Re-Creation -- Pentecost Sunday

 

Ezekiel 37:1-14

May 23, 2021

 

            I didn’t think too much about bones until I broke one. Back in the winter of 2008, I took my dogs out for a quick walk. It was Iowa. It was January. There was ice. My one dog pulled at the lead and I started to fall and instinctively put my right hand out to catch myself. When my hand hit the concrete my wrist broke. That quick walk turned into an ER visit, surgery, a cast for eight weeks, temporary pins and a rod that stuck out of my cast to help keep the bone in place. Like I said, I didn’t think too much about bones until I broke one.  

But bones are at the center of these probably best-known verses from the prophet Ezekiel. To be honest, this vision of Ezekiel’s seems more like the stuff of nightmares than visions. The hand of the Lord came upon Ezekiel, and through the Spirit, he was taken to a valley. And in that valley, there was nothing but bones. Old bones. Dry bones. And the Lord not only took Ezekiel to this valley, but the Lord also led Ezekiel around and around the valley. The Lord wanted Ezekiel to see, really see, that there was no life left. The Lord and Ezekiel navigated every inch of that space, they walked around every bone so that Ezekiel could see, without a doubt, that these were old bones, dry bones, no life left in them at all bones. Then God asked Ezekiel a question,

            “Mortal, can these bones live?”

            Wouldn’t you think that Ezekiel would be asking this question?

“O Lord, can these bones live?”

There have been plenty of time that I have asked this question of God. Even when I’ve been faced with certain death, with nothing left but the bones of loved ones, of hopes, of dreams, of illusions, I have pleaded with God,

“O Lord, can these bones live? Can’t you knit these bones back together once more? Can’t you bring back life? Can’t you erase death? Can’t these dry bones, these old bones live?”

            But God is doing the questioning here. God is the one asking Ezekiel,

            “Mortal, can these bones live?”

            Was this a test on God’s part? Was God just waiting for Ezekiel to give God the correct answer? Was God interested in hearing Ezekiel’s thoughts, but secretly already knew that these bones, these old bones, these dry bones could live? What was God getting at? Why did God ask this question?  

            But Ezekiel didn’t pretend to have the answers. Ezekiel didn’t try to bluff his way through. He put the question right back on God.

            “O Lord God, you know.”

            As if to say, only you can see the outcome of this. God. God, only You has the power to make these old bones, these dry bones live. But maybe God needed to know if Ezekiel believed it was possible, not because God could not do it on God’s own, but because Ezekiel and all the people Ezekiel prophesied to needed to believe it too.

            “Mortal, can these bones live?”

            “O Lord God, you know.”

            And God did know. And Ezekiel knew too. Because God told Ezekiel to prophesy to the bones. Speak to the bones. Tell those dry bones, those old bones to hear the word of the Lord. Tell those old bones, those dry bones that God will cause breath to enter you and you shall live. God will lay sinews on you and you shall live. God will cover those sinews and those old, dry bones, with flesh and skin and you shall live. God will put breath in you and you shall live.

            So Ezekiel did what God told him to do. Ezekiel prophesied to those old bones, those dead bones, those dry bones. Ezekiel prophesied to the bones. Ezekiel spoke the word of the Lord to the bones.

            And then … then there came a sound. Can you imagine the sound?! Can you imagine the sound of all those bones? It would have been a raucous rattling, a shaking and a shimmying. Can you imagine the noise? Can you imagine the cacophony of those dry bones rattling like strange, supernatural instruments in that valley? Can you imagine the sound of that ossified symphony? I suspect it might have come close to the sound of a rushing wind breathing new life into waiting disciples, breathing new languages, new voices, new hope into followers who were beaten but not yet destroyed.

            Can you imagine the sound? The noise? The dissonance, the resonance, the overwhelming clatter, commotion, and din of those bones, those old bones, those dry bones coming together, knitting together – elbow to arm, arm to wrist, knee to leg, femur to ankle – O the sound of those bones.

            And then the silence.

            But there was still no life.

            So, God told Ezekiel,

            “Prophesy to the breath, prophesy, mortal, and say to the breath: Thus says the Lord God: Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.”

             Ezekiel prophesied as he was told. He prophesied to the breath, then the ruach of God, the breath of God, the wind of God, the Spirit of God, all three, came into those bones and into that skin and into that flesh, and what was dead was alive.

            Was this vision a forerunner of the resurrection? Was it a hint from the Lord to Ezekiel about was to come? But these words, this vision was not given to those who were dead but to those who were still alive. It was given to Ezekiel, who like his family and neighbors and community, had been deported into exile. To Israel bones were not just skeletons or relics of a person long gone, they were the essence of a person, of a people. When the Israelites moaned that their were bones were dried up, they were lamenting that the very soul of themselves was dead and lost and forgotten.

            This vision was spoken to those who were still alive but did not know it, did not feel it. They were told and they were shown that even if the very heart of who they were as a people seemed nothing but dead bones, dry bones, old bones, bones without life, without heartbeat, without breath, that God could still bring them back. Those old, dry bones could still yet live.

            And they would live. They would be restored. They would return from exile. They would be alive once more. But would they be as they once were? Would they be filled with the breath, the Spirit of God, only to live and do and be as they once were? Or would they be new? Would they be changed? Would they be filled with the breath of God for a new future, a new way of life, a new way of being and doing and living?

            Yes, mortal, these old dry bones can live. They can be knit together and be covered in flesh and skin and be filled with the breath of God so they would be completely alive again. But surely, they would not be raised for the old but for the new, not for the past, but for the future. They would be re-created for new life. The Spirit of God blew across the dry valley of their exile and breathed life into them just as God’s Spirit blew across the chaos and brought forth creation, just as God’s Spirit blew like a mighty, rushing wind across an upper room and gave courage to those who were afraid, new language to those who feared they had no voice, new hearts to those who could hear, new understanding to those who thought there was nothing else to know.

            And if God can do all of that, if God can bring old bones into new life, and make fearful people brave, can’t God re-create us, this church, the Church, this community, this country, this world? Can’t the Spirit of God, the breath of God, blow into us once more and bring forth new life?! Prophesy to the breath!

            This day of Pentecost is not just the birthday of the Church, a day to remember, it is the re-birth of the Church, a day for moving forward. It is a day for trusting that the Spirit of God can give us new languages to speak, revive our old bones, and put new hearts within each of us. God can re-create us. God is re-creating us, now, in this moment. Can you feel it? Can you hear it? Prophesy to the breath! May the ruach of God, the breath, the wind, the Spirit of God fill us, re-create us, revive these old bones, and give us new, new life.

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

            Amen.

Continuing in the World -- Seventh Sunday of Easter

 

John 17:6-19

May 16, 2021

 

            A few months ago, I was having one of those days – a bad day. A day that rivaled the day Alexander had in Alexander’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst. I was stressed and sad. I was anxious. I was having a hard time focusing on what I needed to get done. Everything I touched seemed to either fall apart or go wrong. I felt alone and forgotten, even though deep down I knew that I have a family and friends and other folks who love me and care for me, people who are willing to help me when I need help, people who check in with me and listen to me. But you know when you have a rough day, it’s easy to forget that. And that’s what I had done on this rough, bad, frustrating day. I felt alone and sad and I was feeling pretty sorry for myself.

            And in the midst of this bad day and my growing pity party, a lovely person reached out to me. This lovely person reaches out to me periodically. She’ll call to tell me something or message me with a question. But on this day, this particularly difficult day, she reached out to me to let me know that I had been on her mind and that she thought I needed prayer. She reached out to tell me that she was praying for me, not because I asked for prayer, but because she thought maybe I needed it. She told me that this thought just occurred to her,

            “I need to pray for Amy, and I need to let her know that I am praying for her.”

            I was moved to tears. This lovely person had no idea what kind of day I was having. She had no idea that I was feeling so lost. Perhaps it was the Holy Spirit that moved her to pray for me. Perhaps she has a deep intuition that recognized something was up with me. Perhaps her deep intuition is the movement of the Holy Spirit, whatever the impetus, she wanted me to know that I was being prayed for and knowing that stopped me in my anxious and overwhelmed tracks.

            I was so grateful. I was so moved. I was so humbled. To know that someone else is praying for you is a powerful thing. To know that someone else is holding you close in their heart and mind is a moving thing. This person was praying for me.

            And you know what? I felt the power of that prayer. I felt the strength that prayer gave me. I felt the courage that was pouring into me from this person’s prayer. I could keep going. I could keep moving forward. I could face another day. The prayer was not magic. Prayer generally isn’t magic. Nothing about my circumstances changed or resolved themselves the minute her prayers were uplifted. But I was changed. My outlook was changed. The way I viewed myself and that day was changed. I was changed because it is a powerful thing to know that someone else is praying for you; to know and to feel that prayer.

            It was a powerful thing to know that this person was praying for me specifically and in that moment. To know and feel that we are praying for each other is powerful, so can you imagine how powerful it would have been to know Jesus was praying for you?

            This is where we are in our passage from John’s gospel this morning. Jesus is praying for the disciples. Our passage begins and ends in the middle of his prayer, and his prayer is part of his long goodbye that began with the last supper in chapter 13. Jesus has taught the disciples about who he is and who his Father is. He has showed the disciples the power that he was given. He has embodied for the disciples the Love of God the Father. He has done all that he could for them while he was in the world. But his time in the world is ending. He is running out of time to be with them. He is almost at the end – of his life in the world, of his time in the world – but the disciples must continue in a world that not only doesn’t understand him and them, but has rejected him, will reject them and even come to hate them. And so, Jesus does the one thing he still has time to do for them. He prays for them.

            What would that have meant for the disciples, to hear Jesus praying for them? What would it have meant for them, understanding – at least in part as they did – that Jesus was soon leaving them? What would it have meant to them to hear Jesus offer this fervent, heartfelt prayer on their behalf? And that is what it was. It was a heartfelt plea for them remaining in a world where he would no longer be. It was an ardent entreaty for God to be with them, to protect them, to guide them, lead them, and love them. It was the last thing he could do for them before the cross. He could pray for them.

            How powerful, how moving, how incredibly humbling it would be to hear Jesus pray for us so passionately, so fervently, so imploringly?

            Jesus’ time in the world was almost done, but his disciples would continue in the world so he did the only thing he could do. Jesus prayed for them.

            Just as the prayer that lovely person prayed for me was not magic in that it did not change my circumstances, Jesus’ prayer was not magic either. It did not change the fact that he was going to the cross. It did not change the fact that the disciples would be left in the world without him, even though their advocate, the Holy Spirit that he promised them would be with them. It did not change the fact that their time together was rapidly coming to an end. But that does not detract from the power of having Jesus pray for them. It does not diminish the power of his words and the love that he had for them.

            Of all the ways that we think about Jesus, do we ever think about this Jesus who prayed for his disciples? Do we think about the Jesus that prays for us? We do make that claim, that Jesus prays for us. In one of the possible Assurances of Forgiveness found in our Book of Common Worship, there is one that includes the different ways that Christ interacts with us.

Christ died for us. Christ reigns over us. Christ prays for us.

I regularly reflect on what it means that Christ died for us. And I have certainly wrestled with what it means for us that Christ reigns over us. Yet, as many times as I have used that assurance, spoken those words, I have not given much thought to Christ praying for us. But why haven’t I? Because this is often the Jesus, the Christ, that I most desperately need. I need to know, to remember, to believe that Jesus the Christ prays for me. I need to know more deeply, more closely the Jesus the Christ who fervently prays to God the Father on my behalf – not because I cannot go to God in my own prayers, but because Jesus loves me so much that he prays for me. Jesus loves us so much that he prays for us.

It seems to me that this is the Jesus we all need to know. Because we all need to feel the power of prayer on our behalf. We all need to know that there is someone out there who is speaking our name to God. We all need to know that we are loved so much that we are prayed for. Jesus knew that he would not be in the world with his disciples again. He knew that he was leaving the world and that the disciples would and must continue in the world without him. So, Jesus did what he could do. He prayed for them. And he prays for us. These prayers may not make everything in our lives perfect. Prayer never guarantees perfection. The prayers of Jesus, of others, may not make circumstances better or easier or different, but we can be changed by them. We can be different. We can do different.

When this lovely person told me she was praying for me, I felt better. I felt less alone. I remember how much I am loved. How loved must the disciples have felt when they heard Jesus praying for them?

The last time I went to Minnesota to see my dad, I drove over to the nursing home to see him every day of my visit. I would take my mom to see him, but I would also go alone. I sat by his side. I fed him ice chips. I talked to him. Some visits he was more awake and with it than others, and he would talk to me a little bit. But by my last day there, he was hardly waking up at all.

The morning that I left to return to Tennessee, I said goodbye to my mom and drove to the nursing home one more time to see Dad before I went to the airport. I knew sitting with him that it would be the last time that I saw him. I knew that he was dying, and that we would soon be in the world without him. I could not change that reality. I could not make anything better or easier. All I could do was tell him over and over again how much I loved him, kiss him on the forehead, hold his hand, say goodbye, and I could pray. And so I prayed. I prayed with him before I left. I prayed on the ride to the airport. I prayed sitting at the gate waiting to board the plane, and I prayed on the flight home.

I prayed and prayed and prayed, not because my prayer changed anything about the situation. My dad would die just a couple of weeks later. I prayed because it was the only way I could show my love for him at that moment. To pray for him was all I had left. It was the only I could thing left that I could do for him. It was the only way I had left to show how much I loved him.

But isn’t that what our prayers for others are so often all about? Isn’t that what our prayers for others really are? A way of showing love, compassion, care? Isn’t that what Jesus’ prayer for the disciples was? It was his last way of expressing his love, his compassion, his concern and care for them. He loved them so much, so deeply that he prayed for them. He loves us so much, so deeply that he prays for us.

This the good news of the gospel. Jesus loves us so much that he prays for us. May we love each other in this way too. May we love each other enough to offer up our heartfelt and earnest pleas. May we love one another enough to pray for each other.

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

Friends -- Mother's Day

 

John 15:9-17 (Acts 10:44-48)

May 9, 2021

 

            It was the first day of our Group Processing Class at the Presbyterian School of Christian Education, otherwise known as PSCE. I had been mentally kicking myself for registering for this class since walking through the classroom door. I felt tricked, somehow, although I couldn’t figure out who exactly had tricked me. I had been told by friends who had taken the course in past semester that it was an important class. It would serve me well in my ministry. I would gain new insight into what made people act in the way they did, and even more importantly, I would gain new insight into what made me act in the way I do.

            That last piece of wisdom tied a nervous knot in the pit of my stomach, but I decided to go through with it anyway. Then as I was getting ready for my first day, I found that group process was not just a lecture, take notes, and study for the final kind of class. No. We would be put into groups. We would have to figure out group process while we were literally in groups processing. The knot in my stomach grew exponentially when I heard that information. I realize that it sounds self-evident that group process would require work in groups, but as the old joke goes, denial ain’t just a river in Egypt. It was alive and well in me.

            So, here we were on the first day of class. Our professor – an amazing woman who I grew to absolutely adore and admire – had given us an overview of class expectations, grading, attendance, etc. We’d received a copy of our syllabus, and now the professor asked for volunteers to sit in a trial group to give an example of what working in a group might be like. I did not raise my hand, but plenty of other hands went up. We moved our chairs into a larger circle around the smaller circle of volunteers and watched as they tackled a decision-making exercise together.

            As I watched these people struggle to work together, I zeroed in on one person. I’ll call him Bart to protect his identity. I’ll put it plainly. I thought Bart was an idiot. He quickly became the clown. He was loud and overbearing, and he talked over everyone else. I remember that the one thought going through my mind was,

            “Please don’t let him be in my group. Please don’t let him be in my group. Please don’t let him be in my group.”

            Guess what? Our group assignments were made at the next class. Bart was right there. In my group. My best friend, Ellen, who you may remember from my installation almost two years ago, was also in the class but we were not in the same group. She gave me some of her best and most annoyingly correct advice in that if I felt so much resistance to the class then, obviously, I needed to be there. I took that as a challenge, so even with Bart in my group, I decided to stick it out.

            That is one decision I have never regretted. Group process became one of my favorite classes of all the classes I took in seminary. At the end of the semester, I was asked to be a teaching assistant to the professor. That meant that I had to take an Advanced Group class to prepare for it. That meant even more group work, and I loved it! But what about Bart?
            Bart and I became friends. I wouldn’t say that we became besties but working in that group with him gave me a chance to see another side of Bart. The process of forming a group forced us to see beyond our public faces, the personas we showed to the world. Bart and I became friends and discovering Bart as a friend is one of the many times I’ve been surprised by God and by the people God puts in my life.

            That introductory group process class forced me to think outside the box when it came to friendship. I learned to see Bart and the other people in my group outside of the box that I put them in when we first came together.

            I realize that it is probably a stretch to say that Jesus was telling the disciples to think outside the box when it comes to friendship. The word “friends” has taken on new meaning since the advent of social media. On some social media, I am “friends” with people I have never met. I am “friends” with people I rarely, if ever, see, and have no real contact with outside of the internet. I’m even friends with folks that I did not particularly care for when we were in close proximity of one another. I once read a comment from a fellow preacher that friendship has been cheapened by social media. I can see how this is true.

            And maybe social media has cheapened the idea of friendship, but despite that, I stay with it because it has also helped me connect with friends I believe I had lost. And I do think more outside the box when it comes to friendship. There are people I am friends with on social media that I wish I’d worked harder at being friends with when we interacted daily. I wish I had been more willing to really see these people as my friends once upon a time; to see them as children of God trying to figure out this life the same as I was. Social media has helped me think outside the box when it comes to friendship.

            As I said earlier, I know it may be a stretch to say that Jesus was telling his disciples to think differently about friendship but calling them friends was in fact a sort of status change for them. They were not just disciples to a teacher or servants to a master, they were friends. When Jesus called them friends, he was not referring to pals or buddies or chums. He was referring to them as loved ones. Becoming his friends meant that they were becoming a part of his family, an integral part of his life, of him. Being friends with Jesus was more than just a label or category. It was a relationship in God with God. Friendship meant abiding, remaining in God as well as with one another. Friendship meant obeying the commands of the True Friend, the True Vine. And what was the number one commandment that Jesus gave? To love one another. You are my friends; you abide in me. I abide in the Father. We all abide together in love. So, love one another as I have loved you. That is what I command. Love one another as I have loved you. And what does this love look like? It is a continuation of what we studied last week. Love is laying down your life for your friends.

            This is the love that Jesus embodied for his friends. Jesus literally laid down his life. He went to the cross and sacrificed his life for the love of his friends. However, Jesus does not only lay down his life for the disciples or the people of Galilee or the folks from his hometown of Nazareth. The cross was and the cross is for the world.

            Earlier in this gospel we hear the words “for God so loved the world that he gave his only son.” It is for the world that Jesus was willing to die. Jesus not only preached but lived sacrificial love, and that love was for the world. So, I don’t think I am overstretching the analogy to say that the entire world consists of Jesus’ friends, or at least all sorts of people that Jesus calls to be his friends.

            In our text from Acts, Peter also gets a new understanding of what it means to be friends. The entirety of chapter 10 consists of Peter being forced to see through new eyes what it means to be clean and unclean, pure and impure. It starts with a centurion named Cornelius and Peter’s vision of a sheet with animals that by the standards of the Law were considered unclean. Peter wanted to obey the Law, to stick with what he knew and understood about what was right and what was wrong. But God insists through his vision that Peter see beyond the box that he previously dwelled in. This was not merely about clean and unclean food. This was about people. God called people, all kinds of people. Saul, who persecuted believers, was called. Cornelius, a Roman Centurion was called. And as we read in our verses in this chapter, the Holy Spirit descended even upon the Gentiles … our ancestors. In other words, a whole lot of people were called and answered the call to abide in God through Christ. A whole lot of different kinds of people were now friends.

            I know that this goes beyond social media and the shallow kinds of friendships that we experience daily. I know that befriending the entire world is a daunting task to say the least. But I do think that these passages remind us of the fact that loving God means loving God’s people. And Jesus did not suggest this, he commanded it. He commanded us to love one another, to see the other as a loved one, a member of the family.

            In the past when I have preached about this love, I have said that love is not just about how we feel. It is not just warm fuzzy. We have to do love. Love is a verb. It is an action. It is deed. We may not feel love, but we must live love. I still think that is true, and I still encourage all of us, myself first, to try and do just that: to live love. But it occurs to me that maybe when Jesus commanded us to love one another, that maybe he meant we should feel it as well. Maybe we were commanded to show love, to enact love, and to feel love for one another. By feeling love, I mean changing our hearts, changing our minds as well as changing what we do. Maybe the command to love one another is to truly believe that the world is filled with our friends, our loved ones. How different would the world look like if we not acted in love, but felt this love, thought this love? What would the world look like, what would our church look like, what would our community look like, if we strived to live out the commandment Jesus gave us? If we lived as though we were all friends? It is a tall order indeed. But Debie Thomas wrote that Jesus is not just a role model, Jesus is the True Vine. We, the branches, abide in him. He is the source of our love. He is the source of our friendship. He is the One from whom all friendship comes, and in whom we abide, remain, and stay. He laid down his life for his friends, and he did it with a loving heart. Can we do the same? Can we feel the same?

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

            Amen.

Fruit -- Fifth Sunday of Easter

 

John 15:1-8, Acts 8: 26-40

May 2, 2021

 

A few years ago, in a book study group that I participated in we read a book by Barbara Kingsolver called, “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle” You may know Kingsolver from her fiction writing, but this was a memoir of Kingsolver and her family’s journey to becoming food sustainable. That’s a lot of big and trendy words, so here’s the bottom line. Kingsolver, her husband and their two daughters moved from Arizona to Virginia to live on her husband’s family farm. They decided that their goal would be to grow and raise their own food, and what they could not do for themselves, they would buy locally grown food, and they would only buy food that was in season.  

I found it to be an inspiring book, but I also found the reality of what they do to be daunting. For example, she makes growing and raising all their food sound so easy. I know it’s not. I know that she and her family put in a lot of hard work to make their dream a reality. But while she is describing the process of growing their own food and even learning how to make cheese, I’m celebrating the fact that I’m actually getting cherry tomatoes popping up from the container plant I’ve potted on our deck. I’m not quite sure I’ve achieved farmer status yet. But they were beautiful cherry tomatoes. All 20 of them. Beautiful. And tasty.

But, truly, reading this book has made me hyper aware of how much food I eat that is processed, that is not locally grown, and that is not seasonal. I have tried to change my shopping habits. I am more aware of what I buy that is local and all that I buy that is not. I am aware that I buy produce that had to be shipped from other states, even other countries. And I realize that when I buy food that is shipped from very far away because it isn’t seasonal here or grown here at all, that it adds to our collective carbon footprint. And the biggest thing that I keep on hand that is not seasonal? Fruit.

I love fruit. My family loves fruit. I try to keep fresh fruit on hand, because it is a better snack alternative than other things. But I know that the bananas hanging on our banana tree on the kitchen counter had to be shipped from a long distance. And I know that the grapes in the fridge are the same. But I love to have fruit, and while some fruit that I buy I only buy in season, other fruit I buy all year long.

This is not intended to be a sermon that lectures on the importance of local and seasonal food shopping. In all honesty, I had to have a way to get into a sermon with this title that I chose. Fruit. I have no idea why I decided that Fruit would be a good title for a sermon. Fruit as a title sounded like a good idea at the time, but … what was I thinking? When we were working on the bulletin this week, I told Erlene that it was the Holy Spirit urging me to do it. I believe that’s true, but that doesn’t mean that I have any idea why I’m supposed to use it. To be honest, I really wanted to just preach on our story from Acts. I love this story of Philip and the Eunuch, but something – the Spirit? – told me to think about fruit as well.

Certainly, the word “fruit” is mentioned several times in this passage from John’s gospel. This is another one of Jesus’ I Am statements. Jesus says, “I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower. He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit.”

I am the true vine. Vines and vineyards are mentioned often in scripture. Wine is also mentioned. In a time when water may or may not have been clean and pure, wine would have been a standard beverage. In his first act of public ministry in this gospel, Jesus changed water into wine as a sign of abundance, of life, of overflowing and excessive love and life for all who believe in Jesus and follow him. In that story, and in the story before us, the people listening to Jesus would have understood this reference to vines and branches and fruit. It would have been part of their worldview. The analogy would have resonated with them.

I am the true vine, Jesus said. Jesus said all those who believe in him, those who follow him, those who hear and listen and trust his voice are the branches. But if there are branches in him that do not bear fruit they will be removed. And even those that do bear fruit, they will be pruned so that they bear even more.

This sounds ominous to our ears. I can only imagine that it also sounded ominous to the ears of those listening to Jesus firsthand. If Jesus was the true vine, and God the vinegrower, and they were the branches, then who was bearing fruit and who was not? The consequences of not bearing fruit, of being a barren, fruitless branch, was not only to be removed from the vine, but to be allowed to wither, then gathered up and thrown into the fire. And even the branches that do bear fruit will be pruned, cut back, so that their fruit can grow more abundantly. While I really don’t want to wither and then be burned, pruning does not sound comfortable or enjoyable either.

So, what is the fruit that we are supposed to produce, and how do we do that? Jesus goes on to answer this unspoken question. Bearing much fruit is about becoming a disciple, keeping the commandments, and abiding in the love of Jesus, just as Jesus has kept his Father’s commandments and abided in the Father’s love. John often uses the word “abide,” and it essentially means to stay, to be with, to live with, to grow into and remain.

When writer and scholar, Debi Thomas, wrote about this passage from John, she did some research into vines. The fruit that is produced by branches closest to the vine is usually the sweetest, the healthiest, the most abundant because it benefits from the nutrients that the vine provides. It has direct access to those nutrients because it is so close to the vine. But she also pointed out another aspect of vines and branches. Have you ever observed vines of any kind growing?

They don’t just grow upward in a straight and neat line. They become twisted and tangled in with each other. They grow in messy formation, twisting and turning, even with pruning. It seems to me that branches of the true vine are not only tangled up with the vine itself but with the other branches. The fruit of one branch will not remain separated from the other branches. They are all tangled up together.

So, maybe, just maybe, if we seek to be branches that bear much fruit, if we seek to be branches that are abiding in the true vine, then we have to realize that its not just us and the vine. We are tangled up with all the other branches. The fruit we bear or don’t bear affects them, and vice versa.

What does this bearing of fruit look like? I suspect it looks like our story from the book of Acts. It seems straightforward that Philip is bearing the fruit of the true vine, the fruit of the Spirit. He is open and willing to the direction of an angel and the guidance of the Spirit. He does not hesitate to do what the angel of the Lord told him to do – go to the wilderness road, most likely the dangerous road, that leads from Jerusalem to Gaza.

He got up and went, and on that road, he met an Ethiopian Eunuch from the court of Queen Candace. This was a man who was most clearly, literally and figuratively, an “other.” Philp bears fruit in approaching him, riding with him, clarifying the scriptures for him. But didn’t the Eunuch also exhibit what it means to bear fruit? Wasn’t it the Eunuch who was reading the scriptures in the first place? Wasn’t it the Eunuch who was seeking God on that wilderness road, seeking God in spite of all the obstacles that stood in his way of being a convert to Judaism? Wasn’t it the Eunuch who pointed out the water for baptism?

It seems to me that both Philip and the Eunuch were branches that were bearing fruit. And while at first glance you would never suppose that they would be branches of the same vine, it turns out they were. They were. They were both abiding in the vine, bearing fruit, and they were in fact tangled up together. The fruit one bore affected and encouraged the other to bear even more.

We are called to remember that when we hear Jesus’ voice, and when we seek to follow in his footsteps, and be his disciples, that we are effectively branches of the true vine. And we are called as branches to bear fruit – fruit of compassion, discipleship, courage, self-sacrifice, determined love. But that call is not just about being a branch to the vine and nothing else, no one else. If we are branches, then we also need to remember that we are tangled up with a whole lot of other branches. And all of us are trying to bear fruit. Maybe the pruning comes when we are pushed to deal with branches we don’t like, or don’t want, or fear. Maybe we are pruned when we are challenged to change our minds or change our hearts. Being a branch to the true vine is messy. We’re going to get tangled up with other branches. We’re going to be pruned, cut back, so that our fruit will grow even more abundantly. We are going to have remain with the vine, even when it would seem so much easier to disentangle ourselves and fall away. But if we remain, if we abide, if we stay, if we allow ourselves to be pruned, oh the fruit we will bear. Oh, the blessed and glorious fruit.

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

Amen.

Abiding in Love -- Fourth Sunday of Easter

 

John 10:11-18

April 25, 2021

Phoebe’s first professional baby photograph was taken was taken with a lamb. I’m not kidding – a lamb. There was a photography studio in Albany, New York called the Country Studio. Every spring they would adopt lambs to use in pictures with kids. It was an incredible experience walking into that studio at that time of year. Lambs were everywhere. It was a big farmhouse, and I remember coming in and seeing one lamb at the top of the stairs in diapers, bleating happily, and another was being fed a bottle by someone who worked there. There were still more lambs wandering around the main waiting area, as well as in the backyard. Between the sound of the lambs bleating and the children crying or laughing or complaining about getting their picture taken, it was a rather noisy and chaotic place. 

When I made the appointment to have Phoebe’s picture taken, I knew about the studio using lambs. But as Phoebe was only three months old at the time, I didn’t really expect them to use one with her. Yet in the photographer came with a little lamb and put Phoebe and the lamb into this white cradle together. I remember calling my mom that night and telling her about Phoebe getting her picture taken with a lamb. My mom thought that was sweet, but I could tell she didn’t understand or believe that it was a real lamb; thinking I meant Phoebe had her picture taken with just a sweet stuffed animal. But I assured her that this lamb was very cute, yes, but also very real.

Lambs are cute. Like any baby – animal, person or otherwise – there is something sweet and endearing about them. But like any baby – animal, person or otherwise – they grow up. And lambs, as we all know, grow up to be sheep. And sheep, while I have nothing against them personally, aren’t as cute. They’re certainly practical animals. Functional. Useful. But cute? I wouldn’t go so far as to say that sheep are cute. Seeing them on a hillside as we drive into Pulaski, I think they make for a pastoral scene. But I’m still not convinced that they are cute. Sheep are also not the brightest of animals. They are willful. They are stubborn. They desperately need a shepherd; someone who keeps them out of trouble, who prevents them from getting hurt or lost.

And in our culture, it is not a compliment to be called a sheep. To be called a sheep means to blindly follow, to not use our intellect or critical thinking. The adjective, “sheep” has been thrown around a lot this past year. You’re a sheep if you do this, or a sheep if you don’t do that. I can’t imagine that any of us would willingly choose to be called a sheep. I don’t want to be called a sheep.

Yet, we come to this day, this fourth Sunday in Eastertide, and we celebrate it as Good Shepherd Sunday. No matter what the year, no matter what the focus of our scripture reading and preaching lectionary, this Sunday is always Good Shepherd Sunday. For me, personally, that means that I have preached on some aspect of the tenth chapter of the gospel of John approximately 25 times, give or take a year or two.  

So, if we are regular churchgoers, this language about Jesus as our Good Shepherd is familiar, overly familiar. And even if we have not heard sermon after sermon on the Good Shepherd, the imagery of those words is everywhere in our churches. I grew up with pictures of a sweetly smiling Jesus, depicted as a person who was clearly not of Middle Eastern descent, carrying a pure white, precious lamb across his shoulders. Phoebe’s first baby picture with a little lamb depicts that level of sweetness and serenity.

And what about Jesus himself? Jesus as our Good Shepherd is comfort and contentment and safety and protection. Our understanding of Jesus as Good Shepherd is part of the foundation of our whole belief system. Jesus is our Good Shepherd. The One who will leave the 99 other sheep to find the lost 1. He is the One who acts as the Gate, who keeps the wolves at bay. He calls us together into one flock. He protects us, watches over us, and lays down his life for us. This is all beautiful and lovely, and I am not trying to diminish that. But as with anything that we hear over and over again, as with anything this is familiar, the punch that these words originally packed has been domesticated. The surprise and original twist of these words, the way the first listeners would have heard them, has been lost on us. What is it that we have lost in translation?

We hear these words about Jesus as the Good Shepherd as comfort and light. But they would have angered the religious authorities. They would have pushed a lot of buttons. This passage follows on the story of Jesus healing the blind man. This was a healing that so vexed the religious authorities that the man who was healed was driven out of the synagogue – for being healed – by Jesus. Now Jesus makes the claim that he is the Good Shepherd, and by the end of this tenth chapter, he will be rejected by the authorities. They do not like what Jesus is doing, and they do not like what he is saying – about himself and in turn about God. And I don’t think they like what he is saying about the sheep either.

So, while we have embraced Good Shepherd imagery, the pastoral, the idea of congregations as being flocks and the minister is the pastor, something about Jesus’ description of himself makes people in his context angry and increases his level of threat.

I cannot say that I fully understand why this would make those in power so angry. But from what I have read, I have some guesses. Shepherds were not in the upper echelons of that society. Their entire lives were spent outside of the confines of society. They roamed the fields with their flocks. They probably smelled like their flocks. There was no great status in being a shepherd. But Jesus not only identifies with the shepherd, but he also says he is the Good Shepherd.

He says that he is the Good Shepherd who will keep the wolves away from the sheep. He says that he is the Shepherd who also acts as the Gate. He keeps the predators out and the flock in. He says that he is the Shepherd who has many sheep, sheep not from this pasture. There are other sheep who will hear his voice, who will know him, who will follow him. He is the Shepherd who is willing to go after the lost, the forgotten, the abandoned.

And who has Jesus “gone after” so far? He has gone after the outcast and the outsider. He has gone after the sinners, the weak, the rejected. He is the Shepherd who will lay down his life for his flock. Remember, this is John’s gospel and John is about metaphor and meaning upon layer of meaning. Jesus in John’s gospel knows what the authorities are up to. He knows what they are planning. He knows what they think of him and what they fear from him. And he is telling them that even if they kill the shepherd, they cannot disperse this flock that he is gathering together. He will lay down his life for his sheep, and the wolves and the bandits and the hired hands will not win!

This is high drama, people! This is not just a chapter of lovely sentiments and pastoral pronouncements. This is Jesus not necessarily going to battle with the religious authorities, but not backing down in the face of them either. He is telling them who he is – the Good Shepherd. In many ways, he is laying his cards out before them, unflinchingly, unwaveringly. He knows where this will end, and he says it anyway. He does it anyway.

So, what does this mean for us? Now? In 2021? What does it mean for us to claim Jesus as our Good Shepherd, to abide in his love, as we read in First John?

As I said last week, there are many ways to answer this, many possible conclusions. Jesus not only tells those who would hear that he was and is the Good Shepherd, he shows them what that means. He was not merely speaking metaphorically when he said that the shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. He did it. He gave himself over to be crucified. Judas may have betrayed him, but Jesus walked out of that garden. Jesus turned himself in. He laid down his life for them and for us. He proved his claim to be the Good Shepherd was true – in word and deed.

And maybe that is what we need to hear this week and next week and in every day and week and month to come. Jesus proved he was the Good Shepherd. He was willing to die for the sake of love, love for God, love for the sheep gathered around him, love for all the sheep not yet in the fold. That includes us. So, maybe, we need to acknowledge that we are indeed sheep. I don’t mean that in the insulting way it is too often hurled nowadays. But I don’t mean it as a compliment either.

We are sheep. We are willful, stubborn, resistant to the One who longs to lead us. We seek our own way, and we get lost. I get lost, time and time again. We are sheep, not because we don’t have minds of our own, or sharp intellects, or critical thinking skills, but because we think, we believe, that we have everything under control. We too easily wander off distracted, thinking we don’t need others, thinking we don’t need a shepherd.

Just recently I saw a short video of a young man, probably a modern-day shepherd, trying to get a sheep who had wandered into a fissure between two stones. The sheep was stuck tight, and the shepherd had to pull at the little guy’s legs to finally get it unstuck. Whoever posted the video made a reference to the Good Shepherd going after the lost one, and that he felt like this young boy trying to rescue a stubborn sheep. When I watched it, I thought, “I’m not the shepherd. I’m the sheep.”

How many times have I wandered away, following an idol of my own making? How many times have I gotten stuck, needed rescue, but didn’t know how to ask for help? How many times has that happened to you?

Maybe what we need to do today is acknowledge that we are sheep, sheep who need a shepherd, a Good Shepherd. And through nothing we have done to earn it or deserve it, we have one. We have a Good Shepherd, who came into this gritty world, into this muddy pasture, who willingly got dirty, muddy, bloody, for the sake of Love: Love of God, Love for God’s creation, Love for God’s creatures – all of God’s sheep. That includes us. May we abide in this Love, this good and shepherding love.

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

Amen.