Cry Out!

Cry Out!

1 Kings 8:28

May 7, 2015 • Portage National Day of Prayer

“Yet give attention to your servant’s prayer and his plea for mercy, Lord my God. Hear the cry and the prayer that your servant is praying in your presence this day.” (Solomon)

I’ve prayed for a lot of things in my life—some important things and many trivial things—but that particular day I remember praying like I don’t think I had ever prayed before—and maybe since! I was at a turning point, though I don’t think I really knew it at that moment. All I knew is that I was sick. Two weeks post-surgery and I could barely move. What I didn’t know at the time is that the medicine I was being given to help with the pain was actually making me sicker. I was allergic to it, but all I knew at that moment is that I felt worse than I ever remembered feeling. As I lay on the couch, I prayed a prayer that can only be described as crying out to God. “Either help me feel better and heal me,” I said, “or just get it over with and take me home. I can’t go on like this.” It was a “cry out” moment, a turning point, one I will never forget.

Have you ever had a moment like that, a “cry out” moment? We find such a moment in our Scripture reading today. We only read one verse of it, but that verse is part of Solomon’s prayer at the dedication of the Temple. Thought the people didn’t know it yet, this was a significant moment for the people of Israel. Significant not in the sense of dedicating a house of worship, though that was the main reason they had gathered to celebrate. But the real significance of the moment comes from taking a longer view and realizing what a huge turning point Israel is at in this moment. David, their great king, the man after God’s own heart, had longed to build a house of worship for God, but God had not allowed him to do so. That job would belong to his son, his heir, Solomon. And when the Temple is done, Solomon dedicates it with a service of worship and prayer. Over and over again in this prayer he asks God to watch over the people and to come to their aid when they are in trouble, when they are at war, when they sin, when they are broken. “Hear the cry and the prayer your servant is praying in your presence this day,” he prays.

In the years to come, Solomon will find himself drifting away from the God he calls on this day, and eventually the kingdom he built will be torn in two. Solomon forgets to come back to this place, this day of prayer, to this “cry out” moment, and we are left to wonder what might have happened if he had heeded the words of his own prayer. Or perhaps we don’t have to wonder all that much. Our time and our land seems to resemble much of what Israel faced in the days surrounding and following this prayer of Solomon’s. There are enemies around us, and we are continually at war. We sin against God and we sin against each other. On top of that, 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? Do we recognize the sickness that surrounds us and will we cry out to our loving God, the one who wants to restore and redeem and save?

Because it will take God’s people consistently and constantly crying out to bring renewal and revival to our land, and doing that together, across all the barriers we build and lines we attempt to draw. So let me ask: what are the things you pray for? We most often pray for health and healing, things to go well in our lives—but do we pray for renewal, revival, for justice and righteousness in our city and in our land? There is the story told of a young man who wanted to grow closer to God, but every time he tried to move in that direction there would be other things to do, other interests to pursue. One day, he learned of a monk who lived in a distant location whom, he was told, knew the secret of drawing close to God. So the young man made up his mind; he would make the long journey to find out what the monk knew. Off he went, traveling for many days, and when he finally arrived at the monk’s home, he was exhausted. But he pressed on, knocked on the door and told the monk what he wanted. “I want to know God,” he said. And the monk, without saying anything, left the house and began walking down a wooded path. The young man followed, not really knowing what else to do. When the monk sat down by a stream, the young man followed suit. Then, suddenly, the monk grabbed the young man by the head and forced his head under the water, holding it there with a surprisingly strong grasp. The young man struggled, but he was no match for the monk’s strength, and just as he thought he was a goner, the monk pulled him up out of the water. And as he sat there gasping, the monk spoke for the first time. “You must want God as much as you just wanted air. When you are that desperate for him, then you will truly find him.”

Do we want God that desperately? We pray for revival, for renewal, but do we “cry out” for it? Do we have that same sort of desperation as the young man who wanted air? I confess that I often don’t. It’s far too easy to just “play church” rather than desperately, deeply desiring the presence of God. I want to know God as much as or more than I wanted relief from the pain in my post-surgery days. God answered my prayer that day through the care of a doctor friend of mine, who found the answer everyone else had been looking for. The pain and discomfort went away and healing came. Which also reminds me that, when we cry out to God, when we desperately ask for revival and renewal, we better be ready to be used, to work and even to work alongside other Christians to see it come about. I needed my friend to come alongside to help me find the solution; in praying for revival, it might even be (dare I say it will be?) that God will join different denominations, different theological perspectives, different ways of doing things together to seek his kingdom because he knows—much better than we do—that what brings us together is stronger and more important than the things we allow to keep us apart. God doesn’t care about the label on our buildings; God waits for us to cry out to him and to live a life that is desperate for his presence. We will either stand together or we will fall apart.

Together, we join on this day and in this place, and we pray with Solomon from millennia ago: “Lord, Father, God, hear the cry and the prayer that your servants are praying in your presence this day.” And may the prayers we pray together be only the beginning. May God bring us together to seek first not our own glory but his kingdom. Amen.

One Body

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1 Corinthians 13:4-8; John 13:34-35

May 3, 2015 • Portage First UMC

He had fallen hopelessly in love with her. He didn't want to, but he couldn’t help it. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he took every opportunity he could to be around her. He knew he shouldn’t, but as with people who have too much time and too much money, he often found himself checking her Facebook page and her Twitter account, trying to find out where she would be next so he could “just happen” to end up there. They talked often, and yet she had no idea of the desire, the lust that burned in his heart.

It got to the point where she was all he could think about. He would get up in the morning worn out because she had filled his dreams. And people began to notice. “Why do you look so beat up this morning?” his best friend asked one morning as they sat at Starbucks. Usually he just shrugged off such comments, but for some reason, he felt he could no longer keep quiet about his situation. He looked at his friend across his cup of coffee. “You know my half-sister Tammy?” His friend nodded. “I think I’ve fallen in love with her. She’s all I can think about.” His friend was silent for a long time, and finally raised his eyes to look back. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

Do about it? He couldn’t do anything about it! That was the problem. “What do you mean you can’t do anything about it?” his friend asked. “She’s only your half-sister. You’ve got money and power; you can do anything you like. Tell you what, here’s what you do…” And then he detailed a plan that, oddly, just might work.

The next morning, when he woke up, he called Tammy on the phone. “Tammy?” he said. “It’s me. I’m feeling really sick this morning. I don’t know if it’s something I ate or if I caught a bug, but I wondered, if you’re not doing anything, could come over and make me some of that bread you make. You know, the kind I really like?” Tammy, unsuspecting as always, agreed. She let herself into his apartment, and began working in the kitchen, making the bread. As it baked, he could smell the aroma filling the rooms. And when it was done, she called for him to come get some. “No,” he called back, “I’m too weak. Can you bring it back here to my bedroom?” So Tammy did.

The next thing she knew, he had grabbed her and forced himself on her. Before she knew it, her half-brother had raped her. It was over quickly, but not quickly enough. And as she turned toward him, she saw that his face had changed. She hardly recognized him; his face was filled with disgust. “Get up and get out,” he said through clenched teeth. What? No! You can’t do this, she told her half-brother. He picked up his phone and dialed his landlord. “Yeah, it’s me. There’s a woman in my apartment. Come up here and get her out of my sight.” At that point, Tammy fled and found her full brother, Abner. She told him what had happened, and that was all Abner needed to hear. He plotted and planned. He tracked their half-brother’s movements. And when everything was set, he had a mob turn on his half-brother and beat him to death. And that was the end of the story, or so they all thought.

Quite a story, right? Sounds like a modern-day soap opera, maybe something from Revenge, or Scandal, or Secrets and Lies. But this true story doesn’t come from any of those evening television programs; it comes from the Bible. Some of you may recognize it as the story of Amnon, Tamar and Absalom, three of King David’s children who created quite a mess in 2 Samuel 13. It’s a story that never should have happened, but did happen because of one man who had a twisted idea of love and another man who had no concept of the power of forgiveness. The author of 2 Samuel tells us that this whole thing spiraled out of control because their father, David, never once stepped in or corrected any of his children. David, we’re told, was “furious,” but that’s as far as it went. So Amnon’s lust went wild. Asalom's hatred turned into brutal revenge. And a family, a tribe that failed to love and forgive found that all that was left was a whole lot of brokenness (cf. 2 Samuel 13:1-39).

Today, we dive into the heart of this series we’re calling “A More Excellent Way,” as we look at the most famous part of Paul’s writing in 1 Corinthians 13. We’ve talked the last couple of weeks about how Corinth, the church, was a mess. Fighting amongst themselves, sexual immorality “of a kind even pagans do not tolerate” (12:1), and arguing over leadership. So Paul has reminded them of how important each and every one of them are, none one above the other but together equally. And then he has promised to show them a “more excellent way” of life—the way of love. In these verses, 4-8, of 1 Corinthians 13, Paul lays out one of the most beautiful and perhaps the most descriptive celebrations of love that can be found anywhere. These words have such wide application, in fact, that we’re going to take three weeks to look at them. In a couple of weeks, we’ll look at ways we love others in the wider world (especially in the world of politics). Next week, we’ll focus on love within the family, but this morning we’re going to focus on love within the church. What does it mean to love one another with this kind of love in the body of Christ?

First of all, as Pastor Deb mentioned last week, we need to be clear on what kind of love Paul is talking about here. The English language is pretty bland when it comes to love. We basically have one word—love—that covers a wide range of emotions, feelings and behaviors. We use the same word to describe our feelings toward a hamburger that we use to describe our relationship with our spouse. I LOVE this hamburger, and I LOVE my spouse. The Greek language, which the New Testament was written in, had no such limitations. The Greeks were quite precise when it came to describing love. I’ve shared with you before that Greek basically has four words which we translate as “love.” Filios describes love between close friends, brotherly or sisterly love; we hear that word in the name of the city “Philadelphia,” the “city of brotherly love.” It’s “emotional love.” Stergos is the love between parents and children; it’s that love that you have for your child even before they are born, and it’s a love that binds families together. Oddly, it’s also used in ancient times to describe the love between a dog and his owner. Draw your own conclusions from that one! Then there’s eros, in which you can hear our word “erotic.” It describes sexual love, passionate love between a husband and a wife, a love that is not just based in sex but based in a covenant commitment.

Paul uses none of those words here, which is also why I say he didn’t intend this passage to be read primarily at weddings. He’s not first and foremost describing an emotion we can summon up. Instead, Paul consistently uses the word agape. Originally, this word was used to describe someone who was generously favored by a god, and in Christian usage it came to represent the kind of love God has for us. No strings attached. Not something we can earn. Unconditional, based in a relationship with God, but it’s also something we are called to show to each other. It’s not “I love you if…” It’s “I love you because you are.” That’s the word Paul uses here: agape. That’s the kind of love he calls these Corinthians to, these Christians who are struggling to live in a Christian way. The “more excellent way” of living is a life characterized by agape. And it doesn’t take much thinking to realize that agape is rooted in the love of God for us because it has to be. There is no other love like the love God has for us. It’s a way of life we cannot live on our own, a way of living we cannot hope to carry out without God’s Spirit living within us. The way to agape can only be found when we allow the Spirit of God to help us (cf. Chafin, Communicator’s Commentary: 1, 2 Corinthians, pg. 163).

Now, over the next three weeks, as we work through various applications of Paul’s words here, we’re going to focus on a verse of two in the midst of this description of love. That’s not to say the other verses don’t also apply in that situation; it’s more because of the time we have. I want us to narrow our focus here and then invite you to consider throughout the week how the other verses might also apply in that situation. So this morning, now for the next few moments, let’s zero in on one verse that seems to be something that not only the Corinthians struggled with, but that we do, too. Paul says in verse 6, “Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.”

Literally, Paul says that love “does not greet falsehood but greets truth.” Now, “greet” could also be translated as “welcome” or “rejoice,” but the idea here is pretty clear: if you love someone, you don’t have anything to do with any falsehood that might spring up about them. William Barclay, a well-known Biblical scholar from a generation or so ago, said it this way: “It might be better to translate this that love finds no pleasure in anything that is wrong. It is not so much delight in doing the wrong thing that is meant, as the malicious pleasure which comes to most of us when we hear something derogatory about someone else” (Barclay, The Letters to the Corinthians, Revised Edition, pg. 122). In other words, Paul isn’t talking about enjoying doing evil; he’s talking about the ways we react to others when evil is done to or spoken about them. Or maybe, even more to the point, is this: it’s about how we react and what we do and say when falsehood—or evil—is spoken about or done to us.

So the question we have to ask is this: what drives our conversations and our interactions with others, especially other members of the body of Christ (cf. Green, To Corinth With Love, pgs. 65-66)? Are we driven by love, or something else? Do we rejoice in evil, in falsehood? Or do we rejoice in the truth? Perhaps one of the problems we have today is the presence and pervasiveness of social media—Facebook, Twitter and the like. It’s so much easier for falsehood or accusations or even just assumptions to spread. Sometimes it’s hard to tell truth from falsehood when information is spreading so quickly. Who really knows the truth behind what happened this week in Baltimore? Everyone assumes they know, but it was fascinating to me to see people on both sides of the issue pulling out Martin Luther King, Jr. quotes to defend their position. From one who thought the rioters were justified in doing what they did, I saw this quote posted: “These intolerable conditions are the things that cause individuals to feel that they have no other alternative than to engage in violent rebellions to get attention. And I must say tonight that a riot is the language of the unheard.” Others, wondering how violence heals violence, responded with this quote from King: “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.” As Christians, it’s vital to fall back not just on quotations from other Christians, but on the actions and words of Jesus (cf. Wright, Paul for Everyone: 1 Corinthians, pg. 171). He is our model, not anyone else. And we know how Jesus responded to hate, to falsehood. Jesus was accused of a crime he did not commit, and he was executed under a false charge of sedition and rebellion against Rome. Even the Roman governor, Pilate, knew the charge was false, and yet he felt his political hands were tied, so he ordered the execution. And Jesus, who had never hurt anyone, who had never sinned against anyone, was nailed to a Roman cross, killed in an evil way under a false charge. And how did Jesus respond? With only a few simple words: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:34). Jesus, just hours before, had told his disciples, “As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know you are my disciples, if you love one another” (John 13:34-35). And then he lived that sort of love out even in the face of the greatest evil in history.

We deal in smaller falsehoods, smaller evils than being criminally accused and nailed to a cross, and yet we very often find it difficult to live that kind of love and forgiveness out in our daily lives, don’t we? It’s so much easier to delight in the evil, to greet the evil, than it is to rejoice with the truth. And, truth be told, it’s more fun, too, isn’t it? In the church, we tend to share those things as “prayer requests,” so that it appears we have only the best interests of the other person in mind, when really that is only a cloaked version of the water cooler talk that happens at work. You know, don’t you, that so-and-so got that promotion but they don’t really deserve it. You know, don’t you, that the other person got put on a committee and I didn’t because the pastors like them better. I can’t believe they let so-and-so lead worship; have you heard what their personal life is like? Little by little, we find it’s easier to delight in evil rather than to rejoice in the truth. Or we find ourselves building walls around our little part of the body of Christ rather than risking reaching across barriers to (a) find out the truth and (b) secure the unity of the body. We are, Paul says, one body, united through Christ, and we need to act like it. We need to live like it. Love does not delight in evil (or falsehoods) about our brothers and sisters in Christ, but rejoices in the truth.

The loving people Paul is describing here, then, are those who are “happy when the truth is known and acted upon and they have no desire to veil the truth, cover it up, or edit it…Rather than being glad about the bad, those who love have a way of excusing the faults of others” (Chafin 164). It’s not a matter of ignoring the faults of others; it’s recognizing that we all have faults, we all have sin, and no one sin is worse than any other. Paul is calling us to a place where we live in a state of forgiveness toward those who are in the body of Christ, leaving the judgment up to God and extending grace to others. The church, of all places in our world today, ought to be a place of forgiveness, mercy and grace. And yet, instead, we’re known as a place of judgment, of condemnation, of hypocrisy, and, to steal a word from Philip Yancey, of un-grace.

But, pastor, I hear people say, if I forgive their wrong, won’t that be the same as condoning what they did? Won’t I be “letting them off the hook”? Isn’t grace just an excuse for people to do whatever they want and get away with it? If you heard Pastor Deb last week, you might remember she said that grace doesn’t ignore the consequences of what has gone wrong. Rather, forgiveness seeks ways to mend, to build the relationship and it allows God to be the one who judges. Forgiveness isn’t saying the bad thing or the evil or the falsehood didn’t happen, or that it doesn’t matter. It’s saying it will no longer have control over us. Forgiveness isn’t “letting the other person off the hook;” it’s saying, “I’m no longer going to be defined by whatever happened.” The presence of forgiveness changes hearts and lives; the lack of it, such as in the story of David’s children, destroys lives. Forgiveness leads to genuine love and love heals. That’s what love does; love offers and lives in forgiveness.

Donald Miller tells of attending a university in Oregon that was not exactly friendly to people of faith. In fact, one of this university’s big events every year was a festival notorious for drunkenness and all of the sensual pleasures you can think of. In the midst of that festival, Miller and some friends set up a confessional booth, but the booth was not an invitation for people to come and confess the sins they had committed or were going to commit at the festival. Instead, Miller and others used the booth to confess the sins of the Christian church and their own failure to live out the teachings of Jesus. As people wandered by, some stopping in, Miller would say things like, “Jesus said to feed the poor and to heal the sick. I have never done very much about that. Jesus said to love those who persecute me. I tend to lash out, especially if I feel threatened, you know, if my ego gets threatened. Jesus did not mix his spirituality with politics. I grew up doing that. It got in the way of the central message of Christ. I know that was wrong, and I know a lot of people will not listen to the words of Christ because people like me, who know him, carry our own agendas into the conversation rather than just relaying the message Christ wanted to get across” (qtd. in Yancy, Vanishing Grace, chapter two, iBooks edition). And what was the response of the people who came by? Many people gave Miller and his friends hugs. People were gracious and generous. And maybe, just maybe, a few hearts were changed because they heard people who were focused on the truth, who were rejoicing in the truth rather than delighting in evil. Perhaps they knew in that moment they were loved, because love offers and lives in forgiveness.

And that’s why this table is a supreme example and reminder of love. When we come to this table, we remember that, on the same night Jesus gave his disciples that “new command” to love each other (John 13:34), he also gave them two symbols to help them remember that call to love the way he loved. The bread—his body. The cup—his blood. His body and his blood given as the supreme act of love and forgiveness and mercy and grace so that we, the members of his body, could rejoice in the truth with one another and with our world. So that we could be people of the truth and people of grace, just as he was (cf. John 1:14). How will you, in response to Jesus’ love, live out a life of forgiveness? How will you follow Jesus’ example (and Paul’s instruction) to not delight in evil but rejoice in the truth? What one step will you take, as you receive the bread and the cup this morning and move out in to the world, to make this body of Christ and this world a place where truth is welcomed and celebrated? Will you leave this morning the same as you came in, or will you allow this bread and this cup, this sacrament of love, to change you, make you different—more forgiving, like Jesus—today?

The Mess We're In

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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!