The Mess We're In

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

1 Corinthians 12

April 19, 2015 • Portage First UMC

Some of you may not be aware, but I play trombone. I began playing trombone in elementary school and continued through high school. In seminary I played with a brass ensemble for chapel services, and I even occasionally broke out the ’bone at my previous appointment. However, this trombone, which I have had for 38 years, has sat in my office for the last ten years, largely unused, because I’m told you have to practice to be able to play for worship! Well, I’m here to tell you today that I have practiced and I’m going to play a little song for you this morning. (You know, we lame ducks can get away with most anything!) See if you can tell me the name of the song (cf. Wright, Paul for Everyone: 1 Corinthians, pg. 153).

Trombone: “Pomp and Circumstance”

Anyone? Well, that was “Pomp and Circumstance,” the classic graduation song—but only the trombone part. I remember playing that in high school for the graduation ceremonies and being bored silly because the trombone part is just a few notes over and over again. Just hearing that one part makes it difficult to identify the song, doesn’t it? Thankfully, when we played that song—and any other—there were other parts. Trumpets and clarinets and flutes and baritones and saxophones and oboes and drums and a tuba or two came together to make beautiful music. All of the parts were needed in order for the song to be played, or at least for it to be played the way the composer intended it to be. The same thing is true for a choir or a praise team or an orchestra. You need all the parts for the song to sound right. Sometimes, though, one part or another forgets that truth and they begin to see themselves as the most important. A soloist begins to see themselves as the one voice or instrument that is critical to the song’s success. And that’s when you begin to have problems. That’s when the whole thing can end up in a real mess.

For the next few weeks, we’re going to be taking a close look at a passage of Scripture that is familiar to most if not all of us, and is actually familiar to many in our world, even if they don’t know where it comes from. There are, honestly, very few weddings I have performed or attended where this passage wasn’t read because there really aren’t more beautiful words about love than what Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 13. When you’re preparing to spend a life together as a married couple, it’s both comforting and challenging to hear those words read: “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails” (13:4-8a). Paul describes that way of living as a “more excellent way” (12:31), a better way of life than most of the world knows or lives. The problem, and the thing I always struggle with when it comes to preparing to preach on those words for a wedding, is that they weren't written for marriage, at least not exclusively. They’re appropriate there, but these words were first written to a local church as a description of what their life together should be like. Specifically, these words were written to first-century Corinth, a place that had a lot of challenges as it tried to become Christian. So before we dive into the thirteenth chapter proper, I want us today to step back and consider the mess Corinth was in when Paul wrote these words. I think their context will also give context for our discussions over the next few weeks.

Corinth in the first century was a well-known, well-established city on the isthmus of Corinth (appropriately named!) in the Greek area of the Peloponnese. Today, that area is divided from the mainland by a canal, the Corinth canal, but the canal wasn’t built until 1882. In Paul’s day, ships were transported across this 4-mile wide strip of land by being put on wheels and drug across the narrow isthmus. Paul arrived in Corinth on his second missionary journey, somewhere we think around the year 51-52 AD, and he stayed in Corinth for eighteen months working as a tentmaker while engaging in discussions about Christianity on the Sabbath. While the results of his preaching were mixed, he did win the president of the synagogue and his family to the Christian faith. But still, preaching the faith in Corinth was a struggle. In fact, it’s in Corinth that Paul decides his primary ministry will be not to the Jews but to the Gentiles (Acts 18:6). Paul was actually put on trial here in Corinth. The charge was “persuading people to worship God in ways contrary to the law” (Acts 18:13), and the Bema, or judgment seat, where he likely stood for the trial has been uncovered and identified. However, the court of Corinth was not kind to Paul. The proconsul basically said he didn’t care about the people’s religious disputes, and so the crowd beat the synagogue leader as a protest while the Roman authorities did nothing (Acts 18:17; Mavromataki, Paul, The Apostle of the Gentiles: Journeys in Greece, pgs. 106-121; Blomberg, NIV Application Commentary: 1 Corinthians, pg. 21). 

So after Paul leaves, things get difficult in the Corinthian church. In fact, about three years later, when he’s in Ephesus, he hears that there are various issues and disputes taking place in the church. He hears that there is sexual immorality happening in the church, “of a kind that even pagans do not tolerate,” he says (5:1). Specifically, “a man is sleeping with his father’s wife” (who may or may not be his mother). Paul also hears there are disputes going on among church members that are resulting in lawsuits, and tells them that such things are signs that they are already defeated. No one can win in that kind of situation, least of all the cause of Christ (6:7). All the unbelievers see, Paul says, is believers arguing with one another, and that ought to shame the church (cf. 6:5). Paul has also heard that there are arguments over leadership in the church, as to who is really a leader and who isn’t. He basically tells them when they argue over such things, they are giving up their faith and becoming “mere human beings” (3:4). The leaders, he says, are “co-workers” in God’s service, not competitors (3:9). Serving God and following Christ, not human beings, is the point (3:7).

So Corinth was a mess, and as I read over those early chapters in this letter, I thought that I’m sure glad that the church today has outgrown such things. I mean, aren’t you glad we don’t fuss and fight over things? That divisiveness never enters the church? That sexual morality is not a topic we have to discuss? It’s good to be 2,000 years removed from Corinth…except that we’re not really, are we? The mess Corinth was in isn’t much different from the mess we’re in as the Church (not just our church, but The Church) today. I might step on some toes here, but I’m on my way out anyway! Over the last few weeks, we’ve had huge discussions, online and in public forums and in small groups, about religious freedom and what that means. Christians argue with Christians over the meaning and intent of Indiana’s Religious Freedom Restoration Act, whether it was needed or not, and how the Legislature should have gone about and “fixed” it. It got to the point where Bishop Coyner asked all United Methodist clergy during Holy Week to stop talking about RFRA and instead focus on the meaning and message of the cross and the resurrection. You wouldn’t think clergy would need to be reminded of that during Holy Week, would you? Now that the “fix” is in place, did that stop the disagreements? Probably not; maybe they’re just not as loud as they were. In our own denomination, there are storm clouds of division hovering over next year’s General Conference, largely centered (as they have been every four years since 1972) around the issue of homosexuality. We argue and fight with each other, all sides brandishing the Bible as proof of their rightness, and there have even been church lawsuits filed and church trials conducted. And all the while, the world looks on as we fight. That’s what they see when they look at us.

But, more to the point, what does the world see when they look at Portage First? We’ve had our share of struggles, difficulties and division over the last few years—some of it openly, some of it more hidden, but present nonetheless. Now, I’m not interested in rehearsing all that has come before; that’s not my purpose today. Rather, I want us to think deeply about the question: when our community looks at our church, at this body of believers, what do they see? And, perhaps, more to the point this morning, what would Paul say to Portage First and the “mess” we’re in? Probably much the same thing he said to that struggling church in Corinth. These words have stood the test of time because every church throughout history has needed to hear them, and we are no exception.

There are really two issues Paul is wrestling with in this chapter—actually, in this whole section from chapter 12 through chapter 14—and though they are intertwined, I want to think about them separately. The first has to do with spiritual gifts, and the second has to do with unity in the body of Christ. Now, when we talk about “spiritual gifts,” some folks get a little nervous, thinking either that it has only to do with “those pentecostal churches” and things like speaking in tongues and such. Or others get nervous for another reason; they’re afraid that if someone finds out what their gifts and abilities are, someone might ask them to do something in the church? But Paul talks a lot about spiritual gifts; however, there’s nowhere in his writings where he lays down a definitive list of what “the gifts” are. Spread throughout several letters, he mentions twenty different gifts, but he doesn’t ever say, “It’s these twenty and no more.” Paul leaves room for flexibility in the church and in the work of the Holy Spirit. So while we can say for sure that those twenty are gifts given by the Holy Spirit, I believe we can also include other things that perhaps didn’t occur to Paul. What sorts of things? Well, I don’t have a definitive list either, but let’s remember what Paul says about the purpose of the gifts. He says the Spirit gives gifts for “the common good” (12:7). The Spirit gives gifts in order to build up and strengthen the church. He does not give gifts just for our own personal enjoyment or our own gain (cf. Wright 168). He gives gifts so that the church can accomplish her mission of faithfully proclaiming the good news. Which leads us to another observation we can make: “none of these gifts are given to everybody” (Wright 169) and furthermore, no one person possess all of the gifts. We need each other to be able to accomplish the mission God has given us.

Now Paul does give some examples of spiritual gifts. He says there are people to whom the Spirit gives an insight or a bit of knowledge that is needed for a particular situation. There are others who are given the ability to proclaim God’s word for the time they live in (what Paul calls “prophecy”). There are those who are teachers, others who can work miracles (and I don’t think he’s talking about TV preachers here), and still others who take the Gospel to other cultures (what Paul calls “apostles”). There is another list of gifts in Romans 12, and there he includes things like serving, faith, encouragement, leadership and generosity. And in the Romans passage, Paul encourages believers that, no matter what gift you have, use it faithfully and enthusiastically.

But there’s no such thing as an ungifted Christian. Paul and others indicate that, when we become believers in Christ, we are given gifts by the Holy Spirit. You have gifts, though they may be unwrapped, unused, sitting idle. How do you find out what gifts you have? Try something! What are you passionate about? What do you care about? When I was in college—and I’m going to share more of this story in a few weeks—I was a journalism major, and for the first year at Ball State I learned all about newspapers and writing and editing and all of that. But when I began my sophomore year, I found that I wasn’t really passionate about that. What I was passionate about is telling stories, especially The Story, the story of Jesus. And I began to be affirmed when I had a chance to speak at small group gatherings or in worship settings. My passion for telling the story was coupled with a gift God gave me to interpret and proclaim the Scriptures—and that, then, led me into pastoral ministry.

Cathy had a passion from early on to help those who were in need, those who were struggling with addictions and life circumstances. She knew from early on that God had gifted her with a compassionate heart, and she uses that gift not only in her profession as a counselor but also in her ministry at McDonald’s and conversations with many of you. I’m not gifted the way she is, which is why I don’t do counseling. I’m pretty bad at it. She has the heart and the passion and the gifts for it. We have a lot of people here who have unwrapped their gifts and some of them use them in their job and others use them in unpaid positions. Wanda has a passion for leading others in worship and song, and she’s done that now here for many, many years. Steve Massow didn’t necessarily have a passion for the crane he operated, but he does have a passion for reaching the least, the last and the lost which has led him into prison ministry and others have found a passion for that as well. Several of our folks have a gift to be able to listen to and help others, and that has led them into Congregational Care Ministry, and still others love to tell the story but have no desire to stand up in front of a congregation like I do each week. And so they teach Sunday School or lead small groups. And still others have very practical gifts, a passion for hospitality or organization or gardening or cleaning or cooking and God uses those passions in ministries of caring, like funeral dinners, or hospitality, like all the work Connie Ellefson and her troops have done around the church. I could spend all day telling you stories of the way people here at Portage First have used their gifts, but the point is this: there is no such thing as an ungifted Christian. There are only those folks, maybe some gathered here today, who have not unwrapped the gifts the Holy Spirit has given them.

But there’s one more important point to be made in this section: there is no gift that is more important than any other. In verse 11, Paul says, “All these are the work of one and the same Spirit, and he distributes them to each one, just as he determines.” Different gifts does not mean different statuses, for all the gifts are needed, working together, to allow this church and The Church to accomplish its mission of reaching the world for Jesus Christ.

Now, that’s a lot to take in, but all of that is really foundational for Paul’s main point to the Corinthians and to us. What he wants us to hear in that discussion and in all that follows is this: you need each other. We need each other. Even though we are often very different from each other, we still need each other. Paul wants the Corinthians to understand that the mess they’re in happened because they forgot two essential things: they are all equally sinners in need of a savior and they are all equally human beings who need each other. He gets at that idea in this way: imagine a human body…feet, hands, ears, nose and all the rest. And he asks the Corinthians what would happen if the entire body was an eye—how would you go about hearing things? Or what might happen, he asks, if the foot decides he’s no longer part of the body? How would you walk? Then, after they’ve had a moment to absorb the absurdity of that, he pushes the point even more. The head cannot live without the rest of the body, and the eye needs the hand. In fact, he says, the parts that are weaker in the body we treat with special care, recognizing that if one part of the body suffers, the entire body suffers. That’s true, isn’t it? You stub your toe or you cut your hand and your entire body hurts. Or, as I experienced a few weeks ago, if you find your stomach is upset, it’s not that the rest of your body just goes on. No, your whole body is out of commission because one part is suffering. So you lay on the couch and moan and complain—or at least that’s what I do! Unfortunately, no one was home to listen or care, and the dog just went downstairs to get away from me!

Paul says that the way the physical body works is the same way it ought to be in the church, which he calls the Body of Christ. We are all members of the same body—not “members” in the sense of having a signed piece of paper like we’re a member of a country club or a gym. No, the word for “member” here originally referred to a limb or an organ, a part of the body that is tied into every other part of the body (Wright 158). We’ve lost that idea today, that being a member of a church is not just about having your name on a roster or enjoying some sort of “privileges” (like a membership in American Express). Being a “member” means we become part of the body of Christ and part of each other. Being a “member” means we recognize we need Christ and we need each other, and that we are a sinner who is going on to perfection but hasn’t yet arrived. Being a “member” doesn’t mean we have it all together; it means we accept the mission Jesus sends his followers on. We are part of one another, each needing the gifts found in others, each called to care for all who are part of the body of Christ.

This takes me back to the band analogy I talked about at the beginning. As I said, as a trombonist, I also needed the other parts to be able to play the song the way it was intended. One part is not enough to play a song. In my high school band career, we had a great band director, Mr. Fred Albro, who put up with a lot of shenanigans in our class but always directed us to play the music with excellence. Once, we in the low brass section (trombones, baritones and tubas) felt like we were being ignored (I don’t really remember why) and so we formed our own union: the Fraternal Order of Low-Brass Students, and yes, if you hyphenate “low-brass,” the acronym becomes FOOLS. Having formed our own union, we went on strike. Mr. Albro had great fun with that, as did we, and our union lasted through all the years we were in the class with him. Thankfully, the strike (whatever it was over) was resolved quickly and peacefully, but it was a good reminder that no one group in the band could function without the other. The trumpets needed the trombones, the baritones needed the oboes and so on. We all had different parts to play and we needed to play them together.

The same is true in the church at Corinth, and it’s true in the church in Portage. We are not all the same. You and I are different people, with different gifts, different talents and skills, different ways of approaching parenting, different political ideas—the list could go on and on. And it’s easy to focus on what is different between us—or, as we often phrase it, “what’s wrong about the other person.” But what Corinth needed to realize in the first century and what the church still needs to realize today is that there is more that brings us together than keeps us apart. During Lent, we had three churches meet together weekly for lunch and devotions. The devotions were shared by four pastors, each of which was educated in a different place and none of which probably agree 100% on every theological issue. And yet, we dared to cross borders. Personally, as I posted on Facebook, on the week I had the devotions, I enjoyed being a Methodist pastor sharing about a Catholic saint in a Pentecostal church! There was a great sense of unity among the three churches during those weeks. What was sad to me is that, despite Pastor Deb’s best efforts, we only had three out of the 50 or so churches in Portage, who found they could come together for 45 minutes once a week for six weeks. The mess we’re in, the reason we’ve failed to win the world for Jesus, is because we’ve forgotten that we’re equally sinners in need of a great savior and we’re equally human beings in need of each other. Rather than focus on what keeps us apart, what would happen if we focused instead on our true identity as God’s people (Wright 160) and worked together for the sake of his kingdom rather than ours? As one author put it, “Not disunity but unity, yet unity not uniformity, but of mutual concern and love” (Blomberg 243). And that sets the stage, then, for what Paul says in chapter 13 about love.

There’s one other piece to the picture at Corinth that is also important for us today, and it’s tucked away in the very beginning of chapter twelve, where Paul reminds the Corinthians what their mission was. It is to proclaim that “Jesus is Lord.” Now, that may sound like a relatively easy thing to say (at least in the comfort of our church building), but in the first century, it was a dangerous thing for the people to admit. You see, the larger culture proclaimed that “Caesar is Lord,” and the Caesars, the rulers of the Roman Empire, were more and more coming to believe that they were not only lord of the Empire but gods themselves, divine. Citizens were asked to swear their allegiance to Rome, and to Caesar, to proclaim that Caesar is lord. And then along comes this radical religious group that dares to proclaim someone else (a carpenter from Nazareth, of all things!) is Lord, and by doing so, denies that Caesar is their lord. What do you think happens to them? Well, within a century of Paul’s time, Christians were being burned at the stake if they refused to curse the name of Jesus (Wright 157), but even in Paul’s time, it was becoming increasingly dangerous. Nero would soon be lighting Christians on fire and sending them to their deaths in “sporting” events. So, in a sense, Paul is telling these believers at Corinth that they need to stand together if they were going to be able to complete their mission and faithfully proclaim Jesus as Lord over all of creation. They would either stand together or fall apart.

Of course, we don’t live in the Roman Empire, and Christians in our country aren’t being killed for their faith. That’s not true in many other parts of the world. We’ve been witness recently to several places where Christians were killed and are being killed for their faith, for doing nothing other than daring to proclaim and believe in Jesus as Lord. But even in our country, we live in what, to me, seem to be unprecedented times, where the only group it seems still “fair” to verbally and intellectually abuse are Christians. New York Times columnist Nicholas Kristof recently wrote that Christians “constitute one of the few groups that it’s safe to mock openly.” It is unfair, Kristof said, and he himself is not a Christian, but he recognizes and will admit to the positive influence Christian faith has on culture. His voice seems strangely alone these days. I don’t remember a time in my life when it seemed that there were people so intentionally trying to wipe religion from the face of the earth and remove it from history. So the question for us, whether we’re in our community, our nation or our world, is this: are we going to stand together or fall apart? We cannot stand on our own against the tide that wants to proclaim Caesar as lord. So will we stand together? Will we learn to use our gifts together, for the glory of God and the advancement of his kingdom? Will we learn to put aside our differences and stand on on the one who saves us? Will we find our way out of the mess we’re in by remembering we are sinners saved by grace and humans who need each other? Will we stand together or fall apart? Let’s pray.

What You Never Imagined

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

John 11:17-26; 20:1-18

April 5, 2015 (Easter) • Portage First UMC

I love science fiction and probably my favorite type of science fiction shows or movies are ones that deal with time travel. Specifically, I enjoy shows where they explore the “what if” sorts of questions—what if this one thing were changed, what might happen? That’s probably why I enjoy the British show Doctor Who so much, as it’s primarily about time travel—forward, backward and side-to-side sometimes! To me, the questions are fascinating: what if this detail were different? Would history be radically different as well?

We ask that same sort of question at various times in our own lives, don’t we? What if I had chosen this career path instead of that one? What if I had lived in this town rather than that one? What if I had asked him out on a date rather than being timid or shy? What if the Cubs won the World Series? And there are even more serious questions we ask: what if I had gotten the cancer instead of her? What if we had elected a different leader than we did? What if the accident hadn’t happened? What if I hadn’t made that mistake and lost my job? I have a friend whose story includes such a point in his life, where he was rising in his career, and then made “that mistake.” He never really said what it was, but it was enough to cost him his job. He spent a lot of time wondering what he was going to do next, how he was going to support his family, and he often asked that very question: what if…what if…what if?

In our Gospel lesson this morning, Martha is asking that same question, only she knows the answer. Her brother had been sick, and they had sent word to their very dear friend, Jesus, the healer from Nazareth. “Lord,” the messengers had said, “the one you love is sick” (11:3). And Jesus had listened, taken in the information…and not come. Or, rather, he had waited to come. Martha knows this because she knows where Jesus had been. He was in Perea, about twenty miles from Bethany, the town Martha, her sister Mary and their brother Lazarus lived in, just over the Mount of Olives near Jerusalem. Twenty miles was a long day’s journey, but Jesus could have made it in a day if he had wanted to. And yet, he hadn’t come. Without sending any explanation to these friends of his, Jesus stayed in Perea one day…then another day…then another day. Two extra days beyond the request. Then he told the disciples they were going to go to Bethany, to “wake Lazarus up” (11:11). But Lazarus is dead by now, and more than that, Lazarus is buried. Burial would have waited three days after death, just in case the person was in a coma, but after three days, in the hot Palestinian climate, decay begins to take place, and so the body would have been buried (cf. Tenney, “The Gospel of John,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 9, pg. 118). In the three days Jesus waited, and in the day he took to travel to Bethany, Lazarus has died, been certified dead, and put in a tomb without any hope of revival. He is as dead as anyone can be. In between the time when the tomb was closed and when Jesus showed up, Martha has been asking, “What if,” so much so that when Jesus does show up, she lets him have it. She doesn’t ask the question, because she already knows the answer. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” (11:21).

We know Martha, don’t we? At some point in our lives, we’ve all stood in a graveyard or by a casket or by the bed of a dying loved one and said similar things: “Lord, if you were here, if you had been here, things would be different.” We’ve cashed our last paycheck or signed divorce papers or listened to a doctor’s diagnosis and we’ve said, “Lord, if you had been here, things would be different.” And then, in the silence of our own heart, we are tempted to give in to the whisper that haunts us: “But I guess you’re not here, because this is the way things are.” Do you know Martha? Have you been Martha? “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

I think those disciples who had followed Jesus for three years must have had the same sorts of conversation with God on a hill called Calvary late one Friday afternoon. They had watched in horror as their master, their friend, their rabbi had been beaten to within an inch of his life. They had found themselves helpless as the Roman soldiers forced him to carry a cross beam, weighing somewhere around a hundred pounds for a third of a mile from the Roman governor’s house to Calvary. In good health, you can walk that in a few minutes; for Jesus, beaten as he was, it probably took half an hour or better (Hamilton, 24 Hours That Changed the World, pg. 88). There on that hill, he was subjected to what one author in ancient times called “the cruelest and most disgusting penalty” and another called “the most pitiable of deaths” (Hamilton 96). And they watched him die. Within six hours, Jesus was gone, and the disciples went into hiding for fear that the Romans would come after them next. Can’t you almost hear them praying that Friday night and all day Saturday, “Lord God, if you had been here, Jesus would not have died. I don’t understand this, God. Where are you? Why did you let this happen?”

We understand Martha, and we understand the disciples. But, like Martha, what we don’t understand is what Jesus says next. Like the disciples, what we don’t understand is what Jesus does next, and what he does on Easter flows out of what he says by the grave of Lazarus. All throughout the season of Lent, we have been looking at the seven “I am” statements in the Gospel of John as we’ve been seeking to better understand this God we can know. We’ve heard him claim to be the light of the world, the bread of life, the Good Shepherd, the vine, the gate, and the way, truth and life. But the most scandalous statement he saves for this place outside the tomb of one of his dearest friends, and if they don’t believe it then, he reminds them of it once more outside the walls of Jerusalem on that first Easter. Jesus’ most shocking claim is what he tells Martha beside the tomb of Lazarus: “I am the resurrection and the life” (11:25).

Now, if that doesn't shock you, it’s probably because we’ve tamed it. We’ve gotten used to that saying, that idea. We come to Easter and we know we're going to hear the word “resurrection” a lot. Ho-hum. Let’s just get through this and get on to the big dinner we have planned. But standing there by the tomb, resurrection would have been the last thing on Martha’s mind. You see, dead men don’t rise. And Lazarus has been dead long enough that they know there’s no hope. Now, some Jews in Jesus’ day had begun to believe in a life after death. You won’t find much of that in the Old Testament times, but by the first century, they had pieced together certain Scriptures and a belief that there was something more had taken root in many people’s lives. So when Jesus says to Martha, “Your brother will rise again,” she thinks that’s what he’s referring to. Life after death. I can almost hear the disappointment in her voice as she says, “I know he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day” (11:23-24). To Martha, what Jesus says sounds just like conventional words of comfort—you know, the sort of things you say at the funeral home when you don’t know what to say to someone. It’s the first century equivalent of, “They’re in a better place.” And Martha responds in much the same way people do today. She smiles and says what’s expected: “I know he’ll rise again one day, someday.” What she’s really feeling is this: “I don’t want that hope. I want my brother back. Right now” (cf. Tenney 118; Wright, John for Everyone, Part Two, pgs. 6-7). But she knows that’s impossible. Right?

So did Mary Magdalene when she made her way from the Upper Room, where the disciples were hiding, to the place where Jesus was buried. She knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, Jesus is dead. She watched him die. She watched them bury him. She watched the huge stone be rolled in front of the cave where his body was put to rest. And she’s waited anxiously all through Friday and Saturday to come and finish preparing his body for burial. She comes to the tomb not to see if he has been raised. She comes to finish the burial. She comes to honor a dead friend. And we know this because, when she sees the stone rolled away and the tomb empty, she doesn’t say, “Oh, he is risen!” No, she runs back to the Upper Room and says, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we don’t know where they have put him!” (20:1-2). His body is gone. His tomb has been desecrated. We’ve got to make this right, because he was our friend! Jesus is dead, and dead men don’t rise. It’s impossible. Right?

She’s forgotten that there, at the tomb of Lazarus, Jesus redefined death and life. Jesus says something there that is so much better than we ever imagined. While we live in a world of death and pain and suffering, Jesus says he has come to bring a better world. No, actually, he says he is that better world. Martha is thinking that at some point in the future, her brother will live again, maybe, hopefully. Jesus brings that future into the present, and more than that, he says that things like life and resurrection and hope and mercy and not a matter of a time or a place. All of those things are found in him. Resurrection is no longer a matter of time and place. Jesus says, “I am the resurrection and the life” (11:25). In a world of death and suffering, where we ask questions about why such things happen, Jesus says he is the answer. It’s one of his most disturbing and frustrating habits, making himself the answer to our questions. It’s what causes people like C. S. Lewis to say he was either a lunatic, a liar, or the lord of all. Jesus knows this sounds crazy, which is why he asks Martha what he asks her: “Do you believe this?” (11:26). Do you believe me (cf. Wright 7; Card, John: The Gospel of Wisdom, pg. 135)?

Martha doesn’t answer the question, if you notice, and I wonder if it isn’t mostly because Jesus has just blown her mind. She really doesn’t know what he’s talking about because he has just stepped out of all the categories she knows, all the truth she has held onto all her life. In fact, she really couldn’t understand what Jesus says here until Easter. To be fair, we need to recognize that what happens there in Bethany is not a resurrection. It’s a resuscitation. Lazarus is “raised” from the dead only in the sense that he is given a few more years to live. What happens in Bethany is a postponement, at best (cf. Fuquay, The God We Can Know, pg. 113), and I’ve said before I’m not sure Jesus did Lazarus any favors here. Lazarus has to die again. He thought he had that out of the way, but now he’s back and he has to go through that again. And more than that, John tells us at the beginning of the next chapter that there are people who begin plotting not only to kill Jesus but also to kill Lazarus because people are believing in Jesus based on what happened to Lazarus (12:10-11). No, Lazarus is not the final word on resurrection. Jesus is. He is the resurrection and the life, and we have to get to Easter to know and experience what he really meant.

Paul says Jesus is the “firstfruit” of our own resurrection (1 Corinthians 15:20); in other words, what happens to him is a promise of what will happen to those who believe. So what happened to Jesus? He was dead, and then he was raised. His body was absent from the tomb, but when people see him, it’s Jesus but it’s not exactly the Jesus they knew. They struggle to identify him at first. So there’s continuity with his old body, but he’s also able to walk through walls, to appear and disappear at will. He eats along with the disciples, and he invites at least one of them to touch him. We don’t know everything that resurrection involves, but we do know that we won’t be “Casper the friendly ghost” floating around on clouds. Resurrection means we will be given new bodies, bodies that are meant to last forever, and that the whole of creation is going to be redeemed, resurrected. Easter is about more than you and me living forever and strumming harps and singing in the angel choir. Easter is about God’s radical reclaiming of creation, including you and me. Easter is a revolution, one that we never imagined could be possible. When Jesus stands there by the grave of Lazarus in Bethany, he is announcing something radically different than was envisioned for the future of humanity. Resurrection, new life, new hope, a world transformed, a people transformed. Easter is God’s final word on all of creation. Easter is Jesus reminding us that resurrection, hope, and new life are found in him. He is the resurrection and the life.

If you travel to Jerusalem today, you will be taken to two places that both claim to be the site of the crucifixion and the resurrection. Both have points in their favor, and while the Garden Tomb feels more authentic, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher has the weight of tradition behind it. Unfortunately, the hillside that was once there has been carved out and a huge church stands in its place today. When you go in, you turn to the right and ascend a narrow stairway that takes you to an upper chapel on top of the traditional site of Calvary. If you want, you can reach down under the altar and touch the rock. Then you come down another set of stairs and walk to a stone that is supposed to be the place where Jesus was laid after he was taken down from the cross. And then you go around another corner and enter a huge rotunda. In the middle of the rotunda is a small—I’m not even sure what to call it. It’s a small shrine, I guess, called the Aedicule, and inside are two chambers containing the only remnants of the tomb that was once there. I’ve been to Jerusalem four times and only inside the Aedicule twice, mostly because the last two times we were there, the wait was so long. This past fall when we were there, there was once again a line that wrapped around the rotunda, and so I asked Pastor Ken Miller, from Crossroads Family Church here in Portage, if he wanted to stand in line to enter the Aedicule. It was his first time there, and I didn’t want him to miss anything that he wanted to see. I’ll never forget what Pastor Ken said. He said, “No, I don’t want to stand in line to see a place where he is not.” Ken was exactly right. We don’t venerate the place because, for one, Jesus only used it for a couple of days and for two, he is the resurrection and the life. Resurrection is a person, not a place, a time or a thing.

I am thankful for that promise each and every day, but never more than when I stand beside a graveside. Like Jesus, I find myself standing more than I care to by a grave, a tomb, a place where a dear saint is being, as we say, laid to rest. And like Jesus, I often find myself with tears welling up inside. But what a tremendous privilege I have in those moments to be able to announce that Jesus is the resurrection and the life, and that those who believe in him will live even though they die. And in those moments, I sometimes hear Jesus whispering to me the same question he asked Martha: “Do you believe this? Do you trust this? Are you willing to stake everything on this truth?” Because belief is more than giving mental agreement to something. Belief is more than saying, “Yes, I think Jesus was a real person.” Belief is throwing your lot in with the person or whatever you believe to be true. Do you believe this? Jesus asks. And every day—not just on Easter, but every day—I want Jesus to hear my answer: “Yes, Lord, I not only believe this, but I’m counting on it.”

And so, it’s Easter, Resurrection Sunday, and I could spend a lot of time giving you the arguments as to why the resurrection is true. I could tell you why I cling to this faith so strongly. I could share stories of people who have experienced resurrection in their own lives. But even if I did all of that, as I’ve sometimes done in the past, it doesn’t escape the central question. Because, you see, the question Jesus asked Martha is the same question he asks each and every one of us this morning: do you believe this? Do you? And if you do, what difference will it make in your life? Resurrection is not just something for “the sweet by and by.” Resurrection transforms every moment of every day, because, you see, when we are people who live in hope, we are people who never give up on others, knowing God never gives up on us. When we live resurrection, we do not become better than others; rather we become consumed with a burning desire for others to experience and live resurrection as well. When we live resurrection, we begin to live life as Jesus would have us, and that means we live lives of sacrifice, of the greatest love, lives that we never imagined were possible. Do you believe this? Jesus asks. And if you do, it ought to change everything.

It’s that life of sacrifice we remember when we receive the bread and the cup of what we call holy communion. This practice goes back to Jesus and his disciples on their last night together, as Jesus took bread and cup and told them to remember him. But this act is more than just a remembrance. That is part of it, of course, but it’s also a call to us—a call to a life we never imagined. Contained within this bread and this cup is the promise of new life, a life free from the guilt and burden of sin. It’s a call to life lived in light of the resurrection. And even more than that, it’s a question. The bread and the cup ask us the same thing Jesus asked Martha: do you believe this? Do you believe new life is possible? Do you believe that the worst thing is never the last thing? Do you believe this? Do you? And will you live in a way that demonstrates that belief?

Christ is risen—he is risen indeed! Let us come together and celebrate his resurrection life by remembering the death that makes resurrection possible. Let us prepare our hearts to celebrate Holy Communion.

The Third Thief

Luke 23:32-43

April 3, 2015 (Good Friday) • Portage First UMC

Call it what it was: state-sponsored terrorism. Crucifixion was meant to scare the people, to make them cower and think twice before they committed a capital crime. Now, the Romans didn’t invent crucifixion; they just perfected it. As a method of torture and suffering, crucifixion was ideal, and it was meant for the lowest of men. Not Roman citizens; they could not be killed in such a manner. They were better than that. Only those considered slaves, chattel, less than human in a sense were “eligible” for crucifixion. Once, after a slave rebellion, six thousand men had been crucified in a single day, and when Jesus was about ten years old, two thousand men had been crucified at Sepphoris, just across the valley from Jesus’ hometown of Nazareth. You could probably see the crosses against the sky from Jesus’ home (Mansfield, Killing Jesus, pgs. 150-154). State-sponsored terror, and yet if it was so effective as a deterrent, why are these soldiers out on the hill this day, nailing three men to crosses? Like most executions, crucifixion did little to stop crime.

Crucifixion was a mixture of terror, humiliation, exposure and suffocation. It became a spectacle in the Roman world in the same way we watch horror movies today. It was frightening, but you couldn’t seem to look away. On this particular day, there were three men slated for death, but only two of those who were originally scheduled find themselves carrying the beam to the hill. One had been set free; his place was taken by the man in the middle. The two men who are on the outside of the set of three crosses are called “criminals.” All four Gospels tell us about them, but only Luke tells us that they had a conversation with the man in the middle (Hamilton, Final Words, pg. 42). Criminals, they’re called. Deserving, as one says, of the punishment they are getting (23:41). Surely they didn’t end up here because they had stolen an apple or taken a few coins from a local businessman. Those were petty crimes, not worthy of Rome’s attention. The local Jewish leaders would deal with those things. No, “criminals” doesn’t quite capture the sort of men these were. The word can be translated as “evil-doer,” or “wrong-doer.” It can also be understood as “trouble-maker, rabble-rouser, insurrectionist.” Or it might be better just to translate it today as “terrorist” (Willimon, Thank God It’s Friday, pg. 19). To end up on a cross required doing something that somehow threatened Rome. No petty criminals ended up on a cross; these men were likely the ISIS or the al-Queda of their day. They had done things that, while meant to restore their nation’s freedom, were unthinkable to most people. They had probably killed Romans and threatened the government. For some folks, it must have been a relief to see them getting what they deserved, even if meant they were being punished with state-sponsored terrorism.

Two criminals. Two terrorists. But what about the man in the middle? Yes, the Jewish officials had accused him of terrorism—they knew that Rome was not interested in his claim to be the Messiah, the savior. Rome’s official policy toward Israel’s religion was “hands off.” As long as it didn’t interfere with the operation of the government, Israel was free to practice its religion as it saw fit. But the Jews were forbidden to carry out a death sentence; they needed Rome’s cooperation to be rid of this man in the middle, this Jesus, once and for all. And so, when they took Jesus, whom they had already condemned themselves, before the Roman governor Pilate, they made this charge against him: “We have found this man subverting our nation. He opposes payment of taxes to Caesar and claims to be Messiah, a king” (23:2). In other words, they style Jesus as a threat to Rome so that Rome will kill him. And when Pilate says he finds no basis for their charge, they tell him, “He stirs up people all over Judea by his teaching. He started in Galilee and has come all the way here” (23:5). And when, again, Pilate finds no fault in him, they give in to irrational chanting, “Crucify him! Crucify him!” Pilate only gives the order so that these religious leaders won’t do what Jesus has been accused of: stir the people up into a rebellion. Jesus is given a death sentence under of a false accusation. Jesus is labeled a terrorist, a criminal, a thief.

So how many thieves were on the cross that day? Two, we say. But there were three, and it’s the third thief that you really have to watch out for. That third thief came to a young woman in Nazareth and disrupted her wedding plans, her life plans, her very life. She willingly gave her life over to his care, but it was not the picture perfect plan she had dreamed of. She and her husband Joseph were immediately thrown into a world of suspicion, side glances, rumors and coffee-shop talk when they agreed to be the earthly parents of God in the flesh. Then that third thief grew up and he stole away the turmoil and struggle that every person who was possessed by a demon knew so well. He found a man in the synagogue who had an impure spirit, and he commanded the demon to leave. He crossed the Sea of Galilee to find a man possessed by a legion of demons, and he threw them into the nearby pigs. Wherever he went, healing followed. He stole leprosy away. He removed paralysis from limbs. He brought a synagogue leader’s daughter, a widow’s son and one of his best friends back to life. He restored dignity to women and to children, welcoming those whom society ignored. And he challenged and stole away the honor that religious leaders thought they were entitled to. This third thief—you’ve got to watch out for him.

From twelve men, a mixture of fishermen, rebels and a few we know very little about, the man in the middle stole their devotion. Whatever else they might have centered their lives on before, once they came to know him, life was never the same. At one point in their time together, all sorts of people were disillusioned with what Jesus was teaching and preaching. And he turns to these twelve, men he called “disciples,” and he asks, “You do not want to leave too, do you?” And Peter, who usually speaks for the twelve, says, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life” (John 6:67-68). To whom shall we go? Jesus has wrecked their lives; he has stolen their simple view of the world and replaced it with a much grander and bigger vision, a calling to the kingdom of God. Even if they wanted to leave, they couldn’t because they know he is the Savior. He’s the one they have been waiting for. He is the truth. And they will stake their lives on that truth. Ten of them will die as martyrs because of their faith. One will be exiled to an island called Patmos. And one will betray him, hoping Jesus will be the kind of Messiah he wants Jesus to be. And all because of this thief. You’ve got to watch out for the third thief.

This thief also stole the way society was supposed to work. You see, there were the “religious and good” people and there were the “sinners.” But this man dared to allow a prostitute to touch him. He invited himself to dinner at a tax collector’s house and even included another tax collector to be among his disciples. He stole the stigma that rested on those whom “polite society” hated, and he even dared to challenge the preconceived notions that “good” people had about “bad” people. He welcomed sinners and ate with them; there was no more intimate act among friends than sharing a table together. Even beyond that, he didn’t wait for people to believe in him or to join his group before he reached out to them, provided what they needed. He fed 5,000 and more people whether they believed in him or not. Then he fed 4,000. And the worst crime was to come, because while he was hanging on the cross, he promised “paradise” to a terrorist. The conversation that happens among the crosses is nothing short of amazing. While people down below are insulting and cursing Jesus, one of the crucified men thinks it would be fun to join in. He uses what little breath he has to taunt Jesus: “Aren’t you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” (23:39). And that’s probably the nicest thing he said to Jesus; Luke undoubtedly left out most of the insults he hurled Jesus’ way. But the other man, the one on the other side, speaks up, defends Jesus, and then makes a request: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom” (23:42). He doesn’t pray the sinner’s prayer. He doesn’t recite the Apostle’s Creed. He doesn’t know any of the doctrines of the faith as far as we can tell. But he asks to be “remembered.” In those days that word meant “help me and deliver me” (cf. Hamilton 43). But unlike the first thief, this man doesn’t spend his time hoping he’s going to get off the cross. Rather, he asks Jesus to remember him in the coming kingdom.

And Jesus steals his hopelessness away with one short sentence: “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise” (23:43). With that one sentence, we can see why this third thief, the man in the middle, is perhaps the most dangerous. You've got to watch out for that man, for that third thief. He will steal away the things we think we need, the things we believe are who we are, the things we tend to hang onto the most tightly, and replace them with himself. He will give paradise to people who we think are undeserving and he will welcome the most unlikely. His heart is aimed at the least, the last and the lost. You’ve got to watch out for that third thief. He’s dangerous.

He will steal our hearts away if we’re not careful. He’s there on the cross so that he can steal away our sin, so he can save us from ourselves. He’s there on the cross so that we will have no reason to condemn others, because he came to replace our spirit of condemnation with the act of forgiveness. He’s there on the cross to steal our hopes, our dreams and replace them with his own much larger dreams and hopes for our lives. In fact, he’s there on the cross to steal our very life and replace it with his own. He is there, dying for us, so that we can live for him. In response to the first thief, he doesn’t save himself so that he can save us. You’ve got to watch out for that third thief; he’s the one who came to steal every heart away (cf. Michael Card, “Why”). On this darkest of days, we can give thanks and we can call it “Good” Friday because the man in the middle was a thief who promises paradise to a terrorist. That’s the kind of man the third thief is. That’s what he came to do. Thanks be to God!

Chasing Home

John 10:1-10; 1 Corinthians 11:23-26

April 2, 2015 (Maundy Thursday) • Portage First UMC

It was probably as close to home as they could make it, this rented upper room. Passover was typically a meal you celebrated with your family, in your home, though everyone dreamed of celebrating it in Jerusalem at least once. These thirteen men, along with other close friends, were as much family as anyone ever was. They had spent the last three years together—traveling, teaching, sharing life—and the twelve had witnessed things they could only have dreamed of in those three years. But tonight was not a time for miracles. It was a time for good food, good friends, good conversation, and remembering who they were as a people. It was a time to celebrate home and family and life.

The food was beyond good; those who had prepared it had outdone themselves this time. The liturgy was just as they remembered it, and even though Jesus was, as always, acting as the host, there didn’t seem to be the joy in his face that normally was there on this special evening. He was saying the words, but there was a deep sadness in his eyes that none of the disciples could quite understand. As the meal was being served, Matthew pointed it out, calling across the table, “Master, what’s wrong? You don’t seem like you’re quite here with us. You seem like your mind and heart are somewhere else. Is there something wrong?” Jesus turned and looked at him, then turned back to look at all of them. After several moments of uncomfortable silence, Jesus said, “Very truly I tell you, one of you is going to betray me” (John 13:21). And that pretty much put a damper on the entire evening. One of them? A betrayer? There had never been a closer group of men in all of history (or, at least, that’s what they told themselves). How could one of them be a betrayer and the rest not realize it?

As they sat in stunned silence, each of them began looking around the room at the others, searching each face for some sign of betrayal. But they all seemed confused and even hurt at Jesus’ words. One of the disciples who was often the quietest, Thaddeus, began to think back over all that had happened in the last three years. Was there some clue? Was there some hint? Had he done something that made Jesus think he would betray the Master? And as he thought back, his mind took him to a particular discussion Jesus had with the Pharisees. They had been talking about spiritual blindness, about who could really “see” and who could not. Jesus had told them that they were guilty of sin because they claimed to see what God was up to but really weren’t able to. That hadn’t set well with the Pharisees (John 9:41), and they liked even less what he said next.

That was when Jesus used all those images of sheep and shepherding to describe what he was up to. He had described himself as a shepherd but on that same day he had also described himself as a gate or a door for the sheep. For most of the people in the crowd that day, it hadn’t taken much work to decipher Jesus’ code. They knew what shepherds did, even if they didn’t like them very much. Shepherds roamed the countryside, tending the flock that had been entrusted to their care. At night, when they were close to home, several flocks of sheep were often put into a permanent pen, and in the mornings, the shepherd only had to call out to his sheep and they would follow him out of the pen. They knew the voice of their shepherd; they knew the call of their shepherd. If a stranger tried to imitate the voice of their shepherd, the sheep knew it and they would scatter (cf. Tenney, “The Gospel of John,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 9, pg. 108). But a lot of the time, shepherds were out in the wilderness, far from home, and the permanent pen was not available. So all over the countryside you would find temporary sheepfolds, places shepherds could use to keep their flock contained at night and protect them from thieves, bandits and predators. If a temporary sheepfold wasn’t available in whatever location the shepherd found himself, they would use one of the many caves that dotted the hilly landscape of the Judean desert. Either way, the goal was to provide a protective wall around the sheep so that they would not be harmed.

When nightfall came, the shepherd would lead the flock to the place of safety and he would stand at the entryway of the sheepfold. As each sheep passed by, he would inspect the sheep, looking for scratches or wounds they might have picked up. If they had been hurt, the shepherd would apply oil to help with the healing; if they were thirsty, he would give them a drink. All of the sheep would be individually attended to, accounted for, and allowed to rest inside the sheepfold. And then the shepherd would lay down in the entryway so that no man or beast would be able to get into the protected area without the shepherd knowing it. He would lay down in the entryway and literally become a living gate or door for the sheepfold (cf. Tenner 108; Card, John: The Gospel of Wisdom, pg. 126; Wright, John for Everyone, Part One, pg. 150). That was the image that came to Thaddeus’ mind this night, the time when Jesus said, “I am the gate for the sheep” (10:7).

Thaddeus chuckled to himself when he remembered the look on the faces of the Pharisees as they realized Jesus was comparing them to “thieves and robbers.” Jesus sure covered the whole gamut there; thieves were those who would steal things by tricking people while robbers were those who used violence to take what they wanted (Tenney 107). Pharisees, apparently (at least according to Jesus), were both, could do both, depending on the situation. They hadn’t liked that too much, especially when Jesus said the people weren’t really listening to them or following them. Then Jesus had said it again: “I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved…The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy” (10:9-10). Thaddeus was surprised that the Pharisees hadn’t picked up stones to throw at Jesus right then and there!

But, now, in the stillness of this Passover meal, he began to think about Jesus as the gate. Jesus had made it clear that it was his decision as to who comes in and goes out, and while that might sound cold and callous, it had become obvious over the last three years that Jesus wanted everyone to come in. He wanted everyone to be part of his flock. What he didn’t want to happen was for those who wanted to harm his sheep to be able to get in. That’s why he was the door, the gate, in part to protect the sheep. It was his role, after all, as shepherd to put aside his own wants, needs and desires and to make the sheep his top priority. And Thaddeus had never doubted that Jesus did just that. Those he called were his top priority. Even when he had to be dead tired, Jesus always took time for people. Jesus always was interested in caring for people. Every interruption he took in stride, even when the disciples wanted to shoo the people away. Jesus welcomed everyone and gave them the attention and time they needed—offering healing if it was needed, tending to wounds, and offering himself as the living water for the thirsty (John 4:14; 7:37). Jesus cared for people the same way a shepherd tended his sheep.

Thaddeus found himself nodding as he also realized the way Jesus’ statement that day had told them he is the legitimate savior. He is the one God had promised so long ago (cf. Tenney 108). For centuries the prophets had promised that God was going to send someone to save the people, and for centuries after the last prophet had spoken, their words had been read and read and studied and read some more. Every generation hoped they might be the one who would see the coming of the Messiah, and when Jesus came along—well, there was just something within Thaddeus and the other disciples that sensed he could be the one. Thaddeus thought about that night when Jesus had taken them on a camping trip way up north, to that awful pagan place known as Caesarea Philippi, and how Jesus had put them on the spot when he asked who they thought he was. Thaddeus wasn’t brave enough to answer that night, but Peter was. Peter always was. “You are the Messiah,” Peter had said, really speaking for all of them, “the Son of the living God” (Matthew 16:16). Everything had changed that night. The “secret” was out there. He was the true savior, the true shepherd. He didn’t come like a thief, breaking in or vaulting over the wall. He was, in fact, the gate, the one who protected the sheep, kept the sheep safe, saved them. He was their savior. And now, tonight, Jesus says one of those who was there that night, one who has traveled with them since the beginning, is a betrayer. How could that be? How could the betrayer not see that Jesus is the savior God promised?

Then Thaddeus remembered one other thing Jesus had said when he told them he was the gate. He had said something that sounded rather strange at the time, but had made perfect sense later. Jesus had said, “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full” (10:10). Thaddeus had an uncle who was a shepherd, and one time he asked him about the life of a sheep. His uncle had told him that for sheep to flourish, they had to be able to find rest, and for them to be able to rest, there were certain conditions that had to be fulfilled. Sheep have to be free from fear, free from friction with others in the flock, free from parasites and pests, and free from hunger (Fuquay, The God We Can Know, pg. 62). Thaddeus chuckled to himself again as he realized that list was pretty much the same whether you were talking about sheep or people. A life free of fear would be a full life. It’s hard to imagine a life where there isn’t something to be afraid of, but perhaps it’s possible to live in less fear if we know Jesus is the gate, protecting his sheep. A life free of friction with others would be a life to the full, and that’s hard to imagine too. A world in which conflicts were settled before sundown (cf. Ephesians 4:26)—is such a thing possible? Well, not without effort and work on everyone’s part. The sheep had to learn to get along in order to find rest and have life to the full. And then to be free of parasites and pests, or for humans, letting go of the little things that bug us, that we get hung up on. Thaddeus thought of all the things he tended to get worked up over. Jesus had shown him over the last three years that most of those things weren’t worth the energy he spent on them. They were like parasites, sapping his strength, strength that he could better use to live life to the full and help Jesus in his ministry. And free from hunger—well, that is a truly human trait, isn’t it? After all, that’s part of why they’ve gathered in this upper room, not only to remember but also to share a meal together, to satisfy their hunger, both spiritual and physical.

The meal was over, but it was the conversation that brought Thaddeus back to what was happening around the table. He wondered how long he hadn’t been paying attention, but he did a quick table count and realized one of their number was missing. Judas—Judas was gone. Oh, well, he must have gone to make the traditional contribution to the offering for the poor. He was their treasurer, after all. He couldn’t be the traitor (13:29). It must be someone else, someone still at the table, someone who hadn’t yet allowed Jesus to be the gate of their sheepfold.

Thaddeus then watched as Jesus stood up, took a loaf of bread that was on the table, and broke it in two. He passed the loaf to those at the table, telling them to take a piece and eat it. What was that he said? “This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me” (1 Corinthians 11:24). Well, that was strange. That wasn’t the normal thing one said at this point in the evening. In fact, normally no more food was eaten after the lamb had been consumed. Jesus was, it seems, downplaying the significance of the Passover lamb and telling them something else was going on here. The bread, he said, was his body. What could he mean by that? And then, as if that weren’t enough, Jesus poured the third cup of wine for the evening, the cup of blessing, and passed it among the disciples as well, telling them, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me” (11:25). That cup had always represented the blood of the lamb that had been slain, the lamb that represented their salvation (Rosen, Christ in the Passover, pgs. 58-59). Now Jesus is saying this cup refers to him? How is that possible? Is he saying that he came to do more than save them from the Romans? Did he come to give them a better salvation, to be their gate, to be their home?

Thaddeus stared into the cup for a moment before he drank. He stared at his reflection there in the wine. And in that moment, he realized why he knew, deep in his soul, that Jesus was exactly whom he had been looking for. All of his life, he had been like a lost little sheep, full of fear, surrounded by friction, bitten by parasites and desperately hungry. But when Jesus came and called him to follow, he found those needs beginning to be met. Over the last three years, he realized, he had been chasing home, trying to find a place where he belonged and a place where he felt safe and secure, even saved. As he looked into that cup this night, he realized his chase after home  and a place to belong was over. He had found a home, and his name was Jesus. Jesus was where he belonged. Jesus was the one who brought him everything he had ever been looking for. As he drank from the cup, Thaddeus prayed that, whatever Jesus was up to on this night, he would be able to invite others to share the home he had found in Jesus. Jesus is the gate, and he welcomes us in. Of that, Thaddeus was absolutely sure.