Not From Here -- Christ the King/Reign of Christ

 John 18:33-38

November 21, 2021

            When I was 12 or maybe 13, I went with my class to the Nashville Children’s Theater to see the play, Inherit the Wind. If you’re not familiar with this play it’s based on the Scopes Monkey Trial which took place in Dayton, in our great state of Tennessee in 1925. John Scopes was a science teacher and coach in Dayton, and he decided to challenge Tennessee’s new anti-evolution law that prohibited any school that was funded primarily by state tax dollars from teaching evolution as opposed to the story of creation found in the Bible. He taught evolution, and for teaching that, he was arrested and brought to trial. 

            Scopes primary legal defense was Clarence Darrow, one of the most famous attorneys in the country at the time. William Jennings Bryan, another of the country’s most illustrious attorneys, represented the prosecution. The two men were fierce political rivals and history records that their rivalry influenced the proceedings in Dayton. 

            The play was not a completely historical record of what happened in the actual trial, and my memories of the details of the play are sketchy as well. But I do remember one particularly dramatic scene from the trial itself. Darrow, in response to an argument for the literal interpretation of the creation story in Genesis, gives a passionate rebuttal, asking a question that remains with me today: couldn’t seven days in God’s time really be seven billion years? 

            This is not a direct quote, and as I said, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen the play. But that powerful scene sticks with me. I think, because it was one of the first moments in my life when I realized that there could be truth in scripture that was not literal. I was not shocked by these words. In fact, I embraced them. I remember ruminating on this idea that a week of time to God could look very different than a week in our time. Never before had I considered that God’s time might not be our time. I realize that I was very young, and impressionable, but I wasn’t dumb. The idea that there could be a deeper truth, a deeper understanding of the Bible than a literal reading might offer made me see, read, and think about scripture in a new way. I’ve never forgotten that. And I still turn to scripture with that same understanding. There is a deeper truth in these words than I may be able to see or hear if my reading and understanding stays only on the surface.

            But this was an understanding that Pilate must not have been privy to. The conversation between him and Jesus in our passage from John’s gospel is a classic example of two people talking at very different levels of understanding.

Like John Scopes, Jesus is also on trial. However, Jesus is on trial for sedition – which is inciting resistance to authority and a potential overthrow of the government. Jesus is on trial for religious heresy. And, quite frankly, Jesus is also on trial, although these were not official charges, because he infuriated and terrified the religious leaders.   

            But it was the official charge of sedition that brought him before Pilate. So, when Pilate comes back into the headquarters and summons Jesus again, asking, “Are you the King of the Jews?” he wants to know if Jesus is trying to usurp the Jewish leadership. Because not only will this affect the power of the Jewish leadership, but it will also affect the power of the Roman government as well. 

            In Jesus’ typical fashion, he answers Pilate’s question with another question. 

“Are you asking this question on your own, or have other people told you about me?”

            Pilate was not a nice man. What we learn of him in these, and other verses is sort of a gentled version of Pilate. According to commentators, other historical documents paint a picture of Pilate as a bully at best. I doubt that he appreciated being questioned by this common prisoner.  And I suspect that Jesus’ questions get under his skin. He is the one asking the questions, not this prisoner. So, his disdainful retort to Jesus’ question is,

“I’m not a Jew, am I?  Your own people have handed you over.  What did you do?”

            Now Jesus begins to talk about his kingdom. 

“My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.”

            Okay, so now we’re getting somewhere. Pilate does not get what Jesus is saying at all, but he does pick up on one word – kingdom.  He’s still trying to figure out what Jesus has done and if he’s guilty of the charges against him. So, with the word “kingdom” clutched tightly in his fist, he asks again,

“So, you are a king?” 

            Again, Jesus frustrates him with his reply. 

“You say that I am a king. This is why I was born; this is why I came into the world, to testify to the truth. The ones who belong to the truth, listen to my voice.” 

            Then Pilate speaks the words he is most famous for:

            “What is truth?”

            With those three words our passage for today ends. But I think it’s clear that Pilate and Jesus were engaged in two very different conversations with two very different meanings. They were speaking in the same language, but Pilate could not or would not hear the deeper meaning of what Jesus was saying.

            What is truth? I suspect that Jesus and Pilate have a very different understanding of that word. I suspect that Pilate understood truth as gritty. Truth is not something that most people can handle. Truth can be manipulated and exploited. Truth is just another ploy in the political maneuvering that happens in this dog-eat-dog world.

            But the truth that Jesus refers to is another animal altogether.  

            When Jesus speaks of truth he is speaking of divine truth. He is speaking of a truth that is not born of people, but truth that comes from God. And Jesus isn’t just speaking about some ideal or theory, some outside of reality kind of truth. Jesus is telling Pilate that he is the truth. He doesn’t just represent truth. He is the truth. That’s why he was born, that’s why his life has led him to this critical point in front of Pilate, to witness to the truth of God which he embodies. 

            Jesus is king, but he’s not a king in the way that Pilate understands. Jesus tells Pilate that his kingdom is not of this world. It is not from here. But Jesus is not speaking geographically. Jesus’ kingdom is a state of being, a way of living in this world but not of this world. This is not sedition on Jesus’ part. As he told Pilate, if his kingdom were of this world, if he were trying to usurp the resident government, then his followers would be leading a revolt. There would have been fighting in the streets to keep him out of Pilate’s hands. But that wasn’t happening, clearly, because Jesus is before Pilate. His only act has been to witness to the truth. 

And what is that truth? The truth is that God’s kingdom made manifest in Jesus has come into the world. God’s kingdom has broken through, and it has broken in. Jesus has been witnessing to this kingdom from the beginning. He’s taught it, preached it, and demonstrated its power in every act of healing and every miracle he’s performed. That is the truth.

Jesus told Pilate that his kingdom was not from here. It was not from this world. As I said before, Jesus was not talking about geography, he was speaking to the essence, the true nature of his kingdom, of God’s kingdom, of the Truth with a capital T.

When Pilate spoke of kings and kingdoms, he was talking about the power that comes through violence and coercion, power that reigns through might. But Jesus, whose kingdom is not from here, who speaks of a deeper truth, was testifying that his kingdom was incarnation, the Word made flesh. It was born of servanthood and service, not strength of weapon or might of military. Jesus’ kingdom was not from here because it was rooted in the power of love, not force.

And in this moment with Pilate, no one could mistake Jesus for a king of this world. In this moment, through this world’s eyes, he was bedraggled and unkempt. He was poor and powerless and a prisoner. No monarch that is from here, from this world, looks like Jesus must have looked. But Pilate did not understand the power that Jesus wielded. He did not understand that a kingdom born of God and truth was unlike any kingdom born of this world. He could not imagine something more than what he already knew. He could not imagine or envision a different kind of truth.

But maybe that is what our call is this day. It is Christ the King Sunday. In the church calendar this is New Year’s Eve. It is the end of the church year, and next Sunday, the first Sunday of Advent the ecclesial year begins anew. Today we celebrate the reign of Christ and next Sunday we begin our waiting once more for God to become incarnate in this world. This is the way the church year rolls, and while I love it, every season of it, it is easy for this to become rote. Yep, today is Christ the King, next Sunday is the first Sunday of Advent. Now, I’ve got to get Thanksgiving ready and start my Christmas shopping.

Yet, I wonder if we could see this day as an opportunity to pause, to do some imagining, some envisioning, of what our world might be like, look like, if we fully embraced the truth of God’s kingdom, if we lived as though Christ really is king. Would this be a world where righteousness and peace truly walk hand-in-hand? Would this be a world where both justice and mercy are meted out in equal measure? Would this be the world that God created it to be? Can we imagine it? Can we imagine what it would be like to live in a kingdom not from here?

On this day and every day, may our imaginations run wild. On this day and every day, may we humbly and prayerfully work to live into the kingdom of God, the kingdom Jesus ushered in with his birth, his life, his death, and his resurrection. On this day and every day, may we do the work of God’s love, God’s truth. On this day may we seek more and more to belong to a kingdom that is not from here.

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

Amen.

 

 

 

 

The Labor of Hope

 Mark 13:1-8

November 14, 2021

 

            I was 17 when my first nephew, Benjamin, was born. My sister came home from Greece to Nashville to have the baby. My brother-in-law, Nikos, who worked for Olympic Airlines, came to Nashville in the last two weeks of Jill’s pregnancy. Nikos was able to be here and with Jill for the birth, but Jill had to begin her birthing classes before he arrived. My mom went with her to the classes as her coach just in case the baby arrived before Nikos did.

            Mom and Jill invited me to come to class with them one week, and I eagerly agreed. I thought it would be like what I had seen on television: a group of parents-to-be sitting on pillows on the floor, practicing breathing techniques and holding baby dolls that were supposed to simulate newborns. But as it turned out, the night I attended class was movie night. And we aren’t talking Disney films either. This was the night when the parents watch a film that showed, up close and personal, women giving birth. I don’t know exactly what my face must have looked like while we were watching the film, but I suspect that my eyes got big, and my face grew quite pale.

            There were two women featured: one who cried and moaned and groaned and yelled, and the other who was very calm and just breathed in short, calm squeaks. The irony was that at the end of the movie, they interviewed both women about the experience of giving birth. The woman who groaned and moaned exclaimed with joy that she would do it again as soon as possible. The woman who was calm and quiet and throughout the whole experience said she was not doing this again, no way, no how.

            What I learned that night and later on when I had my own babies is that there is a reason birth is called labor. It is labor. It remains the hardest work that I have ever done, and I have had a variety of jobs in my lifetime. Giving birth is labor, however that birth happens, and the metaphor of giving birth and the hard work of labor is employed several times in scripture. I think of Paul’s words in Romans 8 – “we know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now.” And the subject of birth comes up in our gospel reading this morning, We read of birth pangs in the last verse of our passage from Mark’s gospel.

            Jesus has been teaching in the temple. He and the disciples are leaving that holy place and one of his disciples – we don’t know which one – looks back at the gleaming stones of the temple building and says,
            “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!”

            Perhaps the disciple expected Jesus to agree with him about the size of the stones or make a comment about the holiness of the place where observant Jews were taught and believed God resided. But if that was the kind of response the disciple expected, he was sorely disappointed. Instead, Jesus said,
            “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”

            Wait. What?

            That would be like those of us who were at church yesterday, working in the courtyard with RFD or in Nall Hall with SCHRA and the other community resource agencies, and someone were to look up at the church and say,

            “What a beautiful church this is. Look at these bricks. Look at these windows and the steeple.”

            And someone else says in reply,

            “Yeah, but it will all be rubble one day.”

            That would be an awful and shocking thing to hear. It would feel even worse to think about. None of us want to contemplate a future where our beloved buildings, our sacred spaces, such as this beautiful sanctuary, are not. But Jesus pushes the disciples to do just that.

            After Jesus says this, he and the disciples walk away from the temple and go to the Mount of Olives. What I learned from commentaries this week was that the Mount of Olives was the place where generations of Jewish people had been buried. It was the hallowed ground where Jewish people were laid to rest after lives that were blessedly long or achingly short. And on this sacred spot, Peter, James, John, and Andrew had a private word with Jesus. They wanted clarification on what he had said about the temple. They asked him about when this destruction of the temple would happen, because if the temple were truly destroyed, it would not only be a demolition of a building but a sign of the end times. It would be a sign of the apocalypse, the end of the world as they knew it.

            Again, Jesus does not give them the answer they were looking for. He does not confess that he was exaggerating – which I suspect they might have hoped for. He doesn’t offer any dates or lay out a timeline for the end of the world, so that they can make plans. Instead, he warns them to beware those who might lead them astray.

            “Many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and they will lead many astray. When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.” 

            They wanted Jesus to tell them about the end, to give them specifics, dates, time, and signs about when the end of the world will come. But Jesus turned this on its head and said that anything that might be taken for a sign is really just the beginning. It might look like the end, false prophets will say it is the end, but truly it is the beginning of the birth pangs. It is the beginning of the labor of creation. It is the labor of the new thing God is doing in

their midst.

            If you think about it, this should not have surprised them. They have been told numerous times, Peter himself confessed it, that Jesus was the Son of God, the incarnate God. Jesus was the Messiah in the flesh and in the spirit. From his first days of preaching, teaching, exorcising, healing, Jesus has been telling them that the kingdom of God has drawn near, that it was in their midst, in their presence, in their peripheral vision, if not glaringly in their line of sight. God was and is doing a new thing, Jesus proclaimed, and that new thing was a new creation and creation required labor.

            Notice that Jesus did not say, in any way, that the labor of creation would be without pain or suffering or struggle. There would be wars. There would be rumors of wars. There would be earthquakes and famines and hardship and pain. And during these times when everything will seem to be falling apart, there would be people who would try to lead them astray. There were snake oil salesmen then just as there are now: people who promise miracles, safety, security, deliverance, with no ability to follow through on any of it. But don’t fall for it, Jesus warned them. What looks like the end is really just the beginning.

            Notice that Jesus did not assure them that they would be safe. Jesus did not assure them that they would remain above the struggle and suffering of life. He gave them no reassurances that they would be immune to the struggles. He only told them that this was the beginning of the birth pangs. This was the beginning of God’s labor to bring about the new creation, the new thing, the kingdom, and the kin-dom in their midst. There is a reason giving birth is called labor. Bringing new life, new creation, into the world is work. There is a reason giving birth is called labor.

            The disciples surely had many more questions to ask, but I suspect that they may have fallen along the lines of these: but what do we do with all of this? How do we live knowing what lies ahead and also not knowing what lies ahead? Where do we go from here?

            Those may be our questions as well. The temple was destroyed. Mark may have known that when he wrote his gospel. Those large stones were brought down, and that sacred place was leveled. We continue to live under the threat of wars and rumors of wars. Earthquakes and famine and false prophets have all come to pass, and its likely there will be more of them in the future. Will the birth pangs ever cease? Will the labor of creation ever be complete?

            I don’t know. Maybe not in my lifetime or in yours. Maybe not in the lifetime of the next generation. So, what do we do? How do we hold on? We hope.

            No, that’s not the most satisfying of answers. It is not definitive. It does not erase suffering. But just as giving birth is labor, so is hope. We are called to the labor of hope. To hope and trust in God’s promises even when everything seems to be crashing down around us. We are called to the labor of hope. Preacher and professor, David Lose, once said that there is a difference between hope and optimism. Optimism is the belief that everything is going to be okay. Hope is the recognition that things may just be awful, but God was there in the beginning, God is with us in the present, in the midst of the awful, and God is with us in the future. God is with us, so in the end all will be well.

            We are called to the labor of hope, and because of this call and our labor, we find the courage to be faithful, the strength to proclaim the gospel, the passion to work for peace and justice, and the will to keep going, to keep following, to keep walking, day after day, one foot after another. We are called to the labor of hope, and it is labor, but God is with us, always, in the suffering and in the joy, God is with us. And God is doing a new thing, God is bringing forth creation. This is but the beginning of the birth pangs. This is but the beginning.

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

            Amen.

No More Tears -- All Saints' Day

 Revelation 21:1-6a (Isaiah 25:6-9)

October 31, 2021

 

            When Brent and I were first courting one another, we did what other new couples do –we told each other our stories, we shared our likes and dislikes, and we talked about the books and movies and television that we liked. One of Brent’s favorite movies, he told me, was The Godfather. He told me about its cinematic lushness, the sweep of the storyline, and the powerful way that it told of a man’s descent into the corruption and violence of his family’s “business.”

            Now, The Godfather is a culturally iconic movie. It is referenced in more movies, television shows, probably even commercials than I can count. However, it premiered in theatres when I was about 8, so for some reason my parents decided that I should not see it. But because it is so iconic, I knew about some of the more infamous scenes in the movie. And because I know about those scenes, I chose, even as an adult, not to see it because I don’t do so well with really violent or gory movies – a downside for someone born eight days before Halloween.  

            But I told Brent that I would watch it with him as long as he warned me about the more difficult scenes so that I could look away or cover my eyes, as in “the horse’s head is next.” He promised he would, and he did. And he was right, The Godfather is an amazing movie. I’ve watched it twice now, and the second time around I knew when to look away on my own.

            Yet it’s not just in movies that I need and want to be warned about what’s coming. I do that when I’m reading a mystery as well. If it starts getting intense, I take a quick peek at the last pages. It’s not that I want details about what happens, I just want to know who will be left standing. Some people think that having spoilers like this is terrible, but not me. I don’t mind a few spoilers if it helps me get through the tough parts of a story.

            One commentator on WorkingPreacher.org wrote that these verses from Revelation should be labeled with “Warning: Spoiler Alert.” Because coming at almost the end of this difficult, deeply metaphorical, and often quite confusing book, suddenly John says that at the end of what we think of as everything, there will be a new heaven and a new earth. The first have passed away. And there will be a new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God. And this new Jerusalem will be God’s home, and God will be dwelling with mortals. He will be their God. They will be his people.

            “And God himself will be with them; he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.”

            This new Jerusalem, this new heaven and this new earth, will be home to both God and humanity. And all the sorrow and suffering that are the hallmarks of human life will be no more. There will be no more tears because God will wipe every tear away from every eye.

            As the commentator pointed out, this is the end of our Christian story attested to in scripture. The end times, whenever they arrive, however they arrive, and no matter how John has described them through metaphor, are unknowable. We don’t know what will happen in the future, no matter how closely we might try to predict it, but we do know that at the last God will be with us and we will be with God. And because of this there will be no more sorrow, no more suffering, no more tears.

            John was writing to a community of people who were suffering. John was writing to people who were being persecuted for their faith and their refusal to denounce their belief. John was writing to a community who needed words of hope and reassurance about the future even as they sought to endure the troubles of the day. This was true for the prophets of the Old Testament as well. They were speaking the word of God to people who were in exile, to people who had lost everything, their homes and their homeland, their history, their hope. These powerful and beautiful words from the prophet Isaiah come in the midst of words about destruction and devastation. They too were spoken to people who were suffering.

Yet one day, Isaiah reassures them, all the peoples of God will gather on the mountain of the Lord, a holy mountain, and they will gather at a table that welcomes all, and at that table they will eat a feast beyond any feast so rich and satisfying that their hungry bellies and their hungry hearts could imagine.

            And at this feast and on this mountain, the shroud of death that hovers over all of them will be destroyed. The sheet of death that is cast upon all nations will be destroyed forever, and God will swallow up death even as the people swallow the food that is set before them. And just as it is promised in Revelation, God will wipe away every tear from every face. Suffering and sorrow and death will be no more. There will be no more tears.

            These two passages from Isaiah and from Revelation are words that I most often speak at funerals, at those times when we gather as a community of believers, a family of the faithful, to witness to the resurrection. These words are spoken in those times when we gather to renew our hope even in the face of death. And that was their original intent as well: to give hope, solace, and comfort to those who were living in the constant shadow of death.

And what do we long for most when the shroud of death feels as though it is closing in on us, what do we hope for when we face the rest of our lives without someone we love, what do we yearn for when comfort and peace seem to be nothing more than distant dreams or memories from a life that is long gone? We long for a time when there will be no more tears.

 

Both passages promise just that: a time when there will be no more tears, when God himself will wipe them away. How intensely comforting that must have been to those people who were suffering, who were afraid, who were overwhelmed with grief and sorrow? And how deeply consoling are they to us as well.

It seems to me that reading, hearing, and speaking these ancient words of promise and comfort is profoundly moving on this day when we remember our saints. All Saints Day gives us the opportunity to remember the saints of the Church Universal, those saints, prophets, priests, martyrs, teachers, and healers, who kept the faith even when it seemed that all hope was lost. And on this day, we remember our own saints as well, the people who in their living and in their dying taught us what it means to be faithful, to be hopeful. We especially remember our own saints because it is on their shoulders we stand. So, we lift up both in our hearts and in picture and writing the names of fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, husbands and wives, family and friends, who made our own faith possible.

We remember them, looking back on the past when they were still in our lives, and through them we also look to the future, because they have crossed into that place where there are no more tears. Their baptisms have been made complete, and their hope in God is fulfilled. Because of our saints we remember with love and thanksgiving the past and we look forward to our own futures when our tears will also be wiped away. In these days when death is all around, when the world that we knew has been fundamentally changed, and so much of the future is unknown, how wonderful it is to give thanks for the lives of our saints who not only know the end of the story but are living in its fullness as well.

Our saints point us toward this future. Many years ago, I read a story about a young pianist who was incredibly gifted but struggling with the increasing difficulty of the music he was playing. His teacher, understanding his frustration and discouragement, leaned over and gave him a light kiss on the top of his head. That, he explained to the young student, is Beethoven’s kiss. When the teacher was a young and frustrated student, his teacher had given him the same kiss. And that teacher’s teacher had done the same thing. And that kiss had come from Beethoven. It was a kiss that was passed down from one generation to the next. That kiss helped each student work through the struggles they were having. That kiss inspired them, influenced them, pushed them forward.

Maybe this story isn’t true. Maybe it was a legend that each successive generation chose to believe, but true or not, I have also chosen to believe it. Not only because I think it is a cool story, but because I believe that hope can be passed from one generation to the next. I did not know my great-grandparents or my great-great grandparents, but their love and faith and hope was passed down from parent to child and so on to me and from me to my own children. And I carry that hope from the past into the future, into a story that is both waiting to be written and also has a glorious ending.

On this day, on this celebration of All Saints, we give thanks for what has been passed down to us, and we give thanks for the future which is in God’s hands. We give thanks that for our saints sorrow and sighing and sadness are no more. Their tears are all wiped dry, and one day ours will be too. Thanks be to God.

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

Amen.