Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Easter

Preached at Canadochly and Grace on April 22, 2018
Preaching text: John 10:11-18

Periodically over the past several months, I’ve been meeting with Alexander and Collin to do their God and Family badges for Scouts. In our last session, Alexander and I looked over the parable of the lost sheep from Matthew. “Why does the shepherd seek the lost sheep?” was one of the questions. One could just have easily asked, pertaining to our lessons today, why does the good shepherd lay down his life for the sheep?

Even those who come to church super-infrequently or are baby Christians in some way should know the answer to this. It’s because of love. The shepherd loves his sheep. And in both these stories the shepherd is a stand-in for God/Christ and the sheep is a stand-in for us humans, it follows that God loves us. Christianity 101. That’s the most basic, most foundational, most elementary, most fundamental teaching of our faith. It’s the very first thing we learn in Church or should be. Everything else comes from it. God loves you. God loves me.

And yet, so often, we struggle to understand or believe it.

Part of that is language. What do we mean by love? That word can mean so many things in English. In the original Greek of the New Testament, they solved this problem somewhat by having three separate words for love. Philia (φιλία) means friendship or fondness. This appears in English in places like the name of the city of Philadelphia (City of brotherly “love”) or calling oneself an audiophile (one who has a “fondness” for music.) Another Greek word for love is eros (érōs), which is romantic or sexual love. This too appears in English when we refer to things of a sexual nature as being erotic. The third word is agape (ἀγάπη), which is often translated as divine love. I feel that definition, although accurate, muddies the waters somewhat. A better way of thinking of it is as “selfless love.”

We understand philia. We understand friendship and affection. We understand eros. We understand romance and sexuality. We do not understand agape because that sort of love is rare between or within humans. It doesn’t happen very often. It’s not something we experience often and, when we do, it often surprises and astounds us.

The reason for that is because we primarily experience love as transactional. We give something and then get something in return. We do this with our friends. We do this with our lovers and spouses. As much as we give, we receive, and it is odd to us to receive something without having given something.

There’s a video that pops up on my Facebook feed periodically and I actually sat down and watched it all the way through this week for the first time. It’s a video of an old rabbi telling a story. He’s with a young man who is eating his meal.

“Why do you eat the fish?” The rabbi asks.
“Because I love fish.” the young man replies.
“You love fish. So that is why you caught, killed, cooked, and ate this fish.” the rabbi retorts skeptically. He pauses then continues. “No, you do not love the fish. You love yourself. You love the way the fish tastes, how it pleases your taste buds. You love how the fish makes you feel. You love what the fish does to you.”

The rabbi concludes by saying, “The problem with the world today is that too much of our love is fish love.”

Transactional love is fish love. We love our friends, at least in part, because of how we feel when we with them. We love our spouses, at least in part, because of how we feel when we are with them. We love our families, at least in part, because of how we feel when we are with them. And when we do not feel good around such people, we often have the temptation to create distance between us and them or to break off that relationship altogether. A temptation we sometimes act upon, creating hurt, heartache, and regret.

And that is why we often struggle to understand God’s love. Because we know our sins, our vices, our mistakes, we know these things hurt God. And while we may confess and apologize for them, we always wonder how much pain will God allow me to inflict upon him before he gives up on me. When will I cross the line when he won’t forgive me anymore?

On an intellectual level, we may see that fear as ludicrous. The Scriptures teach that God’s love has no limits and it does not. But, on an emotional level, there’s always that doubt. What if....what if I’m wrong about that? What if God isn’t really that way? What if...what if...what if. After all, no one else loves me that way. Everyone else’s love has limits. Why not God?

This is the gift of the Good Shepherd stories. This is why we have them. To remind us of God’s love, a reminder we need perpetually, but to also show us what that love is like. To give us an example of what it means to have agape for another, truly selfless love. The sheep can do nothing for the shepherd. He gives nothing. He offers nothing. If anything, all the sheep gives is annoyance and irritation: getting lost, wandering off, getting sick, not doing as it’s told. But none of that matters, because the shepherd loves the sheep. Period.

It is said that the true measure of character is how you treat those who can do nothing for you. That is agape and that is how God feels about you. You can give him nothing. He already has everything. But he loves you. You can do nothing for him. And he loves you. There’s no transaction here. There is no fish love here. It’s that simple. God loves you because that’s what God does. You’ve not earned it. You’ve not merited it. You’ve done nothing to obtain it. But you have it and always will.

Patee isn’t the only theater nerd in our congregation. I’ve been a fan of Broadway for a long time, particularly of Andrew Lloyd Webber. Evita is one of my favorite of his works and about 20 years ago now when that musical was made into a film, Webber wrote a new song for the film. It was called “You Must Love Me.” It appears near the end of the story, when Eva Peron, the titular heroine of the story, has (spoilers) been diagnosed with terminal cancer and she can’t figure out why her husband Juan is still always at her side. Why are you here? I can do nothing for you anymore. Oh, it’s because you must love me.

That is agape. That is the love of the Good Shepherd. And that love will be with you forever. Amen.

Sermon for the Third Sunday of Easter

Preached at Grace and Canadochly on April 15, 2018
Scripture text: Luke 24:36-48

Quite some time ago, I was channel surfing on TV, looking for something to watch. I stumbled onto an old movie called “Evil Under the Sun.” It came out in 1982, has a stellar cast, and is film-version of an old Agatha Christie mystery novel. I liked the movie. I got pulled in. Part of that is because of the story’s setting and time. I’m a fan of the 1920s: Art Deco, Jazz, The Great Gatsby, Duesenberg cars, and all that. But I was also was sucked in because of the story. I wanted to find out what was really going on. Who was the murderer? Who was guilty? Why’d they do it? All the good things that mystery stories tease us with.

If I look over the width and breadth of my favorite films and stories, there are a surprising number of mysteries among them. Many of them are cross-genre, which is to say they are fantasy or sci-fi or historical films that also mysteries. Another favorite is “The Name of the Rose,” a mystery that takes place in a medieval monastery (Movie is seriously creepy, by the way.) Even the recent largely-forgettable Valerian: City of a Thousand Planets is a sci-fi movie with a mystery plot. I liked it though. It was entertaining enough.

In every mystery, there comes a moment when the mystery is unraveled. The detective or whatever he or she is tells us what really happened. They tell us who did it. They tell us how they did it. They tell us why they did. The whole mystery is explained and the guilty party is exposed. It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for the whole time and the best mysteries wrap up every loose end, tying together every clue, including the ones we saw ourselves and the ones we missed.

I feel like our Gospel lesson today is that scene, that moment, when all the questions are answered. This is actually the second of two of these moments in Luke’s Gospel, both of which appear in chapter 24 of his narrative. The first is when Jesus encounters the two disciples on the Road to Emmaus. Luke tells us that as the trio is walking along the road, Jesus opened the Scriptures to the other two, telling them all the things about himself from the OT. The second occurs a few verses later and is our Gospel today. Again, Jesus comes among the disciples and “opens their minds to understand the Scriptures.”

He’s telling them the story. He’s putting all the pieces together. All the way back into antiquity. Here’s where it started. Here’s where it went. Here’s who it did. Here’s why and here’s how. Here’s all the pieces of the puzzle laid out before you. Here is the mystery solved. Only this time, the mystery isn’t some crime, it’s the story of God’s love for his creation.

I have heard many times, and have even said myself, that we wish we could be there. A fly on the wall or little bird listening in on those conversation. We wish we could hear, from Jesus himself, how all the pieces add up. It would go a long way towards calming all those doubts and questions I spoke about last week. We could finally have the answer to those nagging questions in our minds about all this God stuff.

Yeah, we’re envious of those who were given that insight, but the truth is, Jesus didn’t reveal anything to them that we haven’t learned ourselves. It’s not as if, in the course of this mystery story, that we are given only half the clues while those so long ago have the whole story. No, we have all the same clues as they did and we too can piece together the puzzle. The solution of the mystery is right in front of us. All too often, however, we choose not to believe it.

Last Sunday, we talked quite a bit in our Adult Q&A about the first chapters of Genesis. I called those stories “myth” because they are. However, myths are stories that reveal truths in much the same way as Jesus’ parables do. The biggest truths that come out of those ancient stories are the brokenness of human existence due to sin and God’s attempts to solve that problem. We see sin and its consequences outlined in the Garden of Eden, Noah’s Ark, Cain and Abel, and the tower of Babel. We also see God wrestle with a solution in the Noah’s Ark story and his acknowledgement that the destruction of his creation is not a proper solution. Evil cannot be defeated by destroying it. So what then?

Well, then comes Abraham and the Old Covenant. As I’ve pointed out before, that promise to Abraham made him and his descendants into a conduit by which God would bless the world and bring about the end of sin and death forever. We Christians know this blessing came in the form of Jesus, who lived, died, and rose again for the sake of every person who ever lived and ever will. He did this to show God’s love, to forgive our sin, and to give us life eternal.

This is the heart of the Christian story. It’s really not a very complicated mystery. God so loved his creation that he gave his son Jesus so that the creation would be saved. Seems I read that somewhere. That’s really the long and short of it. He loved it at the beginning. He loves it now. And he will love it forever more. And he will do anything he must to see it saved. Oh, and lest this get lost on any of you, let me say that a little differently. He loved you at the beginning. He loves you now. And he will love you forever more. And he will do anything he must to see you saved.

That’s the part we have the hardest time believing. But that too is the story. That’s what this is all about. It’s about how much God loves you and loves the person next to you and the person next to them, all down the line until we come to the last human who has ever drawn breath or ever will. Every single one of them. Now, in that massive list of billions upon billions of humans, there are more than a few that we have disliked or even hated for a whole host of reasons. Some legit, some not. God loves them too. God has been working to save them from the dawn of time, just like you. Heck, the one who might dislike the most in that list is yourself. Him too. Her too. Loved all the same.

Time and again, I come back to the wellspring of the late Brennan Manning, whose entire ministry here on Earth was driving home this simple truth: God loves you. Period. End of story. No exceptions. No exclusions. That’s the great mystery, now solved and outlined before you. There are a wealth of quotes I could draw upon that drive home that point, but I settle on this one. “Define yourself radically as one beloved by God. This is the true self. Every other identity is illusion.” That’s who you are. That’s who I am. That’s who we all are.

And that’s the “mystery” of the Scriptures, the mystery Jesus laid bare before all of us, the mystery he lived and revealed not merely in the teaching of the Scriptures, but in his dying and rising. This is God’s great plan: to love you beyond death, beyond reason, beyond measure. It really is that simple. Amen.

Sermon for the Second Sunday of Easter

Preached at Grace and Canadochly on April 8, 2018
Preaching text: John 20:19-31

Well, here we are again. Our annual return to the story of Thomas on Easter Evening and beyond. There’s little I can say today that I haven’t said already about him. Thomas is one of the most loyal, most curious, eager disciples among the Twelve. He’s a good man, but the only thing most people remember about him is his doubt.

I’ve spent the last twenty plus years preaching this Sunday, even before I was an ordained pastor and just a lay speaker, and I always rush to his defense. Not just because Thomas is a good man who should be admired rather than denigrated, but because I find doubt to be a positive trait in people. Doubt drives us to question. Doubt drives us to seek. Doubt is behind St. Paul’s counsel to “Test every spirit and hold fast to what is good.” (1 Thess 5:21)

Because when we seek and when we question and when we test, that’s when we grow. That’s when we change. That’s when we find ourselves becoming closer to Christ and we find ourselves remaking our lives in his likeness. And that is, or at least should be, the goal of every Christian.

But that’s not what I find in the Church. Instead, I often find two other things. First, I find embarrassment. People who fear their doubt. People who don’t want to admit to it. People who see doubt as spiritual weakness, as sin, as something Christ would reject them over. So they hide it and refuse to admit to it, hoping that denial will make it go away and/or will keep others from noticing.

To those who feel that way, I hope you see the comfort the Thomas story offers you. Jesus does not castigate or scold Thomas in his doubt. He offers him precisely what Thomas said he need to believe. He holds forth his hands and his side; he shows his wounds so that Thomas may believe. Always remember that God wants you to believe. He wants you to trust in him. He did all this for you. From the Old Covenant to Jesus’ birth to the crucifixion to the empty tomb, all done for your sake. In fact, he wants you to believe so badly that he sends his Holy Spirit to you so that you can and do believe.

Easily one of the most troubling and yet comforting passages in all of our Lutheran doctrine is Luther’s explanation of the Third Article of the Apostles Creed. “I believe that I cannot by my own reason or strength believe in Jesus Christ, my Lord, or come to Him; but the Holy Spirit has called me by the Gospel, enlightened me with His gifts, sanctified and kept me in the true faith.” We can’t believe without God and yet God provides. Doubt doesn’t erase faith. It can’t. You have nothing to fear.

Now, granted, you might change your mind about a theological point here and there. You might change your mind about doctrine or dogma along the way. But faith itself? No, God’s not letting you go. He’s got you and he intends to keep you. So whatever doubt you have, don’t be afraid to embrace the questions and embrace the seeking. You may find yourself very much like Thomas. You may find that God will provide precisely what you need.

But there is another kind in the church besides the embarrassed ones. It’s those who are certain. Those who have complete and utter certainty that they know what God wants. They know what God would do. They know exactly what God thinks about this thing or that. These are people who have gone one step beyond embarrassment and have excised all doubt from their minds. And along with it, they’ve excised questions and seeking and growth and becoming closer to Christ. They know everything, so they claim. In fact, they don’t need Jesus or the Bible or any of those things (although they might manipulate these to their own ends). They’ve got all the answers. In fact, many of them are more than willing to tell you and I just how badly we’ve got it wrong.

A friend of mine once shared a bit of advice with me some years ago. “Mingle with those who seek the truth. Shun those who have found it.” The Church is meant to be a place for those who seek, but all too often those within who have found some measure of an always-incomplete truth will turn around and bludgeon and bully those they regard as lesser. Many of them, I fear, we call pastor or minister. I hope I never become that.

Certainty is dangerous and not just in the Church. I was watching a TV interview with Frank Schaeffer a few days ago. Schaeffer is a liberal activist and a former paragon of the Religious Right who has since renounced them. He said something that intrigued me about people of faith who are “certain.” Here’s his quote...”People who are certainty addicts tend to do bad things...I’ve never heard of anybody blowing up an abortion clinic or a white police officer shooting a black man or someone bombing a mosque after they shout ‘But I could be wrong.’”

Those of right-leaning inclinations may not find this to their liking.

You can think of plenty of other examples too from all parts of life. Suicide bombers don’t typically question before they kill a hundred people in central Baghdad. Anti-vaxxers don’t typically seek the real answers before they subject their children to the terrible risk of dangerous disease. Conspiracy theorists don’t typically look up the facts that will probably refute their crazy ideas. Climate deniers know everything there is to know about meteorology, far more than those who’ve actually studied the data. Some of these are laughable and harmless. Others can have real lasting and terrible impact on people’s lives.

Doubt is a check against this. When we embrace our doubt, when we use it to seek the truth, to seek Christ, we rarely become so arrogant or self-righteous. Because our need for God is ever before us. None of us should ever lose that perspective.

When I preached about Thomas at the ecumenical service, one of my fellow pastors pulled me aside afterwards to ask me where I felt the line was between what he called honest doubt and unbelief was. He probably did not like my answer. Doubt is always honest or it should be. Unbelief is what happens when we have all the answers, because that is when we foolishly think we no longer need God.

My prayer for everyone here and for myself also is that we never stop seeking. We never stop reaching for God. That we never let either discouragement or success end that quest. Like Thomas, we are Jesus’ disciples. A disciple is a student, a learner. And I know from experience that I have a long way to go before I graduate, as do we all. Amen.

Sermon for Easter Sunday 2018

Preached at Grace and Canadochly on April 1, 2018
Preaching text: None

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

Why does that matter? It’s a neat miracle and all. God incarnate gets murdered by a coalition of the jealous and cowardly. He’s put in a tomb and after three days, he rises again. Neat trick. But why does it matter? What does it all mean?

We think we know. Like so many other fundamental things in our faith, I fear we often take this day for granted. And like all important things that we take by rote, it helps to remember why.

So let me tell you. Why does Easter matter?

This day is for Ivan Flanscha and Zach Anthony, the two firefighters who lost their lives in York less than two weeks ago. This day is for their families, their friends, their loved ones who grieve their loss. It is for all those who serve others who have had their lives taken in the line of duty and for those who mourn them.

This day is for the students at Stoneman Douglas High School. For those who watched as their classmates and friends were murdered before their eyes. For those who now cry out for change in our society. For those who grieve and mourn and fight for the innocent lives taken in senseless violence.

This day is for David and Mike, for Barry, for Fred and Vale and Paul, for Suzy, for Amy and Millie. It's for Dick and Don and Ms. Ida. It's for my friend Dan. It’s for all those we’ve buried, all those we’ve had to say good-bye to, those I’ve named and those I have not. It’s for them and for those of us who love them, for whom the memories still carry the sting of their loss.

This day is for those who face death. Those who are in our last years. Those who struggle with illness and disease. Those whose time is short.

This day is for those who fear for their lives in warzones. It is for those who live in areas where crime threatens life and livelihood. It is for those who wonder where their next meal will come. It is for those who must sleep in cars and under bridges because they have nowhere else to go.

This day is for those without hope.

And it is also for those who have made this world this way. It is for tyrants who think brutality and cruelty is the answer to their deepest desires. It is for the corrupt among our leaders who believe money and power will fill the void within. It’s for the Parkland shooter, so damaged by life that he felt that violence was the only answer to his pain. It’s for CEOs who think greed will give them what they need. For white supremacists who believe hate is the answer.

This day is for all who suffer and for all who inflict suffering (intentional or otherwise). This day is for all those in bondage to sin and death in all of their forms. This day is for ALL OF US.
We are why Christ died. We are why he rose again. We are why he came as the fulfillment of ancient promise and prophecy.

Yes, him too, no matter how much I may personally dislike him. God loves him.

Life is hard. Granted, we can make it worse for ourselves or others by embracing vice or committing errors. And we can make it better by embracing virtue. But, no matter, regardless of our choices for good or ill, it will hit us all eventually. It will knock us flat. It will make our head spin.

We will be hurt. We will lose. We will have our hearts broken. We will despair. We will weep. All of us. It is inevitable. It is unavoidable. And that pain can turn us bitter. That pain can turn us evil if we let it. But we will never escape it.

The cross and the empty tomb is God saying to us “No more.” This will end. Life will be eternal. There will be no more sorrow. No more tears. No more pain. It is finished! Christ is risen!

At the heart of our sin and sorrow is fear. We fear death. We fear pain. We fear loss. We fear meaninglessness and purposelessness. We fear that we do not matter. All that fear is now taken away. For thanks to Christ, thanks to the cross and empty tomb, we will have life, not death. Pain and loss will only be temporary, for one day those we have lost will be restored to us. All have meaning and purpose in life. ALL matter to God. ALL are loved.

THIS IS EASTER.

Alleluia! Christ is risen! Amen.

Sermon for Good Friday (Ecumentical Service)

Preached on March 30, 2018 at Emmanuel Lutheran Church, Freysville, PA
Preaching Text: Luke 1:46-55

Mary, the first to bear the Word of God

We now come to the conclusion of our series about the people in Jesus’ life. We end with the one who was there at the very beginning, his mother Mary. We subtitled tonight’s message as “Mary, the first to bear the Word of God.” Fitting, because she was. She literally bore the Word in her womb. She bore Jesus, the Christ, in her own body.

Jesus is the Word of God. That is, or at least should be, obvious to all Christians. But that’s not been my experience in the Church. No, we love to forget this. We love to find substitute “Words” that are more palatable, more to our liking than Jesus often is. Idols that we can put in his place and worship instead; Gods of our own making that better align with our desires.

Some of the idols are obvious. Many Christians don’t even bother with pretense and instead worship at the altars of greed or power or hate and do so openly. They flagrant disregard pretty much everything that makes Jesus who he is. But these are not the worst among us. Evil that is obvious is far less dangerous than evil that is concealed.

Because there are other idols that are much more insidious. Substitute “words of God” that we find much less obvious. Doctrines and dogmas of the church, theological stances that we cling to. Loyalty to church institutions. Our piety and faith practices. Our patriotism. Our politics. We regard these as good, and they often are. We see them as holy and right. But are they? We so seldom question these things because they seem good, and all too often in the church they have become the equal of or have even supplanted God.

Interestingly enough, Mary understood this. You see, it’s not a new problem. Holy people have always been seeking to reform God in our image and we have always been chasing after idols that we see as better than the real God. There were plenty of folks like that in her day. They ran the show, lording over others about how right and godly they were. And she hated it. Hated them. Resented them. All those Pharisees and priests that pranced around, reveling in a godliness of their own making.

We don’t think of Mary that way and that’s our problem. We like to think of her as demure and meek, but the Mary we find in Scripture is anything but. She’s fierce, fiery, passionate. I’ve called a “punk” before and I stand by that assessment. She’s a rebel, a radical, a revolutionary who’s done with the status quo of her world.

In fact, perhaps the strongest contemporary parallel to Mary that I can find is Emma Gonzalez. She’s the bald-headed girl from Parkland, FL who survived the horrific shooting there and is now one of the ringleaders of the new student movement for gun control in our country. I would guess many, given the political leanings of this area, don’t like her very much. But that’s a big part of why she’s such a good fit for a modern day Mary. You probably wouldn’t like Mary much either.

And the Magnificat, her most famous song, is proof of that. Much like Mary, we neuter this song. Turn it into fancy poetry and pay little attention to what precisely Mary is saying in it. But have you really listened to the lyrics?

He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts; he has brought down the mighty from their thrones and exalted those of humble estate; he has filled the hungry with good things,and the rich he has sent away empty.

If you are someone who benefits from the status quo, from society’s established rules and order, as most of us do, as I do, this is not a song that should make you feel good. Quite frankly, it should scare the hell out of us. Jesus comes to upend the world. He comes to upend OUR world.

And she’s right about him. Mothers are notorious for knowing us better than we know ourselves, so it shouldn’t be a surprise that she knew exactly what Jesus would do and encounter in life. He runs headlong, almost immediately, into that same religious establishment. He embarassess them. He makes mockery of their twisted doctrines and self-righteousness. He exposes their hypocrisy. And they hate and fear him for it.

We who follow him 2000 year later laugh along with the crowds at the folly of the Pharisees, chief priests, and scribes of Jesus’ day. We think we’re better than they, but the truth is uglier than we care to admit. We have become the Pharisees. We are all too often EXACTLY like those that Mary resented and Jesus battled. Because we do what they did.

We take our substitute “words of god” and use them to lord over others. We use them to arrogantly declare who is worthy of God’s love and mercy and who is not. We divide people into the holy and unholy. We hurt people who don’t measure up to our arbitrary standards. We stand between God and those he seeks to save.

You see, what makes all this so darned radical is not who the Gospel keeps out. It’s who it lets in. THAT is what scares us, just as it scared the Pharisees and good religious people of Jesus and Mary’s day. It lets in the prostitutes, the tax collectors, the lepers, the gays, the immigrants, the liberals, EVERYONE we all too often try to keep out. And that is why we are NO different than those who nailed Jesus to that cross. If Jesus showed up right now and started preaching, we’d nail him to the cross all over again to shut him up.

The cross is our indictment. It stands as proof that we are not so righteous as we’d like to think we are. WE kill Christ with our idolatry and arrogance. WE kill Christ with our divisiveness and rejection of those he loves. WE kill him, just as those good religious people did so long ago, right in front of his mother, as a final insult to all her aspirations of change and all her hopes of a new world.

But in that moment, cursed as it was, Mary was blessed. Because that was the moment that she predicted in the Magnificat came to be. That was the moment the world changed.

In that moment, at the cross, when all pretentions are stripped away, all delusions of our righteousness shattered, when we are ALL made equal in our unworthiness, that is the moment when we hear him say, “Father, forgive them.”

We are all guilty because of the cross. We are all unworthy because of the cross.

And yet, we are all made worthy because of the cross. We are all made innocent ecause of the cross.

We cannot claim arrogance in that moment. No doctrine or self-aggrandizement matters.

Only grace.

For only grace can bring paradise.

Only grace can change the world.

Only grace can make us worthy as it makes us all worthy.

Nothing else. No false words of God. Only the true one. Only the one Mary bore, now nailed to the cross for our sakes. The one we killed. The one who will rise again on the third day. Only Christ can save. Only Christ does save.

St. Paul in many of his writings speaks of how he boasts only in Christ. This is precisely what he means. Only Mary’s son can save us. Not our beliefs about him. Not all the theological constructions that we’ve created to puff ourselves up, no matter how right and good they may seem. No, only Christ and his grace.

She knew he would change the world. And on the cross, he changed it for all of us. Amen.

Sermon for Palm Sunday

Preached at Grace and Canadochly on March 25, 2018
Preaching text: Mark 11:1-11

The last few weeks, I’ve been enjoying the series Altered Carbon on Netflix. It’s an interesting series to say the least. Fascinating premise. Sometime in the future, humans stumble onto alien technology that allows them to transfer their souls from one body to another. This gives humanity something they’ve always wanted, always hungered for: immortality.

Warning: If sex, blood, violence, and nudity unsettles or offends you, this show is not something you want to watch. The trailer above is safe however.

It is said that sometimes the worst thing you can do to someone is give them everything they’ve ever wanted and that seems to be the undercurrent in this series. A world where humans cannot physically die is not a paradise, but a nightmare. Imagine for a moment all the worst our society has to offer; all the bloated arrogant CEOs and government leaders we all love to complain about. All the mob bosses and members of the criminal underworld. All the tyrants and megalomaniacs. Now imagine all of them living forever. Having forever to accumulate even more power and more money. Imagine what few morals they have degrading even further as the greatest consequence for their vile behavior is now gone. They cannot die. Some of them become so full of themselves that they even deign to pretend to be gods and among the common rabble are those willing and even eager to worship them.

Of all the sci-fi series and worlds I’ve visited in my reading and viewing of film and TV, this is probably the bleakest dystopia I’ve ever seen.

Of course, I don’t have to go to fiction to find examples of how getting everything we’ve ever wanted is not a good thing. Just look to the real world, to those nations where one faction, one party has control of everything. Places where that elite handful get everything they ever wanted. The results usually aren’t pretty.

Back in the 1980s, the British pop band Tears for Fears had a huge hit with “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.” It’s one of my all-time favorite songs in large part because it is a perfect description of the human species. Truly, we all do want to rule the world. We want things our way. However, add into that the theme I’ve been harping on all Lent about how we are our own worst enemies and we find disaster. Because what happens when one of us does rule the world? What happens when one of us does actually get everything we want? It’s not paradise. It’s a nightmare, a calamity, even for us.

As bad as that is, there might be something that’s just a little bit worse and that’s what brings us to Palm Sunday, to Jesus’ Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem and to the events that follow over the course of this coming week. If you were a news reporter with the ability to time travel and you decided to go back to that moment, what do you suppose everyone would tell you about what was going on?

Why is everyone celebrating? What is everyone expecting? What is everyone hoping for? Why this grand jubilee? This over-the-top celebration? Why all the hubbub over this Jesus character? We think we know the answers to those questions, but the truth is however that I suspect we’d find 2000 years of religious upbringing and teaching has confused us.

This is not about salvation from sin and death. This is not about the culmination of God’s covenant with the world that he first made to Abraham. This is not about eternal life or forgiveness of sins. It’s not about any of those things that hindsight has imposed upon that first Palm Sunday. To the people there, in that moment, it was all about what they wanted most: it was about God’s anointed liberator kicking butt and taking names on those Roman monsters who had enslaved the people for almost 100 years. Those Romans who had taken over from the Greeks, who had taken over from the Persians, who had taken over from the Babylonians, reaching back almost 500 years into the past since the last time a true Israelite king had sat upon the throne.

They wanted blood on the streets and King David upon the throne once more. They wanted Jesus to be king. And they felt he could do it. The one who made the blind to see and the lame to walk would have nothing to fear from the swords of the Roman legions. He had the power of God on his side.

But then there’s Jesus himself, fully aware of what he’s come to do, of who he is and his purpose in bringing about God’s kingdom. As tempting as it might be to rule as an Earthly king (one of Satan’s three temptations, you may recall), that’s so small and petty a goal. So he passes by and does not do this thing the people want. He does not give them what they desire.

He understood that this small thing they demand of him, to rule as earthly monarch, would be the worst thing that could happen to them. If gives them what they want, hope will die. Sin and evil will win. And death will indeed have the last word for all time.

Jesus may have understood that, but the crowd does not. And when he refuses to do as they wish, they turn on him. Those who cry Hosanna today will cry Crucify on Friday. Same people. As bad as it is to give us what we want, it can sometimes be worse to not give it to us. In this case, not granting our petty little desire led us to murdering God himself.

The brilliance of God’s plan is that is precisely what he knew would happen. Everybody wants to rule the world. All the way back in the garden that was our sin. To be like God. To REPLACE God with ourselves. Okay, fine, we can’t be God, but as long as he does what WE WANT, we’re okay with it. And then, when he doesn’t....CRUCIFY HIM!!!!

The cross gives silent testimony against the whole human race. It is our indictment. It is where we murdered God because he would not bend to our petty and insignificant desires. Where we killed him because he dared to ignore our bloodlust, our ambition, our arrogance. That moment, perhaps more than any other, is proof of our damnation. We should be, rightly, beyond redemption. Guilty of the greatest sin of all time: killing God himself.

God knew that all along and still let it happen. Because despite all our depravity, he still loves us beyond words. It’s as if God saying to us, do what you wish. Break this body. Spit in my face. It will not stop me from granting what you NEED to have true life. It will not stop me from forgiving you. It will not stop me from loving you.

Some of the most powerful words from Scripture, if not THE most powerful, are “Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.” No, indeed we did not. We still don’t. Our folly can be seen all over this world. We march in line behind all sorts of would-be messiahs all because we think they’ll give us our every desire. And when they fail, as they always do, we metaphorically crucify them too. And then we chase after the next one and on and on it goes throughout history.

But all that we truly need has already been given us. All the true hungers of our inner self have been satisfied. If only we trusted in what God has done for us. Taking our greatest and most terrible sin and transforming it into what we’ve needed most. Forgiveness, salvation, eternal life. That’s the Christian story at its heart.

Every week, we return to this place to hear that story anew. Because we don’t trust in it. Our faith falters in the face of a unrelentingly evil world and in the face of our own inescapable flaws and vices. Every week, we begin with confession, with our admission that life has twisted us in many and various ways into what we do not wish to be. But every week we also conclude with that equally inescapable truth: “I have given my body and my blood for you. That’s how much I love you.”

Even though we’re the ones who broke that body. Even though we’re the ones who bled it. God loves us still. God forgives us still. God gives us all that we need for true life. Not what we want, but what we need. Trust in it again. Amen.

Sermon for the Fifth Sunday of Lent

Preached at Canadochly and Grace on March 18, 2018
Preaching text: Jeremiah 31:31-34, John 12:20-33

Last Sunday, once I was done with worship at both congregations, with the time change and all, the last thing I wanted to do when I got home was...well...pretty much anything. So I plopped down in front of the TV and let my brain rot. I flipped through Netflix and settled on the comic book movie 300. 300’s an interesting film. Based on a Frank Miller comic, it’s a stylized retelling of a real event in history: the battle of Thermopylae, where 300 Greek Spartan soldiers stood their ground against a Persian invasion force that probably numbered over 100,000 men.

That story has been told and retold many many times and the Spartans themselves are held up as paragons of bravery and valor. In many ways, it’s a story that’s come to mean whatever you want it to mean. The gun rights people often emblazon their vehicles with a bumper sticker containing a curious phrase: μολὼν λαβέ (Molon Labe). That’s from Thermopylae; it’s the answer the Spartans gave to the Persians when they demanded they lay down their weapons and surrender. Molon Labe, “Come and take them.” (That scene is in the film, by the way.)

Likewise, there’s a moment in the movie that’s stuck with me this week. Leonidas, the Spartan king, gives a speech about how they’re all there to fight and die for peace, freedom, and a new world. It’s a good speech, but utterly inaccurate. Historians will tell you that yes, courage was certainly a virtue among the Spartans, but freedom? Peace? Reason? Hardly. They were just as tyrannical and brutal, if not more so, as the Persians they opposed. They were a savage people, arguably the least civilized of the Greek city-states. But again, the battle, that moment in history, all that has come to mean whatever we want it to mean.

But I find that speech curious, because it’s a speech that could be given in any number of historical contexts. George Washington could have given it. Robespierre. Lenin. Ho Chi Minh. Pretty much any revolutionary or pseudo-revolutionary could inspire us with such words. You could argue Obama swept into office 9 years ago on similar sentiments. Or Trump just 1 year ago coming after him. All lauding their vision of a new world, one where our people will no longer be on the bottom, but we will have our fair share at last.

It’s one of the deepest desires of our heart: a new world, a better world. One where we are free. One where there is justice. One where there is peace. All too often though, for all the lofty rhetoric, that ideal runs headlong into the reality of the human condition. All too often it gets caught up in the inertia of bureaucracy and institutional systems. All too often it leads to an object lesson in the old truism about how power corrupts. All too often it becomes a world where freedom, justice, and peace are only available to one group in society, leaving all the others to dream of their own new world where they’ll gain such things and the cycle begins anew. A popular anime that I like once called this the “endless waltz,” the three beats of war, peace and revolution that continue on forever.

We are our own worst enemies and here again is a rather potent way it manifests.  If you take an honest look at America today, you’ll find all those things. Bureaucratic inertia has strangled the American dream. Corruption is at all levels of our government and leadership. And it is very true that “All for me and none for thee” operates on numerous levels of our society. Why is that? Because it’s a human experiment. We cannot escape what we are.

If this is starting to sound familiar, it should. I’ve lead right back to where we were last Sunday when I spoke of inescapability of human sin, of our own sin, and of God’s solution thereof. At this point, I should probably point out that that speech about our coming new world that has inspired generation after generation of revolutionaries and visionaries, that speech can be found in the Bible. In fact, we two such examples this Sunday.

“I will make a new covenant with my people,” says the Lord in Jeremiah. “Now is the judgment of this world; now the ruler of this world will be driven out. And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.” Jesus echoes in our Gospel. These are revolutionary words. As is the Magnificat. As is the whole book of Revelation. As is the teaching Jesus gave Nicodemus in John 3 that we had last Sunday. But there is one key difference between these examples and the fictitious speech of Leonidas that has echoed pointlessly and futilely throughout history. This will be a revolution that God leads, not us. He will change the world, not us.

And that, of course, is precisely why Jesus comes. That’s why he was born. It’s why he lived. It’s why he died and why he rose again. It’s all about the new world; it’s all about the kingdom of God. It’s all about the victory Christ wins over sin and death. Oh, yeah, and in case it’s escaped you, that victory occurred in history around 2000 years ago and it echoes through all of eternity. It’s done. We’ve won.

The world may not look like it, but it’s true. And there’s the rub for us. People aren’t going to believe in the Kingdom unless we give them some glimpse of it. Many in the church, recognizing the failure of human revolution, have given up entirely on doing anything that makes the world better. We’ll always fail, and, yes, we will. But with God having won the war, there is still a benefit to winning a battle or two along the way. People need hope. People need to see what God has done. People need to have the kingdom made real for them.

And that’s our job, our calling. Can we change the big picture? No, only God can do that. But we can change a portion of it for the people we encounter every day. We can show them God’s new world by giving food to one who is hungry, shelter to one without a home, comfort to one whose heart is breaking, a voice for those without one, and justice for those oppressed. We can’t make a new world, but we can show this old one what God’s new world will look like, at least in part. We can make it real for people who are starving for something to hope for, something to believe in.

Hope and faith; is that not why we are here? To receive these things ourselves. And having received them through Scripture and song, preaching and sacrament, in fellowship and friendship, we are called to go forth and give them in turn to those we encounter. So go forth from this place and show the world what’s coming. Show them what God done and share what you have been given. Let them see the new world. Let them see the kingdom of God in what you do. Amen.