Sermon given at Morsemere Community Church, UCC, Ridgefield, NJ. 26 February, 2012.

John 2:12-22

First Sunday in Lent

Today is the first Sunday in Lent, that season of self-reflection, reconciliation, and discipleship leading up to that glorious day of resurrection, Easter Sunday. At first glance, this Scripture seems like an odd way for us to begin Lent, with it’s portrayal of an angry Jesus, of the Temple, of moneychangers, people turning the sacred into financial profit. But I think, if we delve just a little bit deeper, we can discover that this lesson from John offers much in the way of Lenten preparation, for this is the season of the church when we are called to turn over our own tables, to drive out those things that make us less than the people God has made us to be, so that we may live as the loved children of God. Let us pray:

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.

When I was a young child, probably 5 or 6, I just loved that wonderful children’s book series called The Berestain Bears. Authors Stan and Jan Berenstain wrote these stories for young children, featuring Mama and Papa Berenstain Bear and little Brother Bear and Sister Bear. These stories are meant to deal with all those difficult life issues that young children encounter, like a bad dream, getting into trouble at school, interacting with strangers, and going to the dentist.

My mother’s favorite story to read to me was "The Berenstain Bears and the Messy Room." She read it so often, that, looking back now, I realize she was trying to send me a message. The story is a lesson about clean rooms and tidiness. The introduction warns:

"When small bears forget to pick up, store and stash,
Some of their favorite things end up in the trash."

The crisis in the story comes when Mama Bear gets fed up with the mess in Brother and Sister's room. It goes this way:

"Well, the mess just seemed to build up and build up until one day... maybe it was because Mama's back was a little stiff, or maybe it was stepping on Brother's airplane cement, or maybe she was just fed up with that messy room, but whatever it was... Mama Bear lost her temper!

She stormed into the cub's room with a big box. 'The first thing we need to do is get rid of all this junk!' she said. Brother and Sister were watching in horror as Mama began to throw things into the box."

I think my mother must have been friends with Mama Bear!

It's like that sometimes with our lives, isn't it? Things pile up until it is just too much to take and we just have to clean up the mess. A messy relationship, a messy job, a messy spiritual life- the time comes when we just want the mess cleaned up. Things accumulate, stuff piles up, and before we know it, parts of our lives bear little resemblance to the way they used to look, and we find that we are and those around us have suffered from the messiness. Sometimes the messiness is so overwhelming that even God’s presence and goodness seems a distant memory.

Today’s Gospel story from John is all about a mess - a mess so entrenched, so overwhelming, only radical housecleaning can correct the situation. After Jesus’ miracle of turning water into wine at the joyous wedding in Cana, Jesus makes his way to Capernaum, perhaps for some rest and relaxation with his family and friends. As the high holy days of the Passover drew closer, Jesus made his way to Jerusalem, the place all observant Jews would have travelled for this celebration. According to the Jewish historian Josephus, construction on the temple in Jerusalem began in 20 BCE under Herod the Great, and was completed by Herod Agrippa around of the common era. A bustling nexus of commercial activity, crowds of worshippers, nationalist aspirations, political identity, historical memory, architectural splendor, and of religious affiliation, the temple constituted the essence of Jewish faith in both a literal and symbolic manner. The temple represented God's presence, God’s availability to all, God’s love made available to God’s people.

Yet something happened to this good place, something happened to turn it into a place where it became difficult to hear God and experience God’s goodness. You see, the temple was a place where, in accordance with the law of God given in Leviticus, people offered sacrifices. Sacrifice was inherent to the Jewish faith; it was a way that the people remembered who they were in relation to God; it was a way to be reminded of the covenant God made with Abraham. The law of Moses stated what kinds of sacrifices should be made at the temple, and the majority of those sacrifices required the offering of an animal. Parts of the flesh of the animals sacrificed would be offered wholly to God, other parts would be given to the priests to support them and to provide resources for the poor and needy of the community.

Often religious duty required that the observant Jew bring a young male sheep, or a kid goat, or a pair of pigeons to the temple, where it would then be sacrificed by the priests on behalf of the person or persons. In the old rural days this had been fairly easy to do - people had sheep or goats or pigeons right at home. But in Jesus' day, as in ours, urban people didn't keep those kind of animals hanging around the apartment. So when someone went to the Temple to make sacrifice, the Temple authorities made it more convenient by having sacrificial animals for sale right there on the premises -- the only catch being that one had to use temple coins to make the purchase.

If someone didn't have temple currency available to make the purchase, the Temple authorities provided a service, a precursor to the ATM machine. People were set up in the outer courtyard, available to convert Roman money into Temple money right there on the spot. Take one look at the money markets in today's world and it doesn't take much imagination to visualize what ended up happening in the temple courtyard at the time of Jesus. There was commotion, lots of shouting, bargaining, exchanging, converting - perhaps the only difference being these brokers wore togas and sandals instead of suits and oxfords.

John tells us that Jesus walked into this environment, this up-to-date full-service Temple, saw the people selling the cattle and the sheep and the birds. He saw the money-changers at their counters with their constantly changing rates of exchange. He heard the noise, the shouting, the bargaining, the bragging, the bleating and the cooing, and he smelled the sweet sweat and earthy dung of the nervous animals.

He saw and heard and smelled all these things that were there for the sake
of the salvation of God's people, and he became tremendously angry!

And just like Mama Bear in the story “The Berenstein Bears and the Messy Room,” Jesus indignantly shouted, “We’ve got to get rid of all this junk!” In a rush of righteous anger, Jesus took out a cord, perhaps the belt cinched around his waist, fashions it into a whip, and went to work. The whip cracked; tables were hurled over, scattering coins that clattered and clanged on the ground. Money changers threw up their arms to shield themselves as confused doves flapped and flew from their smashed cages. Others jumped aside to avoid the stampedes of startled oxen and scared sheep, and strained, over the chaotic uproar, to hear Jesus’ indictment of the corrupt merchants, the Temple, economics, church and state.

And we, much like those first-century witnesses of Jesus’ wrath toward these entrepreneurs, ask: What’s the big deal? Why was so corrupt about that?

Nothing - at first. But, over time, with all the buying and selling and money changing, the temple had become corrupt. Instead of contributing to the worship and reverence of God, it missed the point. The idea of money changing began with good intentions -- instead of using Roman money, which was considered pagan, to buy offerings, those observant pilgrims would exchange their worldly money for temple money. The system was put there to help people who came to the temple to observe their faith and make the requisite sacrifices. The problem was, the system was a setup for corruption. The price of a pair of turtle doves jacked up a little here. The exchange of money tilted a little in favor of the money changer there. Someone would shave a little money off the top here and there and plunk it in his pocket. Soon the thing that was supposed to facilitate the worship and reverence of God was turned into something that cheated people and made it more difficult, especially for the poor, to participate in the life of faith.

In 1 Corinthians, St. Paul says “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you …? We are the temple of God in the world today. And this is where Jesus’ cleansing the temple becomes relevant for us today, as we consider the many ways we have accumulated stuff that should be driven out. Perhaps it was a good word left unsaid, a hand of peace and forgiveness that wasn’t extended. Maybe it was not standing up for the oppressed or the marginalized because it would have been inconvenient. Perhaps we, too, like the money changes, have participated in ways that further disenfranchise the poor and make it difficult for others to freely worship the God who loves us all. All of these things done or left undone, said or not uttered, build up inside of us, and slowly corrupt the temple.

Indeed, it is a subtle process, this turning the temple into a marketplace. Like the houses we live in – a little dust and dirt build up on the baseboards and in the hard-to-reach nooks and crannies of each room; lint balls accumulate under the beds; mildew forms in the shower stall and around the tub; coffee stains appear on the carpet; cobwebs hang from the ceiling – it all happens so slowly that we hardly notice, until, one day, like Mama Bear, we just can’t take it anymore, and we realize it’s time to grab a big box and put our houses back in order.

My friends, Lent is a time of introspection, of looking within and taking stock of the accumulation that keeps us from being our best selves, for each other and for God, of purging those things that keep us from striving for justice, peace and equality for all of God’s children. It’s a time for cleansing the temple and making our lives – mind, body and soul – ready to do God’s work, to bring the kingdom here on earth, so that each and every person knows that they matter and that God loves them. May you find the courage this Lent to clean up the messiness in your life, in whatever form you find it. May you turn over your own tables, and be not afraid, for the resurrected Christ is with you always, and nothing can separate you from the Love of God. Amen.

Sermon given at Calvary Presbyterian Church, 1/15/12.

John 1:43-51

If todayʼs Gospel lesson teaches us anything, it is that the Gospel of
Jesus Christ is a message for cynics. Nathanielʼs question, offered with
incredulity and a healthy dose of skepticism, persists, and wonʼt let us go.
“Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” Perhaps we can identify with
Nathanielʼs cynicism; I know I can. I, too, have asked my own version of the
same question. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth? Of church? Of
faith?” Thankfully, it doesnʼt have to end there. The invitation to “come and
see” and to be astonished beyond our wildest dreams, to be greeted with
hope that shatters our preconceived notions and lies outside our carefully
placed boundaries, is extended to each and every one of us. Cynicism can
be transformed into faith. THAT, my friends, is VERY good news.

Let us pray:
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.

I have a friend who is an incessant email forwarder. Often they are
pithy jokes or a humorous picture of something quite silly. Recently,
however, I received this forward, called “Cynical Wisdom.” It contained
tidbits of sardonic one-liners, like:
Change is inevitable ... except from vending machines.
• For every action, there is an equal and opposite criticism.
• He who hesitates is probably right.
• No one is listening until you make a mistake.
• Two wrongs are only the beginning.
• Monday is an awful way to spend 1/7th of your life.
• A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory.
• Bills travel through the mail at twice the speed of checks.
• 72.9 percent of all statistics are made up on the spot.
• If at first you don't succeed, then skydiving definitely isn't for you.
Funny, arenʼt they? Maybe some of you have thought or uttered these
same things; perhaps some of you have even read and forwarded this
email. Yet, if we are honest with ourselves, we might find this cynical streak
runs a little deeper than just a funny email. Cynicism seems, at times, to
define life in the United States in 2012, and, proving cynicism is as old as
time itself, it also seems to define one of todayʼs characters, Nathaniel —at
least for a time.

This passage from John comes in the middle of Jesus gathering his
disciples. The two fishermen brothers, Andrew and Simon Peter, have
already joined with Jesusʼ motley crew of followers. Then Jesus decides to
go to Galilee, and invites Phillip to join the ranks. We donʼt know exactly
how Phillip responded, but gathering from the rest of the story, and given
that from this time forward, Phillip is included among the 12 disciples, we
can infer that he, too, decided to follow Jesus. Phillip is so elated after his
encounter with this man from Nazareth, that he finds his friend Nathaniel
and, barely able to contain his excitement, exclaims, “weʼve found him! Itʼs
Jesus of Nazareth!”

And Nathaniel cocks his eyebrow and questions, perhaps rhetorically: “Can
anything good come out of Nazareth?”

I did some reading about Nazareth. It didnʼt take long, because we donʼt
know much at all about Nazareth in Jesusʼ day. Nazareth is barely, if ever,
mentioned in first century documents outside of Scripture. The little we do
know is largely speculative and wholly unremarkable. What we do know is
that Nazareth was a small community of anywhere between 500 and 2000
people. Nazareth was likely located not far from a major East-West trade
route that ran from Egypt to Asia called the Via Maris: picture it as one of
those tiny towns along rural stretches of I-95. Nazareth was situated in the
hill country of Galilee, a region of fishing and farming that was also known
in Scripture for its distinctive regional accent and for having a large
population of Gentiles, a high number of immigrants, foreigners, resident
aliens. In other words, it was a place where some Jewish sects, intent on
keeping customs and purity laws, would probably have rarely, if ever,
ventured, and would certainly have been thankful that they werenʼt born
there. Perhaps you are beginning to see the scandal in Jesus, the Messiah,
the one about whom Moses and the prophets wrote, coming from such a
place.

Archaeological evidence also shows that Nazareth may have sat somewhat
in the shadow of the nearby city of Sepphoris, which was being rebuilt as a
regional capital around the time of Jesus. Sepphoris was the place where
the action was. Sepphoris was the place with the Roman theater and all the
cultural and social attractions one could desire. Sepphoris was the place
where the young people went off to work and find jobs. Sepphoris was the
place where stuff happened. Nazareth, on the other hand, was the place
where nothing happened. One study bible calls Nazareth “an insignificant
agricultural village.” It had nothing to set it apart, nothing to literally, place it
on the map. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” becomes a
reasonable reaction to hearing that THIS was where Jewish Messiah, the
harbinger of Godʼs kingdom, came from.

But, I think thereʼs a little more going on here than just Nazarethʼs
reputation. Surely that has a part to play, but there is something about
Nathanielʼs cynicism that feels so personal. You see, I believe Nathaniel
was passionate about Israel. The Israelitesʼ deep longing for meaning and
worth came from their national identity as the people of God, as Godʼs
covenant people. Nathaniel, as a good Israelite, longed for God to redeem
Israel. He was familiar with the Jewish belief that God would send a
Messiah to Israel to usher in an era of peace. Like so many Israelites, he
bound up his sense of purpose and worth with his people. And yet he
suffered only disappointment. The Maccabean revolt a century and a half
before had failed to establish Israelʼs prominence. Prophets and preachers
wandered throughout Israel proclaiming that the messiah was coming, yet
Israel still suffered Roman oppression. It is little wonder, then, that
Nathaniel is cynical. Wouldnʼt you be, too, if everything you had ever hoped
for, if everything you staked your very life on, seemed to be so close, and
yet so far away?

“Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” Phillip, perhaps ready for this
question, knows that nothing he can say will assuage Nathanielʼs disbelief.
All Phillip can do is to invite Nathaniel to “Come and See,” to invite
Nathaniel to have the same experience Phillip had. So Nathaniel goes,
perhaps begrudgingly, perhaps willingly, but definitely skeptically. Nathaniel
couldnʼt have expected what comes next. Seeing him coming towards him,
Jesus calls to him, saying "Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no
deceit!" In other words: “Hey, Nathaniel! I know you! Youʼre a pretty decent
guy!” It doesn't appear to be tongue in cheek. It seems like a
straightforward description based on his knowledge of Nathanael.

Nathanael is flabbergasted. Did this guy from Nazareth really say that?
Nathaniel, feeling not a little shocked, stammers: "I don't believe we've met.
Where did you get to know me?”

“I saw you under the fig tree before Phillip called you.” By this simple
sentence, Jesus reveals just how much he knows about Nathaniel. Jesus
knows that Nathaniel is educated, that he is religious, that he has a keen
understanding of the promise of the Messiah. In those days, “under the fig
tree” meant that you were praying and reading the Scriptures. The teachers
of the day said that every man should “study the law under their own fig
tree.” The fig tree was literally a place for study and prayer, especially for
young rabbinic students, which Nathanael may well have been.

In an instant, all of Nathanielʼs preconceived ideas about Nazareth, all the
ways he thought Godʼs promises of hope and peace SHOULD look were
unraveled and upended. Nathaniel discovers that, Yes! Something good
DID come out of Nazareth. Jesus came out of Nazareth. It was in Nazareth
that Jesus was raised. It was in Nazareth that he likely attended synagogue
and recited Torah and learned the words of Scripture. It was in Nazareth
that Scripture says Jesus “increased in wisdom and in stature and in divine
and human favor.” And all the rest of his life, Jesus would carry the name of
his home community with him: on the lips of crowds, demons, and angels,
he would be called, Jesus of Nazareth.

In a flash, Nathanielʼs cynicism is turned into faith, his doubt into faith.
“Rabbi, you are the Son of God! You are the King of Israel!” To which Jesus
replies: “Listen, if you think THAT was cool, you just wait.” Nathaniel
accepted the invitation to “Come and See,” and he would never be the
same again.

Victor Hugoʼs classic novel Les Miserables focuses on Jean Valjean and
his experience of redemption. Valjean, a hardened convict who has just
been released from prison, cannot find work. Everywhere he goes, he must
present papers telling of his crimes, and people turn him away. In
desperation, he jumps parole and destroys his papers – a crime that would
send him back to prison for life. While on the run, he finds shelter at the
house of a priest. That night, while the priest is asleep, Jean Valjean steals
the only objects of worth in the house: the silverware and silver
candlesticks. Valjean is stopped by the police for violating curfew, and they find the stolen goods. When the police take him back to the priestʼs house, the priest, awakened by the
guards, says that he has given the candlesticks as a gift. He sends the
police on their way. Then he turns to Valjean, saying that he has spared
Valjean in the name of Christ. He gives Valjean the candlesticks and the
silverware, and charges him to become an honest man. All that day,
Valjean wrestles in inner turmoil. He is shocked and confounded by what
the priest has done. He debates on whether he should kill him or if he
should just run with the money. But somewhere in the midst of this turmoil
of anger and confusion, God enters the picture and breaks Valjeanʼs heart.
In response, Valjean dedicates himself to the pursuit of goodness. For the
rest of the book, Valjean tries to live a just and noble life as mayor while the
merciless inspector Javert hunts for him, convinced that redemption is a
myth, that people can never change.

We live in a world that is full of Javerts, of people who believe that the
Valjeans and the Nathaniels can never really change, can never have a
moment when their cynicism is transformed into faith. Peruse any
newspaper, watch the news on TV, or listen to conversations in the grocery
store. Murder, war, corruption, violence, greed, and selfishness attack us
from every angle. It seems that the message of hope that humankind is
inherently good, that Godʼs Kingdom of peace and justice will come on
earth, that faith in Jesus of Nazareth really has something to offer the world
becomes less and less relevant, or even believable. Even those of us who
profess faith arenʼt immune to this cynicism. We get cynical about our lives,
our families, our churches, our faith, and sometimes for good reason. We
get cynical about the good news that a better day is coming, as Martin
Luther King Jr so eloquently said, a “day when all of God's children, black
and white, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join
hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, 'Free at last! Free at
last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!' It seems so unattainable and
unfeasible, and we are left to wonder: “can anything good come out of any
of this? “Can anything good come out of our own Nazareth?” “Can anything
good come out of the Gospel message?” “Can anything good come out of
Calvary Presbyterian Church?”

And do you remember what Philip said? “Come and see.”

Friends, some twenty centuries ago, a man named Phillip said to his friend
Nathanael, “I have found someone you should know. Come and see for
yourself.” Phillipʼs invitation inched Nathaniel past his cynicism into a lifechanging
experience of faith. Each one of us is called to be Phillip, to invite
the world to come and see, to experience the good that can come out of
Nazareth. The task is not easy, and the cynicism that seems so ubiquitous
is relentless, even to those of us who have heard the gospel call. But this
church, and each one of us, has a message of hope to give to a world that
so desperately needs good news. May each one of us have the boldness to
say: “Come and see.” Amen.

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.