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.

 

 

Disbelieving Joy -- Fourth Sunday of Easter

 

Luke 24:33-48

April 18, 2021

 

            You may have heard of the movie, Ghost, with Patrick Swayze, Demi Moore, and Whoopi Goldberg, but have you ever heard of the movie, Truly, Madly, Deeply? If you have not, you’re probably not alone. It is a British film, made back in 1990, and it was never widely circulated in the States as far as I know. It is the kind of arthouse film that would play at the Belcourt Theater in Nashville, but probably would not have made it into big movie theater chains. The critic Roger Ebert called it, “The thinking man’s Ghost.” I loved the move, Ghost, so I was eager to see this other ghost story.

            Truly, Madly, Deeply stars Alan Rickman and Juliette Stevenson as the two main characters: Jamie and Nina. Nina is overwhelmed with grief after her boyfriend, Jamie, dies suddenly. She is mired in her grief and can’t seem to move forward even a small step. To her disbelieving joy, Jamie returns to her as a ghost, and it would seem that they would be able to be in relationship with each other once more … other than she was still alive and he was a ghost.

            But Nina quickly realizes that life with her ghost boyfriend is not the joyful reunion that she thought it would be. Jamie seems to have a lot of annoying quirks as a ghost, and Nina wonders if he was always like that. As a ghost, he is cold all the time, so he turns up the heat to Sahara Desert like levels. He invites his ghost friends over to her house to watch television all the time at all hours. Jamie, in subtle and not so subtle ways begins to remind Nina that she is alive and he isn’t; something that she could not accept on her own.            

            Nina meets someone, a man named Mark. She likes him – a lot – but moving forward with him would mean she would have to let go of Jamie. And this is a wrenching proposition. But Jamie’s annoying ghostly habits finally push her into letting go. She lets go. She moves forward. And in the last minutes of the movie, as Nina walks away, Jamie watches her go and another ghost appears beside him and asks,

            “Well?”

            And Jamie’s only response is, “Yes.”

            You realize that Jamie came back, not so that he could cling to Nina, but that Nina could finally let him go.

            Now, you may be asking, what does this little story about a movie no one has heard of, have to do with our story from the gospel of Luke? What does it have to do with our big story from the whole gospel, from all of scripture? Maybe it doesn’t have much to do with it at all, other than the disciples think Jesus is a ghost.

            We know Jesus is not a ghost. We know it, but the sudden appearance in their midst seems a little ghostly, at least according to what popular culture tells us is ghostly. Was Jesus, post resurrection, able to walk through walls and doors, solid boundaries that no living human could breach without causing destruction to the door or to the human? It certainly seems so. One minute he was not there; the next he was standing in their midst, asking them why they are frightened, and why they have doubts lurking in their hearts?

Our story follows on the heels of probably the best known of Luke’s accounts of post resurrection appearances – the story of Jesus on the road to Emmaus. In that story, 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 have been speaking about everything that had happened: the crucifixion of Jesus, and the women’s supposedly idle tale that the tomb was empty, and they had received a message from the angels that Jesus was indeed risen.

When Jesus questions them about what they have been talking about, they look sad and relate all this to him. Then he begins to interpret the scriptures for them in light of what they’ve seen and heard. 

            They encourage him to stay with them because it is getting late in the day. He does and when they sit down to eat, when he breaks bread with them, their eyes are opened, and they recognize him. Immediately upon recognition he vanishes from their sight. So, they hightail it back to Jerusalem to tell the other disciples. And while they’re sharing with the disciples what they’ve just seen and heard and witnessed, Jesus appears in their midst. 

            Now they all witness the resurrected Christ. But even with everything they’ve heard and what they now see, they are still terrified. They think Jesus is a ghost. Jesus dismisses that idea.  Look at me, he tells them. Touch my hands and feet. Does a ghost have flesh and bones?  And while he tells them this, he shows them his hands and feet. He willingly offers them proof that he was indeed crucified, dead, buried and now he’s raised again – not just as a spirit, but as a real physical being. 

            But their doubts persist. Luke writes that,

“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 in this particular passage and relating to us that the Greek does not say that Jesus merely ate that fish. He gnawed at it. He devoured it, just as any human would who had not eaten in several days. Jesus is not just a spirit before them. He has flesh and bones and hunger. The disciples are overjoyed, 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 he 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 witnesses of these things.” 

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

            You are witnesses of these things. It seems natural that I should wind up this sermon with those words. You are witnesses of these things. We are witnesses of these things. So, let’s go out and witness. Alleluia. Amen.

            But the truth of the matter is that I’m not sure of where or how to draw this sermon to a close. Is it the importance of witness to the gospel? Is it the fact that Jesus did not return as a ghost but as resurrected flesh and blood, the incarnate God once more incarnate? Or is it recapturing the wonder of this story, the disbelieving joy that the disciples felt at seeing their beloved rabbi once more?

            Maybe it is all of this and more. I know that you can never plumb the depths of any passage in one sermon, and maybe I am taking the easy way out by not trying to draw a final conclusion. But the truth of it for me is that all of this matters. It matters more than I can express. It matters that Jesus returned to the disciples as a hungry man of blood and sinew. It matters because our bodies matter. Our flesh and blood matters. All flesh and blood matters. God taking on earthly form was not just a way to get our attention, to be unique amidst the other false gods the people worshipped. It was because the Creator cared about the physical being of the creature, as well as the heart and the soul and the mind. God cares about our whole selves. Our minds matter, our hearts matter, our souls matter, and our bodies matter.

            And we are called to be witnesses to these things. We are called to go out into the world proclaiming the good news of the gospel, proclaiming the good news of the resurrected Christ. We are sent beyond these doors to share the gospel. But how can we do that effectively if we have lost our disbelieving joy? How can we do that if we are mired in grief or captured by cynicism or if we have forgotten what it means to wonder at this story, at all the stories, at the story of our God in relationship – the relationship of the trinity, the relationship with all of creation, relationship with us. Maybe what we need is to recapture some disbelieving joy, some wonder. I have a good friend and colleague who once told me that it never surprised him that God resurrected Jesus for Jesus’ sake, but the fact that God resurrected Jesus for our sake?! That is a wonder!

            Allow yourself to be caught up in the wonder. Allow yourself to be caught up in some time of disbelieving joy. Allow yourself to be amazed that Jesus was died and Jesus is risen. Say the words, “The Lord is risen. He is risen indeed,” and be amazed that it is true! I mean it’s true. Jesus Christ is risen! Resurrected! His flesh was restored. He was so hungry, he gnawed at fish. He came back embodied so that we could be emboldened. How can we feel anything but disbelieving joy at the wonder of this?! How can we not leave this place proclaiming that Jesus Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! And we are witnesses of these amazing and glorious things. We are witnesses of God’s good news. Jesus the Christ is risen. He is risen indeed!

            Alleluia! Amen.

Terror and Amazement -- Easter Sunday

 

Mark 16:1-8

April 4, 2021

 

            The Lord is risen. He is risen indeed.

            These words will be heard all over the world today. They will be proclaimed in every language we can think of. I’ve already seen them offered on social media from friends and family members. We began our service with them, and we will end our service with them. Yet what I find interesting and strange is that while Christians all over the world are literally and figuratively shouting these words from the rooftops this day, they cannot be found in Mark’s gospel.

            When it comes to storytelling, Mark must have believed that less is best. He does not waste time on a lot of description. He does not waste words on lengthy narrative explanations. Compared to the other gospel writers, Mark either leaves a lot of information out – or he leaves a lot to our imagination.

            From the first words of this gospel, it would seem as thought Mark has brought us into the middle of the story. Jesus is already born. Jesus is already grown. We immediately know who Jesus is. There is no space provided or time allowed for us to figure it out on our own. Mark tells us right off the bat.

            “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”

            Boom. It’s out there. No frills. No fancy word play. No metaphors or similes to contend with. This is the story of the good news of Jesus the Christ, the Messiah, the Son of God. Mark wants us, the readers, to know right up front what and who this story is about. There is no question that Jesus is the Son of God.  

            Mark’s beginning epitomizes matter of fact and straightforward, and his ending is much the same. As soon as the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome gather spices together and make their way to the tomb just after dawn on the first day of the new week. They were worried about the stone that blocked the entrance to the tomb, and were asking one another, “Who do you think might roll it away for us?”

            But when they reached the tomb itself, they saw that their worry was not necessary. The stone had already been rolled away. They entered the tomb and saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side. They were alarmed to see him, and he knew it because he immediately said,

            “Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.”

            See, just like the beginning. Mark does not make the reader wait to find out what happened. Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified and died, is now raised. He is not here. Tell his disciples and Peter that he has gone ahead to Galilee. You will see him there, just like he told you.

            Just like he told you. But unlike the other gospels, the women cannot seem to take this news in. It’s as if they hear the words of this young man, but they don’t register them. They do not run to the disciples and Peter with the good news that Jesus has been raised. They do not tell them that Jesus has gone ahead to Galilee and will wait there for them, just as he promised. They just run away. They are filled with terror and amazement and they run away, for they were afraid.

            This passage before us is considered by Bible scholars to be the actual ending to the gospel of Mark. That seems strange to say because if you have ever read the last chapter in Mark’s gospel, you’ll know that after the words in our passage comes two more endings: one titled the Shorter Ending and one titled the Longer Ending. Scholars believe these are added on, later additions to Mark’s original ending, most likely written by scribes. As preacher and teacher, David Lose, said,

            “Some well-meaning monks just couldn’t let the gospel end like that.”

            It is no wonder that some scribe wanted to “fix” this original ending in Mark. They could not let it end with terror and amazement only. They wanted to make sure that the disciples did indeed get the good news. They wanted to make sure that the disciples and Peter went to Galilee per Jesus’ instructions. The ending of Mark’s gospel is much like the beginning, in that it is short and to the point and doesn’t waste space on paper filling in a lot of details. But that’s what makes it difficult to deal with. It is the kind of ending that makes you say, “And?” They ran away in terror and amazement. Okay. They were afraid. All right. And?”

            And? What comes next? What happens then? How is this all resolved? How is the good news proclaimed? When do we finally hear the joyful shouts of the people saying, “He is risen! He is risen indeed!?”

            But we don’t hear those words. Not in Mark’s gospel. Not in the original ending. We don’t get the reconciling moment with the disciples. We don’t get the post-resurrection appearances. There is no road to Emmaus in Mark’s gospel. There is no Jesus appearing suddenly in their midst; no showing his wounded hands or feet; no moment of proof. No, we get an angel telling women to “Fear not,” and the women doing exactly the opposite.

            Fear not. This is the standard greeting in scripture when a divine being is about to impart dramatic, amazing, life-changing news to a human who is not expecting it in the least. If you hear the words, “fear not,” it means that something good is about to happen; something glorious and God-filled. But the women were not ready to fear not. They could not suspend their terror and amazement. Fear and grief were the only things they could wrap their heads around. They were the only emotions they could feel. Grief drove them away from the tomb. Fear drove them away. They run away in fear. The. End.

            And?

            A hard lesson that I have had to learn over the years is that you cannot rush someone through their grief. You can’t make someone who is grieving feel instantly better with words, with platitudes. In our pastoral care classes in seminary, we were wanted not to jump in too quickly with words of good news when you were offering care to someone who was grieving. You don’t tell the widower who has just lost his wife of 50 years that he should feel happy because his wife is now in a better place. You don’t tell parents who have lost their child that they should feel glad because this is just all part of God’s plan, or, God must have needed another angel in heaven.

            Honestly, if I had lost my beloved spouse, I would not want to be told that she’s in a better place – even if I believed that were true. And I definitely would not want to hear that the death of my child was due to some unknowable plan of God’s or that God would take my baby just to fill a spot in a heavenly choir or to meet an angelic quota.

            No, we were told, you don’t try to rush people through their grief. You don’t offer them platitudes or easy comfort. You sit with them in their grief. You offer them the ministry of your presence, and you don’t try to find words for comfort when no comfort can be found. You don’t offer words to try and ease the discomfort of grief. Grief hurts, but what hurts more is people trying to make us feel better or “get over it,” when we are grieving. Even the good news doesn’t feel so good when you are in the midst of loss.

            The women were surely grieving. They were surely overwhelmed with grief and sorrow and loss that their beloved Teacher, Rabbi, had been so brutally executed. But they were also the first to hear that their beloved was not dead but raised. Isn’t that the kind of news we would want after losing a beloved? Isn’t that what we would hope for? That the unthinkable would happen? That the one we loved had not left us, but was alive and well and gone ahead to a pre-arranged meeting place?

            But even the good news does not feel like good news when we are grieving. And the women were grieving. They were afraid. They went to the tomb with burial spices, to prepare their beloved Rabbi for his final rest, only to discover that in the secret darkness of that tomb, God had done the unthinkable. God had done the unexplainable. God had raised Jesus from the dead. But the women were not yet ready to hear or understand, and it makes sense that the male disciples would not yet be ready for that good news either. The way Mark leaves it, the way Mark ends his story, makes it clear that none of the characters were ready. They were still grieving, still shaken, still afraid. They were too consumed by terror and amazement to do anything … yet.

            Essayist Debie Thomas described Mark’s gospel as a slow resurrection. He leaves the women in terror and amazement because that is where they were. Honestly, if I had gone to that tomb only to find it empty and seen not Jesus, but an angel, I would have been overcome by terror and amazement too. The good news of the resurrection would take time to sink in. I think Mark allows that to happen. I think Mark’s ending makes room for that. I think that the women and the disciples will get there. But it will take time.

But even if they don’t, the good news will still be proclaimed. The good news of the gospel will still be shouted from the rooftops, not because of the people in Mark’s story or because of us the readers. But because of God. Easter happened without the disciples or the women or anyone else making it happen. Easter happens now without me or you or any of us making it happen. Our being in church today did not make Easter arrive. My preaching this sermon does not make Easter a reality. God makes Easter happen. God resurrected Jesus. God brings life out of death. God is doing a new thing, whether we can perceive it or not.

In the secret darkness of that tomb, God changed everything. Jesus was resurrected. Life and love was set loose in the world. In this year of fear, anxiety, uncertainty, and death, overwhelming death, it is okay if our grasp of the resurrection comes slowly. It is okay if we feel both terror and amazement. It is okay if our voices crack and shake a little when we say, “The Lord is risen. He is risen indeed.” We are still proclaiming this, and more importantly, it is still profoundly and wonderfully true!

The Love of God, the Spirit of God, the Power of God is loose in the world. Easter is happening all around us, even if we are not there … yet. We will be. We will be. God’s good news is loose in the world. He is risen. He is risen indeed. Thanks be to God.

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

Approaching Jerusalem -- Palm Sunday

 

Mark 11:1-11

March 28, 2021

 

            The last parade I attended was the Christmas parade in Shawnee, Oklahoma 2018. It was Zach’s last time to march in the high school band, and I watched and waved and cheered as the band went by. As soon as I spotted him in the lineup, I started taking pictures and video to capture the moment. I ran ahead of the band, so I could see them march toward me once more. It was Zach’s last parade in the marching band. I wanted to capture as much of it as I could. Seeing the band, seeing my son in the band, made that parade great for me.

We all know what makes for a great parade, don’t we? You need stunning visuals. You need great music. You need crowds of people laughing and cheering and waving. You need floats and balloons and bands. It helps if there is candy for the kids, and if it is a Christmas parade and its cold and dark outside, then having hot chocolate waiting for you when you’re done is a bonus too. We all know what makes for a great parade, don’t we? You need spectacle. You need pomp. You need circumstance.

If this is the bar that I have set for a great parade, then I’m not sure if Jesus’ triumphal entry into the city quite reaches it. If we are really 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 did gather to welcome him into the city. They cut leafy branches and spread their own cloaks on the ground before him. People followed behind him and walked ahead of him, 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 royal and pomp-full enough, but Jesus doesn’t do anything that you might expect once the parade is finished. He makes no speeches. He performs no miracles. Instead, he goes to the temple, looks around at everything, realizes it is late, and goes back to Bethany. Jesus does not even stay in the city. He returns the way he came. Anticlimactic.

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. The procession seems almost like an afterthought. And while the procession itself had a certain amount of drama and pomp, that ended as quickly as it began. One aspect of Mark’s version that I had not picked up on before was the fact that the colt was unridden. You don’t have to know much about horses or donkeys or colts – and I don’t – to know that a colt that is unridden will not be prepared for a rider. This was an animal that had not felt the weight of a human being before, but Jesus was awfully specific about the unridden part. When I really think about that, it is hard not think in rodeo terms. Wouldn’t the colt have bucked at this new thing happening to it? Wouldn’t it have resisted someone sitting on top of it? Does the fact that Jesus rode it mean that he worked a miracle with it much like the ones he worked with humans? It seems that there was a certain amount of clairvoyance involved with the story already. Jesus seemed to predict exactly what would happen when the disciples went into the village. Perhaps Mark’s emphasis on the retelling of it was to point out that Jesus knew exactly what would happen, not just on this day but in the days to come?

Jesus also knew that the people who heralded his arrival into Jerusalem would have seen the grand arrival of others before him. The people would not have been surprised at the sight of someone royal or important riding into the city on the back of a mighty steed or in a golden chariot. Writer and scholar, Debi Thomas, describes two processionals happening on 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 a question that until this week I had never thought to ask: why was Pontius Pilate in Jerusalem at the same time Jesus was? Pilate did not live there normally. It was not his first home, and the rest of the time he resided elsewhere. No, Pilate was in Jerusalem because it was Passover. Passover was a Jewish festival that remembered, celebrated, elevated the Israelites miraculous, divine exodus from slavery and oppression. If ever there was a festival that could get folks riled up and ticked off at the occupying Romans, it was Passover.

So, Pilate processed into Jerusalem with all the might and light he could muster. That parade was a perfect reminder of what the people faced if they tried to rebel or riot. Let the people see the splendor and the strength of the Romans and let them be reminded – vividly reminded – of what was what and who was who.

And whether it was clairvoyance or just the astute observations of One who knew that his purpose and point was to face that strength, Jesus knew what Pilate’s parade was all about. And so his triumphal entry came from the East. His was the opposite of Pilate’s. Jesus processed in the way we have already described, on an unridden colt, with people hailing him, crying out to wave, laying branches and cloaks before him. Pilate may have been heralded with notes blared from golden trumpets, but Jesus was hailed with Hosannas. I used to think that Hosanna was just an old-fashioned biblical way of shouting, “Hip, Hip Hurray!” but “Hosanna” actually means, “Save us. Save us now.”

Pilate rode into Jerusalem to make sure the people knew that their only salvation lay in keeping their heads down, doing what they were told, living and laying low, and remembering, always remembering, that their fate remained in the hands of the Romans.

Jesus rode into Jerusalem much more quietly. He rode in as he did everything else, with humility. Did he want his presence known? Certainly. But he also wanted his presence to be understood, to be seen for what it is – a servant, humble and lowly, but still the Son, the One they had been waiting for – for so very long.

And the people did hope. They did hope that Jesus was the One they had been waiting for, praying for. That’s why they cried, “Hosanna.” They knew they needed saving, the just did not or could not understand how that salvation would come. They were desperate. They were tired. They were beaten down.

But their hopes, raised so high, would quickly diminish into disappointment. As Jesus approached Jerusalem, the people believed that finally the end to their long oppression had come. But we know that this week, this final week, will not produce the results they or – or we – expect. For as anticlimactic and lacking in drama as Jesus’ approach to Jerusalem may seem on the surface, the rest of the week will be high drama, culminating in death on a cross, and against all odds, resurrection from the grave. There will be last suppers and footwashing and lessons on love. There will be remembrance attached to everyday things. There will be betrayal and grief and a confrontation between these two men who both rode into Jerusalem. In worldly terms, there will be winners and there will be losers. But in divine terms, God’s purposes will be fulfilled. Death will be overcome. Salvation will be achieved. It’s just that many won’t recognize it. Hopes may seem dashed and expectations disappointed, but in the end and at the beginning, hope will also be resurrected.

And that’s what we cling to, isn’t it? That hope is never completely extinguished. The story of Palm Sunday, indeed the story of Holy Week, the gospel story, the scripture story, the story of God and God’s people, is a messy one. It’s filled with great highs and debilitating lows. It is filled with the messiness of people who seek to do what is right and fail miserably. It is filled with the messiness of people trying to live in community with one another and with God. It is filled with the messiness of people who were created by God to be in relationship but fall short time and time again.

This week that we now enter is the pinnacle of that messiness. It is filled with hope and disappointment. It is filled with love and betrayal. It is filled with human beings making difficult and wrong decisions. It is filled with sacrifice and pain and grief. But most importantly, it is filled with God walking with God’s people, standing with us when we get it, when we get a glimpse of the kingdom, of how this world and the next should be, could be, and one day will be. And it is filled with God standing with us when we don’t have a clue, when we cannot see more than a few inches in front of us, when we struggle to understand, when we grieve at the harm we do to one another, when we think that we cannot muster even the smallest grain of faith. Our God stands with us in all of our messiness, in all of our triumphs and our tragedies.

We are about to enter the messiness of Holy Week, and God is with us as we walk this road, as we carry our own crosses, as we approach Jerusalem, crying out, “Hosanna! Hosanna! Save us, Save us now.” And God does. Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!” Amen.

The Whole World -- Second Sunday of Lent

 

Mark 8:31-38

February 28, 2021

 

            I’m with Peter on this one. I know, I know, it feels terrible to admit that, to myself, and even worse to admit that to all of you. I have preached this passage from Mark’s gospel several times, and I’ve preached the other gospel versions of this story as well. In the past I have empathized with Peter’s shock and struggle and his impulsive response, but even in my empathy I’ve always thought,

“Oh Peter. Just listen to Jesus. Just wait a minute. You don’t want to say what you’re saying.”

But this time around, I find myself thinking, “Tell him, Peter. Tell him. Tell Jesus to stop it. Tell Jesus to stop saying these things. Tell him to stop, Peter, because I want him to stop talking about these things too.” 

            I find myself wanting to add my voice to Peter’s. I want to raise a chorus of many voices crying out, “Stop it, Jesus. Just stop it. Stop talking about suffering. Stop talking about rejection, suffering, killing, death. I don’t want to hear it. None of us wants to hear these things. You, Jesus, you of all people are not supposed to suffer. You are not supposed to die. And what is it with this talk about resurrection? We don’t get it cause dead is dead.”

            Stop it, Jesus, just stop it. Like I said, I’m with Peter on this one.

            But why? Why am I feeling so strongly about this? In previous years and in previous sermons, I have generally focused on Peter’s response to Jesus as being a clash of expectations. Peter and the other disciples, in fact most of the Jewish population, believed that the Messiah would be the one to rescue them from the brutal Roman occupation of their land, of their homes, their minds, their hearts. The Messiah would be a great warrior. He would lead them in a battle of divine might and righteousness. He would oust the Romans once and for all, and the people would be free – free from occupation, domination, free to self-govern, free to live as they choose.

            If that was their expectation, then they were in for a shock. Because when Peter confesses Jesus as the Messiah, the Son of God, Jesus turns around and says,

“Okay, here’s what it really means to be the Messiah. I’m going to suffer, and I’m going to be rejected and betrayed by the religious leaders, and I’m going be killed, and then after three days, I’m going to rise again.”

Wait a minute? What?! You’re going to do what?! You’re going to go through what?! Jesus defies their expectations of what it means to be a Messiah, and Peter, who I suspect puts voice to what the other disciples were thinking, rebukes Jesus. Peter essentially tells Jesus that all this talk about suffering isn’t helping anybody. It’s certainly not helping Jesus’ cause. They are all on board with him being the Messiah of their expectations, but not with the Messiah that he is describing.

I do believe that all this factors into Peter’s rebuke of Jesus. There were great differences in expectations of how and what the Messiah would be. But I also wonder if Peter just couldn’t bear to hear anymore talk of suffering. I suspect that he and the other disciples would have experienced enough suffering in their own lives already. They did not want to hear about suffering from their Messiah as well.

We know some particulars about Peter. He was a fisherman. That had to have been a grueling, hard life. Fishing with large nets, risking their lives in often stormy and dangerous waters. Their livelihood, their survival, always dependent on the daily catch. It was not a job that made them rich. If anything, it just kept them going from one day to the next. That is, if they didn’t give up most of their meager income to taxes.

As we know from other passages, taxation was a huge exploitation of the people. There is a reason that we read about tax collectors and sinners. Tax collectors weren’t just sinners, they had their own category of sin. I suspect Peter and the other disciples paid far more than their share in taxes to a government that sought only to oppress them.

And as I said earlier, Israel was a people who lived under occupation. Not only would that have been physically, mentally, and economically unbearable, the fact that foreign aggressors lived and ruled on the land God had given them would have been spiritually untenable. It would have been nothing short of sacrilege.

And when Jesus talked about his own death, his own killing? Crucifixion was a common form of Roman execution. As one commentator pointed out, it is highly probable that Peter and the other disciples had seen far too many crosses in their lives already. The thought of their Rabbi, the Messiah hanging on one of his own was too much to bear.

I can’t help but wonder if Peter rebuked Jesus because he just couldn’t stomach hearing anymore about suffering. Life was suffering enough. And I can’t help but agree with Peter on this one. Suffering is never easy to bear or to hear, but never have I not wanted to Jesus’ words about his own suffering more than I do not want to hear them this year.

Usually, I try to give something up for Lent each year. Some years what I’ve given up has been more frivolous than others. Chocolate. Ice cream. Losing those things has challenged my sweet tooth, but little else. My husband made the joke that some people give up their New Year’s resolutions for Lent. But this year, I couldn’t seem to come up with something to give up that felt right. A friend and a spiritual leader in our denomination wrote on social media that this year it is okay if we can’t give something up for Lent this year. It’s okay to let ourselves off the hook on that one. We have given up so much already, it’s okay to not add any more sacrifice to all of the sacrifices we’ve already made.

Last year at this time, life as we knew it was about to dramatically change. Who would have thought that a year later we would still be struggling with this pandemic? Well, I didn’t think it. It is safe to say that we are all suffering from what a colleague termed, “pandemic fatigue.” And I realize that if that is all I’m suffering from, then I am exceedingly lucky. Luckier than far too many of my sisters and brothers in this country and in this world. Someone told me at the beginning of this that most of us would probably know at least two people who had died from Covid by the time we came through it. I couldn’t imagine that being possible at the time, and yet I know two people who have died.

Last year at this time, it was unfathomable that even 40,000 Americans might die from this, but 500,000?! I don’t even know what to do with that number. I cannot wrap my head around it. There has just been so much suffering, in our country, in the world, I don’t want to hear anymore about suffering. I don’t want to hear it.

And I suspect that Peter didn’t want to hear it either. So he rebuked Jesus, but Jesus rebuked him right back.

“Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

Then Jesus told them about the picking up of their own crosses and following him. He told them that if they only worked to preserve their lives, they would lose them, but in being willing to give up their life for Jesus’ sake, for the sake of the gospel, they would save their lives. As far as the expectations that the disciples and the people may have had about the Messiah, those were worldly. Those were about freedom according to the world. They could win their freedom. They could win their land back. They could foment an uprising and oust the Romans, they could have all the worldly glory and riches and honor, but in the end that would give them nothing.

It seems to me that Jesus was telling them in no uncertain terms that there are no shortcuts. There are no shortcuts to avoid suffering. There are no shortcuts to bypass it, not even for him. If Lent reminds us of anything, it’s that there are no shortcuts for us either. We cannot get to Easter without Good Friday. We cannot get to life, full life, life with God, without going through the cross. There are no shortcuts when it comes to following Jesus. There are no shortcuts when it comes to discipleship. And I know that these are not the words of comfort that we all want to hear. I know.

And as I have thought about comfort and consolation in light of this passage, I have realized that perhaps the most comforting words we have in scripture are not found specifically in this passage, but I think they are implied. Those words are: “Do not be afraid.”

I think these words underline the message Jesus is speaking to Peter and the others, even if he does not say them aloud. Do not be afraid. You are so afraid of suffering. You are so afraid of losing your life, that you forget what living is supposed to be. You are so afraid of suffering, that you would gladly gain the whole world, but you would lose everything that really matters.

Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid to pick up your cross and follow me. Do not be afraid to lose your life for my sake. Do not be afraid of the suffering that lies ahead – for me or for you. Do not be afraid. Because when you finally give up your fear, when you finally let it go, you will not only gain the life that follows this one, but you will also, in fact, gain the whole world. You will gain the world that God created, the world that God meant to be. When you let go of your fear, when you let go of your need to preserve your life, you will be able to see the world more through the eyes of God than through your own. When you are finally ready to give up the whole world, that is when you will gain it.

There are no shortcuts or bypasses through suffering, but do not be afraid. Pick up your cross and follow me. Be willing to lose what in the end does not matter. Be prepared to gain everything that does.

Do not be afraid. Pick up your cross. Follow me.

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

Amen.