SERMON FOR MARCH 24, 2019
    “Jesus' words about judgment and repentance are scary, yet they depict human life as a gift, albeit a fragile one. Vulnerable creatures that we are, we can presume little and do little to preserve ourselves. Too many Lenten observances assume that taking our humanity seriously requires morose expressions of piety. But the Christian outlook on repentance arcs toward joy. And it finds grace experienced within the awful precariousness and strange beauty of our fleeting existence.” This fine passage from the New Testament scholar Matt Skinner captures both aspects of today’s Gospel. 
     We may well reap the fruit of our foolishness and wrongdoing, but the consequences may be out of all proportion to the transgression. There was a lovely woman in the first congregation I served; her warmth and generosity always carried the scent of sorrow. I found out from a third party that she was the mother of three sons, not just the two she spoke of. One of the twins, the exuberant one, celebrated his high school graduation with his buddies and some illicit beer. When his friend lost control, he was thrown from the car and died by the side of the country road where his family lived. That kind of poor judgment does not merit the death penalty. 
     All manner of bad things happen; we search for the reasons. To lay blame is to find a cause, and if you know the cause, you might just have the precious ounce of prevention in your control. “Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them — do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem?” asks Jesus. Did they get what they especially deserved? No, they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, victims of the awful precariousness of our fleeting existence, just like the random victims of Pontius Pilate’s cruelty. 
     Jesus does not respond to the reports of these tragic events by trying to explain or defend God’s ways to his troubled hearers. The Galileans did not bring their violent deaths upon themselves. Their fate certainly awaits us all, when and how we cannot know. But it is this uncertainty that gives our lives such urgency. As St. Paul writes, “See, now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation.” Every day of our lives, God gives us time for amendment of life, but those days are numbered. Jesus moves his hearers from the contemplation of someone else’s tragedy to the consideration of their own future. He challenges them not to receive God’s grace in vain but to embrace the very present possibility of repentance. Lest they be taken unawares, struck down like a dead tree, bearing no fruit of the Spirit.
     To repent is to turn away and to turn toward. Lent is the season for self-examination, to determine how far we have veered off course and to redirect our lives. Because, as we acknowledged in today’s confession, “We have wandered far from your home; again and again, we lose our way.” We live in an angry age, and anger is so seductive. It is not my natural habitat — my role is usually that of peacemaker. But not always. I have been driven into the waiting arms of the god of fury before but known better than to make the alliance permanent. The power of righteous anger is unparalleled and often warranted, but it tends to take over and hold you captive. And this time around I have succumbed painfully.
     This past week my Basset Hound Copper fell dangerously ill. He spent three nights in the emergency hospital fighting pneumonia. When I left him after my first visit, he barked continuously, which was certainly contraindicated for an animal with compromised lungs. The next time there was some question as to whether I should visit him again. But the doctor thought it best that I spend time with him. So I sat with my sweet hound, successfully encouraging him to eat. We walked a bit, and then I led him back to his bed. I asked if it might help if he had something that smelled like me, and the doctor said it surely would. So I took off my coat and folded it under his head. He snuggled into it, and I petted him until he fell asleep. And then I slipped away. Out in the snowy parking lot I realized just how angry I had been, because at that moment I was free of it. How easy it had been to give my coat to this dear creature of God, and had he wanted it, I would gladly have given my cloak as well. I blessed him and thanked God for opening my heart to simple love and gratitude, breaking anger’s stranglehold.
     The season of fury is far from over in our country. I suspect Robert Mueller’s report is only the end of the beginning in the national arena, while the fracture lines in our communities and our families spread and deepen. Luther argued that abuse does not do away with proper use. Anger is a good gift; the world will never become a better place, if we don’t take offense at its evil and injustice. We will not realize God’s will for our own lives if we do not call out those who would degrade and manipulate us. But anger is a means, not an end. In this season of repentance, let us turn away from the easy road of persistent anger to travel instead Christ’s steep yet joyous path of reconciliation. “So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation.” Amen.