From the Little Ones -- Fourth Sunday of Advent

Micah 5:2-5a

December 23, 2018

            I wonder sometimes if I am losing my ability to be surprised by the sadness and badness of the world around us. I am often shocked, horrified, appalled, saddened, angered, outraged, disgusted, dismayed and disappointed – but sadly, I’m losing my ability to be surprised. I don’t like that. It suggests to me that I am becoming cynical and skeptical and just plain tired. Another mass shooting – I’m angry and sad and horrified, but not surprised. Another viral video of racism on parade – I’m sickened and angry and frustrated, but not surprised. A horrific natural disaster – probably made more extreme by climate change – I’m worried and heartbroken and anxious, but not surprised. Terrorism, horrified but not surprised. Disgraceful government antics – disheartened and fed up, but not surprised.

Yesterday, I read on a Presbyterian website that our sisters and brothers at First Presbyterian Church had their church vandalized in the last few days. Someone or some ones broke in and went on a rampage. Musical instruments in the sanctuary were turned over and broken. The Christmas tree was knocked to the floor. Glass was broken. Holes were gouged in tiled walls. It was far more than an act of criminal mischief. There was hatred behind it. Again, I am horrified and appalled and confused by such hatred, but I am not terribly surprised. Considering the history our congregation has with acts like this, maybe you’re not surprised either.

I guess I’m just not surprised anymore by the ways in which hatred and ignorance and fear manifest themselves in our world. There is no way to hide from the darkness of the world that surrounds us. There is no way to avoid the brokenness of our world, of our species. We are caught up in it. We are also broken and wounded and hurting. So as sad as I am to admit it, I am not very often surprised by the dreadful ways our brokenness and sinfulness makes itself known. I don’t like to admit that, but I think it’s true. Don’t misunderstand me. I am not resigned to the brokenness. I am not immune to it. I rage against it. But I am not surprised.

            But here’s the thing, while the world’s brokenness may be unsurprising, our God is a God of surprise. There are many names for God, but if God has a middle name, it’s “Surprise!” It’s often said that since “Do not fear” is repeated 365 times in the scriptures, we have a daily reminder to let go of our fear. I love that and wholeheartedly subscribe to it. But to “do not fear,” I think we should add, “but be surprised.” God surprises us again and again and again by working through unexpected people in unlikely circumstances. God surprises us again and again by bringing good out of bad, order out of chaos, and hope out of what seems hopeless. God surprises over and over again by calling forth greatness, hope and salvation from the little ones.

            The darkness and brokenness of which I speak are not unique to us or to our particular context are they? Micah and the people he prophesied to were no strangers to the darkness. Our text from Micah is beautiful and poetic, but it is set in a larger context. If we read beyond the verses selected for us this morning, we will read about that darkness, about the ever-looming disaster that Micah and the people of Israel, of Judah faced. In other verses he told the people that Judah would be plowed into a field and that Jerusalem would lie in ruins. Micah knew and understood just how dark, just how broken the times in which he lived were. He did not mince his words about it either.

            Yet, surprise! In the midst of all this darkness and brokenness and destruction – much of which the leaders and the people brought on themselves – there is a word of hope.

            “But you, O Bethlehem of Ephrathah, who are one of the little clans of Judah, from you shall come forth for me one who is to rule in Israel, whose origin is from old, from ancient days.”

            From Bethlehem, from one of the little clans of Judah, from one of the little ones, shall come one who is to rule in Israel. And although this hearkens greatly to King David, who was also from Bethlehem and a shepherd, the one who is to come will not lead as the former leaders, the former kings have done. This one will lead as a shepherd leads. This one will “stand and feed his flock in the strength of the Lord, in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God.”

            This one will bring true security. This won’t be the kind of security that the world offers – financial accounts and video cameras. This will be the kind of security that only comes from God. This will be the kind of security that comes from the one who brings peace, who is peace.

            From the little ones will come God’s salvation. From the little ones will come the one who is peace. From the little ones will come the leader Micah and all the other people longed for, waited for, hoped for. From the little ones will come the one we too yearn and wait for, expectantly and with great hope. That is the word of hope we have from Micah, and that is the story we read in Luke. I’m assuming that God could not have chosen two more unlikely or unexpected people than Elizabeth and Mary. Elizabeth, an old woman and Mary a young one, were both expecting unlikely children in the most unlikely of circumstances. Elizabeth, who was long past her childbearing years, was not expecting a son to be named John. And when that baby, still tucked securely inside his mother’s womb, heard Mary’s voice, he leaped for joy. The Holy Spirit did not wait for John to be born to work in his life. Even in utero, John recognized the one, the One, who was to come.

            And what about Mary? Mary, so young and at least to worldly eyes of no great importance, would bear the Savior into the world. Why would she be the one chosen? She had no rank, no office. She was not situated in a palace as a queen; instead she was a lowly young woman engaged to a carpenter. There seemed to be nothing very extraordinary about her. She was just an ordinary young woman preparing for an ordinary life. But surprise! Our God of surprises had other plans and other purposes.

            From this little one would come salvation. From this little one would come new hope and new creation. From this little one would come God’s great surprise.

            Maybe I have lost my ability to be surprised by the world and its brokenness, but if Micah’s words teach us anything it’s that we should never lose our ability to be surprised by God. Isn’t that what wonder really is? It’s always being willing to be surprised, to be elated by the unexpected and the unlikely? Micah’s word is a word of hope to a dark and broken world. From the little ones, the unexpected ones, the unlikely ones God’s purposes will be fulfilled, God’s will be done, God’s salvation will come. From the little ones. From the little ones.

            Thanks be to God. Amen.

Fields -- Christmas Eve Service

Luke 2:1-20

Isn’t it a wonder

that God went to the fields

instead of the palace?

Isn’t it strange

that God chose a

young woman

and a carpenter,

and a cattle stall?

Isn’t it amazing

that those heavenly hosts

filled the night sky with their songs for

shepherds not sovereigns?

Isn’t it a wonder

that God went to the fields

instead of the palace?

Of all the names we have

for God,

maybe Emmanuel

God-with-us

is most apt,

most fitting,

most right.

At least on this night

this holy night,

when God was born

as one of us.

This is the night

when mystery and matter meet.

This is the night

when a newborn’s cry

is another kind of heavenly song.

Making known

to the world

this world,

our world

that God is here.

We are not alone.

We are not abandoned.

We are not forgotten.

Do not be afraid.

Isn’t it a wonder

that God went to the fields

instead of the palace?

Who else lies

waiting in quiet fields

this night,

this holy night?

What others,

outsiders,

forgotten and lost ones,

lie waiting

in fields

and deserts,

alleys

and shelters

waiting to hear

an angel’s song?

Waiting to thrill

at the sound of good news,

glad tidings,

words of hope and joy and promise

for all?

God still goes to the fields

before the palace.

God still chooses

young women, old men,

carpenters and cleaners,

waitresses and truck drivers,

refugees and restless ones,

and shepherds before sovereigns.

Isn’t it a wonder?

Isn’t it amazing?

Isn’t it good news,

and glad tidings of great joy

that God is our Emmanuel.

God-with-us.

God. With. Us.

Amen.

In Our Midst -- Third Sunday of Advent

Zephaniah 3:14-20

December 16, 2018

            “My life flows on in endless song, above earth’s lamentation. I hear the clear, though far off hymn that hails a new creation. No storm can shake my inmost calm while to this Rock I’m clinging. Since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing?”

            One of the hardest parts of sermon writing for me is just getting started. How do I begin? What opening illustration do I use? What will my opening sentence, my first line be? I took enough journalism classes in college to know that the leading line of any story has to be what grabs your reader, your listeners, or, so it would seem, your congregation.

            So I spend a lot of time praying and thinking and pondering what a sermon needs to proclaim from beginning to end. And I was pondering this sermon, the words to the hymn, “My Life Flows On,” kept running through my head.

            “How can I keep from singing?”

            I probably heard this hymn as a child, but if so I didn’t pay much attention to it. But since the publication of Glory to God, our newest hymnal, I have become a huge fan of this hymn.

            “My life flows on in endless song above earth’s lamentation. I hear the clear though far off hymn that hails a new creation.” “How can I keep from singing?”

            Scholar Deborah A. Block wrote,

            “In these weeks [of Advent] we hear from Malachi, Jeremiah, Zephaniah, Isaiah and Micah. The prophet is as much the voice of Advent as is the evangelist. Why? Prophets say what no one wants to hear, what no one wants to believe. Prophets point in directions no one wants to look. They hear God when everybody else has concluded God is silent. They see God where nobody else would guess that God is present. They feel God. Prophets feel God’s compassion for us, God’s anger with us, God’s joy in us. They dream God’s dreams and utter wake up calls; they hope God’s hopes and announce a new future; they will God’s will and live it against all odds. Prophets sing God’s song and sometimes interrupt the program with a change of tune.

These verses from the prophet Zephaniah are an interruption in the program. They are a change of tune. If we left out these verses, Zephaniah would be more a prophet of lamentation and despair than rejoicing. But these verses? This song? This is a song of joy. Zephaniah is not a regular in our worship. While we may read texts from Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Micah and Amos on a more usual basis, Zephaniah only appears twice in our lectionary cycle, and this Sunday is one of them. The infrequency of readings from this prophet does not make his words less important; on the contrary, when they appear we should pay more attention.

Zephaniah heard his prophetic call and found his prophetic voice in the reign of King Josiah of Judah. According to scholars, King Josiah is remembered in Israel’s history as the last good king, on par with King David. However, Zephaniah saw a different reality. He saw corruption, idolatry and injustice. As prophets do, he proclaimed to any who would listen that God’s punishment for these sins would be on a cosmic scale. It doesn’t take a prophetic call to know that eventually we all reap what we sow, and Zephaniah saw a harvest of great calamity.

But Zephaniah also saw something else; a time when even God would sing a song of rejoicing.

“On that day it shall be said to Jerusalem: Do not fear, O Zion; do not let your hands grow weak. The Lord, your God, is in your midst, a warrior who gives victory; he will rejoice over you with gladness, he will renew you in his love; he will exult over you with loud singing as on a day of festival.”

            Even God will sing, and this song from Zephaniah calls us to sing as well; to rejoice, to exult, to let go of our fear, and to trust that God is in our midst. Zephaniah states that last promise twice. God is in our midst. God is in our midst. The original audience who heard these words must have felt a mix of skepticism and hope. Things were pretty bad. It would be easy to believe that God was not only absent, but had abandoned them to themselves forever. But Zephaniah proclaimed that the people were to sing with joy, to rejoice, because not only was God in their midst, God would sing with them. God would exult with them. God was in their midst, and God would join in the triumph song.

            We may not be on the verge of a Babylonian invasion as the people were in Zephaniah’s time, but with the world as it is, it’s not hard to believe that disaster looms on the edge of our own horizon. Injustice is rife. Corruption is real. We are masters at creating our own idols. There seem a billion and one reasons not to sing, and a billion and two more not to rejoice, but the promise of Zephaniah that God was in the midst of the people of Judah is true for us as well. God is in our midst. God is not silent or on a prolonged leave of absence. God is in our midst.

            How do we know that God is in our midst? Is it because we recognize God in the kindness of one stranger helping another? Is it because we see God when the morning arrives right on time after a long, dark night of the soul? Is it because we meet God in a word of hope when we think that all is really hopeless? How do we know that God is in our midst, even when we cannot see God, even when we don’t recognize God? We trust and we hope and we believe, and we accept that the moments of joy we experience – even when they are brief – are of God and from God.

            We accept that the moments of joy we experience – even when they are brief – are of God and from God.

            That’s what today is – a day of joy. It is the third Sunday of Advent and it is the day of rejoicing. If you look at the light display done so beautifully by Jayne in our window, you’ll see that the pink candle is lit. That’s the symbol for joy. It is as if joy interrupts and inserts itself on this day. Joy and its song interrupt our regular programming and insert a new tune.

            God is in our midst, how can we keep from rejoicing? God is in our midst, how can we keep from celebrating? God is in our midst, how can we keep from singing? God is in our midst and God is singing with us.

            “My life flows on in endless song, above earth’s lamentation. I hear the clear, though far off hymn that hails a new creation. No storm can shake my inmost calm while to this Rock I’m clinging. Since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing?”

            God is in our midst! Give praise! Give thanks! Rejoice! How can we keep from singing? How can we keep from singing? Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia! Amen.”

The Days Are Surely Coming -- First Sunday of Advent

Jeremiah 33:14-16

December 2, 2018

            “A little bit of this. A little bit of that.”

“A pot. A pan. A broom. A hat.”

“Someone should have set a match to this place years ago.”

“A bench. A tree. So what’s a stove? Or a house?”

“People who pass through Anatevka don’t even know they’ve been here.”

“A stick of wood. A piece of cloth.”

“What do we leave? Nothing much. Only Anatevka.”

            Others may cry at the song “Sunrise, Sunset,” with its lyrics about children growing up in a flash, in a blink of an eye, and I do too – especially the older I get. But no song can move me to tears as readily as “Anatevka.”

For those who may not be so familiar with these songs, they are from the musical Fiddler on the Roof. Fiddler tells the story of Jewish residents living in the little village of Anatevka in late 19^th century Russia. In particular it tells the story of Tevya, the poor milkman, and his wife Golde, a woman who does not suffer fools, especially her husband, and their five daughters. The story of the daughters focuses on the three eldest: Tzeitel, Hodel and Chava. With all the amazing musicals that have been written since the premier of “Fiddler on the Roof,” and there have been many, Fiddler is still one of my favorites. Someday I’ll see it on Broadway, but for now I find comfort in the movie version.

             “Anatevka” is sung toward the end of the movie. The villagers have experienced the highs of a wedding and new babies and the low of a small pogrom. I use the adjective small, because in the movie it is a described as a “demonstration.” Although most of the villagers were unable to read, news of violent and increasing pogroms against other Jews in the country spread fast. Anti-Semitism was alive and well – then and now. Now the people have gotten word that they are to be evicted from the only home they have ever known. One man asks their beloved rabbi the question:

            “Rabbi, we’ve waited so long for the Messiah, wouldn’t now be a good time for him to come?”

            The Rabbi responds with great stoicism and resolve,

            “Now we’ll have to wait for him someplace else.”

            As the villagers try to wrap their heads around this new reality, they show the same stoic acceptance as the Rabbi. Anatevka. A little bit of this. A little bit of that. A pot. A pan. A broom. A hat. What do we leave? Nothing much. Only Anatevka.

            What is so beautiful and powerful about this song to me, is that while it is sung with resignation, implicit in the lyrics and in the performance is longing. They long for what they will no longer have. They long for the home they are leaving, even while they still stand within its boundaries. They long for something that seems will never be theirs: a home that lasts, a place all their own, a home that cannot be taken or moved. They can imagine this home. They can see it in their minds’ eye: home.

            The people of Anatevka were exiles in the middle of the only place they’d ever known. It would seem that this is one of many ways they stood on the shoulders of their ancestors; they who were also exiles. The people of Judah and Israel were exiled from their land, exiled from their homes, exiled it would seem even from their God. God who had brought them out of the land of Egypt must have seemed very far away, as they learned how to adapt to a different culture, a different way of being and doing. Lets not forget that the reason the people of Israel and Judah were in exile was because of their own transgressions. Defeat and exile by the Babylonians was seen as punishment for their sins. The prophets, Isaiah, Amos, Ezekiel, Malachi, Micah, Daniel, Hosea, and Jeremiah all warn the people over and over again to consider the consequences of what they do, how they live, how they treat others. To be a prophet was not necessarily to be gifted with the ability to predict the future. To be a prophet was to hear God speaking, yes, but it was also to interpret God’s word in the midst of circumstances. You treat the poor, the widow and the orphan, unjustly and cruelly, that will come back to you. You exploit the land and your neighbor; that will come back to you. You turn your backs on the one true God and worship false idols and bow to foreign gods; that will come back to you. And when it does come back to you, when your sins and transgressions finally catch up with you, you will find yourselves in a strange place, in a strange life, and you will long for home. You will long for God.

            Most of Jeremiah is about the punishment of the people’s transgressions. As one scholar put it, the punishment is so severe that even God laments. None of the warnings were heeded, and now the people suffer. They face their apparent extinction. But in the midst of this terrible suffering, there are verses of hope. There are words of comfort. Even though their entire world is crumbling down around them, they are called to imagine another way, another life. They are called to hope.

            “The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and to the house of Judah. In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land. In those days Judah will be saved and Jerusalem will live in safety. And this is the name by which it will be called: ‘The Lord is our righteousness.’”

            The days are surely coming. We are now in the season of Advent; as Alice wrote in her newsletter article, we are in the sacred New Year. Advent does not respect the logical progression of time as we understand it. It looks to the future, even as it lifts up the past. We find our reasons to be faithful in memory, but we also look forward to the days that are surely coming. Advent encompasses what is called the prophetic imagination. Jeremiah, along with the other prophets in our scriptures, calls us to imagine what the world can look like and what it will look like. We are called in this passage from Jeremiah, not only to trust that the days are surely coming, but to imagine those days; to see them clearly and vividly and hopefully.

            The days are surely coming, can you imagine it? The days are surely coming, can you see it? The days are surely coming; can you feel your hope rising up out of the ashes of the world that seems to crumbling all around us? The days are surely coming, when a righteous Branch will spring forth from a burned out old stump. The days are surely coming, can you imagine?

            Just as the people of Anatevka longed for home, and just as the people of Judah and Israel longed for home, Advent is our time to long for what can be. Advent is our time to imagine what will be. Advent is our time to unleash our hope, to let it loose and wild in the world. Advent is our time to imagine a world with no need for refuge because all have a home, no need for food programs, because all have enough to eat, no need for defense budgets, because wars will be fought no more. Advent is a time to imagine and to hope and trust that the days are surely coming. Thanks be to God. Amen.

A New Kind of Royal -- Christ the King Sunday

John 18:33-38

November 25, 2018

            This may be a very big, very wrong assumption on my part, but I suspect that everyone here as at least heard about a certain prince who married a certain commoner last May. If my assumption is wrong – not everyone is as obsessed with them as I am – and you don’t know who I’m referring to, I’ll fill you in. Prince Harry, second son of Prince Charles and fifth in line of succession to the throne of England, married Megan Markle last May. Some of you may not care that Prince Harry and Megan Markle got married, and that’s perfectly fine. But I would be surprised if you didn’t know at least a little about them, because for one thing their wedding was all over the news. Even more, it would be hard to have missed their wedding because Megan Markle is not your typical royal. What has been so surprising and so refreshing about this royal marriage is not just that it happened, but because of who Markle is.

She is American – that should have been strike one. She is divorced – that should have been strike two. And she is of a multi-cultural background. Her mother is African American. Her father is white. That should have definitely been strike three. Once upon a time, any one of those factors would have completely and utterly knocked Markle out of the running to be royal. It has not been that many years since Prince Harry’s great uncle abdicated his throne because he was not allowed to marry his divorced American squeeze. Yes, I said, “squeeze.”

It takes permission from the Queen for a royal to marry, and she gave her grandson permission to marry this divorced American with a multi-cultural heritage. Times are a changing, and those changes are even being felt in England’s monarchy. While it would seem that most people have accepted, even embraced, Megan as a new kind of royal – after all their wedding was watched by millions of people around the globe, including yours truly – her marriage into the royal family was not welcomed by everyone. One comment that was made by a person connected with the British government was that Markle would “taint the royal blood line with her seed, making way for a black king and a Muslim Prime Minister.” I’m not making this up. I wish I were. But Megan Markle is a different kind of royal. She is a new kind of royal; one that doesn’t fit the previous mold of who a royal was and where a royal came from.

If anyone did not fit the mold of what it meant to be a royal, it would be Jesus. He was a new kind of royal indeed. Our passage from John’s gospel may seem unexpected this morning. The meeting between Jesus and Pontius Pilate is one we expect to hear during Holy Week, but on Christ the King Sunday this exchange between Pilate and Jesus rings true and relevant.

The religious authorities did not have the power to have someone executed. That was up to the Roman state. That is why Pilate was brought in. These same leaders could also not enter Pilate’s headquarters without becoming ritually unclean. So they had Jesus taken to Pilate, but would not be there to witness the conversation between the two men. The religious leaders wanted Pilate to do their dirty work for them.

Pilate must have understood this, and I imagine that if we could go back in time and listen in, we would hear his understanding in his tone of voice.

“Are you the King of the Jews?” might sound more like, “So you’re the King of the Jews, are you?”

Jesus, ever aware of the verbal traps laid for him, would not give him a direct answer in return.

“Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?”

King of the Jews would have meant something different to the religious leaders than it would have to Pilate. To Pilate, a King of the Jews would have been a political threat, a potential political upstart. A King rising from the Jews might have been someone poised to revolt against Roman rule and threaten not only Pilate’s position of power, but Roman power as well.

            But the religious leadership, those priests and scribes, saw the claim of Jesus being the King of the Jews as someone believed to be anointed as Messiah. Jesus was not just claiming to be another kind of religious authority; he was claiming to be the authority. He was the Truth, the Way, the Life. This was also a threat to their power. From both perspectives, from Pilate’s and from the religious leadership, this threat had to be eradicated. If there were going to be a King of the Jews, it could certainly not be this particular man, this very different, unexpected, very new kind of royal.

            Jesus was definitely a new and, to some, an unwelcome kind of royal. His royalty was what Pilate was trying to get at with his interrogation of him.

            When Jesus responded with his question about who told Pilate about Jesus’ kingship, Pilate answered,

            “I’m not a Jew am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?”

            Jesus still did not give him a straight or satisfactory answer. Instead he said,

            “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.”

            Pilate just wants an answer.

            “So you are a king?”

            “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”

            “What is truth?”

            My kingdom is not from this world. Jesus was a new kind of royal, and his kingdom was a new kind of realm. Jesus’ answer was not so much about who he was, but about where he was from. His kingship and his identity as king was and is tied up in where Jesus came from, more specifically who he came from.

            My kingdom is not from this world. That means that it does not look like the kingdoms of this world. It does not sound like the kingdoms of this world. It does not seek to rule like the kingdoms of this world. It is not like the kingdoms of this world. Jesus was and is a new kind of royal, which means that his kingdom – the kingdom of God – was a new kind of kingdom as well.

            What does this mean for us? What does it mean that Jesus, our Savior, our Sovereign and our King is a new and unexpected kind of royal with a new and unexpected kind of kingdom? I know that I have preached this before, but one thing that we need to understand about the kingdom of God is that it is not a geographic location. It is not a particular place that you can point to on a map or that you can journey to only in the next life. Amy Johnson Frykholm, a writer for The Christian Century, wrote that she used to believe the kingdom was something you could build, something that believers could definitively grasp, but she has begun to believe that the kingdom of God is something you see in glimpses, something that you recognize in a flash of a moment, a glimmer of a second.

            Whatever our understanding of the kingdom of God may be, our clearest glimpse of it is through Jesus – this new kind of royal. Through him we see that the kingdom of God is built not on authoritarianism but on servant leadership. It is built not on control, but on hope. It is built not on power but on love.

            Again, what does this mean for us? What does observing Christ the King Sunday mean for us? I think that recognizing that Jesus was and is a new kind of royal, with a new kind of kingdom is a reminder of who we are called to follow and how we are called to follow. How easy it is to get caught up in the trappings of this world’s kingdoms. How easy it is to confuse this world’s kingdoms with the kingdom of God. How easy it is to forget that the King we are called to follow is a new kind of royal, with a kingdom that is not from this world.

            That’s why this Sunday was established: as a reminder to believers of who they were supposed to be following, to whom they were supposed to pledge their loyalties and the kind of kingdom they were to participate in. So that is what we are called to do as well: to remember that our King is a new kind of royal and that we are called to follow him, to follow in his unexpected footsteps. We are called to participate in his kingdom, right now, in this time and in this place; to remember that the kingdom of God is not just a destination we reach somewhere in the future, but it is way of living. It is something that we glimpse in moments of service, in moments of sacrifice, in moments of giving and loving. Our king is a new kind of royal, with a new kind of kingdom and we are called to follow. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Blind Faith

Mark 10:46-52

October 28, 2018

            I am title challenged. In other words, I struggle with coming up with titles for my sermons, for anything I write. It isn’t that I don’t have the ability to come up with a good or catchy title for something. But with short stories or essays or poetry, the titles most often rise up out of what I’ve written. But sermons are different. Sermons are tricky. Generally, I have to come up with my sermon title before I write the sermon. That means that while I’m writing, I worry constantly about whether or not my sermon actually reflects the title I’ve given it. It’s not unusual for me to feel pressured by the title I’ve chosen; especially when I think I’ve come up with something clever and catchy. I have such a great title, but this sermon isn’t living up to it! I tell myself not to get obsessed about it. Do people really sit there and wonder why my sermon doesn’t seem to match the title? Probably not. But if you do, don’t tell me. But it still bugs me.

Brent told me a story shared from his pastor about another preacher who hated coming up with titles. He hated them so much that every sermon was entitled the same way; “Ponderings On …” And then whatever scripture passage he was preaching on would finish the title.

If I used his example, this sermon would be entitled, “Ponderings On Mark 10:46-52,” But it’s not called that. It’s called, “Blind Faith.” When I told Brent the title, he thought I was referring to the blues rock band started by Eric Claption, Ginger Baker, Steve Winwood, and Ric Greich. But that wasn’t my inspiration.

I also realized after I chose this title that the expression, “blind faith,” is sometimes used disparagingly. To some, blind faith means that the person with the blind faith has just checked out on using their brain or reason or logic at all. You just have blind faith in God or another person without any critical thinking to go along with it. But I chose the title, “Blind Faith,” because it seemed an obvious description of what is happening in this story. Bartimaeus was blind, but he is an astonishing and incredible example of faith; therefore, “Blind Faith.”

Bartimaeus’ story comes at the end of chapter 10, and essentially at the end of the first part of Mark’s gospel. Immediately after this story, Jesus makes his “triumphal entry,” into Jerusalem. He is moving ever more quickly and inexorably toward the cross. But before he and the disciples come to the Mount of Olives, and before he sends two of the disciples to fetch a colt from a nearby village, and before he enters Jerusalem on that colt’s back, and before the people lay palm branches and cloaks on the road to mark his entry, Jesus and the disciples and the large crowd following along were leaving Jericho.

Mark tells us that Bartimaeus, or Bar-Timaeus, son of Timaeus, was “a blind beggar sitting by the roadside. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout out and say, ‘Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!’”

Bartimaeus may have been blind, but he was not deaf. He must have heard the commotion of a large number of people, and the sound of so many feet walking past him. He must have heard the babble of voices, the whispers of wonder, the cries of expectation, the excited discussions about this Jesus in their midst. Perhaps even before he heard Jesus and the disciples and the crowds walking by, Bartimaeus had already heard rumors about Jesus, about what this strange man of Nazareth was doing and saying. Maybe Bartimaeus just knew, just perceived in a way that went beyond the physical senses, who Jesus truly was. However he knew about Jesus, he knew about Jesus.

He started shouting to him, trying to get his attention.

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

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

“Be quiet, Bartimaeus!” “Stop shouting, Bartimaeus!” “Don’t bother the teacher, Bartimaeus!” “Who are you to cry out to him, Bartimaeus?”

But all their efforts to shush him, to quiet him, to stifle him, were naught. Bartimaeus just shouted louder.

“Son of David, have mercy on me!”

Jesus heard. Jesus stopped walking, stood still, and called Bartimaeus to him. I suspect that the same people who were trying to hush Bartimaeus were now the ones encouraging him to get up and go to Jesus.

“Hush Bartimaeus! Oh wait, he wants to see you. Go Bartimaeus!”
            However visually impaired Bartimaeus may have been, he seemed to have no mobility issues. He didn’t just get up from the side of the road, he sprang up. He threw off his cloak and jumped up from where he was sitting and went to Jesus. Jesus then asked him a question which should have seemed obvious.

“What do you want me to do for you?”

“My Teacher, let me see again.”

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

“Go; your faith has made you well.”

Immediately, Bartimaeus, son of Timaeus, once a beggar by the side of the road, regained his sight. He saw and he followed.

What do you want me to do for you? Perhaps Jesus didn’t ask that question to be obtuse or to make Bartimaeus speak his desire. Perhaps that question was to get at the heart of what Bartimaeus really desired. He wanted to see again. Jesus gave him back his sight. When we think of a gospel with layers upon layers of meanings, we most likely think of the gospel of John. But I think there are layers in this story; there is more happening here, more being said, than a physical healing.

Don’t misunderstand me. Bartimaeus was healed of his physical blindness. But there was a seeing that went far beyond the physical. Bartimaeus could not see Jesus to have faith in him. But still he saw. He believed. He did not seem to just believe that Jesus was a healer. He called him “Son of David,” another way of saying Messiah. He called him, Teacher, my Teacher. He shouted not for healing, but for mercy. Bartimaeus had blind faith – not only because he was blind and believed, but because he was able to believe without needing to see. Jesus gave him back his sight, and what did he do? He didn’t run off and tell his friends or return to his family. He followed. He followed.

I’m not sure we are called to have blind faith, the kind of faith that chucks off reason and logic and thought. But I do think we are called to trust as deeply and as surely as Bartimaeus did. I think we are called to see how we are blind; how we walk through the world with blinders on: blind to others’ pain, blind to how our actions affect others, blind to the consequences of our sin.

The events of this past week, of yesterday, call us to remove our blinders. The violence in our world, in our country is real. As I was trying to ponder what to say in this sermon, I heard about the deadly shooting at a synagogue in Pennsylvania. People worshipping peacefully, observing the Sabbath, were gunned down by a man with death and violence and distorted vengeance on his mind and in his heart. They were our sisters and brothers. That man is our brother. The man who sent pipe bombs to so many prominent people last week; he is our brother. Believe me, I don’t like to call him that. I don’t want to admit that. I want to hate. But I cannot have blind faith. Just as Jesus restored Bartimaeus’ sight, he calls me to open my eyes, my mind and my heart. The people who are harmed are our family, and the people who do the harm are as well. And just as I am called to see this truth, to acknowledge it, I am called to live accordingly. And I am called to accountability, to admit my own culpability in the brokenness and the violence of our time. To have faith in Mark’s gospel is to follow Jesus; to follow with trust and persistence, even when we doubt. But it is also to see; to really, really see. We are called not to follow blindly, oblivious to the heartbreak of the world, focused only on our own personal relationship with Jesus. We are called to follow with eyes wide open, with hearts wide open, with minds wide open, with hands wide open. We are called to follow and to see. Jesus healed Bartimaeus. He gave him back his sight. But he also showed him mercy. Isn’t that what we are calling for? Isn’t that what we need? Mercy.

Aren’t we all in need of mercy? Aren’t we all blind in some way or another? Don’t we need to be healed? Don’t we need to finally see, to really see as if our faith depends on it?

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

The Goods

Mark 10:17-31

October 14, 2018

            Let’s assume from the very beginning of this sermon that Jesus was speaking absolutely and unequivocally truthfully. I know, I know, some of you – perhaps all of you – are thinking,

            “Amy, I always assume that Jesus was speaking absolutely and unequivocally truthfully.”

            I have no quarrel with that. I would claim it as well. But stick with me on this. Let’s all assume that Jesus was speaking absolutely truthfully in our passage from Mark. And with that assumption in mind, let us hear again these words.

            “As he was setting out on a journey, a man ran up and knelt before him, and asked him, ‘Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?’ Jesus said to him, ‘Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone. You know the commandments: ‘You shall not murder; You shall not commit adultery; You shall not steal; You shall not bear false witness; You shall not defraud; Honor your father and mother.’ He said to him, ‘Teacher, I have kept all these since my youth.’ Jesus, looking at him, loved him, and said, ‘You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.’ When he heard this, he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions.’

            Then Jesus looked around and said to his disciples, ‘How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!’ And the disciples were perplexed at these words. But Jesus said to them again, ‘Children, how hard it is to enter the kingdom of God! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.’ They were greatly astounded and said to one another, ‘Then who can be saved?’ Jesus looked at them and said, ‘For mortals it is impossible, but not for God; for God all things are possible.’”

            Are you still assuming it’s all true? And if you are, how are you feeling right about now? I’ll be honest with you. I’m a little nervous. I’m more than a little uncomfortable, because while I am not rich I have a lot of stuff. I own a lot of things. I have a life filled with possessions. And I promise you that when I leave here today I am not going to go out, sell my possessions, and give the money to the poor. I’m not. However, as I have also agreed to assume that what Jesus says is true, I will leave here disturbed by his words and struggling with what to do with them.

            What do we do with these words, these unsettling and disturbing words about riches and wealth and the kingdom of God? First of all, let me share with you something that I learned only this past week. If you have ever been told in a sermon, perhaps one delivered by me, that the eye of a needle was a small gate into the city of Jerusalem, used for camels, it’s not true. There was no such gate. There is no evidence that any kind of gate like this ever existed. According to commentators and biblical scholars, this was made up in the nineteenth century to spiritualize this text. Why? Because thinking that Jesus was referring to an actual narrow gate makes his words sting a little less.

            And that’s what we want. We want his words to sting a little less; because when it comes to wealth and possessions, this story about Jesus’ encounter with the rich man stings. We don’t know anything about this man other than what we read in the gospels. Sometimes referred to as the “rich, young ruler,” in Mark’s gospel we only hear him referred to as a man. But whether we call him the rich, young ruler or just know him as a man of means, the way he approached Jesus was interesting.

            He clearly was not a man looking to trick or ensnare Jesus as the Pharisees did. He knelt before Jesus. The people who knelt before Jesus were the ones in need of healing, either for themselves or someone they loved. The Syrophoenician woman who begged Jesus to heal her child knelt before him. Jairus knelt before Jesus and begged him to help his daughter. To kneel was to prostrate ones’ self. It was a gesture of humility and pleading. The rich man knelt before Jesus. Clearly, he was seeking something he could not find on his own. He was driven by a need that his wealth and possessions could not fill.

            So he ran up to Jesus, knelt before him and asked the question, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

            Jesus’ initial response seems strange.

            “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone.”

            Was Jesus engaging in mutual humility? Or was he pointing out to this man who had plenty of goods that the real source of goodness was not found in people, not even in Jesus; nor was it found in possessions, in stuff? The real source of good, of the good, was only found in God. God alone is good. So even to refer to Jesus as good was to miss the mark.

            Jesus went on to say, you know your commandments. You know what they are. You shall not murder or commit adultery or steal. You shall not bear false witness. You shall honor your mother and father. Jesus added a commandment; one that we don’t find in the original Decalogue. He also said, “You shall not defraud.”

            Did Jesus say this because this man gained his wealth through the defrauding of others? Were his words based on an understanding that many of those who were wealthy were so because of exploitation of others? We don’t know. Again, that’s what Jesus said, and we are assuming that everything Jesus said was true.

            The man answered Jesus saying that he obeyed all the commandments. He followed the Law. He was not guilty of transgression against any of them. Then Mark tells us something that we do not hear in any of other gospel accounts, nor do we hear this in any story about Jesus.

            “Jesus, looking at him, loved him.”

            Jesus looked at this man, this rich man, who we assume had goods to spare, and loved him. He loved him.

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

            Jesus looked at this man. Jesus loved this man. And Jesus saw that even with all this man had, with all that he owned, he still lacked something. He lacked something that money and possessions could not fill. Perhaps it was that lack, that need that drove this man to Jesus in the first place. Perhaps deep down the man realized that he was lacking, that he had a void in his life that could not be filled by stuff or things or wealth.

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

            There are so many things to be unpacked in this story, so many levels of meaning in which to dive deeply. I could preach twenty sermons on it, and that’s a good thing. This story pushes us not only to reexamine how we see wealth, but also to consider how we see the poor. To be honest, this story is not just about what Jesus said to some man a long time ago, it is about what he says to us right now. It was not just the man who was shocked and grieved by Jesus’ words, all the others around them were shocked as well. To be rich was a sign of blessing. To be poor was a sign of God’s disfavor, even God’s curse. Are we that much different today? Isn’t poverty more often viewed as a moral failing and wealth a result of doing all the right things?

            Jesus did not chastise the man or reprove of him because of his wealth per se. But he called him to see that his wealth, his possessions; the goods that he set such store by were not really what was good. Only God is good. All good comes from God, not in spite of God. Jesus did not condemn the man’s wealth nor did he condemn the man. Jesus looked at him and loved him, and asked him to see good in something else, something bigger, something better.

            Sell all that you own, give the money to the poor, then come and follow me.

            Jesus called the man to be in a new relationship with the people around him, and Jesus called him to be in relationship with him. Get rid of what distracts you. Give away what binds you, and follow me. In Mark’s gospel especially, faith is not assenting to or ascribing to doctrine or a set of rules. Faith is about following. Faith is about relationship. If there is something that prevents you from following or being in relationship, then let it go, give it up, give it away. All those possessions, all those goods, they are nothing in light of being in relationship with Jesus; of being in relationship with our good and loving God.

            What Jesus said was true, and we have to wrestle with his truth. We have to live with it. I’ve already said that I won’t leave here today, sell what I own and give that money to the poor. I know that. But that does not excuse me from taking Jesus’ words about wealth and following and faith seriously. I cannot spiritualize this story away. I cannot write it off as being something different from what Jesus actually said. For the rest of my life, I have to face the fact that what I own can get in the way of how I live with others, how I treat others, and how I walk in relationship and faith with God.

            Yet here is the good news. Jesus looked at that man and loved him. Jesus looks at us and loves us. Jesus loves us, in spite of the fact that we can so easily fail to follow him, regardless of how many times we, like that man, walk away from him. Jesus loves us in spite of ourselves, and what is impossible for us is never, ever impossible for God. Thanks be to God. Amen.

A Community of the Broken -- World Communion Sunday

Mark 10:2-16

October 7, 2018

            I sat there feeling hopeless. Shame and guilt washed over me in relentless waves. The topic of our conversation had shifted, and one person dominated the discussion. What is wrong in our society, he said, is that our kids are coming out of broken homes. Homes with single moms, he said, and no fathers in sight. It is these broken homes, these broken families that are at the root of our crumbling culture.

            This was about six years ago. I was sitting in a ministerial association meeting – actually, I was hosting it, because we were in the parlor of the old church. The person talking was and is a minister in this community. It turns out, although I didn’t know it at the time, that he too has been married and divorced – more than once on both accounts. But I didn’t know that. What I did know was that I was newly separated. I was now a single mother, and if I believed what this man said, my kids were doomed.

            As he continued to talk and talk and talk, I got quieter and quieter. I didn’t know where to look. Catching the eye of another colleague was impossible. I didn’t want to look at them. I was too ashamed. I just bowed my head toward my hands, closed my eyes, and prayed that this rant would soon be over; that he would either run out of steam and stop on his own, or that someone would interrupt him. I don’t remember how it ended. I just know that it did. I held it together until the last minister left, then I sat and cried.

            I suspect that this other minister was not trying to shame me. I would like to believe that had he known my situation, he would have held his tongue or at least worked at some sensitivity. But even if he had done either of those things, I doubt that my shame and guilt would have been abated. Even if he would not have made any of those remarks, I would have still heard them. I was saying them to myself every day. I didn’t need to hear a sermon about the evils of divorce; I was preaching that sermon to myself on a regular basis.

            Hearing this passage from Mark may bring out those kinds of sermons in our heads. After all, it would seem that this passage is designed for just that purpose. Jesus was on the move again, drawing crowds and teaching them as they went. Into this setting some Pharisees came to Jesus to test him. That might be a clue to us that this passage is not just another way to condemn those who have failed in their marriages. The Pharisees wanted to test Jesus, and we know that whenever Pharisees wanted to test Jesus, there was more at stake. Testing was another way to try and trick him. They wanted to catch him up in a trap of the legal kind.

            But Jesus never fell for it. He never gave them the satisfaction. They asked a question about divorce, which was a legal issue, and he turned the law back on them.

            “Is it lawful for a man to divorce his wife?”

            “What did Moses command you?”

            “They said, ‘Moses allowed a man to write a certificate of dismissal to divorce her.’ But Jesus said to them, ‘Because of your hardness of heart, he wrote this commandment for you.’”

            Because of your hardness of heart … it wasn’t that Jesus didn’t take marriage seriously. He quoted from Genesis to show the divine intent behind marriage. He spoke privately to his disciples about remarriage being adultery. But he was pushing them to see something more, something bigger.

            Although the Pharisees asked about the lawfulness of divorce, that legality was not really in question. Even though divorce was frowned upon, it was assumed that it would sometimes happen. It was perfectly legal for a man to divorce his wife. And there was no long drawn out court process for this. He only had to write a “certificate of divorce.” As I understand it, that was basically the husband writing down, “I divorce you” and handing it to his wife. The reasons for divorce could be as simple as the wife burning the husband’s dinner just one too many times.

            Jesus was not countering the Pharisees test of lawfulness with more legalism. Jesus pushed back on their hardness of heart. A divorce was a breaking of relationship, and that breaking of relationship often left the most vulnerable in society even more vulnerable. Women had no status or power outside of their husband or other men in their family. To be divorced was to lose the protection of that man. I have said it again and again, and I will keep saying it, there is a reason why we so often hear about care for the widows and orphans. It is because women and children were the most vulnerable in that society. Divorce exponentially increased that vulnerability.

            Up to this point in the narrative, Jesus had been trying to teach the disciples and the crowds that the kingdom of God was for those who were vulnerable. It was for the least and the lost. Jesus had already pulled a child into his lap and told the disciples that welcoming such a little one, a vulnerable one, was welcoming him and welcoming the One who sent him.

            Divorce was a breaking of relationship that caused harm, real physical harm to those who were left in its wake. I know that can still be said about divorce today. It would seem that I am backing up the words said by that minister six years ago; that the troubles of our society spring from the broken family. If only families stayed together, all would be well. But here’s the thing: divorce does happen. And it hurts. It hurts like hell. And it can harm. But brokenness is not limited to divorce and divorce alone. We are broken; all of us. We are all wounded in one way or another. We are all damaged by the struggles of life. To live is to eventually be broken. To live is to eventually experience broken relationships and broken hearts. You do not have to live through a divorce to know that.

            But what makes me so sad is that when it comes to church, when it comes to being the church, we seem to forget this reality of the human condition. We seem to get it into our heads that church is the place where only the really, really good folks get to go. I have heard many people say that they were faithful members of their church … until they got divorced. Then they no longer felt like they could attend. They felt like they just weren’t good enough to sit in the pews. It was as if divorce stained them so badly, they could not get clean again.

            When I was going through my divorce, I considered leaving the ministry for those same reasons. Who was I to stand in this pulpit and preach when I had failed so terribly, so horribly? But Alice told me something at one point that helped me more than she knows. She said that going through this would make me a better minister, because I would have even more empathy, more understanding for the pain others go through. I don’t know if I have proof yet that she was right, but I do have hope.

            You see we are all broken, in one way or another. Today as we celebrate World Communion, I cannot help but think about all the people around the world who will gather at tables and altars, in large cathedrals and small storefronts, and take the bread and the cup. I cannot help but imagine all of the stories that will be brought to those tables. I cannot help but imagine hundreds of thousands of broken people gathering to hear the familiar words, “The body of Christ, the blood of Christ.”

            We are all broken. We are a community of broken people, but we are also a community of blessed people. We are a community of blessed people because God does not abandon us to our brokenness. God does not give up on us because we are broken. God calls us out of our broken places, God calls to us in the brokenness of our hearts. God calls us not only in spite of our brokenness, but maybe because of it. God calls us and God loves us. God binds up our broken hearts. God pours the balm of love and healing on the broken places and the broken relationships. God calls us to the table, broken and blessed, and tells us the good news that the kingdom is for the broken and the lost and the vulnerable. God blesses us just as Jesus blessed those children.

            We are a community of broken and blessed people. May we acknowledge our brokenness, and may we see the brokenness in others. Then may we reach out to them in love and grace, just as God reaches out to us, with love and tenderness and grace over and over again.

            We are a community of broken and blessed people. Thanks be to God.

But What About You?

Mark 8:27-38

September 16, 2018

            The city was all about power. It was named for an emperor; in fact the city itself was built for that emperor. The city’s every building, and every nuance of architecture, was designed as a tribute to that leader. It was a city of wealth. It was a city created to glorify a human being. It was a city of ostentation. It was a city of power. It was a monument to all that worldly success could bring.

            Into this city walked a teacher and his students. Others, many others, followed along behind them. But it would have been clear to someone watching this scene from afar that the twelve students grouped around the teacher were in a different relationship with him than the others in the crowds.

            They walked into this magnificent city and the teacher asked his followers a question.

            “Who are the people saying that I am?”

            The students did not hesitate with their answers.

            “Some say that you are John the Baptist. And other folks say that you are Elijah. There are some that say you may even be one of the other prophets.”

            The teacher stopped walking, turned around and looked with great intent at his students. There was a small but weighty silence, then he asked,

            “But what about you? Who do you say that I am?”

            A person watching from a distance would have noticed how taken aback the students were by this question. That silent observer might have seen the students look down at their feet, shift back and forth, look at each other, afraid perhaps to be the first one to speak.

            Except for one – one man who stepped forward, excited, head high and hands held out. Clearly this one thought he had the right answer.

            “You are the Messiah,” he said eagerly, maybe even with a slight smile creasing the corners of his mouth.

            If this one student, this bold student, expected accolades for getting it right, he must have been disappointed. The teacher did not pat him on the back, shake his hand or turn him around to face the others; an illustrious example of one who pays attention. No, the teacher put a finger to his lips and told them not to tell anyone else. Then with a renewed urgency, he began to tell them what being the Messiah really meant. He began to tell them it was more than just a title, a designation or a royal name.

            The Messiah must suffer, he told them. The Messiah must endure pain and affliction and then die. But after three days, he will rise again to new life.

            If the students were put off by their teacher’s earlier question, they were surely shocked, bewildered, even appalled by what he was telling them now. The Messiah suffer? The Messiah die? The Messiah rise again? None of this made sense. None of this fit with what they had been taught. Nothing the teacher was telling them connected with anything they knew before.

            Maybe the other students were frightened and confused, but the one, the bold one, the eager one, he was angry. He stepped forward again, and pulled the teacher a few steps away from the others.

            “Stop it!,” he told his teacher. “Stop it! Stop saying these terrible things. You’re scaring them! You’re scaring me! This is not what happens to a Messiah! Suffering? Death? No, this is not what happens to the Messiah, the one we’ve been waiting for!”

            If the bold one believed the teacher might back down, he was wrong. Instead the teacher turned his back on him, looked at the other students and said,

            “Get behind me, Satan! You are thinking about only human things, only human concerns. But you are not thinking about God. You are not thinking about divine things”

            That one student must have felt like he had been punched in the gut. How could he have gotten it all so wrong? Only seconds before he gave the right answer. Now the teacher had called him Satan. The teacher had compared him to the Most Evil One. But there was no time to ask for more understanding or clarification. There was no time to apologize or beg for forgiveness. The teacher called the others, the crowds, who were watching this drama unfold. He called them to come closer and told them that they had to make a choice. If they wanted to be his followers, if they really, truly, most sincerely wanted to follow him, then they must also pick up their cross and walk the path he walked. They must pick up their cross and follow him. Not only must they pick up their cross, they must decide if they would be willing to align themselves with him. Would they be ashamed of him? Would they deny they knew him? Or would they be willing to give up even their lives to follow?

            “But what about you?” he said. “Who do you say that I am?”

            Who do you say that I am?

            As one commentator put it, this is the moment in Mark’s gospel when we – those of us who think we know the rest of the story – finally believe that the gap between Jesus and the disciples’ understanding of Jesus will at last be bridged. In some ways, this is the moment we have been waiting for. Jesus asks, “Who do you say that I am?” and Peter, bless his heart, bold, impetuous Peter, steps up the plate and hits a verbal home run.

            “You are the Messiah.”

            Yes! He gets it! Peter, at least, finally understands just who Jesus is. But as quickly as we think the gap has closed, it reopens again; and it is even wider this time. Peter may have gotten the title right, but not what the title means. Jesus ordered the disciples to keep his identity a secret from others, but they have to know, they must know exactly what the true definition of Messiah is.

            To be Messiah is to suffer. To be Messiah is to die a violent death. To be Messiah is to rise again. To be Messiah … but Peter was having none of it. As earnestly as he uttered his confession of Jesus’ true identity, he even more earnestly rebuked Jesus for expounding on the truth Jesus was determined to share. Just as Jesus rebuked unclean spirits, he rebuked Peter as well.

            “Get behind me, Satan!”

            Jesus had undergone great temptation in the wilderness, and now he told Peter that Peter’s words were just another temptation. It was more of the same. To be the Messiah was to reject the comforts of the world and to follow a different path, a different way. It was not about enjoying suffering or hoping for suffering; it was to accept that when you reject the world, the world makes you pay for it. The people may not have been calling him Messiah, but the prophets they were comparing him to suffered. John the Baptist spoke truth to power and paid for it. Elijah spoke truth to power and suffered. Jesus knew that being the Messiah meant suffering, because it meant rejecting success on worldly terms, and to follow that Messiah, to really follow means the same for everyone who picks up their cross.

            His question to the disciples was not just a test of their knowledge about his identity. It was a question of their identity as well. But what about you? Who do you say that I am also asks, who will you say that you are?

            Karoline Lewis said that is the hardest question of all, because answering who Jesus is to us means that we also have to hold a bright light up to ourselves? If I believe, heart, mind and soul, that Jesus is the Messiah; if I believe that Jesus went to the hard places and ministered to the hard people; if I wholeheartedly accept and believe and confess that Jesus as Messiah spoke truth to power and gave hope to the hopeless, gave voice to the voiceless, then what does that say about me? What does that say about how I am living, how I am being, how I am following? Have I picked up my cross?

            To answer the question, “What about you? Who do you say that I am?” is to also answer a question about myself. You are Jesus the Messiah, the Son of God, and I want to follow you. My identity is intricately connected to yours. So who I say you are also says worlds about who I am. “Who do you say that I am” is a question that I must hear and that I must answer over and over again; because discipleship is a call, and it is one that we answer not just once but also over and over again. It is a choice that we make. Picking up our crosses and following Jesus is a daily decision. I don’t want to admit how many times I’ve looked at my cross, then turned and gone the other way. But here is the good news, and maybe it doesn’t even seem like good news, but it is. My cross is still there, still waiting for me to pick it up. I can always make the better choice. And I can always make that choice, because of God’s grace. God’s grace offers that me choice every day. And God’s grace covers me on those days when I cannot bear the weight of the cross I have been given. And it is Gods’ grace that gives me the courage and the strength to try again, to choose again, to answer the question one more time. “But what about you? Who do you say that I am?”

You are the Messiah. Thanks be to God. Amen.