Sermon, Calvary Prebyterian Church, 8/21.

Matthew 16:13-20

“Come Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of these your faithful, and kindle within us the fire of your love. May our words and our hearts together glorify you, O God, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.”

“Who do people say that the Son of Man is?”There is always a lot of scuttlebutt on the streets about who Jesus is. Everyone has an opinion: denominational leaders, the religion columnists in the New York Times, the twenty-something internet blogger, the guy who bags your groceries at Stop and Shop. Baptists, Catholics, United Methodists, Presbyterians; pundits on Fox News and MSNBC; Republican and Democratic candidates for President all have some opinion about who Jesus is, and the differences in those perspectives are often pretty easy to spot. I often wonder how much these opinions on Jesus are, rather than an honest and open discussion, simply a way of furthering an agenda. However, that’s another sermon.

“Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” Thumb through the gospels, and you can’t help noticing that people say a lot of things about Jesus. He is the King of the Jews. He is Mary’s Son. He is the light of the world. He is a prophet without honor in his own country. Jesus is the one who can heal your child, cast out your demon, forgive your sins, lead your revolution. Jesus is the one you invite to dinner and then invite to leave the district. He is a messiah, a prophet, a rabbi, and a pain in the neck. He is alive, he is dead, he is risen, he will come again. People say Jesus is a lot of things.

And, of course, in today’s world, you can’t help noticing that people say a lot of things about Jesus, too—theologically, historically, sociologically, pastorally, colloquially, politically, biblically; you name it. They say it out loud and on street corners. They say across the kitchen table and on the internet. They say it in classrooms and in pulpits. In just about any context you can imagine, people say all kinds of things about Jesus, because nearly everybody has an opinion. You don’t have to be a follower of Jesus to understand that the man is big; he is as influential a figure as the planet is likely to ever see. So people say a lot of things about Jesus. They describe him, decry him, defend him, deconstruct him. They explain him, complain about him, and just plain old shoot-the-breeze about him. Jesus is easy to talk about in this world. Pick your context, pick your method, and go.

In today’s Gospel lesson, we have a very particular context for that lingering, pesky question, “who do people say that the Son of Man is?” It is interesting, and perhaps most oddly appropriate, that of all the places that Jesus and his disciples have journeyed through in the Galilean area, it is Caesarea Philippi that is the spot of Jesus’ question and Peter’s proclamation. You see, Peter could have proclaimed Jesus as the Messiah, the Christ, in many places. The choices were practically limitless. He could have done it in the Temple, on a mountaintop, or on a boat by the sea. But, no. Jesus had, inexplicably taken his disciples to Caesarea Philippi. Caesarea Philippi is at the far north of the land of Israel. It was originally named Paneas, after the Greek god Pan, the god of music. This far northern region was known as "the panion"--the region of Pan. In 198 BCE, the Seleucids (the Greeks of the middle east) defeated the Ptolemies (the Greeks of Egypt) at the Battle of Panian. This re-established Seleucid control over the region, which lasted until the Maccabean revolt about thirty years later. The Seleucids built a monument to Pan in the city. Rome, of course, later conquered the entire region. In 20 BCE, Caesar Augustus gave the town to Herod the (so-called) Great. Upon Herod's death in 4 BCE, his son, Phillip, "inherited" the city and renamed it after Caesar and himself. Still a center of Pan worship, it was believed that this god, was born in a nearby, creepy looking cave, called: the Gates of Hell. Since Pan was connected with fertility, it is believed that Pan worship was highly sexual in nature, and such orgiastic rituals are said to have involved goats. This was NOT the place you’d go to find decent, respectable company. This is a place where Jesus brought his disciples.

I think Jesus wanted them to experience this place. I think he wanted them to know what the world is really like. I think he wanted them to know that not everyone spent all day in the Temple arguing about the finer points of Jewish law. And, then again, I think Jesus’ motivation was about more than “experience.” He was looking for something from the disciples. After Peter correctly identifies Jesus as the Messiah, Jesus tells Peter that he is the “Rock” upon which his church will be built. AND, that “the Gates of Hell” won’t prevail against the church.

Jesus says that the Gates of Hell won’t prevail against the church built on the Rock. It’s an interesting image, those gates. Sure, there’s the cave looming over Jesus’ shoulder, the legendary birthplace of Pan, those “gates of hell,” and that obviously adds a layer of meaning here, but there might be more to what Jesus is saying. Gates are used in military strategy. But, gates aren’t offensive weapons. No one ever won a battle by breaking out a great gate and using it to attack the enemy. Gates are defensive in nature. So, when Jesus talks about his church struggling with the forces of evil, Jesus just assumes that his followers will be on the offensive. He assumes that those forces set against the kingdom of God will be counting on their gate, in defensive position. And when it does, that gate will not prevail.

In the pagan worship of that strange place, Peter is able to see the Light in the Darkness. It’s there that he’s able to see the Messiah, the one who came to give abundant life, to shine light in the darkness, to teach everyone that death never has the last word. And Peter finally sees him, in ways that he wasn’t able to see him at the Temple, or the mountaintop, or by the Sea of Galilee. It’s there, in that awkward place for a field trip, and far, far away from cleanness and rightness and proper religious expression – that Jesus, the Christ, is finally recognized and proclaimed. It is also in this place of stark contrast that the questions shifts, as it necessarily must, for both Jesus’ disciples and for us. It is no longer “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” but, “Who do YOU say that I am?”

That little word "YOU" can make all the difference in the world when asking a question or giving direction. It implicates a person. Insert that little word YOU-- "Who do YOU say that I am?"-- and you find out that the stakes get a little bit higher. Talking about Jesus as an idea is a far cry from trusting your life to Jesus. Listening to the minister give a sermon about who Jesus is is quite different from having the question posed to you. It's the difference between talking about love and telling someone that you actually love him or her. I'll take a kiss from my wife any day over her simply reading to me from a textbook about what love is.

Emily Dickinson once wrote a poem to a distant and unexpressive lover of hers. It began with this line: "To love me is one thing; to tell me you love me is another." That's the kind of difference Jesus seems to be hinting at. Something in his question--"Who do you say that I am?"--was searching for a read on the disciples' love. How would the disciples respond to their teacher's unannounced question? Some of them probably tried the "statue option," standing very still and avoiding eye contact, hoping that Jesus would mistake them for Plaster of Paris and call on someone else. Others likely stuffed their panic inside, cupping their chin in their hand and looking down as if studious and reflective on the whole situation. Whatever happened, Peter was the first to speak up. And without any equivocation, he said: "You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God." Something in those words struck Jesus as completely genuine, full of love and personal passion. It wasn't anything like the textbook responses that the other disciples were thinking up. No, this was Peter through and through, heart and soul, all Peter. It felt to Jesus like Peter was saying directly to him, "I love you." And all Jesus could say in astonishing reply was, "Blessed are you."

The question is posed to us today as well, and they way we answer it makes all the difference in the world. You see, when you come to your own Caesarea Philippi, that place where darkness is overwhelming and goodness seems to have vanished, who Jesus is to you can either let the darkness keep on enveloping you, smothering everything in its wake, or it can cut it, dispelling the darkness with God’s inexhaustible light. When Jesus asks you"Who do YOU say that I am?" are you ready to answer him with your life, your money, your decisions, with everything that you are and all that you have? Are you ready to display your capacity to express love rather than just talk about love? Are you prepared not to play the statue trick or to fake an answer? Because whatever you say, and however you say it, you will not only be saying something powerful about Jesus, you will also be conveying to the world something that is deeply personal. You will be communicating what is really important to you, what you value, what makes you who you are, and how Jesus fits into all of that.

And this is why what Jesus says is so powerful! When we answer the question - Who do YOU say that I am? - with everything we have, with all that we are, those forces of darkness, those gates of hell, begin to shake a little. You see, I think this is the crux of the story. It’s not so much about about Peter, or this secret about Jesus being the Messiah; it’s all about how the question is answered. There is tremendous power in the answer, so much that the forces of darkness, those evils of injustice, oppression, inequality, don’t even stand a chance. For when we answer this question honestly, passionately, proclaiming our belief in the power of Jesus Christ, the forces of wickedness and evil will shake when we come near.

But our faith teaches us that it is not just enough to answer the question; we are also called to action, acts of justice and mercy that burst out of a place of gratitude for who Jesus is and what Jesus has done for us. When our sisters and brothers are starving in Africa, we are called to help provide. When our young sisters in south Asia and eastern Europe are kidnapped and sold into the sex slave industry, we are called to bring freedom and hope. When the forces of war put machine guns and machetes in the hands of our young brothers, we are called to bring peace. When our neighbors, our friends, our family members are enslaved to addiction and depression, we are called to bring hope and comfort. However grim the situations might appear, if we commit ourselves to the passionate pursuit of Jesus, we can be assured that even the gates of Hell won’t be able to stop us.

Because the Light always shines in the darkness. And the darkness does not overcome it.

It will not prevail.

Glory to God. Amen.

Palm Sunday Sermon

Sermon given on Palm Sunday, April 17, 2011 at Millbrook UMC, Randolph, NJ.

Have you ever driven down a road, thinking you were heading in the right

direction, only to wind up some place else? Last August Amanda and I had

planned a trip to Maine. The trip to my parent’s house takes about 11 hours from

here in Northern New Jersey, so we always break up the trip into two days and

either stay overnight at a motel or with my cousin in southern Maine. On that trip,

though, we were feeling particularly adventurous and decided to pack up a tent

and find a campground. Amanda located one in New Hampshire, and I called and

made reservations. I entered the address into my car GPS and started driving.

We got to New Hampshire at dusk; as we crossed into the state, my GPS told me

we only had 40 miles to go before we arrived at the campground. I turned off the

main highway and proceeded along a narrow one lane road, which soon turned

into a rough dirt path. All the while my GPS was assuring me the campground

wasn’t much further. The dirt slowly turned to grass with faint tire tracks rutted

into it, and at this point I realized something wasn’t right. By this time it was quite

dark and Amanda and I were irritable from a long day of driving and just wanted

to stop somewhere for the night. I managed to turn around and backtrack to a

gas station, where I got correct directions to our destination, only to arrive there

and discover the campground had closed. After about another hour of driving, we

found a motel and were grateful for warm beds and sound sleep.

You see, my problem was, I thought that road was taking me in one

direction; indeed, I had electronic assurance that I was headed in the right

direction, when in reality I was going someplace else. And that, my friends,

brings us to Palm Sunday.

We know this story from Matthew so well that it is easy for us to think like

those in Jerusalem that day — that Palm Sunday is taking us someplace else, a

joyful place where celebrations and happiness abound. In reality we’re on a

different road, a road we might not choose, a road we had not planned on, a road

we do not welcome.

The day Jesus rode into Jerusalem, the crowds were ready for a change.

The oppression of the Roman empire lay heavy on them like the Egyptian

captivity from which their forebearers had been delivered. It was Passover week,

after all. During this most holy of celebrations, the Jewish people remember the

violence, domination, and oppression prominent in their history, and God’s

unfailing promise of divine deliverance. This meal appeared to be about an

ancient story, a tradition, a reenactment that celebrated the deliverance of the

people of Israel from a tyrant, Egypt’s Pharaoh. Moses, chosen by God to lead

the people out of captivity, had instructed the Hebrews to gather with their

possessions in hand, their garments ready for travel, their staffs in their

hands. They were to put the blood of a lamb on the door post, and wait for God’s

deliverance.

And deliverance came. The death angel passed over Egypt, and all over

that land death visited Egyptian households, taking the future of the nation with

it. Wailing could be heard rising from compound after compound. The will to

resist the God of Israel had faded. Pharaoh relented, and God’s people were

free. It was a temporary freedom, as Pharaoh changed his mind and pursued the

nation of Israel, but God continued to protect God’s people. They had slipped in

the dark of night from the chains of slavery into the guidance of God.

It was that same hope of freedom that the crowds in Jerusalem invested in

Jesus that day he came riding in. His popularity and reputation proceeded him;

he had healed on the sabbath, insulted religious leaders, and, just last week,

revived someone from death. It was not the first time the crowds had searched

for a leader to usher in God’s reign, and it would not be the last. But Jesus

seemed different. Here was a mystic, a prophet, a healer, and yet an everyday

working-class man who stayed with common people, ate with tax collectors,

forgave people of ill repute, played with children, and taught vast crowds who

came out to hear him. And while Jesus didn’t say anything directly about

overthrowing Roman rule — he had even suggested they pay the taxes owed

Caesar — he certainly implied it. Jesus broke social, religious, and political

barriers, because he knew the grace and love of God knows no restrictions.

Jesus also seemed to fear no one, but the Pharisess, the chief priest, and the

other religious leaders feared his popularity. The less popular they were, the

more popular Jesus became.

So, on that Sunday morning, when Jesus came in riding on a donkey and

her colt, the clue that Zechariah says is the arrival of the triumphant king who

would bring peace, those in Jerusalem took up the chant, “Hosanna to the Son of

David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!” People yank of

their cloaks and break off branches and spread them on the road, determined to

provide Jesus with the royal entrance they believe he deserves. Some of the

crowd, perhaps those who had travelled to Jerusalem from a distance and hadn’t

yet heard of this Jesus, said, “Who is he?” The crowds enthusiastically answer,

“It’s Jesus! It’s the prophet from Nazareth in Galilee!”

Over the last few weeks the world has been mesmerized by the toppling of

dictators in the Middle East and North Africa as people, longing for freedom, have

protested and pressured their rulers to make way for democracy. This is

happening in Egypt, Syria, the Ivory Coast; there are continued struggles against

regimes in Israel and Palestine, Iraq, and Afghanistan, indeed around the world.

Perhaps the most disturbing of these uprisings has been in Libya where an

armed and untrained ragtag group of “rebels” has been attacked by the equipped

and well-trained army of Muammar Gaddafi, the Libyan dictator for over forty

years. If ever there was an example of how the power of dominance and control

always turns evil and destructive, this is it. But, perhaps what’s most disturbing

about this scenario is that few of the commentators or reporters I have heard or

read are surprised. What we are witnessing is not an anomaly. It is a pattern that

has been played out many times in the history of human power struggles. This is

what the human system of dominance looks like. Violent, oppressive domination

by a nation, state, or individual cannot abide freedom, equality, or non-violence. It

is the principalities and powers of this world against the extraordinarily radical

and always just ways of God.

At the time of Jesus such images of power and control were rather

commonplace. The crosses that dotted the countryside were tangible witnesses

to the fierce and decisive response that could be expected should anyone

question or challenge the dominance of the Roman Empire. Power was won

through conflict and through the humiliation of opponents; crucifixion as a form of

execution was designed to humiliate and make an example of its victims. And, of

course, power was retained through the exact same methods.

But it is not only in the political arena that such violent “power-over” is

practiced. In business, competitors are often treated as ‘enemies’ and no mercy

is shown in seeking to drive others out of business in order to reach the top of the

heap. In sports, the language of war is often used, and opponents sometimes

even inflict serious injury on one another in the quest for glory. Winning is

everything, and the losers must be humiliated. Perhaps the one place where we

would expect this pattern to be conspicuous by its absence is in religion.

However, even here, human history has witnessed the same violence,

dominance and power struggles between different religious sects, even, at times,

within a single religion. Human beings, it seems, have yet to fully understand the

destructive and corrupting influence of power.

You see, the Jerusalem road on Palm Sunday was not the road to political

dominance, or the powers of this world, as so many in the crowed had expected

it to be. Jesus wasn’t coming as a military tyrant, ready to exchange one form of

power for another. We know that Jesus rejected that during his temptation. The

road to Jerusalem is one paved by the non-violent, just and peace-loving ways of

God, ways that run counter to this world and always expose it for what it is:

empty and meaningless, bereft of hope, leading to destruction. In our celebration

of the wonder of Palm Sunday, we see the fickle nature of worldly powers. We

know that only a few short days from now, Jesus will be betrayed, arrested, tried,

abandoned, whipped, spit upon, slapped, have his beard torn out, mocked,

ridiculed, and ultimately killed. And the same crowds that had on Sunday sung

Hosannas at his arrival, would shout on Friday for Pilate to release Barabbas and

put Jesus to death.

The road that Jesus trod into Jerusalem was the same road he had always

walked. It was the road of humility, of love, of patience, of hope, of

encouragement. It was the way of salvation, not the way of the empire. It was the

way of the kingdom, not of the king. It was the road to glory, not to government. It

was the way of righteousness, not of Rome. And when the road in Jerusalem

changed from triumph to torture, Jesus stayed on it. When the shouting of the

crowds moved from joy to judgment, Jesus stayed on it. When the mood of the

mob switched from adoration to accusation, Jesus didn’t flinch. When the road

became rough, steep, and lonely, Jesus kept going.

And in a perfect world a man who did nothing but good, who relieved

suffering, who comforted the mourning, who sat with the sorrowful, who ate with

sinners, who made the broken whole — in a perfect world such a man would be

honored, praised, loved, and revered. But such people are always attacked by

those who love violence and oppression, by those who have given themselves

over to the principalities and powers of this world. In their confusion, anger, and

fear, those who on Sunday had welcomed Jesus as their new messiah-to-be and

Friday had turned on him, were weary of disappointment, weary of themselves,

weary of their lives. And so tired of all they could not control, they cried out for

vengeance they could control. If Jesus won’t be our king, if Jesus won’t give us

what we want, then let’s be rid of him, they said.

Friends, the road to Jerusalem on Palm Sunday intersects with the

highways of our lives; it is a road we cannot avoid. Our GPS’s can’t calculate an

alternate route. But, when we end up on that road, we have a choice to make.

When those around us turn against us, when peace turns to violence and pushes

in at all sides, we can yield to the maddening multitudes. When those that we

once trusted and loved begin to gossip and spread all sort of rumors about us,

we can submit to the chaotic crowd. When anxiety and worry and situations that

seem out of control threaten to overtake our very souls, we can give up to the

teeming throngs. Or, we can stick it out. We can reject the deadly forces of evil

with the goodness of God. We can resist those who would tell us to live violently,

to oppress and to use those around us, and instead choose to live in the light of

God’s justice. We can renounce the voices of doubt and despair and instead

raise our voices in praise of God’s blessed assuracne. Yes, we can be sure that

our Palm Sundays will lead to Good Fridays, but we know a better day awaits, a

day of glorious resurrection, and by God’s grace we will all get there. Amen.

a eucharistic moment...

Harry* began attending Millbrook United Methodist Church a few years ago. He’s probably in his late 70’s or early 80’s; someone invited him to church shortly after his wife died, and he’s been faithful ever since. Harry always smiles, and his eyes twinkle behind thick bifocals. He has a firm handshake and large, gnarly hands, bearing witness to a lifetime of hard work. My conversations with Harry never go further than, “Hello,” or “Have a great week,” or “God bless you”; yet, somehow, that is enough. We have developed a connection that doesn't need words. When we share in the Lord’s Supper at church, the congregation comes forward and kneels at the rail, and then Ben and I serve them the elements. I make sure that as I offer the elements to each person, I say their name, followed by “the gift of God for the (woman or man) of God.” When I get to Harry, I say his name, and am about to continue when I am greeted with a loud “Hiya!” I pause for a moment and look into his smiling face; then, I grasp his rough hand as I offer him the cup, into which he dips his hunk of bread. After putting the soggy piece into his mouth, he says, while still chewing, “Thanks!” I am humbled, and fight back a tear or two as I offer the blood of Christ to the next person. I finally get it. Harry is thankful, and I am too.

*name changed.

"Beyond an Eye for an Eye"

Sermon given at the Millbrook United Methodist Church, 2/20/11.

Text: Matthew 5:38-48

God of infinite possibilities, may your words alone be spoken, and may your words alone be heard. Amen.

A few years ago, on a warm spring day, I drove past a church in Maine. Actually, I was stopped at a red light on an intersection and the church was to my right. The church sign announced that Luke 6:27-36, Luke’s version of the Scripture we just heard, was the sermon text for the coming Sunday, and immediately following was a sentence that declared: "Following Jesus is Loving and Practical." Now, as soon as I read that, I cringed. I had a visceral reaction; I balled my fists and clenched my jaw. I started arguing with the sign; "I don't think so," I said out loud. "I’m not totally sure it’s all that loving, and it's definitely not very practical." I began to mentally list of all the questionably loving and certainly impractical things Jesus called us to do; the car behind me, however, interrupted my list-making with its blaring horn, so I never got to finish the argument with the church sign. I've wondered ever since what the minister said on that Sunday morning.

A few of the certainly impractical and questionably loving teachings of Jesus that I recalled in my head that day are found in today’s Gospel. How is it impractical? “Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also. ” Is that practical? I don't think so. “If anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well; and if anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile. Give to everyone who begs from you, and do not refuse anyone who wants to borrow from you.” Come on, Jesus. Let's be realistic. If someone takes away all my goods, then how can I give to everyone who begs from me? It doesn't make sense.

How is it questionably loving? “If anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also” has been unloving, indeed, evil advice given to battered women and abused spouses for centuries. At first glance, Jesus seems to be commanding us to be doormats, to accept any number of physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual ills in the hopes of some sort of favorable reward from God. Is Jesus insisting we become punching bags, both literally and metaphorically? THAT would impractical and unloving. Also, it’s very likely that Jesus is speaking here to those who had been victimized by injustice, to the oppressed rather than their oppressors. Is Jesus telling his victims to be quiet, to keep taking it?

Friends, I must say that I have had quite a change in my understanding of this text since that spring day when I encountered that church sign. I believe that if we dig just a bit deeper, if we engage in a bit of excavation, we discover how incredibly radical this bit from the Sermon on the Mount, that turning your cheek, giving your cloak, and going an extra mile can be powerful testaments to the gospel of peace. It dares to move beyond an eye for an eye notion of justice and makes the bold claim that following Jesus is indeed loving and practical. It rejects any sort of retributive justice; instead it embraces God’s way of unrelenting and all-encompassing love, a love that accepts you and embraces you and tells you there is nothing you can do to stop it. It calls us to a whole new, radical way of living.

In Hebrew law, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth was established to make sure the punishment did not exceed the crime. So if you put out my eye, I could not retaliate by killing you; I could only put out your eye and nothing more. That is retributive justice. But Jesus is calling for an understanding of justice beyond an eye for an eye. Strange as it may initially seem to us, Jesus' words are a powerful form of non-violent resistance to oppression; indeed, his words redefine justice itself. Now this isn’t immediately evident because we have to know something about the culture in which Jesus lived. In the culture of first-century Palestine, a person's left hand was used for, well, bathroom functions. Now, what this meant was that you'd never strike a person with your left hand. If you were superior to another person, you would strike them with the back of your right hand, never with the palm of your hand for that would mean you'd see them as an equal. Now we begin to understand the scene Jesus is setting. If someone strikes you on the cheek, it will most likely be with the back of his hand, for remember Jesus is preaching to the oppressed, those certainly not considered equals by their oppressors. If you turn your face to the right, you force your oppressor to see you as an equal for even your oppressor won't use his left hand. That just simply wasn’t done, because that would have defiled the oppressor as much as the oppressed. If you can imagine, the oppressor's hand begins to swing but is caught in mid-air because he doesn't want to treat you as an equal by hitting you with open palm. You have forced upon your oppressor an equal playing field. Turning the other cheek is not synonymous with forgiving and forgetting; it is a powerful demand for equality and respect as a child of God.

The same subversive type of resistance comes in giving up your shirt when your oppressor asks for your coat. Now, this isn’t comparable to giving your old winter coat to the Salvation Army. Jesus is talking about something completely different here. The likely scenario is that you are asked for your coat in repayment of a debt. You owe your oppressor something and since you have no land and very little money, your oppressor asks for your very coat. Now, there were very clear restrictions regarding the repayment of debts. You could not leave a debtor naked at sundown no matter what he or she owed; it just simply was not to be done. It was against every sense of decency and good order. So Jesus sets up another strategy of resistance. If they ask for your coat, give them your shirt too. There you'll be standing half-naked; they'll be forced to deal with this new reality you've set up. Perhaps, they might be so disarmed that they'll return your coat as well.

Also, in first century Roman-occupied Palestine, a soldier could conscript a Jewish native to carry his equipment for one Roman mile -- 1000 paces. This was, of course, no easy task considering a Roman soldier's backpack could weigh upwards of one-hundred pounds. However, a Roman soldier was prohibited from insisting the carrier to go anymore than a single mile; to do so could incur disciplinary actions. By going an extra mile, you are living with dignity while being treated like nothing; you are not allowing injustice and oppression to define who you are and what you do.

Jesus is not telling people to remain victims, to accept their oppressed state, but to find new ways of resisting evil. On the other hand, Jesus is not saying there are no consequences for unjust, oppressive behavior, either. "Love your enemies," Jesus said, "pray for those who persecute you." This is the ethic that moved Martin Luther King, Jr., to kneel down with his sisters and brothers before water hoses and snarling police dogs. Many people thought he was crazy. "Only violence can fight violence," they told him. But the authorities and the oppressors didn't know what to do with this kind of resistance. They knew the power of violence; they knew the powerlessness of people who knew and accepted their place as victims, but this was something they hadn't seen before: people who refused to be victims, people who refused to fight back with violence but with God’s justice, people who claimed their place and reshaped the battle completely.

"Love your enemies, pray for those who persecute you." And don't be too impressed with yourself for being good to your friends. Anybody can do that, Jesus says. "For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax-collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same?" Just when we think we have loving and praying for our enemies figured out, Jesus reminds us that it's far deeper and more difficult than simply how we treat our friends. It's much more than quid pro quo; that is, it’s more than giving love to those who give love back. Jesus is telling us to love and pray and to not expect anything in return. It's even different from treating others the way we hope to be treated; it’s treating others as sisters and brothers no matter what, and with no expectations. It’s a radical new way of living.

“Love your enemies; pray for those who persecute you.” When Martin Luther King preached on this text in 1957 in the midst of the Civil Rights struggle, he said that “the words of this text glitter in our eyes with a new urgency. Far from being the pious injunction of a utopian dreamer, this command is an absolute necessity for the survival of our civilization. Yes, it is love that will save our world and our civilization, love even for enemies.” I would maintain that today, just as in 1957, these teachings of Jesus resonate in our hearing with new intensity and call us to urgent action. When lesbian and gay teenagers are literally bullied to death for being who God made them, we need a new way of living. When the overwhelming majority of the United State’s wealth is concentrated in the top 2%, while the middle class has almost completely disappeared and the poor get poorer, we need a new way of living. When creation is abused and arrogantly wasted in order to satisfy selfish, greedy habits, destroying entire ecosystems and species in the process, we need a new way of living.

Today, when I hear these words from Jesus, I often think about Matthew Shepard's mother, Judy. Do you remember Matthew Shepard? In October 1998, he was brutally beaten for being gay, for being who God made him, beaten because two men were filled with hate. Two young men offered Shepard a ride home; instead, upon finding out he was gay, the took him to a remote field. The two them beat him, tied him to a fence on a country road and left him alone in the freezing night. By the time someone found him the next morning and got him to the hospital, there was no way to save him. Matthew Shepard died as hundreds stood in candlelight vigil outside the hospital. The two men who killed Matthew were arrested, tried, and convicted of the brutal hate crime. And what has Judy Shepard done since? She has taken Matthew’s story and changed the way we talk about and deal with hate in America. She has used his legacy to challenge, inspire, and educate millions of people that turning the other cheek is not synonymous with forgiving and forgetting; instead, it is a powerful demand for equality and respect as a child of God.

"Love your enemies," Jesus said, "pray for those who persecute you." Judy Shepard’s life is shaped by a gospel deeper than hatred, a gospel stronger than revenge. Judy Shepard embraced a new way of living, one that will indeed save our world and our civilization if we would just have the boldness to dare to try it. By loving her enemies and passionately, powerfully spreading the message that ALL people are God’s children of sacred worth, she shows us radical resistance to the values of this world. She is a witness to the transforming power of the gospel. Friends, the gospel has never been more relevant. The world has never been more ready. May we find the courage to love and live beyond an eye for an eye. Amen.

© Evan W. Dodge.

Sermon given 1/2/2011 at Millbrook United Methodist Church, Randolph, NJ.

Text: John 1:1-18.

"In the beginning..."

Merry Christmas! What a season it’s been, a time filled with wonder, busyness, and lots of food that we know we shouldn’t have eaten but can’t seem to refuse anyway. It is a season full of sublime moments, those memorable times when God seems to be a little bit closer. Like on Christmas Eve when we turned down the lights in the sanctuary and sang in a Silent Night while we passed a tiny flame from candle to candle. Like during the children’s time at the same service when Doris’ grandson held the baby Jesus from the Fisher Price nativity gently in his little hands, being careful not to drop him. We remember the hush, the gentleness, the magic of Christmas. It's so good, yet it feels so delicate, probably because at its heart is a baby, a brand new baby. Babies remind us of both the potential and fragility of new life.

Yet, for so many of us, the Christmas season can be a depressing letdown. The parties are over, the family has left, presents and cards have been opened, and perhaps many of you have already begun to take down your decorations. After all the hype, after running around for last minute gifts, after all of those special church services and events, we are left with an abrupt ending. Despite the several pounds gained from all that delectable food, many of us feel empty and hungry for more, and we ask ourselves: that’s all? What in the world could all of that mean?

Jack Shea, Catholic theologian and storyteller, answers that question with the following story about a little girl named Sharon: "She was five, sure of the facts, and recited them with slow solemnity, convinced every word was revelation. She said, "They were so poor they had only peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to eat and they went a long way from home without getting lost. The lady rode a donkey, the man walked, and the baby was inside the lady. They had to stay in a stable with an ox and an ass (hee-hee), but the Three Rich Men found them because a star lighted the roof. Shepherds came and you could pet the sheep but not feed them. Then the baby was borned. And do you know who he was?" Her quarter eyes inflated to silver dollars. "The baby was God." And she jumped in the air, whirled around, dove into the sofa and buried her head under the cushion, which, of course, is the only proper response to the Good News of the Incarnation."

Uncontainable joy! Jumping and spinning around in child-like wonder: what a most appropriate response to the news of God entering into humanity. God loved us so much that God’s love spilled out and overflowed in the person of Jesus; what a fitting response for ours to do the same. We discover that our worried wondering of what it all means is answered above and beyond what we could have dreamed.

Throughout Advent and the Christmas season, we have heard again and again the nativity stories, of Mary and Joseph journeying to Bethlehem, of Jesus’ birth in less-than-ideal conditions, of the shepherds hearing the news first, of the magi’s long, arduous journey under a supernatural star. The Matthew and Luke stories are familiar to us; no doubt many of us could recite parts of these stories verbatim. Today, we have John’s nativity story, and what a different story it is! All of the other Gospels begin with a traditional description of the birth of Jesus, but John chooses a very different approach. Here we do not find any of the familiar depictions of the Christmas story; no, John crafts his own way of answering our universal, nagging questions of - is that all? what does it all mean?

John adapts the message using this strange terminology, "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." The Greek term for "Word" is "logos," and that word was a very important idea in the circles of the Greek philosophers of the time. John knew that the Jewish idea of the Messiah would not have much of an appeal to his non-Jewish audience; perhaps they wouldn’t even know what the concept of messiah was. So John searched for symbols that would speak to his Greek-educated audience. John realized the message of Jesus had to be packaged into familiar cultural concepts; John thought outside the box.

John introduces us to the Light. The Light that penetrates all that has ever been dark, and is not overcome by the darkness. The Light that saves us, that shows us the way home, that brings us out of death into life. This news, these words from John, this proclamation that we hear today, is some of the best news ever: We are not alone. There is light. There is life. And his name, the Word, is Jesus.

You see, before now, God spoke to humanity from a distance, and people like Noah, Abraham, Moses, and Deborah served as mediators between God and God’s people. Humanity heard God's voice through distant, rather impersonal ways--like in burning bushes and on tablets with laws etched in them and in floods and on rainbows. During the time of the Israelites, only the priest could enter into God’s presence in the tabernacle, and only then after a long series of purification rituals. Even the ark of the covenant, the portable carrier of God’s abiding presence, required special attendants; touching it would prove fatal to the unprepared. Now, don’t get me wrong; this doesn’t mean it was all bad for God’s people. Flawed, imperfect human beings were still loved and led by God, despite their messed up condition. It's just that eventually it wasn't enough; humanity needed something more, because talking fiery bushes and rainbows weren’t enough. Eventually, God knew that we needed to know, see, hear, and touch; we blind and deaf creatures needed someone to heal us, to restore our senses. We flounder and we suffer, and the only way to be restored to our fellow human beings and to God was for God to come down and love us up close. We needed God to be one of us.

The Light, God in Jesus, has come into the world. And whoever you are, wherever you may be, this is the moment where you have been brought from death to life. This is the moment that your despair gets lost in overwhelming, awesome hope. This is the moment that you are no longer lost, but now you are found. This is the moment that God enters your story as the Light of the World. This is the moment where all darkness has been pierced by the Light that cannot be overcome. This light that has pierced through our darkness is what I like to call an “Oh!” moment, those instances when a deeper reality dawns upon us, or hits us like a ton of bricks, or shines like a spotlight right into our faces. This is the moment that our questions of “that’s all?” and “what could all of that mean?” might find their answers.

But friends, there is something else happening here. When Jesus “took on flesh and dwelt among us,” we discover that God has “come a-callin’,” and you can be certain that things are going to change. A light that exposes our darkness cannot but help to force us to reassess our situation. And when that light shines its revealing beam, we are inevitably presented with the option of choosing a different, better, holier way of thinking and living, even when the circumstance of our lives seems hopeless. The light that exudes from Jesus means we have a choice to make.

Of course, we can choose to behave as though we really have no new information, that the light hasn’t shone into the darkness of our lives; or that our lives are already all set, that God’s light really hasn’t exposed us for who we are. We can pretend we still have complete control, that there isn't much in this world we need to learn, that there isn't much we need to change. We can do that; in fact, that's what we usually do. But we must not fool ourselves. Deep down, we know it’s useless to try to do it all by ourselves. One of my favorite authors, someone I quote alot from, Anne Lamott, says that “If you want to make God laugh, tell God your plans.” We laugh, but we know she’s absolutely right.

For the brave and the honest among us, those of us who want a real answer to the “is that all” and “what does it all mean” questions, can, I think, find a word from God. Christmas is a profound reminder, that beneath the decorations and gifts and cookies, once the Christmas eve services are finished, that what we normally accomplish on our own is rather pathetic when we consider what God has done and what God continues to offer. God comes to us in Jesus, and overwhelms our darkness with such light that we will never be the same.

Martin Luther once compared us human beings to cows standing before a new gate. A cow cannot understand that a new doorway leads to fresh pasture. Instead, out of conditioning, it sees the new gate as the same old fence. Our culture and our egos condition us as well. We stand firm in well-established patterns that keep us blind to the new things Jesus opens to us. How sad it is that we stand in the same old tired place when right in front of our eyes is the entrance into a place of breathtaking possibility.

Jesus is the gate to green pasture, the door to a new place of incredible opportunity. The light that shines so brightly in Jesus not only shows inability to do anything on our own, it also illuminates our way, so that we know we are not alone. So, in this new year, be brave and walk through that new gate; be ready for all that God is going to do in and through you. May it be your beginning. Amen.

© Evan W. Dodge, 2011.

Christmas Eve Sermon

Christmas Eve sermon, given 12/24/2010 at the 11 p.m. Service

Millbrook United Methodist Church

“When Jesus told his stories he was often misunderstood, so misunderstood that the very people he came to save with his deepest love were the first to turn against him. It may not have been because they did not understand him as his disciples did not understand him, but that they understood him too well. They couldn’t stand his having turned everything upside-down and inside-out. It threatened their power...Because of their insistence on the law, their power depended on keeping everything right side up, everything in its proper box, put on the shelf in the right order. If they let him turn things inside-out it would be the end of their power. So they began to hate him.”

“He was surrounded by throngs, but how many heard what he actually said, rather than what they expected him to say? ‘Who is he?’ they asked each other.

“They found only paradox and contradiction. If we think of Jesus as the Son of God as any young man is the son of his father, we anthropomorphize. Perhaps because we are human beings, that is inevitable, is the only way we can understand. But it is far more than that. He is the Son of the One who created the stars in their courses, and yet, as Christ, he was Creator of the stars and without him was not anything made that was made. We will never understand with our finite minds that, yes, he shouted the magnificence of the universe into being and yet, as Jesus, came to our little blue planet as an ordinary mortal.”

“Everything is more than it seems, and we get occasional glimpses, revelations, but when we try to analyse and explain them we lose them. Angels were his chariots, and he rode upon the wings of the cherubim, and he is further away from us than galaxies billions of light years away, and he is as close to us as the beating of our own hearts.”

“He is with us because of a love beyond our comprehension, and it is only through our own love that we are able to know him at all. And it isn’t even our own love; it is Jesus’ love, expressed through us.”

“So, what has happened to us?”

“Why are we not alive with joy?”

- from Bright Evening Star by Madeleine L’Engle.

One of my favorite things about Christmas is that once a year we get a very clear reminder: we are reminded that God doesn’t keep records or tally up accounts, nor is God concerned about our gender, economic status, who we love, or our position in life. If God were concerned about any of those things, I don’t believe that Jesus, the image of God made human, would have been born in the disagreeable and poverty-ridden circumstances that he was.

The Christmas story is a story of universes colliding, of paths intersecting, of a budding love affair. It is where we find the divine and the human coming together. It is about God breaking into our world to show us the love we have always been capable of since creation, but the love we forgot how to do.

If it weren’t for Christmas, we might never fully grasp the intensity of the love God has for us.

We would think that such a love could have been much more effectively communicated through another set of circumstances. In the Christmas story, we have Mary and Joseph, far from home because of imperial rule, a peasant mother married to a hard-working carpenter, giving birth in unsanitary, substandard housing. There was no fanfare, no royal delegation, none of those things we would deem appropriate for such an announcement. His parents just laid him in that manger and they watched his face, held his tiny fingers and toes, and listened for his breathing, just like every new parent does. And we ask - that’s it? That’s all?

The story couldn’t be more appropriate. On that night in that little town of Bethlehem when God and humanity were joined, we discover that true love accepts us for who we really are. God chooses to love us precisely because we are humans and we too are capable of great love, not because of social standing or economic power. Christmas upends the letter of the law, takes everything out of its right-side up box, and tosses it off the shelf of power. No, it’s not about what we have done of accomplished of can be; Christmas is about love, pure, relentless, unconditional love, a love that embraces you and me, and tells us there is nothing we can do to stop it.

That little baby born in less than ideal conditions two thousand or so years ago is proof of the immeasurable love that God has had for all of us from the very beginning.

Near the end of his life, that famous theologian Karl Barth was delivering lectures at the University of Chicago Divinity School. At the end of a captivating lecture, the president of the seminary announced that Dr. Barth was not feeling well and wouldn’t be able to finish the lecture series. The president thought, though, that Dr. Barth would like to be open for questions, but that he shouldn’t be expected to deliver long answers. The president said that he would ask just one question on behalf of all those gathered.

He turned to the renowned theologian and asked, “Of all the greatest theological insights you have ever had, which do you consider to the be greatest of them all?”

It seemed to be a most appropriate question for a man who had written tens of thousands of pages of dense, erudite theology. The students held their pens and pencils against their writing pads, ready to transcribe the astute insight of one of the greatest theologians of their time.

Karl Barth closed his heavy eyes, tired from age and illness, and he thought for a minute. Then he smiled, opened his eyes, and said to those young seminarians, “The greatest theological insight I have ever had is this: ‘Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so’.”

Christmas is the living promise that we are never alone. No matter where we are in life, no matter in what condition we find ourselves, no matter how far we might stray away or how unfaithful we are, there is a love made known in Jesus that will envelop us for all eternity.

Yes, Jesus is with us because of a love beyond our comprehension, and it is only through our own love that we are able to know him at all.

So, are YOU alive with joy this Christmas eve?

© Evan W. Dodge, 2010.