Dr. David Trobisch
October 23, 2011
Matthew 22:34-46
When the Pharisees heard that he had silenced the Sadducees, they gathered together, and one of them, a lawyer, asked him a question to test him. "Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?"
He said to him, "'You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.' This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: 'You shall love your neighbor as yourself.' On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets."
Now while the Pharisees were gathered together, Jesus asked them this question: "What do you think of the Messiah? Whose son is he?"
They said to him, "The son of David."
He said to them, "How is it then that David by the Spirit calls him Lord, saying, 'The Lord said to my Lord, "Sit at my right hand, until I put your enemies under your feet"'? If David thus calls him Lord, how can he be his son?"
No one was able to give him an answer, nor from that day did anyone dare to ask him any more questions.Prayer
Father in heaven.
Open our eyes, so we may see.
Open our ears, so we may hear.
And open our hearts, so we may understand.
Amen
Introduction
The lectionary reading for today ends with the words: "From that day on nobody dared to ask him any more questions."
I don't like the way Jesus is portrayed in this story. What kind of teacher would take delight in the fact that nobody dares to ask a question anymore?
And the questions the Sadducees and Pharisees had asked were very good ones. To this very day we would like to have answers to them. "Is there a heaven?" the Sadducees ask. They suspect that there is not.
And the Pharisees seem to hope that the Messiah will be from the royal house of David. A political savior. Someone who will lead the nation.
However, I do like the answer Jesus gives, when he is asked: "What is the most important commandment?" - "It is Love," he says. "Love God and love your neighbor!"
There is encouragement in this opinion, encouragement to find an answer that is not scripted, encouragement to be open, to be vulnerable, and to be ready for change.
Manfred
I was raised in Europe and grew up in a small Austrian village that consisted of five houses, five families, and 25 children. We had to walk three miles through the forest to school everyday. Austrian winters are fierce and some years the snow was so high that our parents would not let us go, they would keep us at home for weeks and teach us themselves.
You know the saying, "It takes a village to raise a child." It was in such a village that we grew up. We were happy children.
Just like his father and his father's father our neighbor Matthias was a farmer. He had five children, all about our age, two boys and three girls. His youngest son was named Manfred.
Like my father, Matthias was part of the generation that was drafted and had fought under Hitler. And what they had seen had hardened them. Many of these men could not cry anymore. It was as if all of their tears had dried up.
One day Manfred, Matthias' youngest son, came to my mother. He asked for help. He wanted to speak to his father. But like many teenagers he found it difficult to talk to his parents about intimate matters.
Manfred attended boarding school, when he entered puberty. And on his right side, he was growing a breast. The doctor at school had told him that the breast could be amputated and everything would be all right. Well, not everything was all right for Manfred, and he desperately wanted to talk to his parents about it.
Matthias was a good Lutheran. Austria is a Catholic country with very few Protestant Christians. Our tiny village is isolated on a mountain and far away from other settlements because it was founded generations ago at a time when Lutherans were persecuted in Austria. They were given the choice to either leave the country or try to evade the authorities. The families, who had started our little village, had decided to hide in the woods.
Matthias, Manfred's father, was an elder in our congregation, and a much respected one. Proudly Matthias would show us children the little hiding place behind the cabinet in the living room where his forefathers had kept the German Bible. "There was a time when it was forbidden by law to read the Bible in German," he would explain. And we children felt terribly proud to be Protestant.
It is the custom in rural Austria that, when the youngest son marries, he takes over the farm and pays off his siblings. By that time the parents usually are close to retirement age. This is a system that has worked well for as far back as people can remember.
One day, Manfred came to talk to his father. Matthias was in no way prepared for what Manfred would say. Manfred told his father that he was gay and that he was never going to marry.
Not only did Matthias not know how to deal with the homosexuality of his son, but he also realized that the future of the family farm was at stake.
Those were the early years of the AIDS virus, when information was scarce and fears ran high. Many people thought that this disease affected gay communities only. And many Christians honestly believed that this virus was a punishment from God for sinful behavior. Matthias told me later that from the moment Manfred had confided in him he lived in constant fear that his son would be infected.
Three years later Manfred died of AIDS in a hospital in Vienna. Because Matthias was so appalled by homosexuality and because he did not know how to deal with the gay and lesbian friends, who had taken care of Manfred, he had never visited his son in the hospital.
The funeral took place in our small church. The building was crowded. Not only did all the parishioners come as is the custom in rural Austria but many of Manfred's friends, who had long since left to study or work somewhere else were there. My wife and I came from Germany, where we lived at the time, and my brother Steve came all the way from Springfield, Missouri, just for the day.
And there were Manfred's gay friends from Vienna. Quite a sight for a rural Austrian Lutheran Church! Earrings and tattoos, leather jackets, mini-skirts, the hair died in red, green, blue or any other color of the rainbow.
And when the first part of the liturgy was over, the pastor climbed up the steps of the artfully carved, 13th century pulpit. Everyone was quiet. Everyone was waiting.
I do not remember, how the pastor structured the sermon or what text he used. But I still remember very vividly what the conclusion of the sermon was:
"Manfred," the pastor proclaimed, "simply drove through a red light at a busy intersection. He will have to face the consequences. Do not be deceived: 'Fornicators, adulterers, sodomites will not inherit the kingdom of God!' Manfred will go to hell for eternity."
"No", Matthias shouted, who sat in the first row. "No, no, no!"
It was more than I could bear. Was this the gospel that we believed in? Was this the message our Lutheran ancestors were persecuted for? Is this all we have to say to a troubled father, mother, brother, sisters, friends, who had lost a loved one?
At this point in the sermon I got up and left the church building. Manfred's friends from Vienna followed. Half the congregation walked out of the church.
The pastor was confused, the organist did not know what to do, and at that moment my brother Stephen stood up and sung.
We were not sure whether we were doing the right thing or not. I walked over to the group of gay friends, who were standing there, quietly, calmly.
"This happens all the time," one of them told me. "We feel like we are on a tour through rural Austria. It seems, every other week one of our friends dies of AIDS. And at every funeral service we go to, we hear the same message."
The first thing Matthias did when the service was finally over was that he told the pastor that he did not want him to participate in the meal, which traditionally follows an Austrian funeral. I was close enough to hear the conversation.
"God made Manfred the way he was," Matthias explained, "and it is not up to you, pastor, to criticize God's creation. That my son was taken from me was a blow, but what you said was a beating."
The second thing Matthias did was that he walked to the group of friends from Vienna. He shook hands with every single one of them. He had overcome his fear of many years, to touch a gay person. And he invited each of them personally to please come to the meal, which was just being prepared in a restaurant close by.
"You took care of my son when he was sick," he said. "You dressed him, fed him, washed him, read to him, talked to him, sat with him. You did what I was not able to do."
And then -- Matthias wept. I was one of the first ones to arrive at the restaurant. When Matthias walked through the door and saw me, he embraced me, he put his head on my shoulder and wept. No one had seen him cry before, not his children, not his wife, not his friends. This strong man was now leaning on my shoulder, weeping.
Being a Christian is not about having all the right answers. It is about hope that the Lord will lay his hand on us and heal us. It is about love. And about change.
When Matthias embraced me and wept on my shoulder, I changed.
AMEN
