“Discipleship By the Lakeshore…Is Anybody Listening?”

First Congregational United Church of Christ

July 17, 2011

The Rev. Sharyl B. Peterson

 

Scripture Reading:  Matthew 13: 1-23

 

During this month of July, we’re spending our sermon-time reflecting on “discipleship by the lakeshore.”  We know that in many of the Gospel stories, Jesus shows up on various and sundry lakeshores, calling people, inviting people, healing people, and teaching and preaching a lot – about God’s love for God’s creation – including all the people, and about our call to love God back by loving each other.  In short, Jesus spent a lot of time on lakeshores teaching and preaching about the call each and every one of us has to discipleship.

            We’ve also talked the last couple of Sundays about the meaning of that word “disciple.”  It is not just a special word that refers to that special small group of people who personally knew and travelled with Jesus – those people we call the “Twelve Disciples.”  In addition to referring to them, the word “disciple” has a more general meaning.  It means “pupil” or “learner.”  So, when Jesus invited people to come and be his disciples – just as he invites us today, here and now, in this very time and place in which we live – he was inviting them – he is inviting us – to come and learn from Him the way that God wants us to live.

            Now, part of the good news in that invitation is that every one of us already has a lot of experience learning stuff.  Every one of us has been learning literally since the day we were born.  We’ve had good learning experiences             (“wow, look at those patterns in the stars; that one’s Orion; how cool is that?”).  We’ve had not-so-good learning experiences (“wow, next time I try hitting the ball I’ll hold the bat more firmly, so it doesn’t fly up again and bonk me on the head”).  And we’ve had learning experiences like one that I had many summers ago when I was 10 years old and attended summer camp for the first and only time in my life. 

            It was a Girl Scout camp, and we spent our days learning how to row a canoe, and swim from the dock out to the buoy in the lake and back again, and weave lanyards and paint pinecones.  We spent our evenings around campfires, listening to stories, and usually consuming mass quantities of some kind of food. 

            Including the night we had a watermelon feast.  Somehow, the camp had been gifted with a truck-load of watermelons, and at supper that evening, and then again at the campfire, we were all given as many slices of watermelon as we could eat.  And it being summer in Alabama … and very hot … and very sticky … most of us could eat a lot of watermelon! 

            Which was all fine until a couple of hours later when, to put it delicately, all that watermelon decided to put in a “reappearance,” and most of us campers spent the night “throwing up our heels” (as my Mom used to say).  Since that long-ago time, I have only willingly eaten watermelon again once or twice.

            Now, I’m guessing most of you can relate to this story.  I think everyone I’ve ever met and talked with about this kind of thing has had a story of their own to relate, where they were made desperately ill by shrimp, or red wine, or asparagus, or liver and onions, and have never eaten it again. 

            Psychologists call this kind of learning “aversion learning” or “one-trial learning.”  And it’s a special kind of learning, totally unlike any other learning we do.  With one-trial learning, it only takes one learning experience – of eating whatever it is, then becoming sick from it – to teach us never to eat that food again.

            That’s different from most learning, though.  Because most things that we learn – say, algebra; or how to diagram a sentence; or how to speak another language;         or how to play a musical instrument, or paint or draw or throw a pot – take lots and lots and lots of paying attention to the teacher, and then engaging in lots and lots and lots of practice.  A little at a time,

after repeated attempts (and mistakes), we learn how to figure out the unknown variable in an equation; or how to ask someone else what their name is in an unfamiliar language; or how to make beautiful sounds come out of an instrument instead of shrieks that sound like a dying cat. 

            Complex learning – which is what most learning is – takes more than one trial, more than one effort.  Complex tasks take a lot of time and energy.

            Which makes it surprising, then, how many people think that when it comes to learning about faith that isn’t – or shouldn’t be – any different from my experience with the watermelon, (or your experience with whatever it was).  An extraordinarily large number of people seem to believe that if you “get exposed to” faith once, or if you “hear the story of Jesus” once, that’s all it takes for you to learn it, to understand it, to be able to apply it to your life. 

            Some theologians call this (tongue in cheek) the “inoculation theory” of faith learning.  Kind of like getting a flu-shot, the thought is you go to Sunday School or church a time or two, usually as a child, and you’ve “got it” – you’ve learned the “lesson of faith” – for life.

            Jesus knew that that kind of thinking was sheer nonsense.  He knew that his disciples had to be taught the same things over and over before they even faintly began to “get” the important lessons he was trying to teach them.  Even though those fishermen, and tax-collectors, and others who were following Jesus had all grown up as observant Jews, and were well-acquainted with their own faith, which included principles like the importance of compassion, and forgiveness, and trust in God, when it came to learning what Jesus was trying to teach them (things like the importance of compassion, and forgiveness, and trust in God) it seemed like those disciples were all starting over from scratch. 

            And so we get Gospel stories where Jesus no sooner finishes telling them about the importance of being humble, when James and John ask Jesus could they please, please, please “sit on (his) right hand and (his) left, when he comes into his glory.”  He no sooner finishes teaching about God’s grace, and God’s love for all people, when the disciples try to drive off the small children who have come to be with Jesus, because they’re “bothering” the disciples. 

Over and over in the Gospels, just like the story we heard this morning from Matthew’s version of the Gospel, we see Jesus not just teaching, but constantly reminding the disciples – and everyone else who comes to him to hear him preach:  You still don’t have it.  You still don’t get it.  So Listen Up, Already!  Pay Attention!  Focus Here!  Jesus knew – and kept trying to help his would-be followers understand – that living a life of discipleship, living a life of faith wasn’t some walk in the park which everyone knew how to do after just one lesson. 

            In today’s text, Jesus is teaching again on a lakeshore, and the crowd gets so huge that he’s forced to climb into a boat, and row out a little way out to preach, so he doesn’t get shoved into the lake by the crowd.  And, as was his usual “lesson plan,” he then started telling them stories – parables. 

            They were stories that related the “big lessons” Jesus wanted them to learn – about love … about compassion … about God … about life … to their own ordinary day-to-day lives.  Just like us, Jesus’ early followers wanted to know, “what does this have to do with me?” 

And so, for example, the story we heard this morning is a story about a farmer.  You may remember that a couple of weeks ago I told you the area that surrounded the Lake of Galilee was a heavily agricultural area.  So there were probably a bunch of farmers and their families in that crowd, to whom Jesus’ story would have made a lot of sense.  They knew all about planting seeds, and they understood why it was important to plant in good soil so the seeds would grow well, and why weeds could choke out the seeds so they couldn’t grow.  What Jesus is unpacking here for the disciples and the crowd (and we get to listen in) is the parallel between something they already know how to do – farming – and something they’re still trying to learn how to do – discipleship. 

            Within the parable, he points out that learning to be a disciple (or anything else) takes, first of all, willingness.  Willingness to listen … to admit that you don’t already know it all.  Willingness to struggle … to do the spiritual work involved. 

            Poetically, the way he puts it is that we need ears that are open and receptive; eyes that are open and receptive; a “ready heart[1].”   He tells his disciples, that’s why I tell stories –

to “create readiness, to nudge the people toward receptive insight.  In their present state they can stare till doomsday and not see it; listen till they’re blue in the face and not get it.”  If they’re not receptive, he says, it’s like a farmer throwing perfectly good seed onto ground that’s covered by rocks and pebbles, where the seed can’t possibly penetrate and grow.  And so, he invites us to have “God-blessed eyes – eyes that see!  And God-blessed ears – ears that hear!”

            But being a disciple – a learner – from and about Jesus and life – takes more than just willingness.  It also takes what Jesus calls “soil of character.”  It takes some real commitment to learning and living what Jesus has to teach. 

            It’s not enough just to be enthusiastic, he says.  His guess – and mine – is that all of us can relate to some situation where we learned about something for the first time, and we were so excited we could hardly wait to learn how to do it ourselves!  Say, you went to visit Williamsburg, and you saw a talented artist throwing pots on a wheel.  When you get home, you immediately sign up for a pottery class at your nearest art center, go to the nearest art-supply store and buy all your supplies, and enthusiastically head for class the next week. 

            Your teacher gives you a ball of clay, and teaches you how to mash all the air-bubbles out of the clay, and shows you how to center it on the throwing-wheel.  Which looks like a cinch – you’re thinking “surely, any three-year-old could do this.”    Until you try it.  And your ball of clay literally goes flying off into space.  Or it immediately turns into a wobbly, off-centered tower of goo.  Or it does anything except get centered on the wheel … much less gets transformed into one of the beautiful mugs your teacher has just demonstrated how to make. 

            And you realize that this is going to be harder than it looks, and you come in after work three evenings the next week to practice throwing.  And night after night, your clay is still smooshing out of shape, or flying off the wheel, and you only have a tiny odd-shaped “taco sauce bowl” to show for your work.  And the next week you only come in two nights to practice,

and it doesn’t go a great deal better.  And so it goes until, pretty soon, you’ve hung up your potter’s apron and decided you’re going to learn to paint instead.  In contrast, real learning – real discipleship – takes real commitment – real dedication to the process of learning this thing you know nothing about – and if that commitment and dedication aren’t there, as Jesus puts it, eventually “there is nothing to show for it.” 

            And finally, the kind of learning that is discipleship takes trust.  In the story, Jesus uses this metaphor:  “the seed cast into the weeds is the person who hears the kingdom news, but weeds of worry and illusions about getting more and wanting everything under the sun strangle what was heard, and nothing comes of it.” 

            The reality is, every one of us has “weeds of worry and illusions” in our lives.  For example, we know that some of our friends think “all this Jesus stuff is just superstitious nonsense.”  And we worry that if we take our learning – our discipleship – seriously, they’re going to think we’re stupid.  Or they’re not going to want to spend time with us.  And those of weeds of worry multiply and grow, and strangle any possibility that we might really want to learn more about Jesus.

            As another example, we know that Jesus teaches us to forgive people who hurt us.  And then our own personal real family starts going through a rough time, and people aren’t getting along with each other, and our family-member (sister, brother, in-law, parent, whoever) says and does things that are really hurtful to us.  And instead of understanding, and embracing, and living out what Jesus teaches, we start questioning why, really, should we forgive that other person;

I mean, in the real world, Jesus couldn’t really expect us to turn the other cheek, or to return kindness for cruelty.  And once again, those weeds strangle any growth of the seeds of forgiveness that were once planted in us.  And we hunker down in our self-righteousness, and anger, and perhaps self-pity, and completely miss the chance to grow in compassion and grace.

            What may be the best news of all in this Gospel story of Matthew’s is what happens – or actually, what does not happen – at the story’s end.  When Jesus finishes and says, “the end,” the disciples start asking a whole lot of questions that make it abundantly clear they didn’t understand a thing he had said.  And Jesus does not take these learners to task for still not getting it, for still not understanding, for still asking what some people might call dumb questions. 

            Instead, he answers their questions.  With no judgment.  No rebukes.  No shame-on-yous.  He explains the story to them.  He invites them to take it into themselves.  And he accepts that they are not perfect, not finished products, not experts on faith, but learners.  Befuddled learners.  Confused learners.  Questioning learners. 

            Just like us.  The good news here is that Jesus is not asking for perfection.  He’s asking for willingness.  He’s asking for commitment.  He’s asking for trust. 

            His invitation to those long-ago people – and to us – his command to them – and to us –

is indeed “Listen.”  Listen Up.  Pay Attention.  But it is also “Ask.”  “Give me the questions of your hearts and minds.”  It is an extraordinary invitation.  An extraordinary gift.  Listen again, my friends:  Learn … and grow … into the kinds of people God is yearning for every one of you to be.  With Christ’s example, and with God’s help, real learning … and real transformation … of every one of our lives … is possible.  Amen.