My Brothers' (and Sisters') Keeper

sermon by Torin Eikler
1 Corinthians 8:1-13 Mark 1:21-28

At first glance, this passage from Paul’s letter to the Corinthians is all about food and eating. It seems that there was some confusion among the believers there as to whether or not it was okay to eat the remnants from sacrificial ceremonies in the many temples that dominated the center of the city. Some felt that the meat was tainted and that eating it would defile a person. Others scoffed at that idea and happily scarfed down the left-overs from the Olympian feast.

Paul’s response was to seize the chance to do a little theological education. There’s really only one God, he says. Not everyone believes in or even knows about that God, but the “idols” they worship are nothing more than their own fantasies. So, there’s really no need to worry about spiritually contaminated food, he says, because every part of creation was made by God and was declared to be good.

But you can never take Paul at face value…. Or, rather, you can never leave Paul without looking deeper. The food issue is not his greatest worry, and after giving his thoughts on that particular issue – which are a relief to those of us who like to eat the rest of the communion bread after Love Feast – he goes on to a deeper concern: how the believers of Corinth have gone about having their disagreement.


As I implied earlier, those who had the “right” view on the food issue seem to have been more than a little insensitive to the newer members of their congregation. They were people who had just come out of a life of worshiping other gods, and they were understandably concerned that it would be wrong to continue the religious practices of their earlier lives. Paul is clear to say that “the ‘weak ones’ were not to be considered inadequate or inferior. They were merely at an earlier stage along the spiritual growth continuum that runs from more limited moral consciousness to a fuller awareness.” And the more “mature” believers who are ignoring the effects of their behavior are also ignoring their responsibility to care for, nurture, and build their brothers and sisters up in love.

Believers, he says, are not only responsible for themselves and their own actions. They are responsible for each other and the way their actions set examples for others. In other words … they are their brothers’ and sisters’ keepers, and they don’t seem to be doing a very good job caring for them. Instead of giving encouragement and nurture, they are offering judgment and contempt, and that, according to Paul, is the equivalent of sinning not only against weaker brothers and sisters, but also against the Christ who cherishes each one of them.


“All fine and good,” we think. “The Corinthians clearly needed to do a better job of caring for each other.” And it’s tempting to leave it at that – a study in historical scripture analysis. But Paul – at least the Paul we see in his letters - was nothing if not an insightful pastor, and I am sure that the deeper issues that he was addressing with the Corinthians are just as likely to crop up in congregations today. They may even be part of our lives together. They probably are, and we can feel bad about that. But Paul doesn’t seem to want to crush the Corinthian church with guilt. He wants them to change. He wants them to care for one another – to build each other up … with love.

I want to share with you a powerful story of how we can do that. It comes courtesy of John Sumwalt….

There was once a deeply troubled church that could not keep any pastor for more than a year or two. Eight pastors had come and gone in eleven years, all of them at the request of the congregation after controversy with one of the long-time leaders. The church blamed the Bishop for sending them inept pastors. The pastors blamed the congregation, saying that ministry was impossible with a people so intent on self-destruction. Many members left, and, in time, no pastor could be found who was willing to serve what everyone was calling "that difficult charge."

Finally, in exasperation, the Bishop called a special meeting which included several key leaders from the troubled congregation and forty lay and clergy members of her Annual Conference, chosen randomly. Leaders of the congregation described the difficulties they had experienced over the past several years. Then the District Superintendent was given an opportunity to tell the story from his point of view. When everyone had had a say, the Bishop addressed the whole gathering in her best preacher's voice, saying, "Brothers and sisters, what are we going to do? Whom shall we send to this tormented congregation to share with them the healing power of Jesus the Christ?"

Then the Bishop invited everyone to pray silently with her. The silence lasted for a long time and continued even after the Bishop concluded the prayer with a resolute "amen." At last one of the older pastors spoke out from the back of the room. "I'll go," she said.

There was a collective gasp, and then a sustained buzzing of voices that grew until it filled the room. Everyone knew that she had been on leave of absence for several years and that she had left her last church in the wake of a scandalous divorce. She had become an alcoholic, been twice convicted of drunk driving, had spent six months in prison and a month in a chemical dependency treatment center. The Bishop and the superintendents had hoped to place her with some small, quiet, caring congregation where she could serve her remaining years without stress.

"Are you sure, Deborah?" the Bishop asked. "This is a very difficult assignment."

"This is a congregation in pain," Deborah said. "I know something about pain. I think I should be the one to go." Heads could be seen nodding all around the room.

"There is one condition to my going, however," Deborah said to the Bishop. "You must give me a free hand to do whatever is necessary to bring about healing. I must know that I have your full support to do what is needed." The Bishop looked back at Deborah, and, without blinking an eye, said, "You have my full support to do whatever is needed."

Deborah and the District Superintendent met with the leaders of the troubled congregation after the meeting. They agreed to accept her as their pastor, although they expressed some surprise that a woman her age would want to take on such a difficult task. Near the end of the meeting, Deborah asked for the same unconditional support she had requested of the Bishop. They agreed to give her free reign to do whatever was needed to help heal the congregation, and, at Deborah's insistence, they solemnly promised to pray for her every day. Then she told them what she planned to do to begin the healing process. She said, "It is my intention to visit with every member of this congregation before I perform any other pastoral duties, including preaching. I will not lead worship or attend any meetings until that task is finished. The chairperson said, "I'll make the arrangements."

Deborah began her visitation the following day. She went from house to house, apartment to apartment, hospital bed to nursing home bed, introducing herself as the new pastor and asking each one, as she went, to respond to two questions: How did you come to love Jesus, and why have you chosen to serve him in this congregation? She visited morning, afternoon and evening for four-and-a-half weeks and was warmly received by every member of the congregation but one. Then she went home, called the lay leader, and told him she would be prepared to preach the following Sunday.

The sanctuary was packed that day. Almost every able member was present. They waited eagerly for the sermon to hear what Deborah would have to say. Her text was Mark 1:16-20, the calling of the disciples. She said, "I want to share two things with you today: How I came to love Jesus, and why I believe God has called me to serve him with you in this congregation." It was a stirring sermon. Many in the congregation were moved to tears. Then, just as Deborah was about to ask them to join with her in prayer, a man stood up in the back of the sanctuary and shouted out at her. It was Harry Wiersem, the man who had refused to see her when she called at his home. He was the long-time leader who had bedeviled so many pastors before her. Some had told Deborah that he had never recovered from the death of his wife many years before.

"Who do you think you are, sister?" he yelled. "We know all about you. You couldn't keep your husband and you are a drunk. You're the last thing we need in this church. We've got enough problems as it is!"

He stood glaring at her, his face red and his knuckles bulging white as his hands gripped the pew in front of him. Deborah looked back at him with sad eyes. She didn't speak for several seconds. It seemed like an eternity to the congregation. It was absolutely silent in the sanctuary. No one moved or seemed to breathe.

"I am a sinner, Harry," Deborah said in a soft, firm voice, still looking into his angry, red face. "A forgiven sinner. And I've come to serve with sinners: forgiven sinners." Then she stepped down from the pulpit and walked up the long center aisle to where Harry was still hanging on to the back of his pew. She put her arm around his shoulder, looked him in the eye and said, "I am sorry about Mildred. She must have been very dear to you." Harry let go of the pew, fell into her arms and began to sob like a baby. When he was finished, Deborah bid everyone to gather round. They joined hands and she led them in prayer. When she said "Amen," Deborah was aware of something around her that felt like a collective sigh of relief. The demons were gone. The congregation would be whole again.


Demons, idols, addictions … they aren’t really that different from each other when it comes down to it. They push a wedge between us and our brothers and sisters. They divide us from God. And they bedevil us all in some way or another. Sometimes they are personal – deeply personal things that we struggle with … too often by ourselves. Other times they take center stage in the midst of our communities and hurt those we love. At their worst, they suck others into storms of our own making, drawing us all farther from the wholeness that is our salvation.

When I read that story, I wrote back to the author and asked if it was a true story. He responded, “All my stories are true, and some of them really happened.” I took that to mean that it’s not so much the details that matter as it is the message. And it’s not the details of each person’s struggle that really matters – though they do make a difference. How we respond is what’s important because we are our brothers’ and sisters’ keepers … just as they are ours.

Do we ignore the pain and brokenness of our brothers and sisters, turning them away so that we don’t embarrass them?

Do we avoid the brokenness within ourselves, hoping that it will just go away somehow?

Or do we reach out our arms to share ourselves with one another, opening the floodgates of the healing love of God?