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.

Your Faith Has Made You Well

Mark 10:46-52

October 24, 2021

 

            Back in our seminary days, my friend Shannon told her husband, Tim – who we’ve been praying for – and me the funniest story about a horse named Cricket and her family. Shannon’s grandparents had a farm, and they were notified about a horse that had been rescued from an abusive situation and needed a home. I don’t know how big their farm was, but they decided to take on this horse. She was a sweet horse, but they soon decided that she wasn’t the sharpest filly in the stable. She chased the cows. She refused to cross the small creek that ran through their farm. She would just stop at the water and wouldn’t go any further. She had other quirks and idiosyncrasies, but the point is, they loved Cricket and they were good to Cricket, but they would not have placed bets on her winning an intelligence contest.

            One weekend, Shannon’s aunt came home from college, and she brought a friend with her. The friend noticed Cricket and asked about her. She wanted to know if she could ride her. Shannon’s aunt and the family said, “Sure.” But they warned her about Cricket’s quirkiness and the fact that they didn’t think she was the smartest of horses that God put on the earth.

            The friend was undaunted. She gently rode Cricket around a few minutes, and to the amazement of everyone watching, she got Cricket to perform. It turned out that at some point in her life, Cricket was trained in dressage. I know absolutely nothing about horses, and even less about dressage, but from what I’ve read dressage is when a horse is trained to perform what looks like almost choreographed movements. And Cricket was doing this. Under the skilled hand of this visitor, Cricket was doing something that she had been trained to do. Apparently, every jaw of every person in Shannon’s family dropped at the sight of this. None of them had been able to see this in Cricket. None of them, until this friend came and helped them to see.

            After telling this story, Tim looked at Shannon and said,

            “Shannon, it’s a good thing your family didn’t own Lassie. Can you just imagine? ‘Lassie, would you stop barking! We’re trying to find Timmie.”

            This is not to cast any aspersions on Shannon’s family. They loved Cricket and gave her a good home. But they could not see in her what this friend saw. This person who had just met the horse saw what was there, but the others did not have that same sight.

            Throughout this chapter in Mark, really throughout the entire gospel until this point, we have been reading about those who cannot see Jesus for who he really is. He has been telling his disciples, his closest followers who have agreed that he is the Son of God, exactly what would happen to him, exactly what he would endure, that he would die, and that he would be raised up again. Yet in response, Jesus has been rebuked and misunderstood. The disciples have argued about who was the greatest among them, they have been upset that someone else not in their group was casting out demons in Jesus’ name. They have tried to keep children away from Jesus. And two of them have asked for special seats next to Jesus when he comes into his power. None of the disciples have a physical issue with sight, but none of them are able to see Jesus for who he truly is.

            And now we come to the end of this chapter, and what is considered the end of the first part of Mark’s gospel, and we meet a man who cannot physically see, but he does see Jesus. His limitation of sight does not keep him from seeing Jesus, from knowing Jesus, from recognizing Jesus.

            At this point in the gospel, Jesus is moving inexorably toward the cross. Immediately after this story, Jesus makes his “triumphal entry” into Jerusalem. But before he moves into the city, before he enters Jerusalem on the back of a colt, and the people lay palm branches and cloaks on the road before him, Jesus and the disciples, and a large crowd of people following them, leave Jericho. Along that Jericho Road, there is a blind beggar named Bartimaeus or Bar-Timaeus, son of Timaeus. In that time, being blind would have meant a life sentence of poverty and begging for alms from others. Bartimaeus would not have been able to enter into a profession or have his own family, so there he was on the roadside, waiting. When he heard that the person approaching him was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout out, crying,

            “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”

            Bartimaeus may have been blind, but he was not deaf. He must have heard the commotion of a large number of people, and the sound of so many feet coming near. He must have heard the babble of voices, the whispers of wonder, the cries of expectation, the excited discussions about Jesus in their midst, and what would happen when he arrived in Jerusalem. Maybe Bartimaeus had heard rumors about Jesus. Perhaps he had heard about the wondrous things that Jesus was doing, healing, helping, teaching, feeding, and maybe, just maybe, Bartimaeus knew, understood, perceived in a way that went far beyond physical senses, who Jesus truly was and is. Bartimaeus knew Jesus, without actually knowing Jesus. He saw Jesus, without actually seeing Jesus.

            So, when Jesus approached, Bartimaeus realized he needed to get this man’s attention. He began shouting.

            “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”

            You would think that the people around Bartimaeus would have recognized what an opportunity this was for Timaeus’ son. Here is someone who could help Bartimaeus, heal Bartimaeus. Instead, they try to hush him.

            “Be quiet, Bartimaeus!”

“Stop shouting, Bartimaues!”

“Don’t bother the teacher, Bartimaeus!”

“Who are you to cry out to him, Bartimaeus?!”

But all their efforts to shush him, to quiet him, to stifle him, were futile. They just made Bartimaeus shout even louder.

“Son of David, have mercy on me!”

Jesus heard. Through all the din, Jesus heard. He stopped walking and called Bartimaeus to him. I suspect that all the folks who were trying to shush him, now encouraged him to go to Jesus.

“Hush Bartimaeus. Oh wait, he wants to see you. Go Bartimaeus!”

Bartimaeus did not just stand up, he sprang up. He jumped up from that dirt road, threw off his cloak, and went to Jesus.

Jesus asked him, “What do you want me to do for you?”

“My teacher, let me see again.”

Without touching him, without uttering a prayer or speaking words that would seem to bring forth healing, Jesus healed him. Jesus healed him, and said,”

“Go; your faith has made you well.”

And immediately, Bartimaeus, once forced to beg by the side of the road, regained his sight. He saw and he followed.

What do you want me to do for you? I don’t think Jesus asked that question as a way of stating the obvious, or to be obtuse. Perhaps making Bartimaeus speak his desire was a way of getting at the heart of the matter, at the heart of what Bartimaeus really desired. Yes, he wanted to see, physically again, but he also asked, cried out for, mercy.

When we think of a gospel that has layers upon layers of meaning, we often think of John’s gospel first. But think there are layers of meaning in this story as well. Bartimaeus asked Jesus for mercy. His physical blindness did not keep him from seeing Jesus for who he really was, truly was. Bartimaeus believed in Jesus, had faith that Jesus was more than just this guy doing good things throughout the land. He believed even though he could not see. What a sharp contrast this makes to those who could see Jesus but could not seem to believe.

And when Bartimaeus threw off his cloak, what a response to Jesus that was! We take it for granted, don’t we? I’ll admit, I hadn’t given much thought to that response before. But think about it: that cloak was probably all that Bartimaeus had in this world. And he willingly threw it off, threw it down, and left it by the side of the road to follow Jesus. Compare Bartimaeus’ actions to the wealthy man we met earlier. He owned far more than a cloak, but he could not give up even that to follow in the way.

Bartimaeus was healed of his physical blindness, but his ability to see, to understand, to perceive was already 20/20. Where others could see only with their eyes, Bartimaeus was able to see with his heart.

This story humbles me because I suspect that I am far more like the disciples who can and cannot see who Jesus is. I am far more like the wealthy man who walks away because he cannot let go of what keeps him from Jesus. I am far more like the people who tried to hush Bartimaeus, to quiet him, embarrassed and scandalized when someone refuses to be silent in the face of need.

This story humbles me because I find myself wishing to be more like Bartimaeus, even though by all accounts, I am far more privileged, powerful, well-off, then he ever had the opportunity to be. And I am not glamorizing poverty or disability. Bartimaeus was not more blessed because he was blind or because he was poor and forced to beg. Bartimaeus was blessed, he was healed, because he did not let any obstacle keep him from Jesus. He did not let his physical blindness blind his heart and mind. He did not let it hamper or hinder his faith.

But there is one way that I am like Bartimaeus, and that is I too cry out for mercy. Have mercy on me, Jesus, Son of David, because of all the things I think I need, that is what I truly need. Show me grace, God, show me mercy, because I need it even though I know I’m not worthy of it. And then, help me to show others the same, to show others grace and mercy and love and compassion. Show me mercy, God, so that I may be merciful. Show me grace, so that I may be gracious.

What is the good news of this story? Jesus did just that. He showed mercy, over and over again. He showed mercy. He lived grace and forgiveness. He still does. And through that grace and forgiveness, he sees in us what we cannot see in ourselves. He sees who we were created to be. Jesus sees us in the same way Bartimaeus saw him, through the lens of abiding love. Thanks be to God, that is good news indeed.  

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

Amen.

Wannabees

Mark 10:35-45

October 17, 2021

 

            A few years ago, Brent was downtown for work, and he ended up in a conversation with a visitor to Nashville. Brent asked the man how he had liked his visit to Music City. And the man replied that he had a great time, but he did not know how people could live in Nashville. He just couldn’t take the fun and partying every single night; it had worn him out. Brent, who is a native Nashvillian born to a native Nashvillian, knew that this guy had been doing all the touristy stuff Nashville has to offer. So, he smiled and said politely that most Nashvillians don’t do that every night. We work at jobs and go to school and raise our families and just get on with life. It’s not like most Nashvillians take their lunch break to go downtown, jump on a pedal tavern, and drink a few rounds before they go back to work. In fact, the quickest way to pick out the tourists in Nashville is to look for the people in cowboy hats. Unless you’re a country music artist, most Nashvillians don’t wear cowboy hats. If you come to Nashville and think you’ll fit in by wearing a cowboy hat, you’re more of a Nashville wannabee than a Nashvillian.

            But this kind of thing is true in a lot of places, probably most places. We have an idea of what something is like, but the reality is very different. The first time I went to New York City, I was both thrilled and nervous because I expected to be mugged at every corner. I mean that’s what happened in the police shows I watched. And I knew a woman who worked in Yellowstone National Park as a park ranger. One of her duties was to give tours, and she told me that the number one question she was asked by tourists over and over again was,

            “When do you let the animals out?”

            Ummm. This is a national park, not a circus. The animals live here. We’re just visitors. They came out when they want to. You’re not really into nature, are you? You’re more of a nature wannabee.

            This makes me wonder if the question that James and John asked of Jesus revealed that they were really disciple wannabees more than actual disciples. These sons of Zebedee, who we met first when Jesus called them to be his disciples, go to Jesus asking for glory. One commentator describes the way they make their request of Jesus as being like children to a parent, except these are supposed disciples making a request of their Rabbi.

            “’Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.’ And he said to them, ‘What is it you want me to do for you?’” 

Their request is that they be allowed to sit at his right hand and his left when he is in his glory. There’s a sense of kingship and royalty in their request isn’t there? You get the image in your head of a king on this throne, with his two most treasured and important advisors on either side of him. I suspect that’s how James and John viewed Jesus’ glory – a great kingship. I also suspect that Jesus recognized this too, because he says to them,

“You do not know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?” 

James and John reply with a resolute, “We are able.” 

So, Jesus says then you will drink this cup and you will be baptized with this baptism.  But I can’t tell you who will sit at my right or my left. That’s not my privilege to grant. And Jesus reminds them that the privilege is God’s alone. This would all sound, if not okay, perhaps understandable, if we just read this story by itself with no sense of what was happening all around it. But immediately before these verses, Jesus tells the disciples for the third time that they he will suffer, die, and rise again.

And they were on the road to Jerusalem. Whenever we read that Jesus is on the road to Jerusalem, we know that this is not merely a geographical destination. Jesus on the road to Jerusalem is Jesus on the road to the cross. Jesus knows that everything will come to a head once he reaches that city, so for the third time he pulls the disciples aside and tells them, point blank, I’m going to Jerusalem to die. I’m going to be handed over to the religious authorities. They’re going to condemn me to death. I’m going to be mocked, spit on, and I will die. But after three days I’ll rise again.

Jesus didn’t mince words because he did not have the time to do so. He did not try to soften the emotional impact of this truth. He just told them. And this is the third time that he has told them. And in response he has been rebuked by Peter, endured the disciples getting into an argument about who among them was the greatest, and now after telling them this third time, he is asked by James and John to promise them seats of glory next to him. I think this calls for a palm to the face. 

Because clearly the disciples do not get it. Do. Not. Get. It.  

When the other ten hear about James and John’s request, they get angry with them. But I don’t think it’s because the ten were upset that James and John remain clueless. I think it’s because they were offended that James and John would go grabbing for glory ahead of them. What about their glory? James and John had the audacity to ask the question before they got a chance to. My reason for believing this is because Jesus then pulls them all aside, one more time, and tells them that with Gentiles, or others, there are lords and tyrants that have the power. But that’s not true for them. If one of them wants to be great, then they must become a servant to everyone. If they want to be first, they must become a slave. The Son of Man came to serve, not be served. The Son of Man came to give his life as a ransom for many.

One commentator at WorkingPreacher.org said that folks get so caught up in this last line in verse 45 that the rest of the story tends to get glossed over. It’s a powerful image, indeed, to think of Jesus giving his life as a ransom for ours; to understand this literally is to believe that Jesus buys back our lives with his own. But when James and John ask their question of Jesus, they were not thinking about giving their lives as a ransom for many. I doubt they were thinking about giving their lives up for anything at all. Their question was about power and fame, and dare I say it, celebrity. They saw glory as something bright and shiny and worldly to be grasped. They saw Jesus as having worldly glory. To James and John, I think glory equaled with success and they were success wannabees. They wanted to be seated next to him in all that splendor. They wanted to be next to him in those seats of power. They were wannabees when it came to glory, and they were wannabees when it came to discipleship. And all I can say, is it’s a good thing we don’t fall into that same trap, amiright?   

But we do fall into that trap. I know I do. The disciples, especially as Mark portrays them, had to battle their cultural understanding of the way things should be in contrast to the way Jesus said they were.  A messiah was supposed to be strong, invincible, a warrior, someone who would come and, you should pardon the expression, kick the butt of the oppressors. Following that, messiah meant greatness and it meant glory. It should bring about accolades and victory. But Jesus turns all these cultural assumptions on their head. The Messiah has come to die. In his weakness, there will be strength. In his dying, there will be life. In his sacrifice, there will be glory. Jesus did not come for military uprising or earthly victory, he came to make the love of God and the kingdom of God visible. But guess what? That happens through suffering, through serving, through compassion, through death. 

So Jesus tells James and John and the other ten, that if you truly want to be great, if you really want to sit with me in glory, then you must share with me in my baptism and drink from the cup I will drink. If you want to be first, you will have to be last. This was not easy for the disciples to hear.  It wasn’t easy for them to comprehend or to live. They wanted to be the disciples Jesus called them to be, but reality was very different from their expectations. And even though we know the rest of the story, it’s no easier for us. What James and John asked for, and what the all the disciples misunderstood comes from being very, very human. They wanted some acknowledgement for discipleship. They wanted some worldly glory, and so do we, so do I. It’s hard not to want some acknowledgment for discipleship, for trying to live lives that have purpose and meaning. Whatever criticism I may level at the disciples for just not getting it over and over again, the truth is I also want a little of what they asked for. I too am a wannabee when it comes to glory, which in turn makes me a wannabee when it comes to fulfilling true discipleship.

It’s not just that I hope to be rewarded in the sweet by and by for anything that I have done for Jesus, for anything that I have sacrificed, it’s that I wouldn’t mind a little glory, a little reward, a little success in the right now. It would be nice to have just a taste of glory, and it would be nice if Jesus would just give us all what we ask for.

Yet I think what Jesus want the disciples and us to understand is that the reward of discipleship doesn’t come at some point down the road, at some future, far off moment in time, the reward comes from doing now. The reward comes from serving now. The reward comes from giving more than receiving. Glory comes when we are finally and truly willing to share in his baptism and drink from his cup, no matter what the cost may be to ourselves. That’s when we are no longer wannabees but become true disciples. And that does not happen quickly or easily. It is a lifelong pursuit. But how wonderful it will be when we fully understand, when we fully embrace this truth: in turning the world upside down, Jesus made and is making everything and everyone all right. Thanks be to God.

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

Amen.

What Must I Do?

 Mark 10:17-31

October 10, 2021

 

            When I moved to Oklahoma in 2011– which is where I lived before I came home to Tennessee – I went ahead of my family, so I could get started in my position at the church and find a place for us to live. I stayed at the home of some of my new parishioners, who were out-of-town when I arrived. Another parishioner met me and helped me get me settled. After she left, I unpacked a few more things and went to bed early. Around 2 in the morning, I woke up sick to my stomach and with a terrible pain in my chest. I got up. I walked around. I laid down. I got up again. I kept thinking that the pain would go away or at least ease up. It didn’t.

I finally realized that I probably should go to the emergency room, because clearly something was wrong. The problem was that I didn’t know where I was. It was my first night in Shawnee. I had no idea where the hospital was. I barely knew where I was, and I couldn’t think clearly enough at that time of the morning to figure out how to get myself to the ER. So, I called 911. When I explained my symptoms to the dispatcher, they sent an ambulance. When the ambulance arrived, they didn’t take me the hospital right away. They hooked me up to the heart monitor installed in the ambulance. It turns out that I was not having a heart attack – thankfully – but I was having a gall bladder attack, which can make one feel like one is having a heart attack.

The EMT’s who worked on me were super nice, and as we had some time while I was hooked up to monitors and we weren’t going anywhere, I asked them questions about the town, their job, and most importantly to me at that moment, the best place for me to buy my first smart phone. Should I go to Verizon or AT&T or some other vendor? What was their suggestion? What kind of smart phones did they have?

Yes, that’s right, I asked about where to buy my first smart phone. And the next day, after I’d finally gotten some sleep and felt a little better, I went and bought one. It was something I had been planning on doing when I returned to full-time work, and I couldn’t wait a minute longer.

Now, smart phones are ubiquitous. But back in 2011, smart phones were still the big new thing and I wanted to get in on the excitement. I realize today that my phone is, what Milton Nesbitt said just recently, an electronic leash. But back then, I was so excited to have a smart phone. So eager to join the ranks of smart phone users, that even when I was on a heart monitor in an ambulance, wondering if I was having a heart attack or not, buying a smart phone was foremost on my mind.

A smart phone is a thing, just a thing, a material, finite possession. But I wanted one. And to be honest, I like to have things. I wrote this sermon on my laptop, which is another material possession, but it serves me in getting work done and in searching the internet – for knowledge and … more things. As much as I appreciate having the ability to have things, I get anxious at times that instead of me possessing my things, my things start to possess me.  I don’t know if this particular anxiety was behind the man’s question to Jesus, but I do think it was anxiety that drove him to kneel before Jesus in our passage from Mark’s gospel.

Although he’s commonly referred to as the “rich young ruler,” Mark does not describe him this way. In Mark, he is just referred to as a man. What we can surmise about him is that he had some wealth because Mark tells us that he many possessions. Wealth was considered a sign of blessing in that time and context, but it seemed that his wealth wasn’t adding up to a contented life for this man. 

He came to Jesus and knelt before him. Usually when someone knelt before Jesus, they were seeking healing – either for themselves or someone they loved. Perhaps this man wanted healing as well. Perhaps he wanted healing from a deep, gnawing fear that nothing he could do, even following all the commandments to the absolute letter, would bring him the eternal life he desired. Perhaps the man was seeking reassurance about just that. He wanted to know that he was living a life that was good enough, that what he did to be a good person was good enough. But there was a dis-ease about him. Something was missing in his life; something was worrying him. Was it only that he wanted to know with certainty that he was good enough, or did he sense that something about his life did not add up?

Whatever it was that gnawed at him, whatever it was that caused him anxiety, he seemed to understand that this man, Jesus, would have the answers he was looking for. So, he runs to Jesus and kneels before him, asking,

“What must I do?” 

“Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

Jesus answers by asking the man why he would call him “good?” No one is good but God alone. As if Jesus suspected that the man had gotten the difference between good and goods mixed up. Jesus goes on to reiterate the commandments, assuming rightly that the man knew the commandments as well.

The man certainly knew them, and reassured Jesus that he had been keeping them his whole life, since he was a child. This begs our question, what did the man want to hear from Jesus? What answer was in search of, what anxiety drove him to put this question to Jesus?

If it was reassurance the man was seeking, I suspect Jesus’ answer did not satisfy or help him.   

“You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.”

I think this a prime example of not asking a question that you really don’t want to know the answer to. The man clearly did not want this particular answer. In fact, it would have seemed liked a shocking, even radical answer to receive. As I said, wealth was considered a sign of divine blessing. If you were wealthy, you must be doing something right with God. But Jesus tells this young man that the opposite is true. The way to inherit eternal life is to sell all that you own, give the profits away to the poor, then follow him.

The man can’t do it.  He walks away from Jesus grieving, sorrowful it would seem that he would have to give up his many possessions. 

What must I do?

We live in a society where the material – material possessions, material wealth – are given high value.  To not own the latest, the greatest, the newest and the most improved is to somehow fall short of being the best person you can be. None of us are completely immune to this. None of us are exempt. I know that I can live without a lot of material possessions, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want them. I lay strapped on a gurney in an ambulance, not asking about the state of my heart, but instead about where I could buy my first smart phone. I’m not immune to the lure of possessions.

Does wanting that phone, does that buying that phone mean that I have about as much chance of getting into heaven as that camel does in going through the eye of the needle? I don’t know. 

Maybe material possessions weren’t all Jesus was referring to here.  Maybe he wanted the man and all who would listen to consider what it is that impedes them in their life of discipleship.  What stops them from answering the call to follow him?

Perhaps Jesus was saying that it isn’t what we own, but what owns us that throws a stumbling block in our paths when we try to follow Jesus. What is it that owns us? What do we need to root out of our lives so we can follow? Is it a thing? A person? Is it a belief or an ideology or a behavior? Is there something in our lives that could literally come between us and our call to follow Jesus? Is it our fear?

What must we do?

It seems to me that there is a tension in this passage that we cannot ignore or make light of. We live in a world caught of enormous wealth and equally enormous scarcity, and that divide is only growing exponentially. Poverty is literally and figuratively all around us. It camps out on our doorstep. The number of people who are hungry, homeless, and hurting haunt me. But I still wanted … things.   

I want to be a disciple. I want to be faithful. I want to follow Jesus. But I want the comforts that are out there as well. I know how lucky I’ve been, in my opportunities, in my lifestyle, in the riches I’ve been given. But could I give up everything up and follow? What owns me?

Tension. What we must do and what we want. What we are called to do and what we can do. How to be in the world and yet not of the world. 

This is the tension of this passage. Jesus continues to call us through the gospel, reminding us to look first at the least of these, and calling us to accountability through his words and actions. To whom much has been given, much is required.

There is no easy, all-sufficient way to resolve this tension, and I don’t have any quick answers to offer. I know that I’m not going to leave here today, sell my car, pack up and sell our house and give everything to the poor. Are you? But it does seem to me that leaving this text without feeling unsettled, without feeling a sense of dis-ease, that all is not well with us, means that we have somehow missed the radical nature of Jesus’ words.

This passage is about a man looking for reassurance, and in his story, I suspect that we look for our own reassurance as well. What must I do? At first glance, that reassurance doesn’t seem to be there. But listen again. Listen carefully. Jesus looked at the man and loved him. His love for him didn’t end even when the man turned and walked away. Jesus loved him. When the disciples, who are just as shocked by Jesus’ words as the man, ask,

“Then who can be saved?”

Jesus gives us a far greater reassurance than any we could imagine. 

“For mortals it is impossible, but not for God; for God all things are possible.”

For God all things are possible. I know that I can be a better steward of God’s gifts then I am. I know I can be a better disciple. I can do more. But I also know, and this is not an attempt to let myself or any of us off the hook, that sometimes I can only do the best I can within my limited realm of possibility. There will always be more need than I can meet, and those needs will always have to be held in tension with what I want. My realm of possibility is limited.  But God’s realm isn’t. That’s the good news. That’s the good news of Jesus’ words. For God all things are possible. The world and all that is in it, including us with our conflicting wants and desires, belongs to God. For God all things are possible. Our hope lies within the realm of God’s endless possibility. 

To that, let all God’s children say, “Alleluia!” Amen.