A Gay Sermon based on Exodus 32:1-14 and Matthew 22:1-14
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I started preaching when I was 17 years old. I preached with some regularity at a small church, in a small town, in Oregon, close to the Idaho border.
There was a retired pastor in that church, and by that time he had lost his eyesight entirely. One Sunday he approached me after worship. He had brought his robe, his Geneva gown, to church. He had brought it with him that Sunday because he wanted to give it to me. He knew that one day I would become a pastor, and I would need his robe.
His robe is the robe I wear every Sunday, and his initials are embroidered on it.
Have you ever wondered why some clergy or preachers wear robes, some with stripes and stoles?
The stripes on my robe signify blood, sweat and tears; what they tell you is that I have worked very hard, and at great cost to myself and to my family, to learn how to be a servant of Christ. These stripes don’t say I am smarter or better than you; what they say is that I take serving you as a pastor very seriously.
The stole is also a symbol of service; it is a symbol of the towel Jesus Christ used to dry the feet of his disciples.
And the robe is itself meant to equalize us; it is meant to erase whatever wealth my clothing may signify, and it is meant to reduce attention to anything like my own status—because I am not the point; the point is not my personality; the point is not loyalty to me.
The robe is meant to remind me, and it is meant to remind you, that my singular calling is to serve you, the church, and—by way of God’s grace—to use the gifts given to me by the Holy Spirit to direct us to what is not me or you, namely the good and gracious God, the God of Jesus Christ, and the giver of the Holy Spirit.
I am sure you heard, in the parable Jesus told the religious and the religious leaders (Matt 22:1-4), the folks we learned a few weeks ago who make God unbelievable—you heard about that guy who did not wear a robe, the guy who wanted to enter the feast of grace even though he was not loyal to grace, even though he was not changed by grace?
You heard about what happened to him, right? He was cast out.
Grace has a dress code.
And while the robe I wear literalizes it, we are all supposed to wear the right gown to church, to this feast of grace.
And we talked about that clothing-style, that Christ-style, when we celebrated two baptisms a few weeks ago: “As many of you as were baptized in Christ have clothed yourself in Christ. There is no longer Jew or Greek; there is no longer slave or free; there is no longer male or female” (Gal 3:27-29).
When we clothe ourselves in grace, social distinctions become worthless, harmful idols, ideologies that serve only to make us feel better in the face of total uncertainty about what we are to do now that all the normal categories, all the idols, all the ideologies we relied on have been rendered and are even now powerless in Jesus Christ. . . .
We create idols when we are uncertain, when we find ourselves away from home, away from the normal, away from what is familiar.
That seems to be why Aaron made his bad choice (Ex 32:1-14). He was unprepared for the new world he was in, for the freedom made possible by Moses’ civil rights movement.
Yet, shouldn’t we blame Moses for not preparing Aaron and the Israelites for the uncertainly caused by his prolonged absence, by their leader being away from them for a long time? He was up on that mountain in God’s presence for 40 days and 40 nights . . . . Surely, Moses could have done more to make sure Aaron had the right theological education, the right kind of spirit before letting him step into the pulpit?
But that didn’t happen—and Aaron gave in to the demands and imperatives of fear, of certainty, and he created the golden calf. He attempts to make his choice, his answer to the people’s fear and anxiety, God.
Aaron made a bad choice.
And we get it; it happens—but the problem is: Aaron refused to take responsibility for his bad choice.
Later in the story, Moses comes down the mountain and confronts Aaron about his ungodly sermon, his ungodly leadership—and how does Aaron respond?
Well, he says, I just threw the golden rings in the fire and out popped an idol, out popped the golden calf. I didn’t have anything to do with its creation. It just is what it is, Aaron says; I was just reading what the text says. It’s just the Word of God (but the story tells us that Aaron formed it, and it ends by explicitly telling us Aaron made it).
Maybe if Moses had just given Aaron more theological training, then he would have made a different choice. But that is the least important thing about a good theological education. The best theological education, whether you have a degree of some kind or not, the best theological education teaches you to do at least one thing well: to take responsibility for your all your choices, especially your bad choices.
Theology, preaching, pastoral leadership: all of that is an entirely human enterprise. Congregations and pastors all make choices, the best choices they can make, especially in the face of uncertainty.
We pray about them.
We read Scripture.
We talk together, and at the end of the day, we make a choice to act in one way and not in another, to be a home for some things and not for other things.
And if we are honest, and if we are faithful—if are loyal to the God of grace—we take responsibility for our choices, especially for our bad choices.
Because we know grace is not cheap.
God’s grace is actually supposed to change us, to remind us that our choices cannot save or damn us because our choices are not God or God’s choices.
God’s grace is actually supposed to change our lives; that is why Paul, for example, teaches us to hold each other accountable for our choices, especially our bad choices. “Is it not those who are inside [the community of faith],” Paul writes, “that you should judge? God will judge those outside” (1 Cor 5:11-12)
Consider Paul’s judgments in First Corinthians 6:9.
Here is how it reads:
“Do you not know that wrongdoers [in the church] will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived! Those who are sexually immoral, like idolaters and adulterers and the self-indulgent [malakoi], like males who sexually exploit other males for the purpose of personal gain [arsenokitai], and thieves, the greedy, drunkards, revilers, robbers. None of these will inherit the kingdom of God.”
Now, I’ll be clear about my choices.
What I translate as “males who sexually exploit other males for the purpose of personal gain,” the underlying Greek word there is arsenokoitai. Fun fact: no one living today knows what that word really means.
No one.
No one.
And if someone tells you that they do know what that word really means, and if they say it is just so obvious, that is just what the text says—well, what that tells you is that person is making a bad choice, that person is giving into the clamor for certainty, that person is under the spell of an idol.
In the late 1940s, and for the first time ever in the history of the world, the RSV made the choice to translate the words arsenokoitai and malakos (which I get to in a moment) as homosexual, itself a word made up in the late 1800s. The RSV has since changed that translation, collapsing the meaning of those two words into one, charming noun: “sexual perverts.”
The NRSV makes a different choice, choosing to translate arsenokoitai as “sodomites,” an 11th-century Christian invention.
Again, no one knows what the word arsenokoitai means, really—but we do know that words like “homosexual” and “sodomite” are choices, and, as I my translation makes clear, they are not the only choices available to a reasonable translator of ancient Greek terminology.
I have made a second choice, too.
What I translated as “self-indulgent,” behold!, we know what the underlying Greek word actually means, the word malakos literally means “soft.”
Second fun fact: the idea that a man should actually love his wife is a modern invention. That, actually loving your wife, would have made you soft in the ancient world.
You would be soft for wearing deodorant.
Ok, so what is Paul’s message for us, living all these thousands of years later? I think Paul is referring broadly to a way of life we have already talked about, the kind of life that Paul really gets cranky about, the kind of lifestyle that is about doing whatever you want, to whomever you want, for the purpose of getting what you want and without any consequences. Paul really doesn’t think that kind of life meets the demands and imperatives of grace because it is a lifestyle that refuses taking responsibility for our choices.
Now, that’s my interpretation; it’s a choice. It is an educated, informed choice—and a choice that meets the demands and imperatives of grace: it does not give into the clamor for certainty, the demands for an idol, for something that distracts us from the hard work of spiritual discernment.
As Aaron learned, our spiritual choices matter. And we should be clear about the choices we make, and we should take responsibility for all of our choices, even our very bad ones.
Why? Because we are loyal to grace. We heard both Jesus and Paul define the alternative, right?
When we are invited to the feast of grace and are not changed by it, are not compelled to be honest with ourselves and with God, and especially about the difference between our ways and God’s ways, well, we are refusing grace for an idol; we are asserting that our will is the divine will; we are testifying that whatever we think or do is justified, is of ultimate significance.
It is an all too common thing, especially these days, to reject divine grace for human merit or wisdom. As Jesus teaches us, “many are called, few are chosen.” It is a warning to us all.
But what are we to do with that . . . ? That doesn’t sit well with us, right? So let’s ask, What would Moses do?
When he is close to God, when he is in the presence of God, when he is in God’s rest, Moses makes the choice to be an advocate of grace.
When God is ready to annihilate the people for creating an idol, for confusing their thoughts with God’s thoughts, for refusing to take responsibility for their choices, when God is mad as a hornet at the people for making a bad choice, Moses chooses to speak up: “Turn from your fierce wrath; change your mind and do not bring disaster on your people.”
Moses reminds God of who God is, of what God promised: blessing and freedom and goodness and a future for God’s people.
And Moses wins the argument; Moses changes God’s mind: “And the Lord changed [their] mind about the disaster [they] planned to bring on [their] people.”
When Moses is close to God, in the presence of God, he makes the choices to do one thing: he argues for grace.
When Moses is close to God, he is an advocate of grace.
And how can we not be the same?
When I put on this robe on Sunday mornings, I am reminded of God’s grace and mercy. I am reminded to make the choice of grace.
I am reminded of Paul’s teaching in Romans, “While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Rom 5:8).
While we were still making bad choices and refusing to take responsibility for them, while we were refusing to apologize, when confession and repentance were the farthest from our minds, Christ still chose us; Christ argued for us.
When we put on God’s grace, when we put on the robes of Christ, we acknowledge that grace is not cheap.
We acknowledge that grace requires our total loyalty.
We acknowledge that grace demands that we take responsibility for our lives because we know our choices are not God; they can’t save or damn us.
Yes, we so often fail to live up to the demands and imperatives of grace. We fail to take responsibility for our choices, choosing instead to confuse our judgements with God’s judgments.
But Christ does not fail to argue for us. And so God does not fail to choose us, again and again and again. . .and again, God invites us to come to the banquet of grace.
Don’t forget your robes y’all.
Amen.
Gay Thoughts 