Space of Grace

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Mark 8:27-38; Philippians 2:1-4

April 28/29, 2012 • Portage First UMC

I’m thankful for the church I grew up in, a little church in a small town. For the first eighteen years of my life, Rossville United Methodist Church was the place where my family went for worship, potlucks, and Bible studies. I still remember playing with the other kids in the basement of the parsonage while the adults studied the Bible upstairs. There were only three churches in our town, and we pretty much all thought the same as far as I knew. We were Methodist, and there were Presbyterian and Brethren, but family tradition had more to do with where folks attended church than any sort of theological differences. I don’t ever remember hearing the labels that are seemingly so important today: liberal, conservative, evangelical, progressive, social justice. Church was simply the place where you “got saved.” My pastor preached on that nearly every week. And once you were saved, you were expected to find your place in the church—on a committee, in a group, or helping with the potlucks. I honestly don’t ever remember hearing a sermon about Jesus’ call to serve the poor, but then again, as far as we knew, there were no poor or needy around us. Just sinners in need of saving.

Now, I’m not saying that to in any way diminish the faith I had growing up. That church still holds a special place in my heart. That congregation shaped me in many ways, some of which I’m probably still unaware of. But as I went to college, and then to seminary, I came to learn that the church is more than just a “saving place.” The salvation of people through Jesus Christ is absolutely essential; it’s our primary mission. But Jesus didn’t just say, “Make converts” or “make church members.” He said, “make disciples” (cf. Matthew 28:19). A disciple looks like their teacher in character and conduct. When you see a disciple, it’s like you’ve seen the master. So what does it mean to be a disciple of Jesus? Well, I came to realize, it means to do what he did, to act like he acted. And that means doing more than just “getting saved.” Once we are in a relationship with Jesus, he has work for us to do.

In these weeks, we are looking at what it means to be part of “The Good and Beautiful Community,” the church of Jesus Christ. And so far we’ve talked about the church as both a peculiar and a hopeful community. We’re distinct from the world around us and we have a message of hope to share with that world. But the church is more than that. The church is also called to be a serving community, and before we settle back and assume we know what that means, we need to take a little trip with a disciple named Peter as he follows Jesus to a place called Caesarea Philippi.

Caesarea Philippi was about twenty-five miles north of Bethsaida in Galilee, where the disciples had been, and the two places could not have been more different. In Bethsaida, they were in safe, Jewish territory, but Caesarea was a thoroughly pagan place. Caesarea was dedicated to emperor worship as well as being the legendary birthplace of the god Pan, a half-goat half-man god who oversaw shepherds and mountains (Card, Mark: The Gospel of Passion, pgs. 109-110; Barclay, The Gospel of Mark, pgs. 191-192). It was as far, geographically and spiritually, from Jerusalem (the center of Jewish faith) as one could get and still be technically in Israel (Garland, NIV Application Commentary: Mark, pg. 323). These disciples have been with Jesus for a while now, and he’s been giving them space to figure out what they think about him, who he is. Now, away from the crowds, away from the noise, away from the daily routine, Jesus asks a very pointed question. First, he does an opinion poll: “Who do people say I am?” (8:27). Well, Jesus, there’s this opinion and then there’s that opinion—and without commenting on any of that, Jesus then asks them, “What about you? Who do you say I am?” You who have been with me, who have watched me heal and listened to me teach, you who have seen everything I have done—who do you say I am? And Peter, who’s never afraid to speak for the disciples, says, “You are the Messiah” (8:29).

Now, up to this point, they have called him “Teacher,” and they themselves have asked, “Who is this?” But this is the first time in Mark’s Gospel the word “messiah” is used, and it’s the first time the disciples—out loud at least—admit that Jesus might be more than just a good, moral teacher. “Messiah” means “savior,” and for those first-century Jews, it was a word full of meaning, overflowing with significance. It was a word with political overtones. For some, “Messiah” meant a glorious king, sitting on a throne in Jerusalem. It meant a new, revived Jewish kingdom, a military commander who would get rid of the Romans. It meant he would fulfill all their hopes and their dreams and their plans. He would be a savior surrounded by glory, victory and divine power (Card 111; Garland 323). The Messiah was supposed to be one who would come and make them happy, who would fulfill their needs, and who, above all else, would preserve their nation. Little has changed in the last two thousand years. We still want Jesus to be a victor, a conqueror, one who is primarily concerned with my happiness, my needs and my self-preservation. Think about how we pray, for instance. What are the things that top our prayer lists? Health, wealth, happiness? To be spared from suffering and difficulty? When things go poorly, don’t we pray for God to end the hurt? We’re still locked into that false narrative, believing Jesus is primarily concerned for our success.

And when we come to church, we translate it this way: Jesus is primarily concerned about the success of our church, our community of faith. Now, there’s nothing wrong with wanting our church to succeed, to do well, but the unspoken assumption underlying most of those sorts of conversations is that what we really want is for our church to be the best, the biggest, the brightest, which implies we want other churches to fail. It also often means we become so focused on our own self-preservation that we have little time to fulfill the mission Jesus gave us of reaching the world. James Bryan Smith puts it this way: “The problem comes when the most important consideration, the dominant desire and the main focus of a community is its own success. Just as an individual whose whole life is focused on meeting his or her own needs becomes narcissistic, self-centered, ineffective and ultimately unhappy, so also communities can become so focused on themselves that they lose their souls” (The Good and Beautiful Community, pg. 68). 

It’s easy to jump to the conclusion that such an attitude would never be ours. And I’m sure Peter didn’t think he would ever believe or act that way, either. Yet, when Jesus begins telling him and the rest of the disciples what it really means to be the Messiah, Peter stops him and corrects him. Can you imagine correcting someone you’ve just said is the Messiah? And yet that’s what Peter does. He takes Jesus aside and says, “Uh, Jesus, you’ve got it wrong here. That’s not how the Messiah thing works. You’re supposed to be focused on our needs, our self-preservation, our wants. So knock off this talk about suffering and death.” And to that, Jesus says, “Get behind me, Satan. You do not have in mind the concerns of God, but merely human concerns” (8:33). We do this in the church when we claim to want to reach out to others, but we demand they conform to our expectations. Or we say we want to welcome new leadership, as long as they do it the way we’ve always done it. Or we say we are supportive of all the churches in our community but we never pray for them. We only pray for ourselves. This truth was brought home to me in a powerful way when a church in our community closed last fall. There are probably many of you who didn’t even know that. When I got word that the pastor was leaving and the church was closing, it cut me to the heart. I was reminded how often I see other churches as competitors. I hadn’t prayed for them and now their opportunity to reach people for Jesus was gone. So I’m working on changing my tune, and I’m praying more often for the other churches in our community because, for heaven’s sake, there are plenty of people to reach in Portage and Porter County and the larger region. We will all reach people in our own unique way, and we’ll do it together when we give up the false narrative that this whole thing is about self-preservation and comfort and our own needs.

So what is it about? Jesus gives us a powerful image in this passage, one we often rush by rather quickly but, for those first disciples, this would have stuck permanently in their minds and hearts. If Peter’s wrong, and the Messiah did not come to guarantee their own comfort, then why did he come? In verse 34, Jesus calls the crowd to him and says this: “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me and for the gospel will save it” (8:34-35). Now, we often quote that verse when it comes to the aches and pains of life, or when we face a difficulty or a challenge. “It’s just my cross to bear,” we say, but first-century Jews would not have tossed away such a casual phrase. For them, crosses—real crosses—were a reality they were exposed to often. For them, the cross represented suffering and death. It meant subjecting yourself to shame and to the “howling, hostile mob” (Garland 334). “Taking up your cross” doesn’t refer to just patiently enduring whatever challenge faces us today. “Taking up your cross” means joining the ranks of the “despised and doomed,” putting ourselves in a place where danger and sacrifice are a reality (Garland 328). Those who took up a cross were regarded as criminals and had no comfortable escape plan (Barclay 201). Perhaps the verse is best summed up by German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who said, in the midst of World War II, “When Christ calls a man he bids him come and die” (qtd. in Garland 335). Taking up a cross is a not a detour in life—it is our life. It’s a demand that separates the disciples from the admirers (Garland 334). It means we immerse ourselves and allow ourselves to be touched and impacted and focused on the suffering in the world. In fact, as one Biblical scholar puts it, “We have only found Christ when we are more concerned about others’ suffering than our own” (Garland 335). Or to put it another way: is your heart broken by the things that break the heart of God?

One of my heroes died a little over a week ago, and it’s been interesting to watch the coverage of his life, because he really had two lives. Some remember Chuck Colson as President Nixon’s “hatchet man,” one who went to prison because of his involvement in Watergate. That was the first half of his life, and just before he went to prison, he had accepted Jesus into his life and became a Christian. While in prison, he determined not to let his faith lapse and found others to share fellowship with. When he was released from prison, he promised the other inmates he wouldn’t forget them, but he still struggled with what to do with the rest of his life. He had no desire to do full-time Christian work and did not want to go back into a prison. And yet, God began to work on his heart, slowly, to the point where Colson began to see the great need not only for a Christian influence in the nation’s prisons but also for reform in the entire prison system. Out of that stirring, out of that thing he did not want to do, Colson established Prison Fellowship, which is now active in all 50 states and in 112 countries around the world. Their mission is to “seek the transformation of prisoners and their reconciliation to God, family, and community through the power and truth of Jesus Christ.” And those are nice-sounding words, but what made Chuck Colson to be more than just a talking head or someone who understood the problem of prisons intellectually was the fact that he continued to spend a lot of time in prisons. Up until this year, when his health wouldn’t allow it, he spent every Easter preaching the Gospel in a prison somewhere in the world. At a time when most people want to have their own celebration and be close to family with no obligations, Colson would go to remind prisoners that they were not forgotten. Is your heart broken by the things that break the heart of God? Jesus says it takes dying to ourselves, taking up our cross so we can follow him. We take up a cross and suddenly the suffering of others becomes more important than our own.

In his letter to the Philippians, Paul encourages (or maybe “challenges” is a better word) his readers to “have the same mindset as Christ Jesus” (2:5). And that “mindset” he describes this way: “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of others” (2:3-4). What would our world look like if we really took seriously Jesus’ call to mind the suffering of others, to relieve their hurt and pain as much as we can? What would our world look like if we changed the way we saw others, if we saw others as treasures rather than competitors? How would the world of politics change, for instance, if we took seriously this call to “do nothing out of selfish ambition”? How would our business life change if we put the needs of others ahead of our own? How would our interpersonal relationships, our marriages, our families be different if everyone in the family was busy caring for the needs of the others? Jesus describes it as “losing our lives for the sake of the Gospel” (8:35). Can we imagine such a world? What if even just those who follow Jesus live that out? What if we, as James Bryan Smith says, treated others as treasures, if we saw them the way Jesus sees them? What if, rather than focusing on our own self-preservation, we sought to live unselfishly? Well, you’re going to get a chance to try that out this week, as that’s our soul training exercise—your homework: live unselfishly this week.

So let’s talk about what that looks like on a practical level, in several areas of our lives. Unselfishness begins at home—because if we live selfishly around those who knows us best, we don’t have much hope for living another way “out in public.” So what if we lived this out by asking how our spouse or children are doing and really listen? Remember last week I said we live in a generation that does not listen? We communicate care for other people’s burdens when we really listen to them, even if we think we have something better to do. Or perhaps an act of unselfish living, if you have small children or grandchildren at home, is to let them choose how to spend this evening. Anything they want to do, you’ll do—game, movie, cooking together, whatever. The key here is doing what Paul said—putting someone else’s needs ahead of your own, and learning to serve them.

The next area of our life, where some of us spend most of our time, is at work. What can we do to live unselfishly, to serve others, in our work? Again, listening might be the most valuable thing we can do. What if you asked a co-worker how you could help them with a burden or a project they are carrying and then you did it? Or you might make some treats to take in to share. Something like that will often bring people together, create community where it might not exist otherwise. A couple of years ago, our Outreach team would take cookies—homemade cookies—around to places of business that were open late on the night before Thanksgiving, just to thank the people who were working. One year, I was in the office and happened to check the messages over the weekend after that night, and there was a call that had come in about midnight on Thanksgiving Eve. The caller first wanted to apologize that she hadn’t been very nice to the team who brought her cookies, and then she wanted to say how that simple act of unselfish service turned her whole night around. You never know what a simple gesture, like giving someone a cookie, can do for someone.

What about daily life? Where do we find opportunities to serve, to live unselfishly in our daily life? James Bryan Smith suggests one for us all: “When driving, be on the lookout for opportunities to let people in to your lane” (82). Now, that’s hard, isn’t it? We live in an age of aggressive driving, and to be honest, the worst experiences I’ve had of trying to get out of a parking lot have been after Christian events. The absolute worst was in Indianapolis after the first night of a Promise Keepers’ men’s rally. Everyone was leaving at the same time, hundreds of men, and I’ve never seen such aggressive and unkind driving in my life. We’d all just been singing praises to Jesus, and then we got in our cars and it’s like we asked Jesus to wait outside as we put on our driving face. “Get out of my way!” What if we show kindness and servanthood when we drive? Or we can offer to babysit for that single mom who hasn’t had a night out with friends in a long, long time. Or we can sit with that elderly neighbor or the person we know who is lonely in the nursing home, perhaps read a book or just enjoy the quiet. We can offer to take someone to grocery store or to a doctor’s appointment. There are untold numbers of ways to live unselfishly around those we see every day.

And then the final area of life is church. Shouldn’t it be natural to live unselfishly in this place? But do we? Do those of us who are able to walk park further away from the building, in the back or across the street so that those  who have difficulty walking or who are guests can park closer? Are we willing to give up our seats so that those who come late might have a place to sit? Several years ago, in our church in Kentucky, the new pastor and his wife came to lead their first service, and Sherry, Mike’s wife, took a seat in the middle of the sanctuary. Just as the service started, she felt someone hit her shoulder with a purse. She looked up and saw a long-time saint in the church, who, not knowing this was the new pastor’s wife, said, “You’ll have to move. This is my seat.” Are we willing to serve unselfishly, give up our own preferences if it will help someone else? Do we greet those who are new or do we leave that to someone else? When the baby cries behind us, do we turn around with angry eyes and stare accusingly at the mother? In my last church, a young family told me about their very first visit to the church with their two small boys. They sat in the back row, and of course, one of the boys started crying, which both frustrated and flustered the mother. Sitting right ahead of her was a saint in the church who had been there for many years. Marge turned around to look at her, and the mother said she knew what was coming next—except she didn’t. Marge smiled and simply told the young mother, “These are the best years of your life. Don’t worry about it.” That family joined the church because in that simple statement Marge served unselfishly.

There’s one other way I want to invite you to serve unselfishly this week, to give of ourselves for the sake of others in order to relieve some measure of suffering. For some time now, this church has been working steadily in area of hunger in our community. For the last two years, out of a burden that was birthed in Disciple Bible Study, we have been partnering with the Northwest Indiana Food Bank and feeding over 30 kids each weekend who live in “food insufficient households,” meaning that when they eat lunch at school on Friday, that’s likely the last meal they would get until breakfast on Monday unless they receive help. And those 30 kids are just a scratch on the surface; in Portage Township Schools, 50% or better of the kids are on free or reduced meals. That means there is a great need. Our township Food Pantry serves over 700 families a month and because of the growing need, they struggle to keep their shelves stocked. We collect food every month for the pantry, but at least once a year, we do a special drive, and that’s going to happen this week. We call it “Stepping Out to Stop Hunger,” and some of you have done this before, but some have not, so let me give you a quick explanation of how this going to happen, how we’re going to serve our larger community by an act that, honestly, makes many of us uncomfortable. I want to allow a member of the original team, Jacci Moore, to explain to us how it’ll work.

VIDEO: Stepping Out, Stopping Hunger

So that’s the uncomfortable part—going into our neighborhoods and asking for donations. But we’ve done this now for three years, and I don’t think anyone’s died of embarrassment yet. And, as I worked on this, somehow I heard Wanda’s voice saying, “Our Lord died on the cross for us; the least we can do is ask for donations to help his children.” Serving others won’t cost us as much as it did Jesus. So that’s it—take some grocery bags, collect some food from your neighborhood, drop it off anytime this week or next Sunday, and together, unselfishly, we can make a real difference in the lives of those 700 families and more.

You see, Jesus told the disciples it was their choice. He said if we want to follow him, it’s going to mean putting aside our own needs, desires, preferences and wants and taking up a cross. That’s true not only for us as individuals, but it’s also true for us as a church. If you only want to save your life here, Jesus says, you’ll lose it in the end, but if you lose your life for the sake of others, for the sake of the Gospel, for the sake of Jesus, then you will find it in the end. “The value of a church,” writes James Bryan Smith, “is not in its longevity but in its love. The success of a church is not in its size but in its service to the people and the community” (72-73). The church is a serving community, a space of grace in the midst of a broken world, a place where people can find love in an unloving world, a place where service to others is not just a good idea but the very lifeblood. It’s part of our DNA, becoming this space of grace: loving God, loving others, offering Jesus. Being an unselfish community who is not afraid to serve is part of all three. So will you be a space of grace this week? The church is a community that serves others in good and beautiful ways, knowing that when we serve them, we’re really serving him who served us first. Let’s pray.

Four-Part Harmony

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Colossians 2:20-3:5

April 21/22, 2012 • Portage First UMC

Christianity—and the church—has an image problem. That’s what researcher David Kinnaman discovered when his friend Gabe Lyons asked him to do a study to figure out why people—particularly younger people—are turning away from the church. What started as a 3-month project turned into a 3-year study for Kinnaman as he poured over data gained through surveys and conversations. The result was a book called unChristian: What a New Generation Really Thinks About Christianity. That’s how they discovered the church’s image problem—specifically, that nearly forty percent of “outsiders” (people who aren’t part of any church) have a bad impression of present-day Christianity. And that bad impression is rooted in real beliefs. For instance, 91% of outsiders see the church as antihomosexual, 87% see the church as judgmental, and 85% see it as hypocritical. After those top three, other images emerge as well: old-fashioned, too involved in politics, out of touch with reality, insensitive to others (particularly those of other faiths), boring and confusing (Kinnaman; Hamilton, When Christians Get It Wrong, pg. 3). The church has a problem, and much of it is our own fault. We’ve failed to be who God calls us to be.

Last week, we began a series of sermons called “The Good and Beautiful Community,” and for the next few weeks, we’re going to explore what the Bible has to say about what the church—the community of Christ—ought to be. Last week, Pastor Deb got us started thinking about the right way to be peculiar in the world, because Christians, as Peter described us, are a “peculiar people.” We’re a community of “odd ducks.” But we’re also a hopeful community. Here, in this season of Easter, that should be more obvious than at any other time of the year. We serve a risen savior, not a dead teacher. We live with hope for life beyond this one, and we also live with hope in this life. The church is a hopeful community, but somewhere along the way, that message has not gotten out. When many in the new generation see us as judgmental or hypocritical or out of touch or old-fashioned, it tells me that the real message of the Gospel has gotten lost. And the fault, if the message of hope has not gotten beyond the doors of this building, falls squarely on us who have failed to live as people of hope. In fact, in Kinnaman’s research, when asked if the Christian faith offered hope for the future, only 9% answered “a lot.” Nine percent! What we need is not more PR. What we need is to live this hope we have in the real world, in authentic ways, and to share the story that is full of hope. Peter put it this way: “Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect” (1 Peter 3:15). A hopeful community shares their hope with others. That’s what the church is.

We get this idea, though, that only certain people can share their faith. You know—the Billy Grahams, or the ones who have “the gift” of evangelism, ones who know their Bible well, or who speak well, or who are confident in their faith. Have you ever said or thought any of these things? “I’m afraid I would offend someone if I shared my faith.” “If I talk about my faith, they will reject me. They’ll think I’m odd.” Or peculiar? “I’m not educated enough to share my faith.” “I’m not a perfect Christian, so I’d feel like a hypocrite if I shared my faith.” These and many other statements are ways we convince ourselves that we don’t have to or we can’t be a witness for Jesus—even though being a witness is one of the things we agree to when we become part of the church. Only four percent of United Methodists ever share their faith with someone even once in their entire life. We convince ourselves we can’t. We’re not perfect—none of us are. We don’t know all the answers—none of us do. And even if we’re not good at sharing our faith, we can get better. We work at getting better at cooking or tennis or baseball or computers or learning a language—whatever it is we’re interested in. Why are we not willing to work at getting better at sharing our faith (Smith, The Good and Beautiful Community, pgs. 44-47)? Others are watching your life and listening to your words, and because some of us haven’t always lived our faith consistently or ever talked about God’s love, we end up with the sorts of images the world has now of the church, the images Kinnaman discovered. What does it take to be better at giving a reason for the hope we have?

Well, we have to be people of hope ourselves. Hope, defined, is “confidence in a good future” (Smith 47). And, as Christians, our hope comes from knowing and internalizing our story. Paul is helping the Colossians do just that in the passage we read this evening/morning. He’s writing to a church that is struggling to know who it is, what it believes, and how it should live that belief out. Sound familiar? He doesn’t want them to be deceived by “fine-sounding arguments” (2:4), but rather to be “strengthened in the faith” (2:7). To help them with this, he reminds them of four parts of their story. If it were a song, it would be four notes that, together, make a beautiful harmony. It’s the story of Jesus, which is our story as well, because our hope comes from him. So what I want to do with the remainder of our time today is to remind you of our story—Jesus’ story of hope—and then suggest a way we can share that story in our world, a way we can be ready to give a reason for our hope.

So what is our four-part harmony, our four-part story of hope? I’m going to give you four words to remember (you might even want to write them down) that is the outline of our hope-filled story, and the first one is this: death. Now, wait a minute, you say, I though this was a story of hope. Listen to how Paul describes it. He says this: “You died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God” (3:3). The Christian story of hope begins with death—certainly Paul is thinking of Jesus’ death on the cross, but he tells the Colossians that they have died as well. Well, they hadn’t died physically, or they wouldn’t be reading his letter. Paul is talking about sharing Jesus’ death on the cross, that when Jesus died and took all of our sins away, we died, too. Our old way of life died. The Colossians were struggling with whether to go back to certain old ways of thinking and living, and Paul says, “No!” Your life, as you knew it, is over. You died. Those old things that once controlled you—money, sex and power—they must no longer have control over you, Paul says, because you’ve died. And, as a side note, that also means we don’t have to really worry about what others think of us when we talk about our faith because we’ve died to all that. Our life, Paul says, is wrapped up in Jesus. If people mock your faith, they’re not mocking you, they’re mocking Jesus (cf. Wright, Paul for Everyone: The Prison Letters, pg. 175). Your life is hidden in him.

What’s more, Paul says, you have also died to all the old legalisms, the human-made rules that are supposed to make you more holy when, in reality, they have nothing to do with real holiness. Paul tells the Colossians to not worry about the “do not handle, taste, touch” rules some were trying to strap them to. Our modern versions say women can only wear certain things or Christians can only read a certain version of the Bible or be seen in certain places and so on. Those things, Paul says, will perish (2:20-23). In fact, the image he uses is that all that will end up on the dung heap (cf. Barclay, The Letters to the Philippians, Colossians and Thessalonians, pg. 145). The one who believes in Christ has died to all those things. We’re called not to live by mere rules and regulations, but to live in a way that we allow the evil desires in us to die and good desires to live (Barclay 146). We don’t belong to the old world anymore, that part of us must be allowed to die (Wright 175). So the first word of hope is “death.”

But that’s followed quickly by the next word of hope: resurrection. Paul has already described this in chapter 2 of his letter: “For you were buried with Christ when you were baptized. And with him you were raised to new life because you trusted the mighty power of God, who raised Christ from the dead” (2:12, NLT). Sometimes, I think, we forget that the same power which raised Jesus from the dead lives in us. We want to experience resurrection when we physically die, but the reality is that God begins working in us, filling us with his power, from the moment we trust Jesus for salvation. The same resurrection power lives in you. Again, we come back to that image of fear when we talk about sharing our faith. If the resurrection power lives in us, that means there is nothing the world can do to us that will ultimately destroy us. If even death has been overcome, what do we have left to fear? That’s why the second word of hope is “resurrection.”

Are you getting a picture of our story yet? It’s a story of allowing the old, rotten things in us to die and letting God bring about a new person. So that leads to the third word of hope: ascension. Paul begins chapter 3 this way: “Since, then, you have been raised with Christ, set your hearts on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God” (3:1). After forty days of appearances to the disciples, Jesus ascended to heaven, to the right hand of God. There are a couple of things for us in that statement. One, Jesus gives us a different focus, a higher focus. The things of this world are not as important as we think they are. There is a better life, a higher life, we’re called to live. So Paul calls the Colossians to look beyond the things that were causing them problems. Look to Jesus, look up. Now Paul is not saying that just looking up is going to solve everything. But when we include Jesus in the struggles of our life, we gain a different perspective. And that leads us to the second observation of this verse: Jesus is seated. In ancient imagery, that meant his work was done. You sat down when your work was complete. Jesus has done everything he needed to do in defeating death, sin and the grave. And because he has finished it, we can have hope. We can serve others with generosity and grace. We can forgive. We can extend hospitality. All because he’s finished the work and given us a new vision, a new hope, a new purpose. So the third word of hope is “ascension.”

And then there’s one more word: return. Paul says, “When Christ, who is your life, appears, then you also will appear with him in glory” (3:4). He’s reminding the Colossians that Jesus has one more move in the story; this one hasn’t happened yet. But Jesus promised to return, to restore creation, to make all things new. And when he does, he will gather those who belong to him and we will share his glory, his home, all his goodness. Jesus promises the ultimate healing and the ultimate justice when he returns. Even though we don’t know when that will happen, it is the deepest hope of the Christian story. In the Revelation, you might remember, John saw it this way: “He [God] will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away” (21:3-4). And that, my friends, is a reason to be people of hope.

Death, resurrection, ascension, return—this is our story of hope. This is our story. And while we often get hung up on smaller details or larger controversies within the Bible, ultimately all of those things boil down to four words, four simple words of hope: death, resurrection, ascension, return. It’s a four-part harmony we can remember. And once we know our story, it’s up to us to share it. Paul says, in another letter, that we are actually sharing our faith in one way or another. He describes us as an “aroma” of Christ (2 Corinthians 2:15). You know what that’s like. Maybe you come home and instantly you can smell what’s cooking, or if it’s particularly strong, you can smell what cooked a couple of days ago. Or you go into a coffee shop and as soon as you walk in, you’re taken in by the aroma. There’s no doubt where you are. An aroma sends a message—sometimes pleasing and sometimes not so much. You are an aroma of Christ. Are you a pleasing, hopeful aroma or do you just stink up the place? Do others “smell” hope in you or do they walk away with their noses covered determined never to be part of that group? If we’re going to turn the culture around, if we’re going to be able to help others see hope in the church, we’ve got a lot of work to do to become a hopeful community rather than a community that turns people away. We must be, as Peter told us, ready to share the hope that lives within us.

Now, as Pastor Deb told you last week, you’re going to get an assignment every week—a soul training assignment—and if you haven’t guessed it yet, this week’s assignment is to begin working toward sharing your faith without embarrassment or coercion. We’re following Peter’s guidelines, to give a reason for the hope that’s within us, but to do it with gentleness and respect. I think those elements are what have been missing, part of what has caused our “image problem” in the wider world. We’ve failed to show gentleness and respect. On the rare occasion that we do share our faith, often we rush in without doing the “prep work” that needs to come first. The very first thing to do is to pray. Pray that God will send us someone we can share our faith with, and pray that we would have eyes and ears to know it when they come. It might be someone you already know, someone you work with, someone who lives near you, the parent of a child who is on a team with your kids. Pray that God would send you someone, then watch. Ask God, “Help me see who you are bringing me.” This takes patience and perseverance. My wife, Cathy, spends a lot of time at McDonald’s, as some of you know, and she doesn’t just hide in the corner. She gets to know those who work there and asks God for ways to insert faith into their lives. It’s her McMinistry. So pray, and watch, and then reach out.

Now, by “reach out,” I don’t mean “beat them over the head with a Bible.” We reach out in nonthreatening ways, like inviting someone to have coffee with us, with no agenda other than to get to know each other. Or maybe you know a need they have. Maybe they’ve had a new baby in their family and need a meal dropped off. Or maybe they just need someone to talk to. Look for ways—practical, nonthreatening ways—to reach out, to make a difference in their lives. And then listen. “Simply by listening you are demonstrating love.” We rarely listen in our culture. We hurry here and there and, in clues both verbal and nonverbal, we let people know we really don’t care about their lives, and so we don’t listen. But is that the example of Jesus? Jesus always took the time to listen. He was never in a hurry. And he listened beyond the surface meanings of a person’s conversation. He listened to their hearts. As you listen to the other person, what is it that concerns them? What is on their heart? Pray, watch, reach out, listen, and then connect.

This is where it becomes important to know our story, because as we come to know the other person, we find ways to connect the gospel hope with their lives, with their story. Suppose the person you’re talking with is struggling in the aftermath of a divorce. The Gospel story, the Gospel hope is that Jesus brings life out of death, and in the midst of a divorce, it can be as painful if not more painful than a death. So how do you connect that story with their story? Of course, you have to be sensitive to the right time, but you can ask a question—questions are always better than statements—like, “What gives you hope right now? What keeps you going?” And again, you’re not using “religious language,” because hope is something we all need, we all want. But behind that question is your conviction that the only lasting hope comes from Jesus. And so, without preaching, you make connections between that person and the Gospel story.

And after you connect, you share. Now, I’m not talking about sharing a sermon or an outline of the Bible’s story. The very best witness is always your own story, because while someone may want to argue with you on the finer points of Biblical theology, they cannot argue with your story. Peter did not say, “You have to go to seminary and earn a degree in systematic theology before you can share the good news.” No, Peter only says, “Be ready to share the reason for your hope.” Death, resurrection, ascension, return. How has that story made a difference in your life? Several years ago, in the midst of finals in college, there was a person I had connected with and had prayed for, and one day over lunch she asked me, “How do you stay so peaceful with all the stress of finals week?” And I’ve thought back on that day many times since then, because I wasn’t ready to give a reason for the hope I have. I mumbled something, I can’t even tell you what, but how often I have wished I could go back and say, “Any peace you see in me comes from my faith in Jesus. It’s not something I can conjure up on my own.” The reason for our hope doesn’t have to be a long, eloquent statement. In fact, it’s better if it’s not. It’s better if we allow the other person to keep asking questions. Tell your story, simply and directly, because no one can argue with it. Share where your hope comes from, but do it with gentleness and respect.

And that leads us to the final piece of all this, which is to invite. If we do all the other things and never invite that person into a friendship with Jesus, we’ve left them hanging. It’s like watching a movie and walking out when there are ten minutes to go. You never find out how it all came out. Now, I’m not taking about, “If you died tonight, where would you spend eternity?” For some people, that works, but for most people today, it’s a matter of being loved into God’s kingdom, of being invited to come to church or to a small group or to Alpha. Bishop Robert Schnase says invitation is “an active love that steps toward people” (Five Practices of Fruitful Living, pg. 147). It takes patience, because today, the average time between when a person shows interest in the Christian faith and when they actually make a commitment to Jesus is 28 months. Patience pays off in seeing a person come to Jesus. So pray, watch, reach out, listen, connect, share and invite (Smith 59-63).

Now, things don’t always happen the way we think they should. Traditionally, we’ve thought of the path to faith as a baseball diamond. You start by seeking, then you accept Jesus and become part of a church, then you get involved in growing your faith (Bible studies and such), and then you’re sent out in mission and the process starts over. But increasingly today, we’re learning that the path to faith, particularly among young people, isn’t quite that clean. More often, it’s sort of the reverse of what we’ve been doing. People today are attracted by mission, by doing things that relieve the suffering of the world, then as they get to know people in the church, they might join a small group (entire churches have started out of small group ministries), and then, perhaps, out of their study, they come to know Jesus and join the church and then they invite others to get involved in mission. It’s a reverse baseball diamond. Bishop Schnase describes the church this way: “The church fulfills its mission at the margins of the congregation…In a healthy church, the boundary is wonderfully permeable, and members readily reach across the edge and new people easily enter the community. The margin is where the action is” (Schnase 152). Paul put it this way, just a little later in Colossians: “Be wise in the way you act toward outsiders; make the most of every opportunity. Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone” (4:5-6). So how do we do with that? How effective are we at reaching those in need and giving them a true picture of Jesus and of the Christian faith?

Almost a year ago, we began PF Hope, which was an intentional effort to reach the margins, to reach people who were either unchurched or dechurched. We wanted to reach people who, for whatever reason, had distanced themselves from the church. Maybe they’d had a bad experience, maybe they weren’t sure what they believed, maybe they didn’t want to come to a church building—the reason, to us, really didn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that Jesus loves them and we want to reach them in a way they appreciate, enjoy and understand. And so we’ve been at it for about a year, and lives have been changed. It hasn’t been a huge crowd yet, but there are many attending who weren’t going anywhere before, and so PF Hope is meeting its goal, reaching its intended audience. But for PF Hope to move forward, we’ve got to do better at getting behind it and supporting it. The most immediate need is for people who will help set up on Saturdays. It will probably take less than an hour of your time each week, but it will make a world of difference as we, as a church (remember, this is our mission), seek to share the hope of the Gospel. I have a friend who is an ordained deacon in our Conference, a retired seminary professor with (at last count) 5 college and seminary degrees. Ken is highly educated and has many skills. So I asked him what he’s doing at his current church. “My job,” he says, “is to set up the chairs. That’s what I do.” Now, as we talked further, I learned that’s not really what he does. Setting up the chairs is his way of being able to have conversations with people, conversations that lead, week after week, to talking about faith. Whose life might you impact for the sake of the Gospel because you agree to set up chairs, or microphones or whatever is needed at PF Hope? You might change a life by a simple act of kindness that won’t cost you that much at all. We are a hopeful community, called to share that hope with everyone. As we learn our story, as we are shaped by it and internalize it, our community can’t help but be changed for the sake of the Gospel.

In the early years of Coca-Cola, the company wanted to make sure that they had a distinctive bottle, one that would stand out from other soft drinks. Shape, color, label and logo were all important, and the designers were given this instruction: “Even if the bottle shatters into a million pieces, we want each piece to be identifiable and recognizable as being from a Coke bottle.” Out of that directive came the light green Coke bottle, and in the days of glass bottles, if you saw broken green glass on the pavement, you knew it was from a Coke bottle (Schnase 156). Here’s the question: as the church scatters throughout the world, throughout our community, do people recognize you as being part of a hopeful community? Are you as distinctive as a Coke bottle? Do people see Jesus in you, even if you don’t have a church t-shirt or nametag on? The church is a hopeful community, called to share a clear witness to the Gospel in everything we say and do. Is Jesus evident in you each and every day in good and beautiful ways? Let’s pray.

The Words After That

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Luke 24:13-25

April 7/8, 2012 (Easter) • Portage First UMC

INTRO VIDEO

It was about 10:30 a.m. Pacific time this past Monday when a 43-year-old former nursing student walked into the building of Oikos University in Oakland, California, took a receptionist hostage and walked into a classroom. “Oikos” means “family,” and One Goh had been expelled from the “family” earlier this year, due, some say, to behavioral issues. Apparently upset that his career plans had been derailed, Goh went looking for a particular female administrator at this small predominately Korean Christian college. When he learned that the administrator was not there, he went into a room and told former classmates to line up along the wall. “I’m going to kill you all,” he said, and began shooting. Seven people were killed and three were wounded before Goh left in a victim’s car, which he then drove to a grocery store in Alameda. There, he surrendered to police. In the midst of the usual statements from the neighbors about how he wasn’t a bad guy and he was good to his parents, and the usual statements about gun control and the senselessness of it all from politicians, we were again faced with a horrible tragedy, seven senseless deaths, and a reminder that despite appearances to the contrary, our world is in fact filled with dangerous and dark places. What do we say to situations like that? How do we respond when death seems to push in on us?

In many ways, that’s the question that the two disciples who were walking to Emmaus were dealing with. Death had surrounded them, and they were left confused, hurt, and hopeless. Their discouragement had really began three days ago, on Friday, when they watched one they had hoped was going to save their people die on a Roman cross. They had come to Jerusalem, most likely, to celebrate Passover, a normal part of their year, and yet this year, their celebration, their normalcy was interrupted by a brutal, senseless and tragic death. Jesus of Nazareth had died and been buried, and all those who thought he was the Savior had gone back and spent the last two nights mourning his death. What else was there to do? It was the Sabbath, the day of rest, so they couldn’t travel home. Walking the seven miles from Jerusalem to Emmaus was considered “work,” so they stayed in the city until Sunday.

On Sunday morning, some of the women had left very early, while it was still dark (John 20:1), to go anoint the body of Jesus. That was something that was usually done before burial, but the quick approach of the Sabbath had prevented them from finishing the job. So they went to the tomb, and I cannot emphasize enough that, despite what they had heard Jesus say repeatedly about him being raised, they did not go looking for a resurrection. They went to anoint the body. They went to take care of their dead friend. No one in the Gospels expects Jesus to be anything other than stone cold dead (Card, Luke: The Gospel of Amazement, pg. 260). So when these women come running back to the place where Jesus’ followers are staying, when they say the tomb is empty, and when they claim that an angel told them Jesus had been raised from the dead, it sounds like “nonsense” to everyone else (24:11). In fact, Luke, being a doctor, uses a medical term here; he actually says they think the women are “delirious” (Card 261). I imagine the women got all sorts of questions, centered around the fact that just because the tomb was empty didn’t mean he was raised. It just meant the body was missing. Even Peter, who Luke says goes to check it all out, doesn’t decide right away that Jesus was raised. He wonders to himself what happened (24:12). No one expected a resurrection.

And so these two disciples, who are probably husband and wife (Wright, Luke for Everyone, pg. 293), decided it really is over and begin the journey home. Seven miles from Jerusalem to Emmaus. Seven long, endless miles. What do you talk about on a journey like that? Well, Luke says they were discussing what had happened over the last few days, perhaps how disappointed, discouraged and depressed they had become. I mean, if Jesus really was the Messiah, the Savior, he should have been defeating the pagans, not dying at their hands (Wright 294)! Everything they had hoped for died on the cross. You know how discussions like that go, but in the midst of this one, a stranger approaches them and joins their journey. Actually, he’s not a stranger, but Luke says they were “kept” from recognizing him (23:16). That’s an important theme in this story: who and when and how do people recognize Jesus, the stranger? The word means to “know, to perceive, to understand.” Luke isn’t talking so much about physically recognizing this stranger as Jesus (though we have evidence in other Gospels that Jesus looked at least a little different from the way they remembered him, and yet he still retained the scars in his hands and side from the crucifixion). Instead, Luke is talking about seeing beyond the physical to the core of who a person is. They failed to realize this stranger is Jesus largely because they weren’t looking for him. As I said, they had zero expectations of ever seeing Jesus alive again (Card 262). They had stood near the cross. They had heard his final words. They listened as he cried out, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit” (23:46). And they watched as he died. So when this stranger comes up to them and asks what they are talking about, they are surprised he doesn’t know. How could he have been anywhere near Jerusalem in the last few days and not know what had happened there (24:17-18)?

So they tell him their perception of what happened, and how their hopes and dreams had been nailed to the cross with Jesus. Everything they had given their lives for and everything they had dreamed of was gone. “We had hoped,” they say (24:21). One time, so long ago, we had hoped. But now we’ve given up hope. He’s dead, and so are our dreams. Have you been there? Have you walked to the road of disappointment? David and Helen did. They had met in college and looked forward with excitement to being missionaries in India. David had been raised in India, his parents having served long terms there as United Methodist missionaries. They got to experience their dreams coming true when they arrived in India with their one-year-old daughter and began the work they had been preparing for so long. About a year later, David had passed his language exam and was scheduled to go on a preaching tour. This was shortly after their son, David Jr., had been born, and just as David Sr. was preparing to leave, Helen had a dream. She dreamed that they were burying their son, and she begged David not to go on the trip he had planned. But Davey was healthy, and so his father chalked it up to still adjusting to a new culture and nothing more. He kissed a healthy Davey goodbye and left on his trip. But the very next night he received a message that Davey was seriously ill with dysentery. By noon the following day, they were burying their son. The dreams they had for their family and their ministry came crashing down around them (Seamands, Living With Your Dreams, pgs. 39-41). We had hoped…but it was not to be. That’s what Cleopas and his wife are telling Jesus. We had hoped…we had hoped.

And we expect Jesus to respond compassionately, to say, “I understand how you feel. It’s okay to feel that way.” But that’s not what we get. Instead, Jesus turns to them and says, “How foolish you are!” (24:25). In essence, he says, you’ve got it all wrong. You’re looking at things through the wrong lens. And instead of comforting them like we think he ought to, he begins to explain the Scriptures to them. Luke says it this way: “Beginning with Moses and all the Prophets, he explained to them what was said in all the Scriptures concerning himself” (24:27). Now, do you see the problem here? I get frustrated every time I read that verse. Here is the Son of God giving a Bible lesson, explaining the entire Old Testament, and Luke doesn’t think it’s important enough to record what he says! Not one word of Jesus’ teaching is captured here. The greatest Bible lesson of all time, and it’s not written down. Wasn’t someone taking notes?

No, because that’s not Luke’s point. Luke’s point is that the first glimmer of recognition, the first hint that this stranger is someone they might know is found as they begin to rightly understand the Scriptures. They first encounter the risen Jesus in the words of the Bible. And that’s even more true today. John says Jesus is “the word made flesh” (John 1:14) and the words of the Bible point to the one who is the Word. To truly encounter Jesus, to know who he is means we have to intentionally engage with the Scriptures. There are a lot of false assumptions and a lot of bad teachings roaming around out there. The real truth about Jesus is found in the Scriptures, and if we’re not studying this book, we’re only guessing. And it’s not enough to just rely on what you get on Sunday morning. We read a couple of passages here, but that’s only a glimpse of the whole story. And so around here, we have tried to make many opportunities available for you to study, to grow, to learn, to develop your faith and your picture of Jesus. This week, we launch a brand new one, an opportunity to deal with difficult questions in a safe place. That disappointment, that discouragement, those wonderings…on Wednesday evening at 6 p.m., we will launch Alpha, which is a place you can bring those things and know that they will be dealt with honestly, fairly and openly. Alpha is for everyone who struggles, whether you believe in Jesus at this point or not. Take a listen to this to get an idea of what Alpha will be like.

VIDEO: Alpha Questions

Alpha is fully and firmly based in the Scriptures, and it’s a place where thousands of people have first begun to recognize Jesus, because he’s found in the Scriptures.

After the Bible lesson, they arrive at Emmaus, the home for Cleopas and his wife, and Luke says Jesus pretends to be going further, even as they offer him a place to stay for the night. It was expected, in that culture, to offer hospitality to the stranger; Jesus himself had emphasized and endorsed that. It was also a custom, on the part of the stranger, to at first refuse such hospitality, to pretend to be going somewhere else. It was sort of a dance people did, knowing all the while that the stranger would accept the offer of hospitality (Liefeld, “Luke,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 8, pg. 1053-1054), which Jesus does. And yet, once inside the house, when the meal is prepared Jesus assumes the role of host. He takes the bread, he offers the prayer, he breaks the bread and gives it to them (24:30). Immediately, they know fully who he is, the recognize him, because when is the last time in the Gospel of Luke bread was broken and blessed and offered? It’s in the Upper Room, at the Last Supper. Jesus was the host, then, too, and he told them that bread would always remind them of his body, which was broken on the cross (22:19). And while what happens at Emmaus is not a communion celebration—it’s a normal table meal—in the breaking of the bread, they suddenly recognize Jesus for who he is. Was it because he lifted up the bread and they were able to see the wounds in his wrists? Was it in the way he said the prayer or the way he tore the bread? Was it his tone of voice, the spark in his eyes, or the burning in their own hearts (24:32)? Whatever it was, Jesus was known to them—recognized by them (24:35)—in the breaking of the bread. And though, as I said, this is not a communion celebration at Emmaus, I think Luke fully intends us to see in this breaking of the bread that earlier breaking, and he wants us to know that Jesus is known when we gather together, when we break the bread and drink the cup as he told us to do in remembrance of him (22:19).

Word and table. Scripture and sacrament. The reason these things are the shape of Christian worship is because it is here, in these things, that we encounter the risen Christ. Jesus’ final words from the cross were not really the last words at all. He spoke words after the cross because he was raised to life and in those words, he invites us to come close so that we, too, might share in his resurrection. If we learn nothing else from the cross and the resurrection, we have to learn this: the worst thing is never the last thing. The cross was not the end; the grave did not have the final word. Jesus did, because he was raised and lives forevermore. The worst thing is never the last thing. David and Helen learned that. Even in the midst of the devastation of losing their son, they found their bonds strengthened and their faith growing. They had a great impact on India, and when they returned home, David both pastored and grew churches while later teaching countless seminary students how to care for their congregations—students including me. Out of David’s broken dreams and seeming hopelessness came a ministry of grace and healing for countless people who were living with broken dreams of their own. The worst thing is never the last thing, even in Oakland, California. I love the way the churches responded there, allowing Jesus to shine through. The Korean Methodist Church in particular responded right away by providing space for mourning and praying. Even in the dark place where a student kills fellow students, the worst thing is never the last thing. Even in the darkness, Jesus still comes to us in bread and cup and word and worship.

We’ve spent the season of Lent studying the final words of Jesus, and this morning we’ve looked at some of his words after that, but the really final words of Jesus come at the end of the Gospel of Matthew, where he gathers his disciples together and gives them their mission. In Matthew 28, Jesus says, “Go and make disciples of all nations…and surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age” (28:19-20). Jesus’ final final words are both a challenge and a promise. The challenge? Share the love of Christ and the power of the resurrection through the whole earth. After 2,000 years, we’re still working on that one, and while the whole earth might be a bit intimidating for us sitting here this morning, what about your whole neighborhood or your whole family? Start there. Jesus calls us to share with everyone the good news that the worst thing is never the last thing and that there is hope and salvation found in him. It’s the sharing of that good news that compelled us to begin PF Hope just about a year ago, to share the good news with people who might not otherwise hear it. That’s our challenge, and it’s never enough just to say someone else will do it. If we call ourselves Christian, we’re all commissioned by Jesus. That’s the challenge. And the promise? He doesn’t promise us wealth or health or power. He promises us his presence. He will be with us. Because he is risen, he goes with us into the world so that we can share that good news. He will be with us, no matter what comes. He is present here, and he will be present with you at work tomorrow, and in the hospital waiting room, and at the graveside, and when you’re contemplating which decision to make, and when your child is born, and when that same child makes choices that unsettle you…he will be with you. He is with you, and his presence is always a reminder that the worst thing is never the last thing. That’s the good news and the hope of Easter.

Word and table. Scripture and Sacrament. Having heard the Scripture, this morning, we’re going to come to the table, and experience the presence of Jesus in the breaking of the bread. For some of you, perhaps it’s been a while since you’ve taken communion. Let me assure you that in the United Methodist Church, the communion table is open to all who love Jesus or who want to love him. It’s his table, he is the host, not myself or Pastor Deb or anyone else. Jesus is the host, and he invites us to come, to find him in the bread and in the cup and to allow being in his presence to make a lasting difference. For some of us, maybe coming to church on Easter is just an obligation, something we do to make someone else happy, or we come because we think we ought to. But Jesus calls us to more than just showing up for the music and the flowers. Jesus invites us to encounter him, and to allow him to change us, to make us new, to make us right with him. He wants his presence to be part of our lives. And so as you come to the table this morning, what will your response to him be? Will you walk out of here unchanged, essentially the same as when you came in? Or will time in his presence cause your heart to burn within you? Will you see the resurrected Lord in this place and allow him to live in your life every day from now on? He invites you—come to the table. He awaits you here.

One More Step

Mark 15:33-41

April 6, 2012 (Good Friday) • Portage First UMC

Several years ago, our family took a vacation to Stone Mountain, Georgia, which is just outside of Atlanta, and for some reason, we got it in our heads that a good way to start the day would be to walk up the mountain. There is a trail on one side of the mountain which is 1.3 miles long and ascends 786 feet before it reaches the top of the mountain. Well, that doesn’t sound so bad, and so, water bottles in hand, we started off. It was a beautiful, sunshiny day, and the first part of the hike was pleasant, almost easy. We smiled and talked to people as we passed them, feeling more confident with every step. And we kept going, until we came to a turn in the trail, maybe about two-thirds of the way up, where suddenly the path seemed to go straight up. Now, I know it didn’t really go straight up, but it sure seemed like it did. All of a sudden, the trail got very, very steep very, very quickly, and while the kids charged ahead (and made it to the top way ahead of me), I found myself slowed down, gasping for breath, and worrying my wife. I was winded, tired, hot, and not sure I was going to make it to the top of the mountain. Was there a helicopter anywhere nearby? We’d come too far to think about going back down; all I could think of was getting to the top and riding the cable car down. In retrospect, I don’t know why we didn’t think about riding the cable car up and walking down, but that wouldn’t have made as good a story. Instead, I just kept my eyes focused on the goal, on the top of the mountain, and concentrated on taking just one more step, and then one more, and then one more. That’s all I could do. And step by step by step, I made it to the top of the mountain.

I kind of feel like that’s where we are as we come to this Good Friday. We’ve been on a journey, a Lenten journey, and we’ve been gazing for the last six weeks at the top of a mountain, a hill called Calvary, at a cross planted there by some Roman soldiers. But more than that, we’ve been centered on the man on the middle cross, the one who made some outrageous claims about himself and why he was on that cross. The sign above his head reads, “King of the Jews,” but he’d claimed to be the Son of God. And so we’ve listened as he gasped out his final words, and we’ve watched as he died, as he gave up his spirit. At that moment, it feels like we’ve turned a corner and we’re facing a steep, uphill climb. What do we do now? Jesus is dead. Where do we go from here? Do we keep climbing, keep moving, or do we go back home, back down the mountain, untouched and unchanged by our time at Calvary? What do we do now?

There is one man at the cross we haven’t talked about yet. In the midst of disciples, family members and curious onlookers, there are also a whole bunch of Roman soldiers. Some of them have gambled for Jesus’ clothing. Some of them have mocked the men on the cross. And some of them haven’t cared what happens there on the hill; to them, it’s just another crucifixion, another in a long line of dirty jobs they are called on to do in this backwater province of Judea. But one of those soldiers—a centurion, we’re told (15:39)—sees what happens and reacts to it. A centurion would have been the equivalent of a sergeant-major (Barclay, The Gospel of Mark, pg. 365). He would have seen many men die, perhaps participated even in many crucifixions, and it’s likely he was in charge of this particular detachment of soldiers. He’s probably been with Jesus through the scourging, the mocking, the spitting and so on (Wessel, “Mark,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 8, pg. 783). He’s heard the seven cries from the cross, and he’s watched as Jesus gave up his spirit. Quietly, peacefully, not violently like the others. Mark says when he saw how Jesus died, he said, “Surely this man was the Son of God!” (15:39). Theologians debate what, exactly, the centurion meant by that statement. Did he come to faith in that moment? Was he simply acknowledging that Jesus died in a godly way? Was he simply impressed with the way Jesus gave up his spirit? I don’t know if Mark is all that worried about why the man said it. I think, instead, Mark wants us to see ourselves in this Gentile soldier, standing in front of the cross, having done our worst to Jesus. What do we say? How do we respond to this brutal, ugly, horrible, yet life-giving death?

Standing here at the cross can leave us breathless, much like I was at the top of Stone Mountain. We stare up at the horribly disfigured man hanging there, lifeless, breathless himself, and we can’t help but wonder: what now? What difference does his death make? How does what he did save me in any way? How does it draw me closer to God? Sometimes, when we stand in the shadow of the cross on this day, we’re like another man who once came to Jesus. The story is told in Mark 9, right after Jesus has been on another mountain, where his disciples saw a glimpse of his glory. Actually, the man had come to the disciples and asked them to heal his son. The boy seems to have had some sort of epilepsy, so severe that he couldn’t speak and would often have seizures that left him incapacitated (Barclay 215). “I asked your disciples to drive out the spirit,” the father says, “but they could not” (9:18). So Jesus calls the boy to himself, and the boy has another seizure which causes the father to beg Jesus, “If you can do anything, take pity on us and help us.” “‘If you can’?” Jesus asks. “Everything is possible for one who believes.” And so immediately, the father cries out, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” And right then, Jesus heals the boy (9:21-29) and restores him to his father.

You see, sometimes I find myself like that father, only instead of asking for the healing of a family member, I’m standing in front of the cross, wondering if what he did there really makes a difference in my life. “I believe,” I cry out. “Help my unbelief!” All of us, much of the time, are a mixture of belief and unbelief, of hope and despair, of sorrow and joy. We know who we are, and how unworthy we often feel that someone would dare to die for us. We know the truth of what Paul said: “Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous person” (Romans 5:7). Why would Jesus die for me, being so far from righteous? I believe…help my unbelief. Help me be like the centurion, who could recognize something powerful and unique in Jesus’ death, even if he didn’t understand everything it meant. He was willing to put words to his faith even though, being a Gentile and unschooled in the teachings of the Scriptures, he couldn’t possibly have known everything he was saying in that moment. Instead of being like him, sometimes we stand off to the side, we say we want to wait until we know more, until we understand more about what was happening at the cross, until we can intellectually categorize how Jesus saves us by his death on the cross, until we have all our questions answered. And while there is a time for learning and growing and studying, that time is not today. Questions can be debated another day. Today we stand at the cross, and we gaze up at the one who loves us. He is the one who asked forgiveness for the people who murdered him, the one who cared for his mother, the one who paid attention to a dying criminal, the one who felt forsaken, who knew thirst, who accomplished his mission and gave up his spirit. His life and death call us to faith. It calls for a decision on our part. I believe—help my unbelief.

In the late 1940’s, two men who were close friends were both preaching the Gospel with Youth for Christ, traveling around the nation and the world proclaiming the good news about Jesus. At one point, Charles began to develop physical illnesses the doctors couldn’t explain—at least there was no medical reason for his sickness. One doctor told him the problem wasn’t in his heart. It was in his head. Charles knew what the doctor was talking about, because he was finding himself struggling more and more to believe what he was preaching. World War II and the growing intellectual challenges to Christianity had sapped his faith. He had taken his eyes off the cross and put his focus on his doubts, so eventually Charles had to walk away from his preaching because he couldn’t explain every piece of it. His friend, however, listened to his struggles and doubts. William faced the same difficult questions. Particularly challenging were the accusations starting to make the rounds that the Bible wasn’t God’s word. Rather, some said, it was just a collection of ancient stories and writings. If that were so, William knew it would have no authority in his life, nor could he ask anyone else to accept its authority. Unlike Charles, however, William spent much time in prayer over the matter, continued to focus on the cross, and finally decided he could not settle all the questions by just thinking them through. He had to come to a point where he either believed or he didn’t. He said, “The finest minds in the world have looked and come down on both sides of these questions…and I am not going to wrestle with these questions any longer…I accept this book by faith as the Word of God.” In the midst of a forest at a conference center, Billy Graham cried out to God, in essence, “I believe; help my unbelief.” And for the last sixty years, Graham has touched untold numbers of people by calling them to look toward this crucified savior. Charles Templeton, on the other hand, never looked back to the faith of his early life and died an agnostic.

It’s not that questions are unimportant; it’s not that doubts shouldn’t be faced. Questions and doubts are part of faith; they are not evidence of faithlessness. It’s just that faith requires more than simply having all the answers to the questions or doubts. Faith requires us to step out. “Faith,” the book of Hebrews says, “is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see. This is what the ancients were commended for” (Hebrews 11:1-2). And sometimes faith comes from a most unlikely source. “The Roman centurion becomes the first sane human being in Mark’s Gospel to call Jesus God’s son and mean it” (Wright, Mark for Everyone, pg. 216). We don’t know what happened to him after this moment. I wish we did. I wish we had scenes of him telling others about this man on the cross, scenes of him sharing his faith and his doubt with the other soldiers. We don’t know what happened to him. We only know about this moment in his life, when he saw in Jesus something that stirred at least the beginnings of faith within him. “This man was God’s Son. I believe—help my unbelief.” He stood before the cross, he took one step down the path of faith, and I believe his life was changed from that moment forward.

John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, found himself struggling, much like Charles Templeton, with preaching a Gospel he wasn’t always sure he believed wholeheartedly. He asked a friend of his, Peter Bohler, if he should quit preaching. “By no means,” Bohler said. “But what can I preach?” Wesley asked, to which Bohler responded, “Preach faith till you have it; and then, because you have it, you will preach faith” (Journal, March 4, 1738). There comes a point in our life when we have to choose, where we have to decide if we’re going to trust Jesus’ death on the cross for our salvation or not. There is a point where we have to decide we’re either going to keep going up the mountain one step at a time or we’re going to turn around, go home and give up. The journey of faith, the walk with Jesus, is not an easy one. It’s not meant to be. He said whoever would follow him would have to take up their own cross (8:34), and a cross is an instrument of death. Following Jesus means dying to ourselves so that we can live for him. Are we willing to make that journey this Good Friday?

When we got to the top of Stone Mountain, the view was incredible. You could see the lush Georgian countryside for miles around, and you could see quite a ways toward downtown Atlanta. I never would have seen that had I quit, had I turned around and gone back, had I not taken one step more, and then one more, and then one more. Sometimes that’s all we can do: one more step. I believe—help my unbelief. As we stand here at the cross on this Good Friday, as we once again hear the words of the passion of Jesus Christ, of his great love for us, how will you respond? With you stand with the skeptics, questioning the day? Will you stand with the onlookers, interested but not really committed? Or will you stand with the centurion, declaring faith when it seems hopeless? This day, this Good Friday, may we resolve to move ahead, to take one more step toward Jesus this day, to stay focused on him, for he is truly God’s Son and he is our only hope. Amen.