By These Wounds -- Third Sunday of Easter

Luke 24:36b-48

April 14, 2024

 

            My mom warned me and warned me to stay away from our next door neighbor’s motorcycles. The teenage boys next door had a lot of motorcycles. My parents weren’t crazy about them – the motorcycles, not the teenage boys – and they didn’t want me near them. They could be dangerous, and I was too young to be on one. Also, they said “no!” But I thought they were fascinating.

One summer day, when I was probably 8 or 9, I saw my neighbor pull up to his house on his bike, turn it off, and go into the house. I decided to go look at it. I was just going to look at it. I wasn’t going to do anything else. But it turned out that looking at it wasn’t enough. So, I decided to climb on the seat. What harm could come from climbing on the seat? It wasn’t like I was going to ride it or anything. I climbed onto the seat prepared to do some pretend cruising, but what I didn’t know was that since the motorcycle had just been ridden, the metal on the bike was hot. I was barefoot and wearing shorts. I climbed onto the seat for my “ride” when unfortunately the inside of my ankle touched hot metal. I jumped off immediately and ran home in pain. Touching that hot metal burned my ankle. And it left a scar for a long, long time. The scar is mostly faded now, but for many years it was a visible reminder to listen to my mother.

            A commentator on this passage from Luke’s gospel talked about the stories that our scars tell. When Jesus shows the scars on his hands and feet to the disciples to prove it was him, he was reminding them of the story that led up to that moment. His scars were a visible reminder of who he was and who he is.

            Jesus was also trying to prove to the disciples that he was not a ghost. This is a post resurrection story, and we, the readers, know that Jesus is not a ghost. But this story does seem a little ghostly. Jesus seems able to walk through walls and doors, solid boundaries that no living human could breach. Only ghosts as we understand them in popular culture can do that. I mean one minute Jesus was not there, and the next minute he was standing in their midst. That seems like a ghost to me! But Jesus was not a ghost, and he asks the disciples why they are frightened, and why they have doubts lurking in their hearts? They have been talking about “these things,” and these things refer to the story that immediately precedes ours.

            That story is Jesus meeting two of the disciples on the road to Emmaus. The Emmaus story is probably one of the best known of the post-resurrection stories in the gospels. Two disciples are making their way from Jerusalem to a village called Emmaus. Jesus joins them on the road, but they don’t recognize him. The disciples, Cleopas and another one whose name we don’t know, were talking about everything that had happened in the last few days – the crucifixion of their beloved Rabbi, and the women’s supposedly idle tale about the tomb being empty and receiving a message from angels that Jesus was risen.

            Jesus, an apparent stranger, asks them what they are talking about and why they look so sad. They suppose that he is the only person around who has not heard about everything that has happened, so they fill him on the details of the last few days. Then Jesus, this stranger, begins to interpret the scripture for them in light of what they have seen and heard.

            He goes to leave them, but they encourage him to stay with them. It is getting late in the day, darkness will soon fall, and he should not be out in the night alone. Jesus, still unknown to them, agrees. They sit down to eat, and when Jesus breaks bread with them their eyes were opened. They recognize him! As soon as they do, he vanishes from their sight. Now, these two hightail it back to Jerusalem to tell the other disciples. They too have seen the risen Lord!

            And while they are sharing this incredible story with the others, Jesus again appears in their midst. I guess the story that the two disciples were telling them had not yet sunk in, because when Jesus just appears they are terrified. As has already been said, they think Jesus is a ghost. But Jesus tells them that he is no ghost. This is not a ghost story.

            Look at me, he tells them. Look at my hands and at my feet. Touch my hands and my feet. Touch the scars. See where the wounds were. Does a ghost have flesh and bones? Does a ghost have scars that tell this kind of story? Just as Jesus did for Thomas in John’s gospel, Jesus offers the disciples proof of who he is and what has happened. He was indeed crucified, dead, buried, and now he is resurrected, risen again!

            But their doubts persist. Luke writes,

            “While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, ‘Have you anything here to eat?’ They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence.”

            I remember a professor in seminary talking about this particular moment and relating to us, his students, that the Greek does not say that Jesus merely ate the fish. He gnawed it. He devoured it, just as any living human would who had not eaten in several days. Jesus is not just a spirit or some ghostly apparition before them. He has flesh and bones and hunger. He has scars that tell the story of what has happened.

            The disciples are overjoyed at this, but still disbelieving. They don’t trust their senses. Then Jesus did for them what he did for the other disciples on the road to Emmaus. He opened their minds to understand the scriptures.

            It seems that an open, enlightened mind is the final, necessary ingredient to belief. When Jesus finishes interpreting the scriptures in light of all that has happened, with his physical presence before them, the complete and unequivocal proof that what he told them before his death has indeed come to pass, he declares to them all,

            “Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witness of these things.”

            You are witnesses of these things. That’s not just a statement of fact, is it? There is an implied imperative in Jesus’ words as well. You are witnesses of these things and therefore you must witness. Starting in Jerusalem, the story, this story, the story that my scars offer, must be told. God’s word of repentance and forgiveness must be preached. And as witnesses of these things, it starts with you.

            What stories do our scars tell? Do they tell of mishaps as children or surgeries as adults? Do they tell stories of disobedience or bravery? Do they tell stories of perseverance and persistence or a willingness to be reckless? What stories do our scars tell? When Jesus offered his hands and feet as proof of his resurrection, he was also sharing the story of his life, his ministry, his authentic humanity. His scars told the story of everything he preached and everything he taught. His scars told of his willingness to do what was considered unlawful, but what he knew was really of God. The scars on Jesus’ hands and feet told the story of the people dined with and the people he welcomed and the people he forgave. They told the story of who he healed and when he healed. Jesus’ scars told the story of the cruelty and barbarity of the powers and principalities, and they told the story of his courage and conviction that would not be swayed and of his obedience to God no matter what the cost.

            Jesus showed the scars on his hands and feet as a testament to his story, and that story is God’s story. His story is the story of God and God’s relationship with us, his children, all of God’s creation. When we hear the words, “by his wounds we are healed,” we may think solely in of the traditional interpretations of atonement. Jesus died so death could be overcome. But it seems to me that there is more to those words. By his wounds Jesus told the story of what it means to live life so fully and completely in relationship with God. By his wounds Jesus told the story of humanity’s cruelty and God’s love. By his wounds Jesus reminds us that we are healed not by magic, but by love – LOVE in all caps. We are healed by love that refuses to give up on us, love that refuses to back down, love that seeks justice and righteousness, love that welcomes, love that includes, love that sees the people we can be, love that sees the people God created us to be.

            By his wounds we are healed. By his scars we are reminded of who he was, who he is, who we are, and what we are called to do. We are called to be witnesses of these things. We are called to share and spread the good news of the gospel. We are called to witness to those wounds and to tell and retell the story of those scars. Thanks be to God.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.

F.O.M.O. -- Second Sunday of Easter

John 20:19-31

April 7, 2024

 

            I know that I have recently mentioned the weekly lectionary group I attend. The group has become a source of inspiration and friendship for me over these past few years. And last week provided another moment of inspiration. We all commented how the passage today from John’s gospel is one that we’ve preached many, many, many, many times before, and when you’ve preached a passage this often it can be a challenge to come up with a new angle. As we were discussing the different aspects of this story about the disciple Thomas, one member of the group said something like, “Yep, Thomas definitely has a case of FOMO – fear of missing out.” Hence, the title of my sermon today is F.O.M.O. – Fear of Missing Out.

            At first glance, it’s not difficult to believe that Thomas is suffering from a case of FOMO. Our story begins on the evening of the resurrection, for us that would have been last Sunday night. The disciples, minus Thomas, were hiding together in a locked house, fearful that the religious authorities might show up at their door. They had heard the story that Mary Magdalene had told them about talking to a man she thought was the gardener, only to discover that it was their Rabbi, their Teacher, their Jesus risen from the dead. Peter and the other disciple had gone to the tomb when Mary first told them that the stone had been rolled away and the tomb was empty. But Mary’s story about later seeing the risen lord had not alleviated their fear. Whatever they believed or didn’t believe, they were still afraid, hiding, and waiting – for what they were waiting they may not have known.

            But to their wonder and amazement, the risen Jesus came and stood among them. Even though all the doors were securely locked, Jesus was suddenly standing in their midst. He said, “Peace be with you,” and then he showed them his hands and his side – the places where the nails and the guard’s spear had pierced his flesh. The disciples rejoiced. Jesus said once more, “Peace be with you.” Then, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” He breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”

            Jesus, resurrected and risen, shows up in their midst. He offers them peace, he shows them where he had been wounded, and he breathes on them the Holy Spirit – John’s Pentecost. And while all of this is happening, Thomas isn’t there. We don’t know where Thomas was. Maybe Thomas was the one who slipped out to the marketplace to buy some food and other provisions. Maybe Thomas ran back to his own home to check on his family. Maybe he was just walking around, getting some fresh air. We don’t know what he was doing, but we do know he was not with the others. He rejoins them after Jesus has left, after Jesus has breathed the Holy Spirit on them, after Jesus has shown them the marks on his hands and side, after Jesus has offered them his peace. Thomas comes in after all this has happened, and he is greeted with the words, “We have seen the Lord!”

            One commentator wrote that the first time he went to New York City with a group of friends, he left the group for just a minute because he wanted to get a hot dog from a street vendor. When he returned to his group, the others told him they had just met the actor Will Ferrell and had their picture taken with him! He couldn’t believe it! He was gone for just a few minutes, and in that short span of time they met Will Ferrell! Did he really need that hot dog?

            If this commentator’s disappointment was fierce over missing out on meeting Will Ferrell, how much worse would Thomas’s disappointment and sorrow have been over not seeing Jesus as the others had. Although John does not add the conversation to the text, I think its fair to assume that they filled Thomas in on all that Jesus said and did when he was with them. And when Thomas hears about this, he responds,

            “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

            And this is the moment when Thomas receives the moniker that will stay with him for centuries. In this moment he goes from being Thomas to Doubting Thomas. It seems like this is the only way I have ever known Thomas. He wasn’t just Thomas, he was Doubting Thomas, and you did not want to be a Doubting Thomas.

            But did Thomas really doubt? I will say this every time I preach on this passage, traditional interpretations have given Thomas a bad rap. Was Thomas really doubtful or did he only want to experience what the other disciples experienced? Was this about doubt or was it that the other disciples experienced the risen Christ in an unexpected way and Thomas felt that he had missed out? Was this doubt or was this F.O.M.O.?

I don’t believe that Thomas was doubting as much as he was disappointed that he had missed this incredible experience, that he had missed this visible sign of belief. And he puts that disappointment into words.

“Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

So a week later Jesus comes again to the disciples, to Thomas. He gives Thomas what he asked for. He gives Thomas permission to touch him, touch his hands and his side. See firsthand the proof of the resurrection. Thomas says, “show me.” And Jesus says, “here I am.”

            Because of this, Thomas is seen as the cynical, skeptical doubter. But I still think that this text is not so much about doubt as it is about faith. Most of the translations of the Bible we have at our disposal, including the NRSV, the one I use, translate Jesus as saying, “doubt.” Do not doubt. But the Greek word for doubt is not used in this story at all. The more literal translation for the verb apistos is “unbelieving.” Jesus tells Thomas, “Do not be unbelieving, but believing.”

            Do not be unbelieving but believing. 

            Do not be unbelieving but believing. Go from being without faith to having faith. Not having faith isn’t the same as being cynical about faith, is it?  It’s not quite the same thing as doubt. Unbelief and belief are opposites, but doubt and faith are really two sides of the same coin.

            Thomas asked for what he needed to believe. Thomas asked for the same experience of Jesus that the others had, and Jesus offered to Thomas exactly what he asked for. Jesus offered himself as motivation, as a sign for Thomas to believe, to have faith, to go from unbelieving to believing.

            When Jesus offers himself as proof and motivation for faith, Thomas utters one of the most profound confessions of faith in the gospel. “My Lord and my God.” Thomas is not exclaiming here. He is confessing his faith. My Lord and my God.

            When we examine the interaction between Jesus and Thomas in this light, then the next words of Jesus sound different as well.

“Have you believed because you have seen me?  Blessed are those who have not seen me and yet have come to believe.”

            Is Jesus trying to shame or scold Thomas?  That’s what many of us have been taught. Or was Jesus confirming what had just happened? And in his confirmation, he opened the door to faith for generations of believers yet to come. This is one of those moments in the scriptural witness when we can see ourselves firmly in the story. It’s as if Jesus isn’t just speaking to the disciples, to those standing next to him, he’s speaking to us. 

It seems to me that Thomas wants the same experience as the others. He wants to see and touch Jesus. He wants to experience this risen Jesus just as the other disciples have. “Hey, I missed out on your experience of him, so now I want one of my own. I need one of my own.” Thomas needed his own experience of Jesus to believe, and Jesus offered him that experience. And isn’t that where faith springs from? From our experience with the risen Christ. From our encounters with Jesus even when we didn’t know we were encountering him.

I will admit to anyone that when it comes to my faith, it walks hand-in-hand with my doubt. It’s hard not to look at the state of the world and not experience doubt. But even as I doubt, I still believe. And while theology and liturgy and confessions help me and teach me, my faith has been strengthened in those moments when I have experienced the risen Christ. It is in those times when I have made my own confession of “My Lord and my God.”

When I was in my early twenties and new to the Presbyterian church, I found out that a beloved high school friend had committed suicide. I was living in another state, away from my parents’ home, and my mother called to tell me about it when I was at work. She was worried about me being alone when I heard, and she knew that at work other people would be there with me. I was distraught and I called the church office. The associate pastor that I knew somewhat well was not in, but the head of staff was. The church I was attending was fairly large and I know now just how busy this pastor must have been. But he dropped everything and met me at a restaurant for a cup of coffee. And then he just listened. He listened to my grief and my confusion. He didn’t pretend to have answers and he didn’t offer me platitudes. But the one thing he told me was that God was grieving too. God was grieving and holding my dear friend closely in his loving arms. Those words opened my eyes and my heart in a new way. I experienced the risen Christ in a way that I had not before. I went from unbelief to believing. I experienced the risen Christ. Jesus made sure I saw the marks on his hands and his side too.

Thomas wanted to experience what the others experienced. And Jesus made sure that happened. Jesus wants that for us as well. Don’t fear that you will miss out. Look for him and he will be there.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!”

Amen.

 

Terror and Amazement -- Easter Sunday

Mark 16:1-8

March 31, 2024

 

            “So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”

            These words aren’t exactly what we expect from an Easter message, are they? There is no celebration, no elation. There is no shout of “Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!” There are no “Alleluias!” Nothing about these words or the message they convey are joyful or exultant. They don’t seem to reflect – at all – what has just happened: that Jesus of Nazareth who was crucified is no longer in the tomb. They don’t reflect the amazing and astonishing news that Jesus of Nazareth who was executed by the state, who died on a criminal’s cross, was laid in a tomb without proper burial and without any rituals or rites of respect, is not here.

He. Is. Not. Here. And he is not here because his lifeless body has been moved to another location. He is not here because he is risen, he is resurrected. He is not here, in this tomb, because he is no longer dead but alive. He has been raised. Look, look over there. Do you see that spot over there? That was where they laid him. But he is not there. He is not here. He is risen! He is risen indeed!

            Shouldn’t this news, these words have resulted in celebration? One might think so. But the women who heard them on that early morning did not celebrate. They did not shout for joy. They heard these words from a white robed young man, who was probably an angel, but instead of celebrating they were seized with terror and amazement. Literally, they were trembling with fear, unable to speak. Most likely, unable to think. The women heard the words of the angel and were overcome with fear and shock. And even though the angel gave them instructions to go and tell the disciples and Peter what had happened, to go to Galilee because that is where Jesus is going ahead of them, they couldn’t do it. They could not do what the angel told them – at least not yet. Instead they ran away, saying nothing to no one, because they were afraid.

            No, these aren’t the words we’ve come to expect from Easter. This isn’t the message we want to hear on Easter morning. And I can understand why Mark’s account is not the go-to for the Easter story. I can appreciate why some unknown scribes came along later and tried to clean up Mark’s ending, adding verses to wrap up the story like you wrap a present, neatly, cleanly and tied with a bow.

            It’s as if Mark was taking an exam, heard the warning from the proctor that there were only five more minutes left to finish his essay, and so out of necessity, he just ended the story he was writing.

            “So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.” The End.

            But Mark’s original ending does not feel like an ending. It feels unfinished. Yet, if we look carefully at the rest of Mark’s gospel, this abrupt ending fits. Mark writes with immediacy and urgency. From the first words of his gospel, we feel as though we’ve been thrust into a story in the middle rather than the beginning. Mark begins his gospel with Jesus already born, already grown, and at the start of a ministry that was on the move. Mark has never wasted ink on flowery details or wordy descriptions. From the opening sentences of this gospel, Mark has made it clear that there was no time to lose in proclaiming the gospel and sharing the good news. So, the fact that his ending should be so abrupt shouldn’t surprise us. But what does surprise us is the lack of rejoicing. Instead of celebration, we have terror and amazement.

            Shouldn’t the women have been overwhelmed with joy rather than fear? After all, their beloved teacher is found to be alive not dead. It almost seems like a dream. If you’ve ever lost someone and dreamed that they were still alive, there are no words to describe that joy that you feel – even in sleep – that the person you love was not lost to you, but alive, alive, ALIVE!

            And yet … if I had been among that group of women, would I have celebrated right away? Or would I have trembled with fear? Would I have been dumbstruck with awe? I think it is highly possible that I would have reacted more like the women from our gospel than I might like to believe. Because dead is supposed to be dead. Those women walk to the tomb grieving and anxious, expecting the dead to stay dead. Instead they are greeted with the news that life overcame death and love defeated hate. It was all too much to take in. It was all more than they could comprehend. An angel, an empty tomb, a message of resurrection. No wonder they shook with fear and trembled with amazement?! As Debi Thomas wrote, sometimes resurrection comes upon us slowly. Our hearts and minds need time to catch up. I suspect that this was true for the women as well. Their hearts and minds needed time to catch up with what they were told, with what they saw and experienced on that early morning.

            Certainly, they must have eventually told someone because the good news did indeed spread from one person to the next. The gospel was proclaimed and shared and believed despite their initial terror and amazement. The good news of the resurrection was not lost due to the women’s first response of flight in the face of what they could not yet grasp. Definitely the story did not end with their running away in fear.

            Maybe that is the good news. Maybe that is the good news we need to hear this Easter morning. The women’s fear did not hinder the proclamation of the gospel. Their inability to grasp what they heard, and what they saw did not stop God and the new thing God was doing. Jesus’ resurrection from death to new life was not stopped because the women ran away or the other disciples didn’t understand. The good news of the gospel cannot be stopped or blocked or thwarted by our fears, our mistakes, our inability, or unwillingness to act or to share. This doesn’t mean that we are not called to proclaim, to tell, to share, and to act out the good news of the gospel in the world. But it does mean that God is not stopped by our limitations. God is not stopped by our fear.

            And there are two words in this gospel story that bring this point home. When the angel greets the women, telling them to not be alarmed or afraid, he also tells them this:

            “But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee…”

            And Peter. Now, why do those two words matter so much? Why did the angel single out Peter from the other disciples? Think about it. What was the last thing Peter did? He denied Jesus. He denied him three times. He refused to acknowledge any connection between them. Peter was afraid. He was terrified. He was overwhelmed with fear at what might happen to him because of his relationship with Jesus. So, Peter denied Jesus.

            But this angel tells the women to go and tell the disciples and Peter that Jesus is resurrected, that Jesus is on the way to Galilee ahead of them. And Peter. Maybe Jesus wanted Peter to know that all was forgiven. Maybe Jesus wanted Peter to know that his denial and his fear did not exclude him from the good news now. It did not exclude him from the work that now must be done. Maybe Jesus wanted Peter and all of them to know that the mistakes of the past were both forgiven and forgotten. Peter’s denial did not extinguish Jesus’ love for him. The fear of the women would not keep the good news from being told. No mistakes that any of them had made or would make could stop God. Go and tell the disciples and Peter. And Peter.

            I know that Mark’s gospel does not end as we might like. I know that his finish feels unfinished. Yet, I think that is indeed the good news. It is not finished, we are not finished, and God is not finished. Peter’s denial did not stop God. The women’s fear did not prevent the gospel from being proclaimed. God is not thwarted by our limitations. And we are not excluded from God’s love because of them. Go and tell the disciples and Peter. Go and tell the disciples and Amy. Go and tell the disciples and Brent. Go and tell the disciples and Charlie. Go and tell the disciples and Mellisa. Go and tell the disciples and Chris and Sam and Lyman and June and Drew. Go and tell the disciples and all of us that Jesus is risen. Go and tell the disciples and all the world that love has overcome hate and death has been swallowed up by new and everlasting life. Our fear does not stop God. Our mistakes cannot limit Love. This is our good news, and in this good news we are fearful and amazed. In this good news we are overwhelmed and lifted up. In this good news we find our hope, our joy, our exultation. Jesus is risen! He is risen indeed!

Thanks be to God!

            Let all of God’s children shout, “Alleluia!”

            Amen.

           

           

What Do We Remember? -- Maundy Thursday

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

March 28, 2024

 

            In my first call as an associate pastor, I didn’t preside over the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper by myself very often if ever. I assisted my head of staff, but I didn’t stand at that table alone. In that church someone had made a small booklet that contained the liturgies for the different sacraments, and a copy of that booklet lived in each pew rack. It was nice to have it because the liturgy for communion didn’t have to be reprinted each time we celebrated it. But this also meant that I just read my part in the booklet and didn’t have to think too much about it.

            But then I took a call as a solo pastor, and suddenly I was in charge. It was me and only me who presided over the table, and that made me incredibly nervous. I didn’t have the little booklet anymore, and I wasn’t sure if I should bring the Book of Common worship to the table with me, so I used to type out the entire communion service each month and read from that. Doing that helped me begin to memorize the words of institution. But it didn’t help me completely get over my nerves.

            I still get nervous about communion, even though I’ve presided at the table for a long time now. I worry that I’ll spill something – which I have. I worry that I’ll knock something over – which I have. I worry that I will have a memory lapse and forget some part of the words of institution – which I have. When I would make those kinds of mistakes as a young pastor, I would experience excruciating embarrassment which took me a long time to get past. Now, I still get embarrassed, but I’ve learned to laugh at myself and that helps. In a few minutes we’ll gather at the table again, and I guarantee you I will be a little nervous because I always am. Hopefully, I won’t make any of the mistakes I’ve mentioned, but there’s always the possibility that I might make one or two new ones. But whether I make a mistake or not, the truth is that the power of what happens when we gather at this table is not lessened or erased.

            Although we don’t read the passage from Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians tonight, which shares the words of institution that churches everywhere still use some variation of, the story that we read from John’s gospel is the story of the last supper. It is the story of the night before Jesus’ betrayal. It is the story that provides the impetus and inspiration for our sacrament. In our words of institution for this communion meal, we are called to remember – to remember this story, this night, this last supper, what Jesus said, and even more importantly what Jesus did.

            What do we remember on this night? We remember that Jesus, gathered at table with his disciples, with all his disciples, took a towel, wrapped it around his waist, and knelt to wash the feet of the disciples.

            Foot washing was not uncommon. It was a way of offering hospitality to guests after walking the dusty roads. In households of greater means and wealth, servants would have been employed to wash the feet of those dining. In smaller, less affluent households, water would still have been provided for diners to wash their own feet. Foot washing was not uncommon, but a teacher washing the feet of his disciples was. It was unheard of. It broke every social protocol. And the disciples and anyone else witnessing this would have been stunned and shocked and appalled. We are not told what the other disciples’ response was, but it is almost certain that Peter put into words what the others were thinking.

            “Peter said to him, ‘You will never wash my feet.’”

            As if to say, “No way, Lord! This is not going to happen. You cannot wash my feet.” But Jesus responds that if Peter does not let Jesus wash his feet, Peter will have no share with Jesus. In this context, a share is a portion or a piece. As one commentator wrote, Jesus is reminding Peter that he shares in what Jesus is doing, his ministry, who he is, his love. Peter and the other disciples are co-sharers with Jesus and therefore with one another. Peter seems to understand this, and in typical Peter fashion goes too far the other way.

            Okay, Lord, if you’re going to wash my feet, then wash my hands and my head too.

            But Jesus reminds Peter that only the feet need to be washed. And when he was finished, he put his robe back on, sat down at the table again and asked if they understood what he had just done. If, their Rabbi and Lord, washed their feet, then they should be more than willing to wash each other’s feet. Jesus gave them an example of service, an example of community, an example of love.

            That is the first thing we are called to remember and to do on this night. This is our commandment, which the word maundy means in Latin. We are to love one another, and our love is embodied in our service to one another. Jesus was never afraid to upend social mores. He never hesitated to do what others might think as beneath him. He was reluctant to put love into action. And that is one thing that we remember on this night.

            Something else that we remember on this night is that when Jesus washed the feet of the disciples, Judas was still in their midst. Jesus washed Judas’ feet too. John makes it clear that Jesus knew this was his last night with them, that he knew and understood this his hour to depart was at hand. And Jesus knew what Judas was going to do. Jesus knew that Judas would betray him, and with his betrayal Jesus’ arrest, persecution, and death would be set into motion. There was no turning back, and Jesus knew that. So, it is no small thing to remember that Jesus washed Judas’ feet too. To love as Jesus loved, to serve as Jesus served means that we cannot pick and choose whose feet we decide to wash. Even those who hurt us, even those who may hate us, are not exempt from our love. Whatever divides us must not keep us from gathering at this table together. And what divides us must not keep us from living in community with one another, washing one another’s feet, living out the love Jesus commanded. Jesus washed Judas’ feet too.

            What we remember tonight is that Jesus did not tell the disciples what to believe. He did not offer dogma but devotion. He did not lecture. He loved. This is what we are called to remember tonight, and to remember tomorrow and every day after. What we are called to remember from this night and from this table is that Jesus showed us through his example how to live even in the face of death, and how to love even those who betray and those who deny. That is what we are called to remember on this night, this night when Jesus took a towel, wrapped it around his waist and washed the feet of his disciples.

            Thanks be to God.

            Amen.

What Kind of Triumph? -- Palm Sunday/Passion Sunday

Mark 11:1-11 (Mark 14:1-11)

March 24, 2024

 

As many times as I have heard the story of Palm Sunday, as many times as I have read the story in the gospels, and as many times as I have preached on this particular Sunday, I have never considered the meaning of a Triumph. The “triumphal procession” of Jesus into Jerusalem at the beginning of what we now know as Holy Week was merely a description in my mind. Jesus would process into Jerusalem, and even though his death won’t seem like a triumph to anyone who witnessed it, it would be because he would be resurrected. And in Jesus’ resurrection, he would have ultimate victory over death. A triumph! But a Triumph has an historical meaning that I knew nothing about until this past week. So, I thank my friend and colleague, Blake Hawthorne, for giving me some historical background on a Triumph.

In the Roman empire a Triumph was much more than a victory parade into the city. When a Roman military leader decisively conquered an enemy in battle, the Senate could approve a Triumph. This was more than just the town council approving a tickertape parade. A triumph was a spectacle that could last several days. The conquering hero must be heralded by his soldiers. He would be dressed in purple and gold, royal colors. He would process into the city and finally to the temple in a chariot. He would wear a laurel wreath. The procession would include slaves taken from the fallen enemy, sometimes the conquered king, war riches, etc. There would be speeches and feasts and it was a big deal. But to qualify for a triumph, the conquest had to be mighty. More than 5,000 enemies must have been killed. And the enemy must have been a difficult one to overcome. If that qualification was not met, then it might be considered an Ovation rather than a Triumph. An Ovation, as I understand it from the account I read online, involved the killing of less than 5,000 people or the defeat of enemies that were not considered honorable like pirates. If a conqueror received an Ovation, he road into the city on a horse, and the celebration was more subdued.

With this newly acquired history in mind, I began to look at Jesus’s triumphal entry in a new way. If the Roman Triumph was the standard for a conqueror to enter a city, then Jesus’ entry seems as far from a Triumph as possible. If I’m being honest, Mark’s telling is rather anti-climactic. Jesus and the disciples were approaching Jerusalem, and they were at Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives. Jesus sent two of the disciples ahead of him into the village. He told them that the minute they entered the village they would find an unridden colt tied there. They were to untie that colt and bring it back to Jesus. Jesus warned them that if anyone should ask why they were taking the colt, they were to respond, “The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.”

The disciples did what Jesus told them to do. They were questioned just as Jesus told them they might be. They responded the way they were instructed to, and they brought the colt back to Jesus. They threw their cloaks across the back of the colt, and Jesus rode it into Jerusalem. It is true that people gathered to welcome him into the city. They cut leafy branches and spread their own cloaks on the ground before him. People encircled him, before and behind, shouting,

“Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David! Hosanna in the highest heaven!”

This sounds like a sort-of spectacle. Although, as triumphs go, it was still not even close to the triumph a conquering Roman would have experienced. But there were no speeches. There were no feasts. Once the procession is over, Jesus doesn’t do anything that you might expect him to do. He performs no miracles or healings. He doesn’t offer his followers even a rousing sermon. Instead, he goes to the temple, looks around at everything, realizes it is late, and goes back to Bethany for the night. Jesus does not even stay in the city. He returns the way he came. Anticlimactic is an understatement.

Mark puts a great deal more emphasis on the telling of how the disciples managed to get the colt than he does on Jesus’ actual entry into Jerusalem. The procession seems more like an afterthought than a plan. Although Jesus does seem to have clairvoyance about the challenge that might be involved in getting that colt, and I suspect that Jesus also knew that the people who heralded his advent into Jerusalem would have seen the grand arrival of others before him.. The people, who whether they knew of imperial triumphs or not, would have witnessed grand parades and processions of important figures riding into the city in chariots or on a mighty steed.

Writer and theologian, Debie Thomas, described two processionals that happened that day. One came from the west, and it was a full-blown royally regaled romp, dripping with both pomp and circumstance. This parade answers the question, why was Pontius Pilate in Jerusalem at the same time as Jesus? Pilate did not normally reside in that city. Pilate was in Jerusalem because of Passover. Passover was a Jewish festival that remembered, celebrated, and elevated the miraculous and divine exodus of the Israelites from Egyptian slavery and oppression. If ever there was a festival that could get folks riled up at the occupying Romans, it was Passover.

Pilate surely processed into Jerusalem with all the might and majesty he could muster. His processions must have been a vivid reminder of what the people would face if they tried to rebel or riot. Let the people see the splendor and the strength of the Roman empire on full display. It might not have been an actual Roman Triumph, but it would have gotten the message across all the same.

But from the East came another procession, another parade. In the light of a Roman Triumph, this parade was nothing. It would have been considered laughable by the Roman leadership – although the Jewish religious leaders were certainly not laughing. While Pilate may have been heralded with trumpets, Jesus was heralded with Hosannas. When I was a kid I thought that Hosanna was an old-fashioned way of yelling, “Hip, hip hurray!” But it means, “Save us. Save us now.”

And for a minute, the people thought that their salvation had come. But what kind of triumph ends with crucifixion? What kind of triumph ends with death and the defeat of all their hopes and dreams?

You see, that’s the challenge of this day. Growing up in another denomination, we always observed both Palm Sunday and Easter. But we never observed Holy Week. And that’s what this day marks – the beginning of the Holiest and hardest weeks in our church calendar. We begin the week on a day of procession and celebration and hopes and dreams, with hosannas and maybe a hallelujah thrown in for good measure. But in this week Jesus will be betrayed and denied. The hosannas will fade and the shouts to “crucify him, crucify him” will rise. He will be tried, convicted, and executed for sedition and incitement. He will require anointment for burial before he dies, because it will not be allowed upon his actual death.

What kind of triumph is this? Unlike a Roman conqueror, Jesus conquered no one. He killed no one. He enslaved no one. He stole the riches of no one. Instead he healed, he set free, he made all things new. Still, this week ends with the cross.

What kind of triumph is this? We know that Easter will come, that resurrection will once more make the world new. But we cannot skip this week. We cannot jump from procession to resurrection. We must walk through the valley of death before we can climb the hill of new life.

            So, on this Palm Sunday, let us remember that it is also Passion Sunday and that we are beginning the holiest of weeks and the hardest of weeks because the powers and principalities still try to extinguish the Light of the World. We still think that Triumph comes from conquering and subduing and defeating. But what this week will teach us, if we allow it to, is that the real triumph comes from Love and Love alone. So, even as we walk into this week of growing darkness, we also walk into it hope, trusting that the Light still shines and that God is still making all things new.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Amen.”

            Amen.

On Our Hearts -- Fifth Sunday in Lent

Jeremiah 31:31-34

March 17, 2024

 

The movie, Return to Me, is a sweet story about a new heart; literally. Bob and Elizabeth, a young couple very much in love, are on their way home from an award gala when they are involved in a terrible car crash. Elizabeth is killed, and the decision is made to donate her organs. Her heart is given to a young woman named Grace, who without Elizabeth’s heart would have surely died herself.

            Grace’s transplant is successful. She lives. Not only does she manage to keep breathing, but she also rides a bike, sings at her grandfather’s restaurant, and does many other things she wasn’t able to before this new heart began to beat within her. With this new heart, Grace lives more fully than she had ever been able to in the past. But she cannot forget that the life she is now living so completely came at a cost to someone else. It was because of someone else’s death that she now lives. Her family’s rejoicing over her new heart and her newly found life walks hand-in-hand with another family’s grief and tragedy. Grace wants to somehow thank the family of her donor. She wants to honor their loss, so she writes the woman’s family a letter. The donor and donor family were anonymous, so she had no names or personal information beyond an address. But she writes the letter regardless. The letter reaches Bob, the widower in the story. However in his grief he is unable to open it, so the letter sits on his desk, unread, and is eventually covered by other mail.

            To make a long story short, Bob and Grace eventually meet and fall in love; Elizabeth’s heart beating in Grace’s body connects them in an unexpected way. They find their own happy ending, complete with the twists and turns that make for good cinema. But it was this gift of a new heart that created a new life for them both.

            A new heart.  A new life.

            Although the word of the Lord given to Jeremiah is not exactly about a heart transplant, it is about something new – a new covenant. The Law, which was once written on tablets of stone, will now be written on the hearts of the people.

            “But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says the Lord: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, ‘know the Lord,’ for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the Lord; for I will forgive their iniquity and remember their sin no more.”

            Verse 31 begins, “The days are surely coming …” and then we hear these powerful words of hope and assurance that come with this new covenant, this new promise God will make with his people. God has forgotten the promise breaking of the past. God has forgotten how the people have forgotten him in the past. Now is the time for the new – a new covenant, new life, new hope.

Forgetting is a dominant theme in these verses in Jeremiah. As I understand the larger context of this passage and this prophet, the people have been paying for the sins of their ancestors. Their complaint has been that God never forgets the sins of the past – even the sins committed by others. New generations continue to pay for the transgressions of the old. When will they stop being punished for the sins of their parents? When will God finally forget?

            In the verses immediately preceding our passage, God assures the people that, indeed,  he has forgotten. No more will the people be judged for the sins of those who went before them. No more will a child’s teeth be set on edge because a parent ate sour grapes. From now on, God tells them, there will be new life in your midst. Humans and animals will once again multiply. Judgment was brought on them for wrongdoing, but blessings will be bestowed as well. God tells them that he has plucked up, but he will also plant. One commentator wrote that God is reversing the previous relationship with Judah and Israel. No longer will their relationship with God be based on disobedience; instead it will be based on a new covenant, a new promise, a new heart.

Jeremiah is not known for being a joyful book. Jeremiah puts into words the heartbreak of the people’s broken promises to God, the heartbreak of their time in exile. Yet these verses before us are filled with joy and hope, beauty and comfort. That is probably why these are some of the most recognized verses from Jeremiah. Some scholars see this as the gospel before the gospel. This covenant that God promises will not be like the old one. Before, God took them by the hand and led them out of Egypt. Before, God led them like a parent leads a small child. Before, God carefully showed them the way they were supposed to live. Before, God gave them the Law, but the people broke the Law over and over, and broke their relationship with God over and over.

            But now, in this new covenant, the Law will be more than words that can be too easily forgotten or overlooked. The Law was once written on stone tablets, but now the Law will be written on their hearts. The Law will live within them. They will no longer need to teach or instruct one another on the Law. It will no longer be a course of study. Instead the people will fully and absolutely know the Lord. They will finally and completely be God’s people, and he will be their God. All people – learned and unlearned, rich and poor, strong and weak – will know God in both heart and mind. In the days that are surely coming, they will know the Lord, and the Lord will forgive their iniquity, remembering their sins no more. With this new covenant, God is giving the people a new promise, a new life, and a new heart.

            The language of these verses in Jeremiah is so beautiful, so poetic, that it is easy for me to get caught up in the sound and the emotion of them, without really understanding in a practical way what they mean. But what do they mean? God promises the people that he will make a new covenant with them. It will be unlike the covenant of the past. It will not only be words on paper – or stone – it will be something that lives within them. When God tells them that they will know him, it seems to me that this will be an innate knowledge; instinctive, intuitive. The estrangement between God and God’s people, the connective cord between them that sin severs, will be restored and refashioned. The people will know the Lord in a new way because they have been given a new covenant.

            What is a covenant? A covenant is a promise rather than a contract. A contract specifies failure. If I fail to pay my car payment, which is a contract that I signed with the financing company, then I will be in breach of contract. A contract specifies failure. But a covenant does not specify failure, it specifies faithfulness. God promises again and again to be faithful to his people. God promises that despite our failure to be faithful, God will not fail. God will remain faithful to us, even when we have not been faithful to God. In these words of covenant, God promises to forgive our sins and forget them as well. But this is not one-sided. We have our side of the covenant to uphold. Our side of the covenant calls us to love. We are called to love God, to love neighbor, to give our whole lives to living out the love God has for us. We are called to trust that God is faithful and to be faithful to God in return by loving others and all creation.

            While contracts have a time limit, covenants do not. The covenant God made with Abraham did not end with the covenant God made with David. The Davidic covenant did not end with the covenant we find in our passage from Jeremiah. The covenants of God flow one into another, finding their final fulfillment with the coming of Jesus -- God’s promise made flesh – into our midst.

            Contracts remain fixed between certain people, but covenants expand to welcome others. It is unfair to the context and nature of these words in Jeremiah to make them merely an allegory of the Christian life to come. Still we, the descendants of Gentiles, are here because we were welcomed into the expanding promise of God. We too have received a new heart.

            There are those beautiful words again – new heart – but what does that mean? Is it about seeing God’s world and God’s people with new eyes? Is it about living a life grounded in love – the love that works for peace and acts for justice? Is it just some sort of spiritual transplant?

            Or do we find that new hearts are beating within us when our old hearts are broken wide open? In the second verse of the hymn, Here I Am, Lord, there is a line that reads “I will break their hearts of stone, give them hearts for love alone.” I tried to think of one concise illustration of a heart of stone being broken so that the heart could exist for love alone. There are plenty of examples out there, thousands of them. But I realized that sometimes the best example is the one that is ours. So, rather than tell you about someone receiving a new heart, I am going to ask you to do something that feels very un-Presbyterian. I am going to ask you to close your eyes for a moment and think about a time when your heart has been broken open, when you’ve seen a person or a situation or something else in a new way with new eyes. Maybe it was a moment when someone who thinks differently from you shared something that you hadn’t considered before. Maybe it was a moment when your child asked you a difficult question that you didn’t know how to answer. Maybe it was a moment when you saw something you could not unsee. I know those moments exist for you just as they do for me. So, close your eyes and think. Close your eyes and remember.

            Maybe in that moment that we’re remembering, our old hearts were being chipped away. Maybe in that moment, God was working on our hearts, breaking hearts of stone and giving us hearts for love alone. Maybe in those moments God was writing his love on our hearts, so that we will know, intuitively, instinctively, innately, and forever, the love of God that is the true law of God. In those moments, and in many more moments to come, God is writing his love on our hearts. Thanks be to God.

            Let all God’s children say, “Amen.”

            Amen.

Lifted Up -- Fourth Sunday of Lent

Numbers 21:4-9, (John 3:14-21)

Fourth Sunday of Lent

 

            “Snakes. Why’d it have to be snakes?”

            So said Indiana Jones in the movie, Raiders of the Lost Ark. I will never forget sitting in the theatre to watch this movie for the first time, hearing that iconic John Williams music, and watching with delight and excitement as Indiana Jones, an archeologist, a professor, and an unexpected swashbuckling hero, take on the bad guys. As an archeologist, Jones finds lost treasures and rare antiquities, and the reason he must take on bad guys is to prevent them from using archeological treasure for nefarious purposes. In Raiders, the “bad guys” are the Nazi’s.  The great irony of the story is that Hitler – who wanted to wipe the Jewish people off the face of the earth – wants to find one of the most sacred relics of Judaism, the lost Ark of the Covenant.  The premise of the story is that Hitler would be able to use the Ark’s powers to win the war and rule the world. Indiana Jones must find it before Hitler’s minions do.   

Indy and his friend and colleague, Sallah, find the location of the ark. It is buried underground in some sort of ancient cavern. Looking down into the cavern, Sallah asks, “Indy, why does the floor move?” Indiana throws a torch down and there they are: snakes, hundreds and hundreds of snakes. 

“Snakes.  Why’d it have to be snakes?”

Indiana Jones was terrified of snakes and seeing the movie that first time and trying not to hide under my seat at the sight of all those snakes, I felt vindicated that I share a phobia with a courageous hero like Indiana Jones. Because of this phobia, it may seem strange that I chose to use this strange story from the book of Numbers as my preaching text this morning. But here we are.

            We don’t hear from the book of Numbers very often in our lectionary cycle. Just as this story is strange, Numbers as a book is also pretty strange.

It is in Numbers that we read the story of the talking donkey. Yes, there is a talking donkey in scripture. In the verses immediately preceding this one, God helped the Israelites to overcome the Canaanites. But in the next breath, the people forgot how God had helped them. In the opening verse in our story we read that the Israelites leave Mount Hor for the Red Sea, “to go around the land of Edom.” This means that they were still following Moses. They were still being fed by manna and quail. But they were getting fed up with what they were being fed. They were clearly tired of the lack of options on the menu. Once again, the Israelites whined and complained.

            “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? For there is no food and water, and we detest this miserable food.”

            If you think about it, this is a pretty funny line. We don’t have any water. We don’t have any food. And, by the way, the food stinks! The people had complained against Moses before, but if I’m correct, this is the first time they’ve included God in their complaint. What is God’s response? Snakes. And these were clearly not harmless little garden snakes. These were poisonous, terrifying, venomous snakes. Why’d there have to be snakes?

What the NRSV translates as poisonous can also be translated as fiery. I don’t know which sounds worse. Regardless of the translation, the snakes slither through the people and bite them. People are dying left and right, and those who are still alive quickly realize the error of their ways. They go to Moses, proclaiming that they have sinned against God and against him. Please Moses, ask God to take away the snakes. Moses prayed for them, and in response to his prayer, God gave him the cure. Make a bronze image of a serpent and put it on a pole.  If someone is bitten, all they have to do is look at this image of a serpent and they will live.

Perhaps our first question about this story is why did the cure come from staring at a serpent on a stick, rather than God just making the snakes go away. A second question to ask is why are we reading this story in the first place? Let’s answer the second question first.

The reason we read this odd little story from Numbers is because Jesus refers to it in our passage from John’s gospel. Just as the serpent on the pole was lifted up and the people lived, so shall Jesus be lifted up on the cross so the people may live. Then Jesus spoke perhaps the most well-known words in all of scripture. “For God so loved the world…”

Now, let’s consider the first question. What did snakes represent in the ancient world? They were a personification of evil. Think about the serpent in the Garden of Eden. One commentator wrote that the people have been thinking poisonous thoughts and speaking poisonous words. They could not seem to remember how God was with them, even in the immediate past. The longer they wandered in the wilderness, the more poisonous those thoughts became. Perhaps snakes are as much a metaphor for the people’s own venom in thought and word, as they were literal serpents.

            The Israelites had been wandering for a long, long time. Older generations were dying, and new ones were being born. For every moment that the Israelites recognized God’s saving presence, there were many more moments when they didn’t. From their perspective, one that was colored by wilderness wandering and a minimum of food and drink, Egypt looked pretty good. Just as they forgot God’s presence, they also seemed to forget exactly what their lives in Egypt really were. They were not halcyon days of bliss; they were days of slavery and backbreaking work. God saved them from that life. God called them to new life and made a covenant with them and a promise to them to be their God and asked them to be God’s people. But in this story they can’t see that. They don’t remember that. They don’t fully trust that God is with them or that Moses knows what he is doing, until the snakes.

            And how are their terrible wounds from these terrible snakes cured? Debie Thomas states that the people are cured of their wounds not by some magical means but by facing what had bitten them. Their healing came when they faced what had made them sick. Healing came not only when they looked up at a bronze image, but at the poison that resided within them. That was the cure, that was when the healing began, by facing what had made them sick, by looking honestly at what had poisoned them.

            Jesus refers to this strange story as an analogy to what God is doing through him. Although we don’t read the beginning verses of this chapter, the setting is that Nicodemus, a pharisee, comes to Jesus by night, presumably so that no one will know he is talking to this controversial man, Jesus. And Nicodemus asks Jesus about the signs that Jesus is doing, because he recognizes that God’s presence must be with Jesus, otherwise he could not perform these signs and wonders. And in his answer to Nicodemus, Jesus references this story from Numbers and makes this analogy.

            “And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.”

            The Israelites were healed when they faced the poison that was killing them. Perhaps that is also the healing power of the cross. What is the cross but the representation of the worst of humanity?! The cross was brutal. It was merciless. It was a terrible, terrible way to die. It was suffering. It was pain. It was inhumane. It was representative of the cruelty and the brutality that we humans show one another. And Jesus would be lifted up on one. As Debie Thomas notes, looking at the bronze serpent healed the people of the poison within them. Maybe when we look at the cross, our healing begins by facing what is the worst in us. Maybe our healing begins when we face, honestly, the consequences of our cruelty and violence. Maybe our healing begins when we see the One who shows us again and again what being truly human can be lifted up on the cross of our own inhumanity.

            It seems to me that this is what this Lenten season calls us to do – to face not only what keeps us from God, but also what keeps us from one another, what keeps us from being truly human to one another. Maybe if we can look up and face the cross and our inhumanity with honesty, then maybe we can see that endless war solves nothing, that violence begets only more violence, that dehumanizing some dehumanizes all, and that the only real cure comes from love. That’s it. Love. For God so LOVED the world, the cosmos, the entirety of creation, that God sent his only Son, not to punish the world, but to show the world what LOVE really is and what LOVE can do, so that whoever sees the Son and believes in the Son won’t suffer the endless cycle of death and the hell we create on earth, but will have life, abundant life. It’s all about LOVE.

            Our healing begins when we face what is killing us. Our healing begins when we see, really see how God loves so that we can begin to love in return. On this day and always, look up at who is lifted up and may we all be healed.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Amen.”

            Amen.

 

 

 

Zeal -- Third Sunday of Lent

John 2:13-22

March 3, 2024

 

            Did you grow up looking at pictures of Jesus? I know that there are no actual pictures of Jesus, but there are plenty of artistic impressions of him. Did you grow up looking at any of them? There are three specific pictures of Jesus that I remember from my childhood. One was a painting that we had hanging in our living room for as long as I can remember. It was a painting of Jesus talking with two other men, and they are walking on a path, and in the distance, you can see the outline of an ancient city. Without being told this specifically as a child, I knew the one guy was Jesus. I just knew it was. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized this was a depiction of the road to Emmaus story from Luke’s gospel. When I was a little kid, it didn’t matter to me what the story was. I just liked to look at Jesus and the two men, and I would trace the path to the city with my finger and imagine the conversation they were having.

            The second picture that I remember must have been one that I saw in Sunday school. It was a picture of Jesus standing outside of a door inset into a stone wall. It looked like a door into a garden. There were vines and flowers growing around it, and Jesus was standing before it, knocking. I was told that the door represented my heart, and Jesus was knocking, asking to be allowed in. See, Jesus is knocking at the door of your heart. Let him in. Whenever I looked at that picture, I vowed that as soon as I heard Jesus knocking on the door of my heart, I would let him in.

            The third picture that I remember may be one that you all remember too. It is a painting of Jesus that is far more famous than I knew until I started doing some research for this sermon. Painted by American artist, Warner Sallman, the painting’s official name is “Head of Christ.” But it is also known as Sallman’s head. It is a picture of Jesus with very pale eyes, light skin, wavy light brown hair, staring off into the distance, looking beatific and perfect and divine. It’s a nice picture. It is a comforting picture. I don’t remember if we had a version of that picture in our home, but I know I saw it in other places. And I remember looking at it and thinking that Jesus looked nice and kind and safe. This picture represented what one commentator called, “a manageable deity.”

            Those are the images of Jesus that I grew up on. There’s nothing inherently wrong with them, other than he doesn’t look like a Middle Eastern Jew in any of them. But they were nice pictures to grow up, and clearly, they sparked my imagination as a child and stuck with me into my adulthood. But those depictions of Jesus seem very far from the Jesus that we read about this morning. This morning we read about a Jesus who gets angry, who is zealous. We read about a Jesus who goes into the temple, makes a whip of cords and begins to drive out all the animals that were gathered there for sacrifice. This is a Jesus, so filled with zeal and righteous anger, that he dumps out the coins of the moneychangers and overturns their tables. He yells at the people selling doves, saying,

            “Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!”

            The Jesus who cleanses the temple – cleansing being a euphemism, like ethnic cleansing – this Jesus does not clean but scatters and crashes and flips and causes chaos. This Jesus seems very far from being a manageable deity, and even further from the Jesus who stood at a door and knocked. This Jesus may not be one we like to consider very often, but here he is. So, this is the Jesus we deal with today.

            Just as we may not quite know how to deal with the Jesus before us today, I can imagine the disciples didn’t know how to deal with him either. I can imagine that they were as shocked by Jesus’ behavior at first like everyone else who witnessed this. They must have looked at each other in alarm, eyes wide, maybe silently mouthing to one another,

“What’s happening?” “Where did this come from?” “Why don’t you try and calm him down?             “Why don’t you try and calm him down?” “I asked you to do it first.”

And so on, and so on. John’s gospel does tell us that the disciples remember that the scripture says, “Zeal for your house will consume me.” Jesus was certainly filled with zeal.

It must be noted that this is a story found in all four gospels. When you come across a story that each of the gospel writers included in their version of Jesus’s life, death, and resurrection, it is a good idea to pay particular attention to the story they all share.

In Matthew, Mark, and Luke, this story comes near the end of the gospel. This is a final act of Jesus, one that contributes mightily to the religious authorities saying,

            “That’s it! Enough with this guy! He’s gotta go!”

            But John puts this story right at the beginning of his gospel. When you read this in the other gospels, Jesus’ anger makes a little more sense. After all, he’s been in public ministry for three years at that point. He’s been preaching, teaching, healing, proclaiming, showing, modeling, and exhorting. Some people got it, but a lot of people didn’t. And part of his anger in the other gospels is that he was protesting a religious system that had become more about exploitation of its weakest members than it was about worship. But why is Jesus angry this early in John? He’s just getting started. He has just left the wedding at Cana where he turned water into wine. Why turn the temple upside down at this moment?

            Well, firstly, the question must be asked, is Jesus more zealous than angry, is his anger fueled by his zeal or is his zeal fueled by his anger? As I said earlier, the scripture that the disciples remembered was that he would be consumed with zeal for his father’s house. Certainly, Jesus is consumed with zeal in this story. And that zeal leads him to overturn the long-standing practices and systems that took place in the temple.

            The moneychangers were there, not to exploit, but to change money. The Law prohibited coins with images on them in the temple. The only coins the people would have been allowed to use outside of the temple would have been Roman. Roman coins bore the image of Caesar on them, so those Roman coins must be exchanged for coins that were lawful in the temple. The great number of animals were in the temple because sacrifices of animals were expected. It was part of  their practice of worship. In order to buy an animal for their required sacrifice, they had to purchase it with an approved coin. What was happening in the temple was what was expected and approved of by the religious authorities and the Law as they all understood it.

            But Jesus comes in and sees this and basically proclaims,

            “You have all missed the point!”

            But he proclaims this with his actions, his unexpected and scandalous actions. So, of course, Jesus is questioned by the religious leaders.

            “What sign can you show us for doing this?”

            And Jesus answers them by not answering them, not directly,

            “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.”

            But they don’t get it. The temple has been under construction for forty-six years, but this guy says it can be destroyed and rebuilt in three days?! Sure. Whatever you say, Jesus.

            They missed the point. They could not yet see what was right in front of them, who was right in front of them. They thought the only temple was the one of wood and stone, the place where God lived exclusively. But the temple was flesh and blood and standing in their midst. Jesus was trying to make them understand that God dwelled in him. God was not confined to a building. God had come into flesh and blood, into his flesh and blood, and was loose in the world. God had left the building. And if it took Jesus disrupting the status quo, physically as well as verbally, for them to understand and see this, to believe it, then so be it.

            Jesus was consumed with zeal, with fervor and passion. One commentator called him the Great Disrupter. But his zeal was not about destruction for destruction’s sake, but about tearing down what kept people from full and abundant life in God and building up a new way of living and being as God’s beloved children. His zeal, his anger, his passion was for all to find life, to see and believe that God had left the building but was loose and growing and creating in the world, in him and in them.

            Maybe that is something we need to focus on in this season of Lent. We need to claim the zeal of Jesus as our own. We need to see Jesus in his fullness, not just the calm, safe Jesus of art, but the Jesus who was not afraid of righteous indignation, the Jesus who loved and lived passionately, the Jesus who had zeal and fervor for doing God’s work in the world, the whole world. Maybe it’s okay that Jesus is not a manageable deity. Maybe it’s okay that safety is not what following Jesus is all about. Maybe it’s okay if our status quo is disrupted. Maybe it’s okay if Jesus tears down our expectations and our ideals about how we think things should be. Maybe it's okay because what Jesus is really doing, what God does through Jesus, is creating new life, abundant, verdant, lush life, and inviting us to be a part of it all. Jesus’ zeal is for life. May we be as zealous for life as well.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Amen.”

            Amen.