousands of words I preach are all just an elaborate attempt to undo the damage done by those few ugly words spoken to my mother when I was 15.
Sticks and stones, it is said, may break our bones, but words will wound us to the very core.
And that's precisely what James is getting at in chapter three of his letter. In previous chapters, he has emphasized the importance of the things we do over the things we believe, or the things we say. But here he takes things a step further:
"How great a forest is set ablaze by a small fire! And the tongue is a fire." That's a great metaphor. Fire gives us light and warmth; the harnessing of fire was the beginning of civilization. But unchecked, untamed, fire rages out of control and is tremendously destructive, deadly.
It didn't take me long, as a teenager, to realize the power and influence of words. While other boys were far more athletic or good-looking than I was, when it came to girls and dating...I could write poetry, stories and beautiful love songs. I kind of exploited that.
In college, I became involved in student government, and realized a whole new avenue for my words. I wrote and delivered persuasive speeches, first for other students running for this office or that, then for myself.
