SECOND SUNDAY OF EASTER

TEXT: John 20:19-31 and Acts 4:32-35

But Thomas … was not with them when Jesus came … the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” (John 20:24-25)

Poor Thomas. Every year, on the second Sunday of Easter, we hear about his doubt. He must be the most famous doubter in human history. Shortly after Jesus’ death and burial, all the others—the male disciples, and presumably also Mary Magdalene and the other women—came to Thomas and said, “We’ve seen the Lord! Jesus is alive!” But Thomas refused to believe it. Thomas needed to be shown. He had to see for himself. And a week later, he did. Jesus returned in the same way, to the same room behind the same closed doors—but this time Thomas was present.

“Peace be with you,” Jesus said. Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.”

Now Thomas was convinced, but Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

Like I said, Thomas must be the most famous doubter in all of human history. Even faced with the testimony of so many of his friends, he refused to believe until he had seen for himself. He wanted to see Jesus’ wounds, before he would believe it was really him. Thomas needed to be shown.

But you know … so did all the others! Remember last week’s gospel reading? After Mary Magdalene encountered the risen Christ, she ran to the other disciples to tell them—but it seems they didn’t believe her. In chapter 24 of Luke, we read that—when Mary Magdalene and the other women told the disciples they had seen Jesus alive—the men dismissed their account as “an idle tale” (Luke 24:11).

In chapter 28 of Matthew, we are told that—even after Jesus himself appeared to the remaining eleven disciples—“some doubted” (Matt. 28:17). And—referring again to last week’s gospel lesson—you may remember that even Mary Magdalene considered bodily resurrection so unlikely that she did not at first recognize Jesus when he appeared to her outside the tomb.

Do you see what I’m getting at? None of them believed that Jesus had been raised, until they had seen for themselves. And if Matthew’s gospel is correct, some of them did not believe, even after that!

They all needed to be shown. They all needed to see for themselves. On that first Easter evening, everyone but Thomas received tangible proof. All Thomas wanted was to see the same evidence that the others had seen.

Most of us need some kind of evidence (don’t we?) before we will believe the unbelievable. Personally, I think that Jesus is always giving us proof of his resurrection.

On one level, the Church itself is tangible evidence of it: we are Christ’s Body, and we are the living proof that he is risen. At least, we’re supposed to be. We’re supposed to be living his resurrected life in such a way that others will notice that we are different—and different in a good way!

You might ask, “What would that look like?” What would we look like? What might a congregation look like, if its members were really living a resurrected life? Well, one answer—one description—is given in today’s passage from the Book of Acts:

Now the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one claimed private ownership of any possessions, but everything they owned was held in common. With great power the apostles gave their testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and great grace was upon them all. There was not a needy person among them, for as many as owned lands or houses sold them and brought the proceeds of what was sold. They laid it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to each as any had need. (Acts 4:32-35)

Now, I’m not suggesting that we have to adopt that kind of “Christian Communism” here, today. I don’t read that passage from Acts and hear it saying we have to bring everyone down to the lowest level. I don’t think the text is promoting that. But it does promote taking care of others in the name of Jesus.

The early Church was a small family. They were misunderstood and regarded with suspicion. Even with the grace of God upon them, they had to stick together. Their unity was expressed in reaching out, in thinking of others. It wasn’t dinners or proclamations or cliques that they were known for, but for helping the community of believers. They took seriously the words of Jesus, who—after taking the role of a servant and washing his disciples’ feet—said to them: “I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you” (John 13:15).

Their behaviour was part of their testimony to Christ’s resurrection. No wonder great grace was upon them all!

How did the people of Jerusalem and Palestine know that Jesus really was alive? There were more than 5,000 followers of the Way by then. But it wasn’t only by the testifying of the apostles. It wasn’t only by the joy on their faces. No. Above all else, the truth of Christ’s resurrection was demonstrated by their giving spirit, their caring ways, their concern for the less fortunate.



But what if they had not done this? What if they had not responded to the grace which was upon them? Would people have believed their message? I don’t think so.

People were attracted to this community of believers because they could see that they were different. They could see the risen Jesus shining in the faces of his followers, whose hearts and hands were as open as his empty grave.

In a book called From This Day Forward, Paul W. Kummer tells the following story:

Ruth Peterson reached out her door to get her mail. A very plain-looking envelope caught her attention first. It had no return address. Inside it was a one-page letter with these few words written on it: “Dear Ruth, I’m going to be in your neighborhood Saturday afternoon and I’d like to stop by for a visit.” And it was signed, “Love always, Jesus.”



Her hands were shaking as she placed the letter on her kitchen table. “Why would the Lord want to visit me? I’m nobody special. I don’t have anything to offer.” With that thought, Ruth remembered her empty kitchen cabinets. “Oh my goodness, I really don’t have anything to offer. I’ll have to run down to the store and buy something for dinner.” She reached for her purse and counted out its contents: $5.40. “Well, I can get some bread and cold cuts, at least.”



She threw on her coat and hurried out the door. A loaf of French bread, a half-pound of sliced turkey, and a carton of milk. That left Ruth with a grand total of twelve cents to last her until Monday. Nonetheless, she felt happy as she headed home, her meager offering tucked under her arm.

“Hey, lady, can you help us, lady?”

Ruth had been so absorbed in her dinner plan, she hadn’t even noticed two figures huddled in the alleyway—a man and a woman, both of them dressed in little more than rags.

“Look, lady, I ain’t got a job, ya know, and my wife and I have been living out here on the street, and, well, now it’s getting cold and we’re getting kinda hungry and, well, if you could help us, lady, we’d really appreciate it.”



Ruth looked at them both. They were dirty, they smelled bad and, frankly, she was certain that they could get some kind of work if they really wanted to.

“Sir, I’d like to help you, but I’m a poor woman myself. All I have is a few cold cuts and some bread, and I’m having an important guest for dinner tonight and I was planning on serving that to him.”

“Yeah, well, okay, lady, I understand. Thanks anyway.” The man put his arm around the woman’s shoulders, turned and headed back into the alley. As she watched them leave, Ruth felt a familiar twinge in her heart.

“Sir, wait!” The couple stopped and turned as she ran down the alley after them. “Look, why don’t you take this food? I’ll figure out something else to serve my guest.” She handed the man her grocery bag.

“Thank you, lady. Thank you very much!”

“Yes, thank you!” It was the man’s wife, and Ruth could see now that she was shivering.

“You know, I’ve got another coat at home. Here, why don’t you take this one?”

Ruth unbuttoned her jacket and slipped it over the woman’s shoulders. Then, smiling, she turned and walked back down the street … without her coat and with nothing to serve her guest.



Ruth was chilled by the time she reached her front door, and worried, too. The Lord was coming to visit and she didn’t have anything to offer him. She fumbled through her purse for the door key. But as she did, she noticed another envelope in her mailbox.

“That’s odd. The mailman doesn’t usually come twice in one day.” She took the envelope out of the box and opened it.

“Dear Ruth, it was good to see you again. Thank you for the lovely meal. And thank you, too, for the beautiful coat. Love always, Jesus.”



The air was still cold, but even without her coat, Ruth no longer noticed.*

 

Do people see God for who he really is by what they see in you … and in me? Do they see the mark of the nails upon our hands?

Some people will never come to believe the Good News until they see us getting down and dirty for them, sacrificing ourselves for them, giving up some of our comforts for them. Then they will finally see Jesus—alive and well, showing his wounds … and offering his peace.

Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! The grave is open; let our hearts and hands be open, too! Amen.

_________________________

* quoted at http://www.sermonsuite.com/free.php?i=788013960&key=hmsvCPvd5py7tghj

 

 

Easter Sunday

TEXT: John 20:1-18

Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, ‘I have seen the Lord’ … (John 20:18a)

Well, it’s Easter Sunday again. Looking back over more than two decades of sermons I’ve delivered on previous Resurrection mornings, it occurs to me that I’ve already said a ton of stuff on this subject. And I’m sure there’s at least another ton I could deliver. I guess you could say that—when it comes to Easter messages—I’m FULL of … stuff ..

However, this year, I’m going to do something different.

I’m going to quote to you—at length—something that someone else has written. Something I think is quite wonderful. It’s from an article by a young African-American writer named Sean Gonsalves. But before I do that, I need to tell you a little bit about a man named Paul Tillich. I’ll wager that every seminary student—no matter what denomination—knows that name.

Paul Tillich lived from 1886 to 1965. He was a German philosopher and Protestant theologian, and—truly—he was one of the towering intellects of the 20^th century. Concerned that intelligent people might abandon Christianity altogether, he sought to rescue the Christian gospel from what he saw as simplistic, fundamentalist interpretation.

So, that’s who Paul Tillich was. Now, on to Sean Gonsalves and his article. It is in large part his account of an Easter sermon he heard at the Baptist church he attended as a child. Here’s what he wrote:

The preacher … had just given a powerful message about how the human spirit can be perpetually renewed by God’s Spirit. It was a magnificent display of the oratorical genius that has long been a part of the Afro-Christian tradition—the rhythmic cadences, the lucid and lyrical language, punctuated with anecdotes that highlight the tragi-comedy of everyday life.

“I am going to end this morning by telling you something that happened when I was in seminary,” he said. “I went to the University of Chicago Divinity School. Every year they used to have what was called ‘Baptist Day.’

“It was a day when they invited the entire Baptist community to visit the school, basically because they wanted the Baptist dollars to keep coming in,” he explained. “On this day everyone was to bring a bag lunch to be eaten outdoors in a grassy picnic area, giving the students, faculty, and visitors a chance to mingle.

“And every ‘Baptist Day’ the school would invite one of the greatest minds in theological education to give a lecture. This one year, the great Paul Tillich came to speak.”

Dr. Tillich spoke for two-and-a-half hours, proving that the historical resurrection was false.

He quoted scholar after scholar and book after book, concluding that since there was no such thing as the historical resurrection, the African-American religious tradition was groundless, emotional mumbo-jumbo, because it was based on a relationship with a risen Jesus, who, in fact, never rose from the dead in any literal sense.

The preacher told us that Dr. Tillich ended his talk with a sweeping, “Are there any questions?”

The silence in the packed lecture hall was deafening.

Then, finally … an old, dark-skinned preacher with a head full of short-cropped wooly white hair stood up in the back of the auditorium.

“Docta Tillich, I got a question,” he said—as all eyes turned toward him. He reached into his lunch bag and pulled out an apple.

“Docta Tillich …” He bit into his apple. CRUNCH, MUNCH, MUNCH, MUNCH … 

“My question is a simple question.” CRUNCH, MUNCH, MUNCH, MUNCH … “Now, I ain’t never read them books you read …” CRUNCH, MUNCH, MUNCH, MUNCH …

“And I can’t recite the Scriptures in the original Greek …” CRUNCH, MUNCH, MUNCH, MUNCH … “I don’t know nothin’ about Niebuhr and Heidegger …” CRUNCH, MUNCH, MUNCH …

He finished the apple. Then he began to lick his fingertips and pick his teeth.

“All I wanna know is: this apple I just ate—was it bitter, or was it sweet?”

Dr. Tillich paused for a moment, and then answered in exemplary scholarly fashion: “I cannot possibly answer that question, for I have not tasted your apple.”

The white-haired preacher dropped the core of his apple into his crumpled paper bag, looked up at Dr. Tillich and said calmly, “Neither have you tasted my Jesus.”

The 1,000-plus in attendance could not contain themselves. The auditorium erupted with roaring laughter, cheers and applause. Paul Tillich promptly thanked his audience and departed the lectern.*

 

Sean Gonsalves concluded his article by saying how much he loves that story. I love it, too—and the reason why is very simple.

I love that story because it underscores the real truth of Easter—a truth that is perhaps hidden from great theologians like Paul Tillich, but which is revealed to all those who dare to trust God in simple faith.

And the truth is this: the apple is sweet. If you have tasted Jesus, his sweetness will sustain your faith, and it will guide your life. The sweetness of Jesus will fill your spirit to overflowing—even in the bitterest of times. Make no mistake about it: if we know that sweetness in this life, we shall continue to taste it forever, in God’s orchard.

Scripture assures us that God’s wish and hope for all of us is that we may taste that sweetness, and allow it to fill our spirits to overflowing. So that’s what I want to leave you with today—if not the sweetness of Christ, just yet, at least I want to urge you to believe that it is available to all who will accept it; and it is available to you as a freely-given gift. That is the gospel we preach; thanks be to God for it.

_____________________

* Gonsalves has shared versions of this story on several platforms over the years. Here are links to some examples:

https://www.crowrivermedia.com/independentreview/words-for-living-have-you-tasted-jesus-christ/article_32b94434-e5b3-5367-b64b-0f08a8f9b483.html

https://lancasteronline.com/religion/pointers-to-the-truth-of-jesus-resurrection/article_69d1afd4-c658-11e3-b584-0017a43b2370.html

https://academic.udayton.edu/race/2008ElectionandRacism/RaceandRacism/race77.htm

 

I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me. (Galatians 2:20)

 

On this Good Friday, Holy One, we recognize all that is not good about our lives, because it stands in such stark contrast to all that is good about you. We guard our own comfort as paramount; but you sent Jesus into a land where he had no place to call his home, no place to lay his head. Our days are spent advancing our own cause—our own advantage, our own security; but you sent Jesus to spend his life for the sake of others. We love ourselves most of all, but you so loved the world that you gave your only Son.

This day is good, Lord, not because of anything we have done, but because of what you have done for us. You became one of us, revealing your love upon the cross. Therefore, we gather on this day to confess our sins, to recommit our lives, and to praise your holy name. May the days ahead also be good ones, as your Holy Spirit works through our lives to demonstrate your love and power to a broken world.

We confess, O God, that this is a fateful day because we have been a faithless people. Too often, we have been like Peter, hailing Jesus as the Christ, but denying the one who suffers. Too often, we have been like Judas, professing love for Jesus, yet betraying him for paltry gain. Too often, we have been like Pilate:  finding no fault in Jesus, but leaving him to the mercy of those who do.

As we recall the cross he chose to bear for our sakes, we remember the crosses we have declined to bear for his sake. Forgive us, we pray; and make us better disciples of your Christ. Even as he was faithful to you—faithful unto death—grant us the grace to be faithful unto you in life.

On this Good Friday, Holy One, as we stand at the foot of the cross, we tremble. We are afraid, for we know what it calls us to do. We remember words of Scripture which urge us to be crucified with Christ—to die with him, if we would be raised with him. We consider our own hands, our own feet, and we wonder: where are the nail prints?  What is there about ourselves—and about the society we have fashioned—that we would crucify?  What would we nail to the cross?

In hope of resurrection, we bring to the cross of Christ:

• Our despair; may it be resurrected as hope.
• Our fear; may it be resurrected as perfect love.
• Our hatred; may it be resurrected as forgiveness.
• Our suffering; may compassion arise from it.

Seeking redemption, to the cross of Christ we bring:

• The scourge of racism; from stifled breath, let winds of justice blow.
• The twin curses of guilt and resentment; by releasing them, let us become agents of reconciliation.
• Our self-righteousness; may our smug certainty be displaced by tolerance and understanding.
• Our hoarded wealth; may anxious greed give way to confident sharing.

God, our refuge and our strength, hear the fervent prayers we raise, and bring to fulfillment your plan for all Creation, in that new world where all tears shall be wiped away; where hunger and thirst are unknown; where the sun will not strike us, nor any scorching heat; where the Lamb will be our Shepherd, and will guide us to springs of the water of life. In his name we ask it. Amen.

 

Palm/Passion Sunday

TEXTS: Zechariah 9:9-12 and Mark 11:1-11

If somebody asked you, “Do you celebrate Palm Sunday at your church?”… You might think it’s a strange question. Of course we celebrate Palm Sunday! Doesn’t everybody shake greenery on the last Sunday before Easter?

This is just what we do, isn’t it? We like to picture ourselves among the crowds that welcomed Jesus to Jerusalem—waving branches, singing hymns, weaving ourselves in with those who shouted, “Hosanna! Hosanna, to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!” It’s how we begin our holiest week.

Yet, if you’re sitting in a mainline Protestant church—or watching a service online—you might notice the liturgical heading says that this is “Palm/Passion Sunday.”

Why? Why the Passion along with the Palms? Why mix suffering into celebration?

Well, one line of reasoning goes like this: fewer and fewer people are attending Good Friday services—or observing Holy Week at all. And the reason is not difficult to understand. Holy Week—and especially Good Friday—is too somber, too bleak, too brutal. It’s depressing.

And besides, we all think we know the story of the Passion of the Christ—even if only because we saw that Mel Gibson movie! But who wants to wallow in that gore and misery? The account of Jesus’ final day (or at least, his final day until Easter morning) is too much of a downer—especially in a culture that favors more upbeat religion.

Most contemporary Christians simply ignore the details of the Passion. After the Palm Sunday parade, they bounce directly into the ecstatic rejoicing of Easter.

And that worries more than a few theologians, who are concerned that such attitudes may lead to a warped kind of faith.

Here’s a question: what happens to faith that has not had an opportunity to struggle? Faith that has never faced difficulty, or grappled with the problem of pain? It might become a superficial thing that melts away in the face of hardship and tragedy. After all, if you believe that life is one long party for those who trust in God, then … What happens when the party’s over? Is faith over, as well?

Birthed from these considerations was the day we know as Palm (slash) Passion Sunday—a day on which we recognize both the triumphal entry and the sad events which followed.

Now, I understand the reason for “Palm/Passion Sunday” … but … I must confess that over my many years in ministry, I’ve never been entirely sure how to combine those two very different themes—or at least, how to do an effective job of that in a roughly hour-long worship time. I guess I’m afraid that my attempts at doing so might end up looking a lot like a Chevrolet product that came out in the 1960s—the El Camino!

Remember the El Camino? The El Camino aspired to be both a cushy sedan (up front) and a rugged pickup truck (in the rear). It was around for quite a while. But it was a weird-looking critter. I mean, if you wanted a comfortable ride, you’d buy a sedan, right? And if you seriously wanted to haul stuff … well, you’d get a truck, wouldn’t you? To me, the El Camino was always kind of an ugly duckling. I worry that a “Palm/Passion” service may run the same risk. By trying to do too much, it might, in the end, just be weird-looking.

On the other hand, translated from the Spanish, “El Camino” means “The Path.” And to the world around us, the path of Christian discipleship does look pretty weird.

Pondering this dilemma, I keep coming back to that strange word, “Hosanna.” It’s not a term that comes up much in everyday conversation, is it? The last time most of us uttered “Hosanna” was about a year ago, at least; on Palm Sunday, April the fifth, 2020.

As Jesus entered the gates of Jerusalem, his fans made a carpet of welcome for him with their cloaks—and with the branches they had cut in the fields. They waved palm branches and shouted, “Hosanna!”

The word hosanna means “save now” or “save us now.” To call out, “Save us!” was to greet a saviour—but not in the personal sense in which Christians today might think of it. No. The sense here is of a national Saviour—like a general leading an army of liberation.

The form of this observance goes back to the Jewish “Festival of the Booths.” In that celebration, the branches represented the crude structures that sheltered the Hebrew people in the desert after they escaped from Egypt.

Psalm 118 was one of the songs that Jewish pilgrims used to sing as they approached Jerusalem to join in the festival. In part, it goes like this:

Save us, we beseech you, O Lord!
O Lord, we beseech you, give us success!

Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.
We bless you from the house of the Lord.

(Psalm 118:25-26)

“Save us! (Hosanna!) Save us, we beseech you …” These are the words with which Jesus was welcomed into the holy city. They used the greeting for a saviour—for a liberator, a Messiah.

Jesus was welcomed as a conquering hero. But instead of a war horse, he chose to ride a donkey. He entered Jerusalem not in the style of a triumphant general, but in the style of a humble servant. To the very end, Jesus tried to make people understand the true nature of his Messiahship.

It is perhaps difficult for us to grasp—as we look backward in time—how they could possibly have misunderstood him. But we have to remember how desperate they were. They were an occupied and oppressed people. What they wanted—what they thought they needed—was a warrior-king who would expel the Romans, and restore their nation.

If they had paid attention to what Jesus was trying to show them about himself, they would have had to face the same question which confronted Pontius Pilate later in the week—concerning who this man was, and—if he was a king … What sort of king? (see John 18:33-38)

I guess it’s the same question we still grapple with, some 2,000 years later: Who was he? Who is he? And—with all the conflicting and competing pictures of Jesus in our modern world—who is he, for us?

Who is Jesus, for you? Who is he, for me? Perhaps, for us, it has indeed become a question that can only be answered in a personal way … and perhaps, after all, that’s what he always intended.

You know, the problem with palms is that once you cut the branches from the tree, they don’t live long. The problem with Palm Sunday is that the excitement of that crowd soon faded, and when Good Friday rolled around, many of the same voices who had shouted “Hosanna!” were now screaming “Crucify Him!” Their love for Jesus was shallow—based entirely on their hope of what exciting things he could do for them. Many, many pilgrims would follow behind Jesus on the road to the throne, but they would not follow him on the road to the cross. They would wave palms before the coming king, but they wanted nothing to do with the Suffering Servant.

On this day, Jesus knew that the end of his earthly ministry was near. It was time to finish what he had started. It was now or never. This was his opportunity to be obedient to the will of God, and to accomplish the purpose set out for him. It is a day in history that speaks to Christians in every era. Are we so shallow that we will wave palms on one Sunday a year, and sing occasional hymns of praise, but refuse to follow the example of the Servant King?

There is a life ahead of us, and God has a purpose for that life. None of us knows exactly how long our lives will be, or precisely how much time we have left. Whenever we hear of someone who dies too young, we are reminded of those facts.

None of us can know all that the future holds. We don’t know how long we will remain upon this earth. But we do know that God has a purpose for each one of us. Yes. God has a “call” upon your life!

Did you know that? It’s not just pastors and missionaries who receive a “call” from God. Each and every Christian is called to some form of ministry. That may look slightly different for each believer, but I think certain elements remain constant. He calls us to love him—and to love others—with the kind of love that makes a difference. He calls us to speak the truth. He calls us to reach out our hands. He calls us to open up our hearts. And he calls us to do all of that … right now!

May the Lord grant us courage … and wisdom … as we walk our El Camino.

 

Fifth Sunday in the Midst of Lent

TEXT:  Jeremiah 31:31-34

But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says the Lord: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. (Jeremiah 31:33)

 

Covenant. That’s a word we hear used often, in church. But I wonder how many of us truly understand the depth of its meaning.

In law, a covenant is an agreement between two or more parties to do—or not do—some specified thing. And/or, a covenant is an incidental clause in a larger agreement, or contract.

In ecclesiastical language—church language—a covenant is a solemn pact between people who agree to work together on behalf of the gospel.

In the Bible, though, the word “covenant” has an even deeper meaning; it refers to certain kinds of promises made by God to the human race. And here’s where we note an important distinction.

In civil law—and even in church law—a covenant is really a sort of contract. It is created with the idea that it can be broken or annulled. Human agreements—whatever language we use to describe them—are made to be broken.

God’s covenants with humanity, however … Well, they were never intended to be broken. If you are even slightly familiar with the Bible, you likely know about some of the ways God has made covenant with humankind.

You may remember that it all began with a rainbow. God placed the bow in the sky as a sign of his promise to never again flood the world to the point of utter destruction. The covenant with Noah was a unilateral, universal promise that has never been broken by God. The sign of that covenant was—and is—a rainbow.

When God expanded the covenantal relationship through Abraham, God promised him and Sarah that they would be the parents of a multitude of nations. To this aged couple, God promised countless offspring: “Look towards heaven and count the stars … So shall your descendants be” (Genesis 15:5). Once again—in retrospect—we can see how true God has been to this covenant. Through the religions of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, the descendants of Abraham and Sarah today number well over four billion!

Later, after the Israelites were freed from the bondage of slavery in Egypt, God saw that the loyalty he desired from his people could be best expressed through a certain way of living. For his chosen people, the living out of God’s covenantal relationship meant abiding by the Ten Commandments. These commandments were given through Moses on Mount Sinai, written on tablets of stone by the finger of God (Exodus 31:18). Very impressive! But the most incredible thing about the Ten Commandments is this: even if the commandments are broken, the relationship is not destroyed!

The commandments are a gift to us, so that we may feel the depth of the covenant. Fortunately, God’s ability to sustain the covenantal relationship overrides our inability to obey the commandments. Even when we fail, God does not.

No matter how bitterly we complain about our circumstances, God is always there with an answer to our prayers. God’s answer may not always be what we expect—or even want—but God is there, ready to help the human creature manage and survive the challenges of earthly living.

In today’s reading from Jeremiah, we hear the prophet speak about a new kind of covenant. Now, at first it may seem like there’s nothing all that new about this “new” covenant. God says, “I will be your God and you will be my people.” This is an idea to which God has been true for countless generations.

But what’s different here is that God will write his law upon our hearts! In other words, before we even know how to breathe, we know that we belong to God.

Awareness of God’s covenant is simply a part of who we are. Even for those who later claim to be atheists, this awareness appears to be a starting point. The mere fact they need to state their unbelief shows that it is an important issue for them—just as it is for the rest of us. That’s why religion is a touchy subject.

Ever noticed? When it comes to belief or unbelief in the living God, people get wildly passionate—if not downright angry! Why is that? It’s because belief or unbelief in God matters! Deep down inside, we know God is real.

For medical researchers like Dr. Melvin Morse—who writes about this in his book, Where God Lives*—the “God Spot” is within the human brain (specifically, in the right temporal lobe). At least, that’s what he says. No matter. Whether it’s inscribed upon the heart, or the brain, or the gut, the point is this:  God’s covenantal love is now a part of us!

Long before the psychologists and the neuroscientists reached their sophisticated understandings of brain chemistry and the human psyche, God had the whole thing covered. God’s love for us is written upon our hearts, and our connectedness to the divine covenant emanates from the very core of our being.

Here is the depth of God’s covenant with us. God’s promise is not a contract, liable to be broken at the whim of either party. No. God’s promise is a covenant that has not been—and will not be—broken.

God’s love is something we do not have to earn. It is freely given, just as parents freely offer love to their children. This is the newness of the covenant described by Jeremiah—and the novelty does not wear off.

And so the “new covenant” has the character of a gift. The new covenant is not only written upon our hearts—it is also made flesh in the person of Jesus, who shows us God’s heart. In Christ, God has already done all the work required to seal his unbreakable, unending covenant with us. All we have to do is accept, in faith, the gift being so freely offered.

So—accept it! Receive it. It is meant for you. And God’s love is the greatest gift of all.

_____________

* Where God Lives by Melvin Morse, M.D., and Paul Perry. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2000.

 

Fourth Sunday in Lent

TEXTS: Numbers 21:4-9 and John 3:14-21

From Mount Hor they set out by the way to the Red Sea, to go around the land of Edom; but the people became impatient on the way. The people spoke against God and against Moses, “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? For there is no food and no water, and we detest this miserable food.” (Numbers 21:4-5)

No food? And no water?

Of course, that’s an exaggeration. If you remember the story of the exodus, you know that God always provided the children of Israel with water and food. Even if he had to wring water out of solid rock, God made sure his people had enough to drink. As for food, God provided manna—which seems to have been something like a sweet bread or wafer. And quail. Quail in the evenings, and manna every morning—except for the Sabbath.

It’s not entirely clear for how long the quail supply lasted, but the Bible tells us that “The Israelites ate manna for forty years, until they came … to the border of the land of Canaan” (Exodus 16:35).

Mind you, that is a long time. By now, the Israelites have had enough. They are almost at the end of their journey—but they don’t know that. They are, frankly, fed up. Fed up with a diet that has long since become monotonous. Fed up with this desert they’ve been in for 40 years. Forty years? Forty years to cross the Sinai peninsula? Apparently, you should be able to cross the Sinai Peninsula in three days traveling day and night at a normal walking pace.* So, factor in sleeping time and bathroom breaks … you should still be able to make the trip in under a week. Couldn’t Moses ask somebody for a road map?

Above all else, the people are fed up with Moses. Fed up with his leadership. Fed up with this seemingly endless journey. They are angry. Angry enough to revolt—even, perhaps, to string Moses up by his toes. Angry enough to curse the Lord himself!

Well, there were no riot police in the wilderness of Sinai. Moses had no security forces or bodyguards to handle the situation. So what did the Lord do? In Numbers 21:6, we read: “Then the Lord sent poisonous serpents among the people, and they bit the people, so that many Israelites died.”

An onslaught of venomous snakes! Sounds like pretty effective crowd control, doesn’t it? And it works. The insurrection is quickly put down, and the people acknowledge their sin. But the serpents … it sounds like they hang around for a while. Moses prays for a solution to this problem, and the Lord provides one—a solution which also serves to demonstrate his power. He tells Moses to fashion a serpent out of bronze and stick it on a pole. Remarkably, this turns out to be a surefire remedy for snakebite. Whenever a serpent bit someone, that person had only to look upon the serpent of bronze, and he or she would live.

The Revised Common Lectionary pairs that story from the Book of Numbers with the gospel reading from John because, otherwise, we might not catch Jesus’ meaning when he says, “… just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life” (John 3:14-15).

“The wages of sin is death” (Romans 6:23), but Christ Jesus is the cure. Make of that statement what you will—but the truth remains: our world is pretty messed up. And no matter how you look at it, it is humanity’s fault.

When the U.S. Capitol building is stormed by hooligans carrying “Jesus is my Savior” banners, resulting in the deaths of several people—and then somebody turns that horror into a YouTube video—the “wages of sin” are graphically demonstrated for all to see. And while most of us are not jihadists, all of us will admit that our lives are not perfect. I think it’s safe to say that most of us carry some burden of regret—if not downright guilt!

Isn’t that so? And when you contemplate the perfection—the absolute holiness—of God … don’t you tremble just a little bit at the thought of one day being subject to his judgment? That’s going to be far worse than being called to the principal’s office—or even being brought to trial in a human court of law—because this judge already knows everything about you. Including everything you are ashamed of. You cannot hide anything from the heavenly judge.

The venom of sin—yes, of sin, that old-fashioned word we don’t like to use anymore—the venom of sin flows through all of our veins. And it is so seriously toxic—and so invariably deadly—that, without some kind of antidote, it will eventually destroy us. It will destroy us by separating us from God, who is the very Source of Life.

That is, more or less, our situation as described in Scripture.

However, Scripture also tells us that this situation was—in the eyes of God—entirely unacceptable. For God, being separated from any one of us is … well … intolerable!

The idea of losing any one of us breaks God’s heart as surely as the loss of a child breaks the heart of any parent. That’s why God came to us—came looking for us—in the person of Jesus. He came to close the gap between humanity and divinity.

He became one of us in order to reconcile us to himself. He came to be—not simply a good example or the object of our veneration—but rather … He came to be “the friend of sinners.”

He became a real human being so that he could bear real human sin and real human sorrow—the sins and sorrows of each and every one of us—and then leave all those sins and all those sorrows in the grave that he vacated on Easter morning. Lifted up upon the cross, he became the antidote for our snakebite!

But why would he do this? One answer, of course, is to be found in that familiar verse we all know so well: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.”

John, chapter three, verse 16. Kind of explains it all!

Or does it? We all want to believe that God loves us … but for some of us, that’s not an easy idea to swallow. Even if we don’t verbalize it, some of us feel we’ve fallen too far, done things that no one could forgive—not even God. Others of us …

Well, we’re skeptical. Even if we believe in God, we may doubt that he cares that deeply for individuals. And it’s a good question: why would God care? Why would he bother with troublesome rabble like we appear to be?

There’s another Bible passage that I think we need to hear. It’s from Paul’s Letter to the Ephesians, chapter two, the first 10 verses. Listen to what the apostle says, as I quote from the New Living Translation:

Once you were dead because of your disobedience and your many sins. You used to live in sin, just like the rest of the world, obeying the devil—the commander of the powers in the unseen world. He is the spirit at work in the hearts of those who refuse to obey God. All of us used to live that way, following the passionate desires and inclinations of our sinful nature. By our very nature we were subject to God’s anger, just like everyone else.

But God is so rich in mercy, and he loved us so much, that even though we were dead because of our sins, he gave us life when he raised Christ from the dead. (It is only by God’s grace that you have been saved!)  For he raised us from the dead along with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms because we are united with Christ Jesus. So God can point to us in all future ages as examples of the incredible wealth of his grace and kindness toward us, as shown in all he has done for us who are united with Christ Jesus.

 

Okay … now listen even more carefully to what Paul says next:

God saved you by his grace when you believed. And you can’t take credit for this; it is a gift from God. Salvation is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it. For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.

 

“We are God’s masterpiece.” Our more familiar New Revised Standard Version says, “We are what [God] has made us.” The King James Version has “We are his workmanship.” Apparently, you could also translate it as: “We are God’s poetry.”

You are God’s poetry! If you want to know how you are regarded by the Maker of the universe, just consider that. The Greek word for “workmanship” is poiema (ποιημα), or poem. To God, each believer is like a poem—uniquely made, with a beauty and a complexity that is not fully appreciated at first glance.

When we look at one another—or even at ourselves—we may not see any poetry. Perhaps all we see is torn and crumpled paper. Or a page that’s been badly stained or defaced. We might see only dull or incomprehensible script. But God sees the love poem he inscribed upon you, and upon me—and he recognizes the metre of his own verse.

That is why Jesus was willing to go even to the cross on our behalf—so that we could be raised with him, with verses that rhyme, to be sung in this world and in the next as ballads of love and compassion and humble service. Or, as the apostle said, “so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.”

Unlike that bronze serpent which Moses raised up on a pole in the desert, Christ Jesus does much more than simply preserve our mortal lives. He preserves us for eternal life, and presents us to this world as new compositions—heavenly love songs with grace-filled lyrics to heal every broken heart.

You are God’s poetry! You are God’s masterpiece! You mean everything to him. You matter. That is the good news, my friends—and you should believe it. Amen.

---

* “Research shows that a person could cross the Sinai Peninsula in 3 days traveling day and night at a normal walking pace of just 3 or so miles an hour.” https://www.holylandsite.com/exodus-redsea-sinai

 

 

Third Sunday in the Midst of Lent

TEXT: 1 Corinthians 1:18-25

“For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.” And so, in the opening sentence of today’s epistle reading, the apostle Paul presents his thesis.

“We proclaim Christ crucified,” he says, “a stumbling-block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, but to those who are called … Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.”

When Paul wrote, “the message about the cross is foolishness,” he understood exactly how it felt to believe in something that he later realized was foolish. As a young man, he was known as Saul of Tarsus. A zealous persecutor of Christians, Saul was convinced that he knew what was right—and he was more than prepared to act upon his convictions. Saul viewed the followers of Jesus as being worse than fools. He saw them as dangerous heretics, and he helped to kill as many of them as he could. But then he had a profound experience that forever changed his way of thinking.

We know his story, don’t we? As Luke tells it in the Book of Acts, Saul was on the road from Jerusalem to Damascus on a mission to arrest a group of Christ-followers, when—in a flash of utterly brilliant light—the risen Christ appeared to him, asking: “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” (Acts 9:4)

Knocked to the ground and struck blind, Saul had to be led by the hand into the city. After three days, however, his sight was restored by a disciple called Ananias—and Saul the Persecutor became Paul the Apostle, proclaiming Jesus of Nazareth as God’s Messiah and Son.

After the Lord spoke to him, what once seemed wise was exposed as foolish—and what once seemed foolish was revealed to be supremely wise.

Writer and theologian Frederick Buechner has described Paul’s conversion like this: “Everything he ever said or wrote or did from that day forward was an attempt to bowl over the human race as he’d been bowled over himself while he lay there with dust in his mouth.” ¹

Even so, it was a tough sell—especially to those who had not witnessed what Paul had witnessed. As the apostle himself admitted, his proclamation of “Christ crucified”—which was actually a proclamation of death and resurrection—was perceived by Jews as a “stumbling block” and by Gentiles as “foolishness.” No one had difficulty believing that Jesus had been executed. Or that he had been buried. But as for the rest of the story …

Well, let me throw another quote into the mix. This one’s from a most excellent book called Miracles by Eric Metaxas. Here’s what he has to say about the kind of skepticism that Paul encountered:

We again and again must remember that resurrection from the dead was as implausible then as it is today, and we must remember that it was as staggering to those who came to believe it as to those who did not believe it. This and only this can account for the sudden boldness with which those who did believe it spoke of it. It is only because they had witnessed an outrageous miracle that they had the courage to talk of it incessantly, despite being threatened with death if they did not stop. For them, the reality of the resurrection was how the authority of God manifestly trumped all earthly authorities. It wasn’t merely a theological idea but a reality to which they were eyewitnesses. They had themselves witnessed the power of God—and the person of God—in the resurrected Jesus of Nazareth. After that, nothing in this world could dissuade them from believing it, and no authority in this world could frighten them from proclaiming it. They had no fear of death because they had seen Death itself triumphed over by the one who claimed to be “the resurrection and the life.” They might have claimed to believe it before, but after the crucifixion and resurrection, they had no doubt. ²

 

“Destroy this temple,” Jesus said—referring to the temple of his body—“and in three days I will raise it up.” But his words made no sense to anybody listening. Even his disciples understood only afterward—when his risen body explained his empty tomb.

Can you discern a theme here? I do. And it’s this: Faith is born of experience. Or perhaps it would be better to say that assurance is born from direct personal experience. Because, certainly, “faith comes from hearing” (Romans 10:17)—and probably most of us tend to believe what trusted sources tell us. But personally experiencing a truth … Well, that kind of seals the deal, doesn’t it?

You may tend to believe that your parachute has been correctly packed … but you cannot know for sure—one way or the other—until you hit the ground.

Saul of Tarsus hit the ground. He bottomed out. Face down in the dirt, his retinas scorched as if he’d been staring into the sun, he heard a voice: “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting … get up and enter the city, and you will be told what you are to do” (Acts 9:5-6).

The season of Lent is a good time for listening and for remembering. Listening for the Lord’s voice—but also remembering those times and places where we may have heard it before. And for remembering those times when we’ve been face down in the dirt. Hurting. Blinded. Bewildered. Terrified.

That’s exactly where I was in January of 1991. Blinded to the possibility that my newborn son—my only son—might survive open-heart surgery, I enquired about donating Samuel’s organs so that another baby might live. Then I prayed for strength—for Iris and for myself—that we might endure this loss, this sorrow, this crippling blow.

Thank God for unanswered prayer! I’ve been doing that a lot lately, as I watch my grown son play with his own three young children. But 30 years ago, I could not imagine such a happy outcome. Instead, I was pondering funeral arrangements—even as it felt like life was over for Iris and me, as well.

And, really, it should have been. I’ll spare you the details, which are dreadful. Suffice it to say that we came very close to losing our boy. Suffice it to say that he and Iris and me were all sealed inside a tomb … in a pediatric ICU in Edmonton. Sealed inside a dark, dark tomb for more days than I could count.

But then that seal was broken, and light poured into that dark place. Easter morning came for us, when—in early February of 1991—we took our baby home, alive and well.

Ever since, I have had no difficulty believing in resurrection. God gave me my only son back from death; of course he could do the same thing for his own Son!

I also realize—even as I’m telling that story—that there is no way I can tell it without sounding maudlin and naïve … and more than a little bit crazy … and even … foolish. Any rational person would hear it that way … unless they’ve gone through something similar. Or otherwise experienced this thing called grace.

“Preacher, what is grace?”

You know something? It’s hard to explain that in words. One definition of grace is “unmerited favour.” But perhaps we would do better to describe it than to try and define it. In another of Paul’s epistles—his letter to the Ephesians—he says, “by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God—not the result of works, so that no one may boast” (Ephesians 2:8-9).

Grace is a gift. You cannot earn it. Faith, also, is a gift; it is born out of grace. And grace is offered freely—offered, I believe, just when we need it most.

The story is told of a man who came eagerly to a revival meeting. It must have been a morning like next Sunday’s going to be, when Daylight Saving Time begins. He should have moved his alarm clock ahead an hour. But he didn’t. He arrived after everything was over, and the crowds had gone home, and the evangelist was on his way to the next town.

The only ones present now were the workmen who were tearing down the tent in which the meeting had been held. Frantic at the thought of missing his chance for salvation, the man asked one of the carpenters what he could do to be saved. The workman, who was a Christian, replied: “You can’t do anything. It’s too late.”

Horrified, the man screamed, “What do you mean? How can it be too late?”

“The work has already been accomplished,” he was told. “There is nothing you need to do … except believe it.”

To some extent, every person lives by faith. When we open a can of food or drink a glass of water we trust that it is not contaminated. When we go across a bridge we trust it to support us. When we put our money in the bank, we trust it will be secure. Life is a constant series of acts of faith. No human being, no matter how skeptical and self-reliant, could live one day without exercising faith.

But in each of those cases I just mentioned, there is some objective reason for having faith. We trust public health officials to ensure that our food is safe. We pay our utility bills, and so we expect our tap water to be clean. Bridges are built with engineering supervision. Canadian banks very rarely fail—and there’s deposit insurance if they do.

Faith in God, however—especially faith in a living, personal God who loves you and can actually intervene in your life … Well, that’s something else, isn’t it? It is not rational. In fact, it probably appears quite foolish. It is faith of an entirely different order. When we accept the finished work of Christ on our behalf, we act by means of the faith supplied by God’s grace. That is the supreme act of human faith, and—although it is ours—it is primarily an act of God. When a person chokes or drowns and stops breathing, there is nothing he can do. If he ever breathes again it will be because someone else starts him breathing.

As someone has said, faith is simply breathing the breath that God’s grace supplies. Perhaps that does sound foolish; but I think it’s as good a definition as any. So, my friends, on this third Sunday in the midst of Lent, I think the best advice I can give you is … breathe deeply! Open your minds—better yet, open your hearts—to this Godly foolishness; for it is, in very truth, “wiser than human wisdom, and … stronger than human strength.”

____________________

¹ Frederick Buechner, Peculiar Treasures: A Biblical Who’s Who (New York: Harper and Row, 1979), pp. 129-130.

² Eric Metaxas, Miracles (New York: Dutton, 2014), p. 110.

 

Second Sunday in the Midst of Lent

TEXT: Mark 8:31-38

[Jesus said:] “… if your hand causes you to sin, cut it off. It is better for you to enter life crippled than with two hands to go to hell … And if your foot causes you to sin, cut it off. It is better for you to enter life lame than with two feet to be thrown into hell. And if your eye causes you to sin, tear it out. It is better for you to enter the kingdom of God with one eye than with two eyes to be thrown into hell …” (Mark 9:43-47).

No, that wasn’t from this morning’s gospel lesson. But it is a quotation from the next chapter of Mark. What do you think? Should we take these words literally?

Or consider this quotation from chapter 19 of Matthew’s gospel, verse 12, where Jesus says:

“For there are eunuchs who have been so from birth, and there are eunuchs who have been made eunuchs by men, and there are eunuchs who have made themselves eunuchs for the sake of the kingdom of heaven. Let the one who is able to receive this receive it” (Matt. 19:12).

The third-century theologian Origen of Alexandria took this saying of Jesus literally … and castrated himself! Later in life, though, he seems to have had second thoughts, because in his exposition of Matthew 19:12, he counsels against any literal interpretation of the verse.

Hindsight is, as they say, 20/20 … Misunderstanding our Lord’s fondness for hyperbole … Well, it can be hazardous to your health!

So what about this morning’s text? Here, we find Jesus saying: “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.”

How should we interpret this? Literally? Metaphorically?

In Jesus’ day, the cross was anything but a metaphor. As an instrument of torture, shame, absolute loss and death, it was all too real. “Taking up your cross” meant becoming its victim.

When Jesus took up his cross, it was—as the apostle Paul put it—“to be delivered up for our trespasses” (Romans 4:25). He picked up the cross to go—quite literally—to his death.

When Mark penned the words we heard this morning, a novel idea was being introduced. Here, something new is slipping into the meaning and implication of cross-bearing. According to Jesus, every one of his followers must bear a cross!

Gulp. Does this mean that every one of Jesus’ followers has to die this same cruel and tragic death?

For Mark’s audience, this was a very real possibility. The threat of crucifixion was still present. As this Gospel was being written some 40 years or so after Jesus’ death, the world was embroiled in conflict. Social, political and religious instability were rampant. Romans were squabbling about who should become emperor after the death of Nero. The temple in Jerusalem was under siege and soon to be destroyed, while Jews were divided over supporting Rome or rising up against it.

And the followers of Jesus were caught in the middle. Their beliefs neither allowed them to fight Rome nor encouraged them to support it. Neighbourhoods were divided; families were divided—“son against father and daughter against mother,” as Jesus said. “A person’s enemies will be those of his own household” (Matt. 10:35-36). It was a difficult, desperate, and dangerous era.

When Mark wrote about “carrying the cross,” his readers and hearers in the early church were painfully aware of the threat they were under. They fully understood the terrible power of the cross to inflict great suffering and death. However, Mark’s words would have reminded them of another, very different, aspect of the cross—namely, its power to help them gain everything.

Does that sound odd? Well, look: if I should ask you whether the cross still has a purpose today—in your life and in mine—how would you respond? The cross is no longer commonly employed the way the Romans used it—thank God—and yet, the symbol of the cross is essential to Christian identity. Its power is alive and well.

The cross is the venue of our ultimate transformation. It is a place upon which to hang our arrogance, our rage, our bitterness, our prejudice, our greed—even our guilt—and then to let those vices die, so that something more eternally good and grace-filled and Christ-like may be resurrected.

I ask you this: “What do you need to hang upon the cross?” Is there something within you—or around you—that should be hung there? Does something in your life need to die in order for something else to live? Something more gracious? Something more hopeful? Something infinitely better?

Okay. What about this? Consider the thousands upon thousands of Christians who have trusted in the power of the cross to change things. To change our own personal hearts and souls. To change a social condition, or remedy a political injustice. Be not deceived; such cross-bearers often carry a staggeringly heavy load, as they take up their crosses to follow Jesus.

It’s not easy. And yet they have done it time and again, convinced that the potential and the power of the cross is available to every Christian. Through the cross, we may embrace that transformative power which makes God’s kingdom real for us.

Historically, one of the most stirring examples of cross-bearing comes from the story of William Wilberforce. Probably very few of us know his name—but we all see the result of his walk with Jesus. It all began in London, England in 1787. London was a prosperous city back then—but a cruel one, also. The Industrial Revolution was powering up, and exhausted children worked 18-hour days. And a significant portion of the British economy was fueled by slave-ship captains servicing plantations in the West Indies.

In those tumultuous times, very few people gave a second thought to the atrocity of the slave trade. Slavery was an institution. It was taken for granted. William Wilberforce, however, felt the weight of his Christian convictions, and could not push them aside. In 1788, the young politician—then only 29 years old—introduced into Parliament the first bill proposing to abolish the slave trade.

It was soundly defeated.

So Wilberforce began a campaign with other Christian abolitionists. They produced and distributed tracts. They spoke at public meetings. They circulated petitions. They wrote songs. They even organized product boycotts! (Sound familiar?)

Unfortunately, public opinion was not easily changed. Wilberforce was ridiculed in the press. He was humiliated in Parliament—and condemned for mixing his religion into his politics. He was even challenged to a duel by an irate plantation owner!

Even so, this man was undaunted. Year after year bills to abolish slavery were put forward. Year after year, those bills were defeated. Then, finally—after many years of struggle—Wilberforce saw the change he had longed for. An abolition bill was once again introduced to Parliament in both the House of Lords and in House of Commons.

Just before the vote was called, one member rose to give a stirring tribute to Wilberforce and his unwavering determination to end this tremendous evil. Afterward, when the vote was taken, the motion carried—overwhelmingly—and Wilberforce sat quietly, his head bowed, tears flowing down his wrinkled face.

What an inspiring story! One man—one man who breathed like us, walked like us, thought and spoke and wrote like us—accomplished the extraordinary. How? By labouring in the company of Jesus. Wilberforce metaphorically shouldered his cross, hanging upon it the shame of slavery—crucifying it until it died there.

And what happened then? As Eric Metaxas says in his recent biography of Wilberforce:

“… the world changed. Slavery and the slave trade would soon be largely abolished, but many lesser social evils would be abolished too. For the first time in history, groups sprang up for every possible social cause. Wilberforce’s first ‘great object’ was the abolition of the slave trade, but his second ‘great object,” one might say, was the abolition of every lesser social ill. The issues of child labor and factory conditions, the problems of orphans and widows, of prisoners and the sick—all suddenly had champions in people who wanted to help those less fortunate than themselves.” *

Crosses. Jesus carried one, literally. And his followers have been called to shoulder them ever since. I wonder: does the cross play a leading role in your life? I don’t imagine that many of us bear its crushing weight or feel its splinters in our hands. But if we are Christ’s people, the cross has to be something more to us than a vague memory or an empty metaphor. The cross—all it means, all its power, all the transformation it enables—ought to stand in the centre of our lives.

“Take up your cross and follow me,” Jesus says. What higher calling could we ever accept?

^{______________________}

* Metaxas, Eric. Amazing Grace: William Wilberforce and the Heroic Campaign to End Slavery. (New York: HarperCollins, 2007), pp. xvi-xvii.

First Sunday in the Midst of Lent

TEXT: Mark 1:9-15

And just as [Jesus] was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.’ (Mark 1:10-11)

Jesus heard that voice, and everything changed for him. Jesus heard that voice, and it was—for him—a new beginning.

And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness for forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him. (Mark 1:12-13)

The same Spirit that descended on Jesus at his baptism like a dove, then turned into a swarm of bees that drove him out to the desert.

Well, the Bible doesn’t mention a swarm of bees. I made that part up. But the Bible does day that there were angels in that wilderness. Yes. There were angels in the wilderness. It’s important to remember that. Along with Satan, the wild beasts and every other unpleasant thing about the desert: heat that burns your skin; thirst that makes your tongue stick to the roof of your mouth; plants covered with thorns … besides all of that, there were also angels “who waited on him” … angels … who ministered to him.

It’s important to remember those angels, because they are easy to overlook. In fact, they usually are overlooked. In commentaries on this passage, the two themes that surface most often are temptation and repentance. Angels are rarely mentioned.

Yet Mark does mention them. In his lean, spare gospel—the shortest one of all—Mark includes the angels that tended to Jesus in his lonely sojourn on the far side of the Jordan.

You know, when Luke tells this story, he leaves them out completely. In Matthew’s gospel, the angels only show up at the end. But in Mark, they are there for the whole time—all 40 days.

Now, it’s not as though Mark has a thing for angels. He doesn’t. Unlike Luke’s gospel, Mark records no encounter between Mary and the angel Gabriel. Neither does he mention a “multitude of the heavenly host” appearing to the shepherds, “praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest heaven’ …” Matthew tells us about an angel visiting Joseph, telling him not to be afraid to take Mary as his wife. But Mark does not.

In Mark, no angel strengthens Jesus in Gethsemane. And when Mark describes Easter morning—which signals another new beginning—it’s unclear whether it’s an angel the women meet at the empty tomb … or just a young man dressed in white.

Truth to tell, apart from this story about Jesus in the wilderness, angels rarely appear in Mark’s Gospel. And when they do, they’re simply part of God’s royal court. They are not on earth helping people. Except here. Here, we find these emissaries from God’s royal court walking with Jesus through the desert. In Mark, God’s kingdom comes into the wilderness.

So when Mark talks about angels ministering to Jesus, we should pay attention. Not to downplay the temptations (or even the Tempter himself) that confronted Jesus throughout those 40 days. Nor to negate the Lenten call to repentance—the call to begin again. No. We need to be honest about the trials and temptations Jesus faced, and that we face! We need to acknowledge the wild beasts that surrounded him in that desert, just as we need to acknowledge the things that scare the heck out of us, here and now. Lent is a time to do all of that. 

But it’s also a time when we should remember the angels. The angels who appeared to Jesus in his wilderness experience—and who appear in ours. We should remember—as Mark does—that the angels were there for Jesus from the very beginning of his 40-day journey, just as God had been with his ancestors for the duration of their 40-year trek toward a new beginning. Just as God promises to be with us in the wild and frightening places of our lives.

Yeah. Wild and frightening places. New beginnings often feel like that, don’t they? One moment, you’re having this ecstatic, Jordan River experience … and the next, you’re in the desert, facing reality. Coming to terms with what this new beginning means.

New beginnings. That’s what the season of Lent is all about. It’s not simply about giving up cigarettes or chocolate or fried chicken or TV—or whatever—for 40 days, just to show we can do it. Or just because we think we have to do it, and then pick up our old bad habits again, afterward. No. I think Lent is supposed to be about discovering that we can rely upon God. Rely upon God to supply everything we really need. I think Lent is about discovering that the Lord has power to save us from our worst fears; that God can and will give us power to overcome our fears, and our weaknesses.

Lent is about trusting God to send angels to walk with us through whatever wilderness we must traverse on the way to our new beginning. More than that, however … when angels show up, they offer us a glimpse of that new beginning. Because, when the angels show up, God’s kingdom shows up, too. Even in the wilderness.

On a website called “Day One,” a Presbyterian minister named Christopher Henry speaks to that. He writes:

… even out here in the wilderness, there are times when God’s presence is unmistakable. Moments when the extraordinary breaks through the thin veneer of the ordinary and blinds us with its brilliance, when angels outnumber wild beasts. Those moments come when we face the fear of the wilderness and gather the courage and the strength to take the next step, moments when the kingdom comes near.

 

Then Christopher Henry tells this story:

Several years ago, I was attending a Sunday afternoon book club in a small town in North Carolina. The participants in the club were the pastors and lay leaders of local congregations—Episcopalians, Baptists, Methodists, Catholics, and Presbyterians. That day we found ourselves sharing personal stories of faith formation. How did you become a Christian? Where did your faith journey begin?

One by one, members of the group described how we had been raised by loving and faithful parents who brought us to Sunday school and church, told us the stories of Jesus, and helped us to grow in maturity of faith. Each story sounded something like that, until there was only one person left to speak.

As tears formed in her eyes, she said, “I am a Christian because the Christian church saved my life.”

Suddenly, the chatty group fell silent.

She described how she had been abandoned by her parents as an infant. Sent to a foster home, she was neglected and abused for the first six years of her life. At age seven, she was adopted by a local family. Not knowing what to expect, she spent the first night wide-awake in her new bed, afraid and anxious.

The next morning, a Sunday, the family got up early, had breakfast, and got into the car.

“It was my first time at church and I had no idea what to expect. We walked into the Sunday school classroom, and the teacher’s face lit up.”

“Welcome, Janet, we’ve been waiting for you.”

“Then she read the Bible story for the day. I will never forget the feeling. Jesus says to his disciples, ‘Let the little children come to me. Do not stop them.’

“I knew, knew with all of my heart, that he was talking to me. I knew that I was home. I am a Christian because of that moment. A new beginning, the kingdom in the midst of the wilderness.” *

 

Angels do come to us. They do minister to us. Even during the figurative wilderness of Lent. The Lenten season is a time to take stock of our lives, to come clean about the things that tempt us and the things that scare us. Part of the Lenten discipline involves owning up to—as an old prayer says—“the harm we have done and the good we have left undone.” Or, in the words of Step Four of every 12-Step program, making “a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.”

That’s worth doing. But today, I want to invite you to do another kind of Lenten inventory: an accounting of the angels you have known and loved—and who have loved you—in the desert places of your own lives. Today, I invite you to acknowledge—as  Mark did—those angels who show up for us … when we are tired … when we are thirsty … when we are surrounded by wild beasts. Those angels who have brought the kingdom of God to us in the wilderness—just like they did for Jesus.

Now, your wilderness angels may not look the way you think angels should. They may not have long white robes, or rustling wings. Instead, maybe your angels look like … the Junior High School teacher who believed in you when you did not believe in yourself. Or the coach who gave you a chance to play, even though you were not very good. Or maybe one of your angels is a colleague who had your back during a rough time at work. Or a friend who listened to you pour out your heart after your marriage disintegrated.

Sometimes our wilderness angels are the ones who accept our apologies after we’ve hurt them. Sometimes they are the ones who just accept us as we are, reminding us that there “is more grace in God than sin in us”—and that in God’s kingdom there is always the chance to start over, and find a new beginning.

Lent begins with Jesus’ 40-day journey into the wilderness. Our Lenten pilgrimage, also, can feel like a sojourn in the desert. It can be an arduous journey filled with fearsome things, as we come face-to-face with our own failings and phobias. Through Lent—if we take it seriously—we revisit the times we’ve let those fearsome things get the better of us.

Yeah. Lent is a desert. It’s a place where the wild beasts of despair or regret encircle us. And we can find ourselves there at any time of year. Because, sometimes, the desert comes looking for us. Sometimes, misfortune seeks us out. Or bereavement does. Or a health crisis. Or a job loss. Or even the challenge to do the right thing, although that will cost us everything. Even though it may drag us—kicking and screaming—into a new beginning. Even in such a time—even in such a wilderness—do not forget about the angels! Mark didn’t. And neither should we.

“Jesus was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan, and he was with the wild beasts, and the angels ministered to him.”

Even in the badlands, according to Mark, the angels got the last word. May that be true for us, also, as we journey through the wilderness of Lent. Thanks be to God for the angels who have been with us in the dry, desert times of our lives. May the recollection of them empower us to be, likewise, bearers of grace and bearers of courage in this world.

We can be angels for others, my friends. We can usher in a new beginning. Let’s not miss the chance to do it.

________________________

* The Rev. Christopher Henry is senior pastor of Shallowford Presbyterian Church in Atlanta, GA. Quotation is from: http://day1.org/3552-where_to_begin

 

Transfiguration Sunday

TEXTS: 2 Kings 2:1-12 and Mark 9:2-9

And [Jesus] was transfigured before them, and his clothes became dazzling white, such as no one on earth could bleach them. And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus. (Mark 9:2b-4)

A story is told about a meeting where the treasurer of the group handed the secretary an envelope. Everyone saw the secretary remove some papers from the envelope—but nobody noticed what he did with the envelope. Later in the meeting, the chairperson asked the secretary for some information. The secretary replied that he did not have that information. At that point, the treasurer rose and said, “Yes, you do! It was on the envelope I gave you.”

The secretary replied, “Oh, I didn’t know what that was … so I threw it away!”

Hearing that story, we laugh—perhaps because we’ve all done something just like that ourselves at one time or another. Often—when we encounter something which we do not know or understand—we throw it away. Or, at the very least, we ignore it. We put it on hold. We dismiss it.

So it is with stories like today’s readings from Scripture. We hear about visions of chariots of fire, of water being parted to reveal a path across a river, and of a man being taken up into heaven in a whirlwind—and what do we do?

Many of us shrug our shoulders and dismiss these stories as idle tales. Or perhaps we place them in that mental file called “Bible stuff”—and never think about them again. We hear about how Jesus was transformed upon a mountaintop, so that he shone as bright as the sun; and about how he was visited by two men—long dead—and we say to ourselves: “That’s all very well, but what does it have to do with us?” And then we go on about our lives as if these things had never happened—as if they never could happen!

Most sermons I have heard on today’s gospel text ignore the experience that the disciples witnessed Jesus undergo. In fact, I have to admit that I’ve preached sermons like that—saying very little about the overwhelming brightness of Jesus’ appearance, very little about the fact that Peter, James, and John saw Moses and Elijah talking with Christ and heard a voice from heaven. Quickly passing over the wonder of the experience, preachers like me have emphasized that Christians are called to come down off the mountain and serve in the valley below.

Having listened to so many sermons like that, it’s no wonder that most of us scorn the prophet’s ecstasy, the dreamer’s vision, and the worshipper’s conviction that he or she has heard God speak.

Most of us are convinced that our faith is about doing good things, about showing love and care for one another—and that’s true enough; that is what our faith is about. But our faith is also about the yearning to see God and experience his power. Our faith is about being touched by the Holy Spirit, and being moved by the voice of God whispering in our ears.

Our faith is so rich—our God so good—that it makes no sense at all to limit what is possible for us to the dry bones of what we should or should not do each day. Our faith is about entertaining angels—every bit as much as it is about seeking to comfort the afflicted and to heal the sick. It is about seeing visions of a new heaven and a new earth—every bit as much as it is about seeking justice and resisting evil. It is about being refreshed by God, as much as it is about refreshing others in God’s name.

Now, I am reminded of another story. It goes like this:

THE LITTLE BOY AND THE CIRCUS

Long ago, there was a little boy who lived far back out in the country, on a farm. He had reached the age of 12 and had never, in all his life, seen a circus.

You can imagine his excitement when a poster went up at school that on the next Saturday a travelling circus was coming to a nearby town. The boy ran home with the glad news, and asked his parents if he could go.

The boy’s family was very poor, but his father sensed how important this was to him. And so he said, “If you do your chores ahead of time, I’ll see to it that you have the money to go to the circus.”

Come Saturday morning the chores were done, and the boy stood ready in his best clothes by the breakfast table. His father reached down into his overalls and pulled out a dollar—and gave it to his son.

Now, in those long-ago days, a dollar was a lot of money. In fact, it was the most money the boy had ever had at one time!

So the boy set off to see the circus. He was so excited that his feet barely touched the ground all the way into town.

When he got there, he noticed people were lining the streets. The boy worked his way through the crowd until he could see what was going on. There, off in the distance, approached the spectacle of a circus parade. It was the grandest thing that the lad had ever seen! There were exotic animals in cages, and huge elephants and dancing bears and bands and acrobats—all the things you would expect to see at a great circus.

Soon, everything had passed by where the boy was standing. Then a circus clown—with floppy shoes and baggy pants and brightly painted face—came by, bringing up the rear. As the clown passed by where he was standing, the boy reached into his pocket and got out that precious dollar. Handing the money to the clown, the boy then turned around … and went home!

 

Too often, we are like that little boy. We mistake the circus parade for the circus! The mistake that the boy made is the same mistake we can make in our spiritual lives; we can end up settling for less than the real thing—for a portion instead of the whole. That happens because we either do not believe in what God can do—or because we do not look at or understand what we have been given: “I did not know what it was, so I threw it away!”

I believe the most common problem faced by modern Christians is not that they spend too much time seeking spiritual visions and revelations—thereby neglecting the important truths and duties of everyday life in Christ; rather, it is that they do not believe in—and therefore are not open to—the special moments, the special touches, that only God can give.

Some say that people have no energy for living the Christian life because they do not get fed by the church. I think that some of us are out of energy because we fail to recognize the food that is set before us—because we fail to take and eat what God seeks to give us.

My friends, I cannot explain out to you what a holy moment is—nor can I tell you just how special and sacred events come to pass. Neither can I promise you that you will have such a moment if you only do this or that; but I can tell you that these moments are real, and that they come to us most often when we put ourselves in the way of them. As another preacher once put it: “You can’t have a mountaintop experience if you don’t climb the mountain!”

Elisha had his experience because he followed his teacher Elijah around the country despite Elijah telling him not to! He actively sought a double portion of the spirit that filled Elijah and was patient to receive it. Peter, James, and John were obeying Jesus when they witnessed his transfiguration; they had climbed the mountain with him as he went to pray.

The sacred experiences that are recounted in the Bible, the experiences of the divine that are recorded there, are still needed today—and they still occur today!

Some catch sight of God in the beauty around them. Some glimpse him during a close encounter with death. Some meet him in a special way during a period of suffering—and others, while they are praying at special gatherings or at worship.

Don’t throw away those strange and mysterious experiences that have happened in your lives. Don’t let go of those things that you do not understand or cannot explain. Instead, I tell you: meditate on them, delight in them, and use them as a source of strength for your time of service in the valleys below.