The Plumb Line

Amos 7:7-17; Luke 10:25-37

        One of my summer jobs in college I was working for a brick mason.  It is delightful work if you have a strong back, no fear of heights and enjoy tittering on the brink of heat exhaustion.  There were no skills associated with what I was asked to do.  My job was to build the scaffold, haul the bricks up the scaffold, mix the mortar and haul the mortar up the scaffold.  I never laid the first brick.  But I did learn the importance of a plumb line.  Perhaps brick layers today have a more sophisticated way of accomplishing their task.  But forty years ago, the guys I worked with used the same method that has been used for 3,000 years. A plumb line is no more than a string attached to a weight.  The cord is fastened or held above the wall.  The weight falls toward the ground and allows the mason to make sure that his wall is vertically 90 degrees.  The slightest inaccuracy causes an imperfection that threatens the integrity of the structure.   When the prophet Amos preached that God was setting a plumb line in the midst of the Hebrew people, this was a pretty serious examination of 8^th century Israel.  Trust me, Amos wasn’t talking about examining cracks in the walls of the Temple. He was calling for a full scale assessment of the way the people of Israel conducted their lives.  He was saying, “God created you to stand straight, but this whole nation is so bent over I could screw you into the ground.”  Ironically the folks in charge thought things had never been better. Accordingly, they took Amos’ warnings to be the rants of one who was out of touch with the times.

        It might be helpful to take a moment and give you a glimpse of life in Israel under King Jeroboam II.  He was King for 40 years.  Under the reign of Jeroboam the northern and southern borders were secured.  Syria had been crippled by Assyria and was not seen as a military threat.  Assyria was occupied with rebellions on its eastern borders and had neither the time nor resources to look west toward Israel.  Economically the country was moving from an agrarian society to one dominated by shop keepers and trade.  Towns were becoming larger.  This evolution in the economy corresponded to both the financial surge and the newly developing division between social classes.  Isolated sections of the towns were dominated by spacious homes.  The rest of the town was filled with small shacks.   The results were a stark disparity between the luxury of the rich and the misery of the poor.  This was also a time in which religion flourished.  Festivals abounded and the community leaders regularly gave credit to Yahweh for their prosperity, their peace and their nation.  So when Amos arrived on the scene to preach his fiery sermon about God putting a plumb line on Israel, this sheep herder from the hill country was considered a nut case.  When he stood in the Temple of Bethel and began to speak a whole lot of folks got very upset.  When Amos finished, no one suggested he be invited back for homecoming.  I have read this book a number of times and I can guarantee you a preacher today wouldn’t last long if all he preached from was the Book of Amos.  And yet this little gem remains securely imbedded between the books of Joel and Obadiah.  Why?  Because none of us remember the name Jeroboam II but most of us are familiar with these words from the sermon of Amos, “Let justice roll down like the waters, and righteousness like an ever flowing stream.”

What was it that Amos said that really upset the local population?  Basically it came down to one question, “Who is your neighbor?” Any one who studies scripture knows that simple question is universal to the entire biblical message. 

Remember the story of Cain and Abel.  In rage one brother takes the life of his sibling.  God approached the guilty survivor and asked, “Where is your brother?”  You remember his answer.  “Am I my brother’s keeper?”  In other words, “Am I responsible for my actions as they impact the life of another?”  God response was rather direct, “Yes you are.”

Remember Sarah and Hagar.  Sarah was the wife of Abraham. Hagar was the mother of Abraham’s only child.  This arrangement was fine until Sarah became pregnant.  Then she demanded Hagar and her child be thrown into the desert.  After all, she was only a slave.  Was Abraham responsible for the fate of Hagar and Ishmael?  Evidently he was.  God rescued Hagar and made her a privileged daughter.

Remember Jacob and Esau.  Jacob was the chosen one but Esau owned the birthright.  But through a series of deceptions and lies Jacob was awarded both the birthright and his father’s blessings.  Does the text celebrate the cunning nature of Jacob? Is Esau no longer a child of God? Is Jacob responsible for his brother?  When Jacob moved back home, was Esau his neighbor?  In the eyes of God, there was never a doubt.

Remember Joseph, the son of Jacob.  He was the one with the fancy coat and the ability to interpret dreams.  He was also the one who angered his brothers with his arrogance.  Remember how the brothers dealt with their younger brother?  Remember them selling him into slavery?  Remember later in the story when the same brothers came to Egypt asking Joseph, the second most powerful person in the land for food?    What kind of justice would be appropriate? That is the wrong question. What kind of justice does God expect? Joseph picked the correct question and welcome welcomed them as brothers.

Once we leave the Book of Genesis the neighborhood expands.  Remember David and Bathsheba.  Even a King has to face the music when he impregnates the wife of another man.  Remember the shepherd king’s words to his General Joab, “Put Urriah on the front lines that he might die.”  Remember how God held David responsible for his actions? David should have known God’s response.  After all this is the psalmist who wrote, “Give justice to the weak and maintain the rights of the lowly.”

The critical question that is raised over and over again as we read the Old Testament always centers on the how we respond toward our family members, the neighbor next door and even the guy down the street that we don’t particularly like all that much.  Why is this so important in the religious and ethical standards of the Hebrew people? The answer always goes back to the Exodus.  The Hebrew people were slaves in Egypt.  They were a people with no land, no life and no future.  There very existence began when this nation of nobodies cried out to the Lord and God heard them.  God lifted them out of slavery, God led them through the Sea of Reeds, God protected them in the wilderness, and gave them a new home. In words we can all understand, God took people who had nothing and gave them life, liberty and the opportunity to pursue happiness. The way that is always accomplished is by following two basic rules.  Number One - You shall love the Lord with all your heart soul and mind.  Number Two – You shall love your neighbor as yourself.  Unfortunately, the Old Testament, for the most part, is the story of Israel’s refusal to respond to God’s instructions.  Amos was not the first or the last prophet who reminded the chosen people that God didn’t just choose a select few.  Amos followed in the footsteps of Moses, Samuel, Nathan and others who talked about the real meaning of community and the expanded understanding of caring for your neighbor.  The problem was the people of Bethel were pretty happy with the way things were.  Amos finished his sermon and they pretty much finished him.  You might say their response wasn’t all that neighborly.

I wonder what those folks sitting with Jesus thought the young preacher was going to say when asked, “Who is my neighbor?” I wonder what they must have been thinking when he began his story with the words, “A man was going down the road from Jerusalem to Jericho.”   They knew that was a winding road filled with more than its share of danger.  I doubt they were surprised when the lone traveler was beaten up and robbed.  I wonder what they thought when the priest and then the lawyer passed the injured man by.  If common folks were the audience they probably whispered about the number of times the local authorities had ignored their plight.  If Pharisees or Sadducees were the audience they probably winced a little.  Then Jesus came to the really interesting part of the story. “Finally a Samaritan wandered by and helped the man.”  Regardless of who was the crowd, I can tell you exactly what the response to this incredible twist in the story would have been.      

“A SAMARITAN!!!  NO WAY!  Not A Samaritan!  Anyone but a Samaritan!”  A modern day perspective it would be like:

A Palestinian helping a Jew, or vice versa.

A Shite helping a Sunni, or vice versa.

Eric Cantor helping Nancy Pelosi, or vice versa. 

You get the picture.  Samaritans were not liked or tolerated.  They were outsiders, outcast, and out of luck should one be caught anywhere near the area Jesus was telling his story.  And yet Jesus made the Samaritan the hero of the story.  Furthermore, just as they are about to recover from this literary bombshell, Jesus asked, “Who acted like a neighbor?”  In other words, he dropped the plumb line. 

The young lawyer who asked the original question, responded, “The Samaritan”.   Can you imagine how hard that must have been for him to have said that word?  Five hundred years of hate, of fighting, of bigotry, of total and absolute disgust was packed into that answer.  And once the man responded, Jesus didn’t preach him a sermon, Jesus didn’t chastise him, and Jesus didn’t even pat him on the head for delivering the correct answer.  Jesus just said, “Go and do likewise.”

What a powerful message!  We are our brother’s keeper; we are accountable for our actions; we are beyond excuses; but most important of all, when our great God measures us, and finds us crooked, God straightens us up, forgives us and then says, “Go and act neighborly toward each other.”

When my children were quite young, one of their favorite moments was to daily enter that magical world of fantasy created by Mr. Rogers.  He would change his shoes, put on that old sweater and engage children everywhere in simple stories that didn’t quite have the zing of “The Electric Company” or “Sesame Street”.  But that Presbyterian minister from Pittsburg had something else going for him.  Mr. Rogers knew the Bible.  Without ever making a huge deal of his theological linage, Mr. Robert’s invited the children of the world to his neighborhood.   He would tell his stories of justice, righteousness, and what it really meant to be neighborly.  And then he would encourage his audience to go and do likewise.

Some of us respond to the in your face antics of justice rolling down like a mighty stream.  Some of us respond to the surprise that even the Samaritan is one of God’s children.  And some of us prefer to be persuaded by the soft voice of a graying man playing with puppets.  Regardless your taste or preference, the question and the response always remain the same. 

“Who is your neighbor?”

“Go and do likewise”.

Let us give thanks to our God who not only measures us, but straightens us out in order that we might become the neighbor God intended us to be.                                   Amen.

Round Midnight

Psalm 30

        How many of you are afraid of the dark? I remember as a child my family of six briefly lived in a cracker box that somehow passed for a house. It was too small to be measured in square feet. Being the only boy, I had my own room. A bamboo curtain served as the door to my closet.  At night I would watch from my bed as every imaginary creature my mind could construct entered and exited that darkened space. I would turn from my closet and watch the shadows that danced just outside my window.  Some nights I would pray for a respite from my visions, a release which sometimes only materialized with the coming of the dawn.

        We all know I suffered from nothing more than the active imagination of a ten year old that spent too much time reading about the exploits of folks like the Grail seeking Sir Galahad or the hammer wielding Thor.  Fortunately I grew out of those ridiculous visions before I turned 30. But midnight is still the place where I encounter the active imagination of my soul.

“You have turned my mourning into dancing.” I never was much good at Hebrew and I wasn’t any better at Greek. My Spanish is pitiful, I flunked French and my adventures in Latin are probably the reason it is now a dead language.  But I love words. Perhaps this is why I am so enamored by verse 11 of Psalm 30. I know a more accurate translation would be, “You have turned my wailing into dancing” but thankfully some poet translating the New Revised Standard Version saw the power in substituting the word m-o-u-r-n-i-n-g.  It allows us to play with such powerful images as midnight and dawn as we struggle with the shadows that might still linger just outside our window.

As I read this Psalm Thelodious Monk’s haunting tune “Round Midnight” fill my head. It is a composition based on eleven notes, heard differently each time, always begging for closure and yet never quite finding resolution.  Likewise the Psalmist comes to us with a sonata written after many a sleepless night, only discovering harmony in the One who promises that the dawn can melt our discontent.

What haunts this poet? Does it really matter? The far more important questions are why is midnight to dawn sometimes the longest six hours of our day? How did this poet come to understand and embrace his mourning/wailing? How is she able to dance with the coming of the dawn?

I have always believed if you want to discover answers concerning the human psyche, it is best to learn from someone who is just a little bit crazy.  Walter Brueggemann, the best Old Testament scholar I know, has certainly experienced both the dusk and dawn. Because of his own “demons”, he comes to the Psalms in a way that invite both my left feet to the dance floor.

Brueggemann claims within the Book of Psalms we encounter three distinct categories of poems. There are the ones we experience regularly in our hymns. “For the beauty of the Earth” or “I will lift my eyes to the hills” are relatively harmless songs glorify God as the creator of the entire universe. Being folks who have chosen to live in paradise, we celebrate these poems on a regular basis.

A second category of poems often remain hidden from public view. They are dark stories which expose the frailty of the human spirit. “Help me God; I am waste deep in my own discontent.” “Rescue me God from those who would conspire to do me harm.” Psalms of lament expose the underbelly of our souls. They are desperate songs, filled with angst written by someone who has lost hope in everything but God. Sometimes that is not a bad place to be.

The Psalmist suggests that our chief dilemma is we live a circular rather than linear existence. We are always going round and round, trying to get back to the starting point before our troubles, before our dreams, interrupted what we thought was a pretty good life. But when we return to the starting point, when we live in denial refusing to believe anything is seriously wrong, we soon step back onto the road most often traveled. And the troubles and the dreams return. We can fool anyone in the daylight. But we can’t even fool ourselves round midnight.

 Psalm 30 is a step beyond this vicious circle. It is a song of new orientation.  That is a fancy way of saying our trials will be over only when we pick up some place other than where we originally started. Guy Clark sings about a woman searching for new orientation.

Standing on the gone side of leaving,

She found a thumb and stuck in the breeze.

She’ll take any ride that’s going close to somewhere, She can lay it down and live it as she please.

She ain’t going no where, she’s just leaving,

She ain’t going no where she can’t breathe in,

She ain’t going home, and that’s for sure.

Psalms of new orientation tell us we can never go home again. That is not exactly what we want to hear. We are comfortable at home. We trust being home after all home is home sweet home. It is our fortress, our savior, our source of all that is and all that will be. It is where we find our joy and delight…… most of the time. But home, the trusted familiar, often camouflages a season of ragged and painful disarray.  Retreating guarantees what always was might be all we can ever expect. Is that really all we desire? Will we forever remain comfortable with the shadows that disrupt our rest?  Or will we dare to turn to another source of salvation.

Considering the science of psychology is a little more than 100 years old it is amazing the conclusions reached by the author of the 30^th Psalm.  First, humans desire seasons of well being. But humans experience seasons of hurt and alienation often resulting in resentment and self-pity.   Then we are surprised, even overwhelmed, when joy breaks through the despair. The Psalmist identifies this as an act of God and makes a decisive move to live in the light in this grace. The Psalmist makes a radical leap from faith in himself to faith in something larger than she might ever have imagined.  This response moves the author from surprise to thanksgiving.

I believe with all my heart this is what brings us to the Lord’s Table.  Enthralled by the midnight of our discontent we desire our mourning to be turned to dancing. The body broken reminds us of our own brokenness. But each time the cup is lifted we are surprised by the gift of God’s grace. Going home is no longer a return to the expected but a journey into the new possibilities.  When we travel uplifted by the grace of God, we travel clothed with joy, we travel a new road, living a new life all to the glory of God. In our joy we are able to sing:

O God, shine forth into the darkness of my night.

O God, melt the frost that encompasses my soul.

Wake me to the dawn of a new day,

Filled with colors I have never before experienced.

You have turned my mourning into dancing,

And I will give you thanks forever.               Amen.