Our Light Has Come -- Epiphany

Matthew 2:1-12

January 6, 2019

I wandered so aimless life filled with sin
I wouldn't let my dear savior in
Then Jesus came like a stranger in the night
Praise the Lord I saw the light
I saw the light I saw the light
No more darkness no more night
Now I'm so happy no sorrow in sight
Praise the Lord I saw the light

            Even if you’re not a country music or a Hank Williams fan, you may recognize the opening lyrics and chorus of Hank’s iconic song, “I Saw the Light.” As the song goes, his life was shut up in darkness, sin and pointless wanderings away from God. Then one day, “like a stranger in the night,” Jesus came into his life and he saw the light.

            This is a great song. I hadn’t heard it in years, and when I was thinking about using it, I went back and listened again to Hank Williams’ plaintive voice declaring that out of a life of spiritual blindness and waste, he finally saw Jesus and he finally saw the light. But did you know that the inspiration for this song really was a light? It was not a celestial light from the heavens – although perhaps it seemed like it was. It was a real, physical, tangible light.

Hank and his band were driving back to Nashville in the dead of the night after a gig somewhere. This was long before Nashville had a skyline with light that illuminated the landscape for miles. Hank looked out into that looming darkness and saw the light of the WSM radio tower. WSM was and is the station for the Grand Ole Opry, and its tower is unlike any radio tower that I have ever seen. It stands like a strange obelisk, reaching into the sky; and on that night when Hank Williams and his band mates were driving through the pitch black, the light from the WSM tower must have seemed like the light from a lighthouse guiding tired travelers home. Maybe it did indeed seem like a light from the heavens. But however Williams perceived it, it inspired this song. Praise the Lord, I saw the light!

I’m not sure that Hank Williams would have used this term, but what he described in the song was an epiphany. He saw the light, and when he saw this light, it illuminated the darkness he had been living in. If you’ve given any attention to your bulletin, you know already that today is Epiphany. Today is the feast of Epiphany, and we are now entering into the season of Epiphany; the season of light.

Although in our Christmas pageants we conflate the shepherds and the wise men together, having all of them show up at the manger on the same night, it is more likely true that the magi took several months to make their way to Bethlehem. It would have been an arduous trip. I have always been taught that these magi hailed from Persia, but one scholar that I read just recently stated that it is quite possible they came from Babylon. The magi, the title that give us our word, “magic,” were not magicians, but they were the astronomers of their day. They studied the stars. And while art and pictures, such as the one on the cover of our bulletin, depict three men on camels following a star, we don’t really know just how many magi there were. Matthew’s text gives us no count. They brought three gifts, so we assume there were three of them. Yet, regardless of their number, these men who watched the sky recognized that a great king had been born. They understood that this king was not your regular royal, and making the trip to pay him homage was the only right response. They saw the light.

How interesting that in Matthew’s gospel – a gospel which is considered by scholars to be a very Jewish centered gospel – the first people to witness to the coming of the Light of the world were gentiles. Not only were they gentiles, they were quite likely from the heart of the empire that had conquered Israel and dispersed its people to the far corners of the earth. These magi were the epitome of outsiders, others. But this did not prevent them from recognizing the birth of Jesus. Their otherness did not stop them from understanding that with the birth of Jesus, the world shifted. They were the other, but they still saw the light.

And while it is tempting to sentimentalize this story, just as we do the nativity in Luke’s gospel, the danger it describes is quite real. Our verses stop before Herod executes his horrific plan. But as biblical scholar Karoline Lewis wrote, Herod is a perfect example of what happens when oppressive power is confronted with truth.

Herod was no dummy. He knew that what the magi told him about the birth of a new king was a real threat to him and to his throne. He showed that he was willing to eradicate that threat by whatever means necessary. And he did. His quest to remain in power made refugees of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, and it wreaked death and slaughter on innocents and their families.

No, the story of the magi, the story of Epiphany is not a sweet story. Nor is it a sentimental one. But it is the story of God that we see throughout the arc of the Bible. It is the story of God working through unlikely people in uncertain circumstances to bring about God’s purposes for this world, for God’s children, for us. The story of Epiphany is light shining in the darkness.

The story of Epiphany is our story. We still live in a dangerous and dark world. It is a world still filled with Herods, willing to end threats to their power by whatever means necessary. But our world is also God’s world. And God is still working God’s purposes through unlikely people from unlikely places and in unlikely circumstances. God is still calling us to see God’s light shining in the darkness. Epiphany is a season, but it is also a reality. It is wherever we see the light of God. It is whenever we feel compelled to follow a star.

Take a moment and think of when you have experienced epiphany, of when you have seen the light of God. Take a moment and remember your own stories. Epiphany does not belong to the magi. Epiphany is ours. It is our moments of seeing the light. It is our witness to the birth of a baby and to the resurrection of a Son. It is our stories. So think of a moment, a time, a place when you have seen the light. Think of this and give thanks that our light has come. I’ve seen the light. You’ve seen the light. Praise the Lord, we’ve seen the light.

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

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.”