Where's Your Victory?

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

John 20:19-23; 1 Corinthians 15:51-58

March 31, 2013 (Easter) • Portage First UMC

VIDEO INTRO

And then there were six...and by tonight, there will be only four and they will be headed to Atlanta. I’m speaking, of course, of the annual religious celebration we know as March Madness. Today, Louisville and Duke battle it out in Indianapolis, and Michigan and Florida play each other in Texas, and the winners of those games will join Wichita State and Syracuse at the worship service of basketball known as the Final Four. Several weeks ago, they started with sixty-four teams, sixty-four who are, in many ways, the best of the best in college hoops. All of them started out with hopes (even plans) of victory, but only one will make it to the winner’s circle. Only one will be victorious. And then...what? What happens then? Well, they get to have their names added to the winner’s list, and they get a trophy and probably a celebration, and people remember them...for how long? Seriously, how long? Other than the most dedicated sports fans, who really remembers the victors of March Madness year after year after year? Anyone know who has won the tournament the most (UCLA)? Who won the first tournament in 1939, the only tournament this team has ever won (Oregon)? What was the first year IU won (1940)? And when was the last year Ball State (my alma mater) made it into the Sweet Sixteen (1990)? So, we get all worked up about this game, but really, what difference does victory make? Who remembers it in the end?

Today, we’re here to remember the most significant victory in all of history, because it was a victory snatched out of what seemed to be defeat, and it was a victory that forever changed the course of human history. No matter how the victory of March Madness turns out, whether it’s to your liking or not, it’s unlikely things will change much in the next couple of weeks because of it. But this victory, the victory of Jesus over hell, death and the grave, changed everything and upended much of what we think is true. We gather here this morning, hearing the same story we hear every year at this time: how Jesus went to the cross, was killed by the Romans and the religious leaders, was buried, and then on Sunday morning, rose from the dead. We remember how the women were the first to report it, but it wasn’t long before Jesus was showing up everywhere: in a garden near his tomb, on a road to a town called Emmaus, and that evening, back in the Upper Room where his disciples were hiding out. John is quite clear that’s what they were doing, and he should know, because he was there. They are meeting in terror, fearful that every step they hear outside might be a religious leader, coming to arrest and kill them just like they did Jesus (20:19; Barclay, The Gospel of John, Volume 2, pg. 272). And then, suddenly, without warning, Jesus is just there. He stands among them, just like he used to. And, as if to confirm that it’s really him, he greets them the way he often had: “Peace be with you!” (20:19). But notice, then, how he goes on to confirm his identity. He doesn’t point to his face. He points to his wounds. He shows them his hands and his side, the places where the nails once were, the place where the spear was thrust deep into his body (Card, The Parable of Joy, pg. 242). Despite being raised from the dead and having a resurrection body (one that, it seems, can walk through locked doors and appear and disappear at will), Jesus is still known by his scars. And when they see the scars, they are filled with overwhelming joy (20:20).

As I said, it’s a familiar story. We circle back to it every year at this time. But why? I mean, why do we keep coming back here, to the empty tomb? The reason is really quite simple: this is the story that defines us. This is our story, which makes me wonder: do we come here with overwhelming joy? The disciples only got to that point once they realized the man before them was Jesus, but we know the story. We’ve known the story from the beginning. We knew how it would come out, even before Lent began. So do we gather here with that same joy those first disciples experienced? Let me put it another way: do we get more excited (whether we show it outwardly or not) about the resurrection this morning as we do about the basketball game later today? We should, because this story, more than any other story, is what defines us, is what shapes and molds us. This story, Jesus’ resurrection, tells us four things that should shape us as followers of The Way (cf. Hamilton, The Way, pg. 164).

The first thing the resurrection tells us is that love has conquered hate. The worst the world could do it did to Jesus. He came, he lived, he taught that the most important thing is to love God and love others. He forgave sin, and he called people to live in a new way. The Gospels tell us over and over how he loved people, especially those no one else cared about or gave a second thought to. The least, the last, the lost—the sheep without a shepherd. And for all that, in response to his love, they killed him. They ambushed him in a garden, they put him on trial in a kangaroo court, they convicted him of trumped-up charges, and they managed to get Rome to sentence him to death. But not just any death. Jesus was convicted to die in one of the most painful, brutal, horrific deaths possible. Rome may not have invented crucifixion, but they perfected it. They made sure it was a lingering death, one that lasted several days and was more about suffocation than blood loss. And they did it out in public to show people their power. This was what happened when you defied Rome. And even then, in agony beyond what we can imagine (the word “excruciating” means “out of the cross”), Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:34). To the very end, Jesus would not let hate win. And when he was raised from the dead, the disciples and us were shown again that love always conquers hate. Hate does not and will not have the final word.

There is a lot of hate in our world, and it comes from all directions. In fact, each “side” wants you to believe that the other “side” is hate-mongering. But the reality is that the language we use, on both sides of whatever issue is out there, is full of hate. It seems to be the only way we think we can be heard. This past week, again in a strange collision with Holy Week, the Supreme Court heard two cases: one regarding same-sex marriage in California and the other focused on the Federal Defense of Marriage Act or DOMA. Rulings aren’t expected until June from the high court, but it was fascinating to watch the way people on both sides responded. Much hate. Little love. Regardless of where you stand on these issues, the call of the Christian is to love the other, especially the other who is on the opposite side from you. That’s the example of Jesus. I’m not saying love means we change our standards or just “let anything go.” Our United Methodist Church has a stance on the issue. What I’m talking about is the way we respond to those who believe differently than we do. Love must always conquer hate because that’s The Way Jesus has laid out before us. The same thing is true in our families, in our neighborhoods, in our church. It’s far too easy to draw up battle lines, to slip into thinking of “us” and “them.” We live in a culture that nurtures that kind of thinking to the point where we have well over a million attorneys currently practicing, calling us to constantly challenge the “other.” Hate is rampant, but as Christians, we are people for whom love must be allowed to conquer hate. Jesus is risen—and love wins.

The second thing the resurrection tells us is that grace has conquered sin. “Sin” is not something we talk about much today, especially outside of the church. The word for “sin” in the Bible is hamartia, which has the meaning of “missing the mark” or “straying from the path.” You might think of it like your GPS. I have mine on my phone, and so before a big trip, I program in the beginning and the ending points, and we take off. Siri talks to me as we travel, telling me when I should turn and when to get ready for the next change in direction. And when I turn a way she doesn’t think I should, I get this message (you’ve probably heard it, too): “Recalculating.” That’s computer-speak for, “You dummy, you’re going the wrong way.” A while back, I was out on 20 and I missed the turn because the road has been moved since the maps were made. And Siri said, “Recalculating,” and then she told me to make a U-turn. I’m not sure that was entirely legal at that point, but I did it and was soon back on the right road. That’s kind of what it’s like. Sin is what breaks our relationship with God, and takes us off the path he has for our life. It may look good for a while, but it messes us up and we need to make a U-turn. That’s where grace steps in.

Jesus met a woman one time who thought things were good. She had a boyfriend, and they were often together. There was a problem: he was married, and she was being used by the religious leaders. They came and grabbed her out of her bed, and threw her before Jesus. Her sin had been found out, and they were ready to stone her. They had the law on their side; Moses had said they could kill her for what she had done, for the ways she had strayed off the path. But Jesus let grace conquer sin. “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her” (John 8:7). And no one could. That doesn’t mean Jesus overlooked her sin; in fact, he tells her to leave her life of sin behind her, to make a decided U-turn. But grace conquers sin. Condemning people because of their sin means no one wins, which is why Jesus offers grace and forgiveness.

Paul put it this way: “The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law” (1 Corinthians 15:56). In other words, sin only brings hurt, heartbreak and death—sometimes physical, but more often spiritual and emotional and relational death. Sin does not lead to life. And then Paul goes on: “But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ” (15:57). What Jesus did on the cross, taking our sin upon himself, paying the price for our sin, was validated when he was raised from the dead. “Where, O death, is your victory?” Paul asks. Death lost when Jesus was raised, and his work in offering grace and forgiveness was accomplished. Sin has no victory. Grace does. Let me say just quickly that if you struggle with either experiencing or offering grace and forgiveness, beginning next Sunday, Pastor Deb and I are going to be speaking for the month of April on just that topic: finding forgiveness from God, from your spouse, from friends, and offering it to others. I can’t encourage you enough to join us as we look at the ways grace conquers sin. Jesus is risen—grace wins.

The third thing the resurrection tells us is that hope has conquered despair. You will likely not find people more hopeless than those disciples on Saturday. Just a week earlier, they had thought Jesus was “the one.” He was going to kick out the Romans, take over Jerusalem, and set up his kingdom on earth—and even better than that, they would be his advisors, his closest friends, his Cabinet members. And then came the week of all weeks, and by the end, Jesus was hanging between heaven and earth on a Roman cross. Most of them couldn’t even bear to watch; they ran away. Only John stayed near the cross. Judas hung himself. Thomas, after the burial, couldn’t even bear to be around the rest of them and was off by himself. They gathered back in the Upper Room because, very likely, they didn’t know what else to do. And when Sunday came, most of them didn’t even go out to the cemetery. The women went, not to look for a risen Lord, but to anoint a dead body, to finish the work that had been interrupted on Friday. Even when the women come back and tell the disciples that Jesus’ body is missing, most of them don’t bother to go check. Only Peter and John run to the tomb, and out of the two of them, only John has any sort of hope at that point (John 20:1-10). These are hopeless people. Every hope they had was nailed to the cross. Every hope they held onto expired when the last breath left his body. And even that evening, they still aren’t sure what to believe, until he shows up and wishes them peace. Through locked doors, in the midst of hidden disciples, Jesus is suddenly there and their despair is overwhelmed by joy, by hope.

But one of them wasn’t there that night. Thomas was still off by himself, and he missed seeing Jesus. That’s what happens when you miss church! The rest of them are talking all week about Jesus showing up, Jesus being risen, and Thomas, poor Thomas, just wants proof. “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe” (20:25). How many times that week do you suppose he repeated those words? Because Jesus doesn’t appear to Thomas until the next Sunday. And when Jesus shows up, he invites Thomas to do as he has demanded. Thomas doesn’t. He no longer needs the proof. Instead, he falls down in front of Jesus and proclaims, “My Lord and my God!” (20:28). In an instant, for Thomas and the other disciples, hope has conquered despair.

Kyle Idleman tells the story of Robert Reschar, who says he was very good at keeping secrets, especially when it came to his addiction. He was a nice guy, a churchgoing person, but he couldn’t quit going to what he calls Theater X. He frequented places of pornography, and even though he tried and tried and tried to stop, he would always find his own determination lasting just a few days. Even a few days after his wedding, he found himself driving back to that theater. “I felt like I was beyond help and beyond God’s forgiveness,” he wrote, “so why bother trying?” When he shared his secret with his wife, they tried together to get help, but still the addiction persisted, and one night, Robert says, he came to the bottom. Despair overwhelmed him, and he went into their bathroom, swallowed a fistful of painkillers and sleeping pills, then crawled into bed hoping to just fade away. Instead, he began crying, and his wife woke up. When he told her what he had done, she rushed him to the hospital, where they were able to save his life. He also got connected with a ministry that focused on this kind of addiction, and for the first time, he says, he really began to find hope in Jesus. “There was no way,” he says, “for me to be free from this through self-determination or inner strength. It wasn’t until I finally admitted defeat and began to walk humbly with God each day that I began to experience freedom” (Not a Fan, pgs. 83-84). In the depths of despair, Robert found hope. Maybe you’ve known people like that, too. Some say we can’t really follow Jesus until we come to the end of ourselves, but despair will not have the last word. Jesus is risen—hope wins.

And ultimately, the resurrection tells us that life has conquered death. Paul says Jesus’ resurrection is the “firstfruits” of our own (1 Corinthians 15:20). Basically, he means that Jesus went first, and because he was raised from death, death no longer wins. In the resurrection, God the Father has done for one what he ultimately will do for all who believe (cf. Walker, The Weekend That Changed the World, pg. 182). We may still have to go through death, but for all those who trust in Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord, death is not the final word. We will be raised. The worst thing is never the last thing! And so as bad and awful and horrible as death is, it’s not the end for those who trust in Christ. Life is ahead. In fact, Paul says if there is no resurrection, then our faith is futile. It’s worthless, and we are idiots for believing it (15:12-19). He says if all we have is faith for this life, then we are, of all people, most to be pitied. But, the good news is, life has conquered death. There is life beyond this life. Because Jesus was raised, death has been defeated and life is the victor—beginning right now and right here.

And not just any kind of life. We’re empowered to live the life Jesus has been describing. We’re empowered to walk The Way. All throughout Lent, we’ve been looking at the ministry of Jesus and seeking to understand how he wants us to live. And it’s hard. It’s not an easy life. Love your enemies? Bless the peacemakers? Care for the outcasts, the lost? Die to ourselves? How can we ever live that kind of life? In our Gospel lesson this morning, Jesus tells the disciples how they’re going to do it. He “breathes” on them, John says (20:22). The word that’s used there is the same one that’s used in the Greek translation of the book of Genesis, when God breathes life into Adam and he becomes “a living being” (Genesis 2:7). All throughout his Gospel, John has been emphasizing that what God the Father did at creation, Jesus the Son is “re-doing” in the midst of his people. As the Father gave Adam life, the Son now gives his disciples new life, Spirit-empowered life. That’s what they receive when he breathes on them: the Holy Spirit, the very Spirit of God, the breath of God, the wind of God (20:22). Earlier, Jesus told them that the Spirit would come to help them keep Jesus’ commands (14:15-16). Loving our enemies, caring for the outcast, blessing the peacemakers and all the rest is only possible when we live life the way Jesus intended us to, filled with the Holy Spirit, when we have the very Spirit of God living within us (cf. Wright, John for Everyone, Part Two, pg. 149). It’s because of the Spirit that we can live the way Paul instructs: “Stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain” (15:58). Spirit-empowered life: that’s the kind of life that overcomes death. That’s the kind of life that gives hope even when we stand beside the grave. That’s the kind of life that even enables us to, as John Wesley said, “die well,” knowing that there is more beyond this. The Spirit gives us the strength and the power to face whatever comes. In life, in death, in life beyond death, we know that because Jesus is risen—life wins.

Love wins. Grace wins. Hope wins. And ultimately, life wins. The worst thing is never the last thing. And it was that truth, those promises that caused these disciples, who on that first Easter Sunday were hiding out for fear they would be the next ones on a cross, to go out, to spread out across the known world and proclaim Jesus Christ, crucified and yet risen. Most of them died a martyr’s death; they were killed because of their faith in Jesus. Had it been a hoax, had it been a made-up story, had someone been able to produce evidence that it wasn’t true, we wouldn’t be sitting here today. The movement Jesus started would have died out very quickly, because the Christian faith rises and falls on the truth of the resurrection. Those first disciples were counting on the truth of the resurrection to carry them through, and that begs the question: what are you counting on?

People count on all sorts of things to get them through life. Some trust in their skill—in the next couple of weeks, those college basketball players and coaches will be counting on all of the skill in those players on the floor to be able to win, to achieve victory. Others count on money or sex or power or influence. Some people count on drugs, addictions, or alcohol. Some people count on relationships, and when that goes sour, they’re left without any kind of rudder or anchor. Others count on their good deeds. I’ve known plenty of people in my life who say, “Well, I do good things, I don’t really need Jesus, I think I can do it on my own.” I wonder how you know. When have you done enough “good” to outweigh the times you’re not so good? Because none of us is always “good.” So what’s the equation? Can we ever be “good enough”? What’s the standard? How do you know when the scales are tipped in your favor? You can’t. It’s always a guessing game. That’s why Jesus came, to do for us what we could not do for ourselves, to conquer death and to win for us an eternal home. Because of Jesus, love wins. Because of Jesus, grace is available. Because of Jesus, hope can be our steadfast companion. And because of Jesus, life is offered to all. What are you counting on?

During these last few weeks, we have been virtually visiting sites all over the Holy Land in an effort to see Jesus in his setting. Last summer, in Jerusalem, we were able to visit two sites that both claim to be the location for Calvary and the empty tomb. One, located inside the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, has the weight of tradition behind it, and the other, the Garden Tomb, has some scholarly backers and simply looks more authentic. And good guides will tell you the merits of both. It’s true that being at the Garden Tomb feels and looks more like it would have on that first Easter, but when we went to the Holy Sepulcher, I had an altogether different experience than I’d had before. The church was crowded, and it was difficult to impossible, that late in the day, to get too close to the sacred spots—the top of Calvary, the stone where Jesus was laid, the remnants of the empty tomb and so on. We went into some corners of the church I had not been in previously, but then I wandered out into the great rotunda where what’s left of the traditional tomb is located. Our guide had warned us there would be a long line, likely a two-hour wait or longer, just to get into the tomb for a few seconds. And it was hot; I had no desire to stand in the line, plus I had been inside before. So I took a few pictures, and moved on, and as I did, I couldn’t help but think that it didn’t matter whether or not I went into the so-called “tomb.” Standing in line for two hours or more was not going to change the truth: Jesus is still risen. It doesn’t matter whether the site is the church or the garden; Jesus is still risen. I can count on it. I am counting on it. Jesus is risen, and therefore the worst thing is never the last thing. Love wins; hate loses. Grace wins; sin is defeated. Hope wins; despair is done for. Life wins; death is crushed. Where’s your victory? My victory is found at the door of the empty tomb. Jesus is risen—he is risen indeed!

Where’s your victory? What are you counting on? Have you put all your hope in this crucified and risen savior? If so, then you, like all who trust in him, have to reason to sing this morning: Hallelujah, for the Lord God, the Almighty, reigns! He is risen...he is risen indeed!

Written on Our Hearts

Hebrews 10:16-25

March 29, 2013 (Good Friday) • Portage First UMC

Sometimes it’s hard to see the cross. In the Holy Land today, there are actually two sites claiming to be the location of Calvary. One has the weight of tradition behind it, and the claim that three crosses were found on the site. Today, that site is inside the Old City and is covered by the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, an enormous church built on the foundations of a much older church originally commissioned by Emperor Constantine in the 300’s. It’s gaudy, busy, and crowded, but if you follow the way of the cross, the Via Dolorosa, you first go up a narrow flight of stairs to the supposed top of the Mount Calvary. It’s enclosed now, but you can stand in a long line and reach under the altar to touch the rock itself if you want. And while there’s an altar cross there, it’s really hard to get close to, or even to see very well. And, due to all the decorations, it’s hard to imagine what it must have looked like in the early first century.

The other location is called the Garden Tomb, and it was uncovered and purchased by British archaeologists in the late 1800’s. An empty tomb was discovered that seems to meet the criteria of the Gospel accounts, and not far from the tomb is a hill that, when viewed from the right angle, looks like a skull. Both words the Gospel use for the place, Golgotha and Calvary, mean “skull.” Today, this Skull Hill overlooks a bus station, but the garden itself has been maintained by British groundskeepers, and for many people, the Garden Tomb feels more authentic mainly because it’s not been built over. It feels more natural. But you still can’t see the cross. There’s only a skull-shaped hillside, a winepress, a cistern and an empty tomb (cf. Walker, The Weekend That Changed the World).

We’re used to being able to see the cross. Several years ago, while on a mission work trip, I visited the church of a very famous preacher. If I said his name, you’d recognize him, but I was bothered by the worship space. It looked like a convention center. No cross anywhere. And I was told that, because this preacher was regularly on television, they didn’t want to put up a cross because it might offend someone. Really? Well, I guess that is Biblical. Paul calls the cross a “stumbling block” (cf. 1 Corinthians 1:23). But most of our churches have crosses. In fact, back when I taught confirmation classes, one of the activities I would have them do is go into the sanctuary and count the crosses. They would get most of them, but inevitably they’d miss the crosses on the hymnals. We’re used to being surrounded by the cross, but isn’t it a strange symbol for our faith? No other faith has a tool of torture for its main symbol. We think very little of wearing a cross on a chain around our neck, and yet Nicky Gumbel, in one of the Alpha videos, says that doing that in the first century would have been like wearing an electric chair around your neck today. Originally, the cross was not a symbol in the Christian church; it was forbidden by early church leaders to be pictured in religious art. The cross was not common in such art until the fourth century, when everyone who had ever seen a live crucifixion had died. The cross wasn’t a nice, clean symbol. The cross was an instrument of torture and death. Today is only called “Good” Friday because of what that cross means. We know that if there is no meaning in Jesus’ death on the cross, then this is the very worst Friday of all.

The writer to the Hebrews is struggling with what, exactly, the cross of Jesus means. How did this symbol of torture become a representation of hope and salvation? It has everything to do, he declares, with the reason Jesus went to the cross. He’s spent several chapters reflecting on the old sacrificial system, the offering of animals and grains in order to attain forgiveness. It wasn’t that God needed their animals or their grain. It’s because the people’s sin needed to be dealt with, and it needed to be taken seriously. The people needed to know that sin costs something. When we break our relationship with God, something has to happen to make things right again. Giving what we have, especially the best of what we have, is the way God helped the people learn that there were more important things than what we own. We had to be willing to give our best, to put God first. But, Hebrews says, those sacrifices had to be annual events because “it is impossible for the blood of bulls and goats to take away sins” (10:3-4). They weren’t willing sacrifices. And that’s why Jesus came. He lived, he taught, he showed us the way to live. And then he willingly gave up his life. He took on our sin. He who knew no sin took on our sin in order to make things right for us (cf. 2 Corinthians 5:21). The Son of God gave his life for you and for me. As the modern hymn says it, “On that cross, as Jesus died, the wrath of God was satisfied” (Getty & Townend, “In Christ Alone”).

And he did everything necessary. We know that from the way Hebrews describes it. “When this priest [Jesus] had offered for all time one sacrifice for sins, he sat down at the right hand of God” (10:12). Jesus sat down. Now, we may not think that’s all that significant. I mean, we sit a lot in our culture. Many of us, when we work, we sit. We sit at our desks. We sit in meetings. We sit as we answer the telephone. So what’s the big deal about sitting down? Hebrews is describing the work Jesus did, and in that day, you didn’t sit while you were working. You stood. The high priest stood as he went about his tasks. A common laborer stood as he did his work. You only sat down when you were finished (Wright, Hebrews for Everyone, pg. 110). By using that image, Hebrews is telling us Jesus did everything that needed to be done. His work is complete. His cry from the cross, that “it is finished,” wasn’t just a declaration of his death. It meant he had done everything necessary to give us hope and salvation and life. His work is done. And that means there’s nothing else you or I can do to earn salvation. There is no amount of good works, or kind words or anything you can do to be “good enough” to earn his salvation, to get enough “points” to get into heaven. Jesus has already done everything needed; we don’t have to add anything to it. We only have to accept his gift, his work on our behalf and let him write salvation on our hearts. The writer to the Hebrews recalls Jeremiah when he makes the promise that God’s covenant, God’s law will be written in our hearts and our minds (10:16).

But there is a response called for, though not in the way we usually think. You know how we are—someone gives us something, we feel this need to give back something of equal or greater value. But there is nothing we have that we can really offer Jesus. Instead, we’re called to respond this way: “Draw near to God” (10:22). Draw near to God. And to help us with that, the writer describes four ways we can do that. He says, “Draw near to God with a sincere heart.” Another way to translate that is a “true heart.” We think of the heart as being the seat of emotions, but in this image it’s the center of our being. It’s the place where life is sustained. Transformation, change, salvation begins in the heart and then is “pumped out” to the rest of our being. An “untrue” heart is someone who acts one way in church and another way when they’re around others. When we have a true heart, we become who we were meant to be, authentic in God’s sight and in everyone else’s. We all, likely, have times when our heart is less than true, and that’s why we need to invite Jesus to take up residence there. When he lives there, he’s busy cleaning it out, making our hearts more true each day, drawing us nearer to his Father.

“Draw near to God with a sincere heart and with the full assurance that faith brings” (10:22). “Assurance” is a huge thing for we Methodists. Our founder, John Wesley, searched hard for that. He knew he was doing all the right things, but still he felt like he didn’t have any faith at all. And it wasn’t anything he did that finally gave him assurance. It was during a time of worship when he cracked the door of his heart open just enough for the Holy Spirit to get in. In that moment, he famously felt his heart “strangely warmed.” He spent the rest of his life preaching that you could have assurance that you believe, that you have faith. It’s not something we can really drum up on our own. It’s a gift we receive. One of Wesley’s favorite verses was this: “The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children” (Romans 8:16). We draw near to God so that we can hear the spirit whisper to us, reminding us who we are. We are children of God because of Christ’s finished work on the cross.

Because of that assurance, then, we can have “our hearts sprinkled to cleanse us from a guilty conscience” (10:22). Tom Wright says it better than I can: “Most people, most of the time, have something which hangs heavy on their hearts, something they’ve done or said which they wish they hadn’t, something which haunts them and makes them afraid of being found out. How wonderful to know that the sacrifice of Jesus, and the ‘sprinkled blood’ which results from it, has the power, as we accept it in faith and trust, to wash every stain from the conscience, so that we can come to God without any shadow falling across our relationship” (Wright 116). We can be cleansed, and we don’t have to worry about that “thing” anymore. Jesus took care of it on the cross. It no longer has to be a barrier between you and God. You can draw near to God and be cleansed from a guilty conscience.

And then, the writer says, we should have “our bodies washed with pure water” (10:22). This is a strange phrase. A lot of writers jump to the conclusion that this refers to baptism (cf. Wright 116), and it might, but it might more likely refer to all those ceremonial washings the Hebrew people did when they were preparing to come before God. The author has been talking about the way Jesus completes all the old rituals, and cleansing was a huge part of their lives up to this point. In fact, all over the Holy Land today you’ll find ruins of these ancient ritual baths, even just outside the Temple Mount, on the Southern Steps, there are several mikvah, places to ritually cleanse yourself. You had to do that before you went to worship. But in Jesus, we don’t have to go through the ritual cleansings. As we’ve just been reminded, he’s already done that for us. When we allow ourselves to be made whole by Jesus, we are then prepared to enter the presence of God. We do not need to fear. Jesus has prepared the way (cf. Guthrie, NIV Application Commentary: Hebrews, pg. 344).

Draw near to God. When we accept his work on the cross, when we allow him to live in our lives, his hope and his salvation is written on our hearts. So on this Good Friday, is the message of the cross “written on your heart”? The cross was a horrible, painful, awful death, one we wouldn’t wish on anyone, and yet out of that horror comes the most beautiful promise in all the world: we can draw near to God, we can know God. We can be forgiven. We can have his presence living in our lives each and every day. This cross, which the religious leaders meant as an ending in reality became a new beginning, a new hope, a new reality.

Frances Jane van Alstyne learned that. Very early in her life, when she was six weeks old, she contracted an illness that caused her to go blind, and despite her parents’ many attempts to help restore her sight, it was eventually concluded that her blindness was permanent. Still, that didn’t slow Frances down. She attended school at the New York Institution for the Blind, where they were required to attend morning and evening chapel services. In addition, Frances went often to the local Methodist church, and it was there, during a series of revival meetings, that she came to know the assurance of faith that only comes from embracing the cross and what Jesus did there.

Already, Frances was an accomplished poet, but as she fell more in love with Jesus, she began to write more poetry that could be sung in the churches. In fact, during her lifetime, she wrote some 8,000 hymns, many of which centered around the theme of Jesus’ work on the cross. She wrote so many hymns that publishers began to invent pen names—some 200 different names—in order to make it appear that the hymns were the work of different authors and not just one woman. But over time, she came to be well known, not by her married name, but by her maiden name: Fanny Crosby. One of Crosby’s most well-known hymns is a prayer that comes straight from Hebrews 10. She wrote it, as she did all of her hymns, in her head. She always had a hymn completely done before she had someone write it down. This song was written when a Cincinnati businessman, William Doane, gave her a melody he had written, and as she listened to it, she felt the words well up within her: “Jesus, keep me near the cross, there a precious fountain, free to all, a healing stream, flows from Calvary’s mountain. In the cross, in the cross, be my glory ever, till my raptured soul shall find rest beyond the river.” Fanny Crosby found her greatest hope in the cross. Its message was written on her heart.

So what about you? This Good Friday, will you draw near to God and find hope and healing and salvation in the shadow of that brutal and ugly cross? It’s why he came, and it’s why he still comes to each of us.

Gethsemane

Matthew 26:36-46

March 28, 2013 (Maundy Thursday) • Portage First UMC

When we are in a difficult place, when life seems to unravel, when we might even feel threatened or at least scared, there are places we go—places of comfort. We talk about “comfort food,” and some places have made an industry out of that idea, because in times of danger or distress we want something familiar. We want to be in a place, physically or emotionally, where we feel safe. Think about the sorts of things we did after 9/11 and how we turned to those people and activities that made us feel safe (some people even turned to churches!). Even if we can’t go physically to a place where we feel safe or happy, we’ll often pull out pictures or tell stories of those times when we felt safe, when life was good, when the danger that exists today wasn’t even a thought.

Jesus and the disciples have been celebrating the Passover meal in a borrowed room on Mount Zion in Jerusalem. It’s an ancient part of the city, dating back to King David, and the meal has been…well, strange at best. Jesus has upended so much of the traditional liturgy that the disciples are bound to be a little off balance. He had begun the evening by washing their feet (cf. John 13:1-17), which was not his job to do. That should have been done by a servant—or at least, the youngest among them. But Jesus did it, and he said his new command to them was to love one another, to serve each other (John 13:34ff). Then, he took the bread and told them it was his body. He took the cup and said it was his blood (Matthew 26:26-29). And then there was that thing with Judas, who took off in the middle of the meal. They assumed he went to buy something they needed for the upcoming festival or to make a donation to the poor (cf. John 13:39), but Jesus hadn’t really told them where Judas was headed. It was a strange and rather frightening atmosphere. They could even see the discomfort and—was it fear?—somewhat on Jesus’ face as he refereed between them when they argued about who was the greatest. He led them in singing a hymn (Mark 14:26), and then he told them they were going to go to Gethsemane to pray.

Gethsemane was one of those comfort places. Luke says they went there “as usual” (Luke 22:39). It was a familiar place, a place they often went to walk or to pray or to listen to Jesus tell stories. Gethsemane was a garden on the slopes of the Mount of Olives. At a brisk, steady pace, you can walk from the traditional site of the Upper Room on Mount Zion down through the Kidron Valley, past the Temple Mount and to the Garden of Gethsemane in about 21 minutes. But John seems to indicate Jesus didn’t hurry. In fact, it seems that as they walk, Jesus teaches them and prays for them. They pass the southern steps of the Temple complex, the place where Jesus had, from time to time, taught the people, the place over which there was a large grapevine inscribed. It’s likely he was looking at that when he told them, “I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener” (John 15:1). He reminded them they needed to be connected to him like a vine to a branch. Then he prayed that they would be one as he stood in the shadow of the Temple, the place many considered to be God’s dwelling place on earth. And, eventually, they arrived at the gate to the garden.

Today, if you visit the Garden of Gethsemane, there are really three parts to it. The most noticeable piece is the Church of All Nations, sometimes called the Church of the Agony, built over the top of two previous churches and having as its altar the rock that is traditionally considered the place Jesus prayed (Knight, The Holy Land, pgs. 146-147). Next to the church is a grove of olive trees, gnarled and twisted. Some botanists claim that some of these trees may be as much as 3,000 years old—which means, when Jesus prayed in this place, they were just youngsters at 1,000 years old (EO, Holy Land Study Guide, pg. 34). But whether these were the olive trees that were there in the first century or not, we know there were olive trees in this place, probably mixed in with other plants, because next to this garden area is a grotto, a cave, that is properly called Gethsemane. In the first century, this cave was the home of an oil press, which is what the word “Gethsemane” means—oil press or olive press. And even though this may have been a familiar place of prayer for Jesus, I believe he picked this location on this night for a very specific reason. Just as olives were crushed into oil, so too, this night, Jesus was being crushed in a place called Gethsemane.

To understand the symbolism of the Gospel accounts, we need to know a bit about how olive oil was made in the first century. When we were in Nazareth last summer, we were able to see a recreation of a first-century olive press and we were walked through the three-stage process of turning olives into oil. First, olives were picked from the trees and poured into a round, stone basin. A millstone would be rolled around the circle to crush the olives with the resulting oil that coming out one side of the basin. There are set-ups like these that have been found all over Israel, including in Jesus’ “own town” of Capernaum. This first pressing of the olives would produce the purest oil, what is called virgin or extra-virgin olive oil. It’s the best stuff, produced without any other means than the olives being crushed, pressed by the millstone. No chemicals, no enhancements, just pure oil. The next step would be to gather the crushed olives, place them into flat, wicker baskets and then put the baskets under a tall, rectangular stone. The immense stone’s weight would press down on the olives, squeezing out the next round of oil into a channel where it could be collected. This “second press” oil was inferior to the first, but still useable, sell-able. Once there was as much oil squeezed out as possible on the second round, then the baskets with the crushed olives would be moved to a wooden press, and blocks would be screwed down on the basket, squeezing out the very last bit of oil that was left (lecture at “Nazareth Village,” 6/18/12; cf. Thompson, Handbook of Life in Bible Times, pgs. 152-153). The last bit was not considered all that useable, but it would be sold cheaply to those who didn’t have much in the way of resources—to the poor, the outcast. Three crushings to produce the olive oil. Three times the olives went through a “gethsemane.”

How many times does Jesus go to pray when he’s there in the garden? When they arrive at the garden, Jesus tells most of the disciples to wait by the gate. He’s going to go further in to pray, but he takes with him the group that is sometimes called “the inner circle:” Peter, James and John, those disciples he called first while borrowing their boat on the Sea of Galilee. Even then, he asks them to stay a stone’s throw away (cf. Luke 22:41) while he goes a bit further in to pray. “Stay here,” he tells them, “and keep watch with me” (26:38). “My soul,” he says, “is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.” Another way to translate that is to say that his soul is weighed down, is heavy, is pressed down so far that death would be welcome. In that mood, Jesus goes to pray. His first prayer: “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me” (26:39). Then he comes back, after an hour or so, and he finds the disciples failing to keep watch. They’re asleep. They’re weighed down in their own way: weighed down with exhaustion and weariness (cf. Mark 14:40; Luke 22:45). “Couldn’t you men keep watch with me for one hour?” he asks (26:40). No, they couldn’t. It’s too much.

Then Jesus goes back to pray. A second prayer: “My Father, if it is not possible for this cup to be taken away unless I drink it, may your will be done” (26:42). Do you notice the difference in his prayer this time? Something has happened to Jesus in that first hour of prayer. Something has been squeezed out of him. The first time, he asking for the cup to be removed, but the second time, he recognizes that’s not possible, so let the Father’s will be done. It’s a different prayer the second time. And then he comes back, after perhaps another hour, and finds them sleeping again. This time, he doesn’t bother to wake them up, which is, I think, why we don’t have any words specifically that Jesus prayed the third time. Matthew says he said the same thing, and I think his third prayer was really simply repeating over and over again that last phrase, “May your will be done. May your will be done. May your will be done.” Three prayers, one prayer for each time the olives are gethsemane-d, because in this garden, underneath the full moonlight, in the shadow of these trees, Jesus is being crushed; he’s being gethsemane-d as well.

Now, every analogy breaks down, but I don’t think it’s an accident that there in Gethsemane, Jesus is crushed three times, and every crushing takes something from him. The first crushing removes the possibility of another way. The second crushing removes his human will to run away, to flee what is coming. And in the third crushing Jesus gives everything he has left. When he returns from that third time of prayer, there is nothing left in him except the desire to do what the Father wants. Everything else has been stripped away during his time in Gethsemane.

Now, olive oil in that culture was used for a variety of things—cooking, for instance, much like we use it today. But oil was also symbolic. It was a symbol of healing. Oil was placed on a wound to speed along healing, and in New Testament times, it was put into the wrapping of a wound as a sort of salve. Oil meant healing. It also meant holiness. Oil was used to anoint the priests and kings, to set them apart for their service to God. That tradition goes back a long way in Israel’s history, to their very beginning as a people. Moses’ brother, Aaron, the first high priest of Israel, was anointed with oil to be set apart for special service, to be marked as holy unto the Lord. That doesn’t mean he always got it right, but the oil was used to indicate God’s presence with him, to remind him that he belonged to God. The oil represented the holy life he was called to.

Jesus is there in the garden, a place of comfort where he has been to pray before, but this night he finds no comfort. He goes to the garden to prepare for the cross. Tomorrow, he will hang between heaven and earth in order to provide salvation for the whole world. But tonight is when the crushing begins. In the garden, Jesus is crushed so that we might find healing and holiness. The prophet Isaiah saw this centuries before when he described the work of the savior this way: “He was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5). Did you hear that? Jesus chose to be crushed for us. He was crushed by the weight of the world so that we wouldn’t have to be. He took on himself the punishment that rightfully belonged to us. So that sin that hangs on, that you can’t seem to get rid of? You don’t have to live like that anymore. Jesus already took the punishment. He was crushed so that you could be holy as he is holy (cf. 1 Peter 1:16), so that you could be healed by the healer of all. That broken relationship, that lack of forgiveness? You don’t have to live like that anymore. Jesus was crushed in the garden so that you could be made whole and holy. “By his wounds,” Isaiah says, “we are healed.” All because in Gethsemane, in the place of crushing, Jesus gives himself over to his Father: “Not my will, but yours be done.”

Even at the table, earlier that night, he was anticipating this moment. He told the disciples to take the bread and the cup and to remember…remember what, to them, had not yet happened. But Jesus knew he would be crushed, just like the grain and the grapes. He would be crushed so that we could be saved. Tonight, we take crushed grain and crushed grapes as a reminder of our salvation, of his sacrifice, of Jesus’ willingness to follow his Father’s will. Tonight, we come to the table, to his table, to prepare for the cross just as he did. Tonight, we celebrate as he told us to do on that night. The bread—his body. The juice—his blood. Broken and spilled out, for every one of us. This is our Gethsemane, our call to live in a new way, our call to recognize that Jesus was crushed so we wouldn’t have to be.

Tonight, we’re going to sing our Great Thanksgiving prayer, and then you’ll be invited to come and receive the crushed grain and grapes. After you’ve received that, on each side on the communion rails there is a small bowl of olive oil that comes from Israel. I invite you, if you want, to touch the oil, perhaps make the sign of the cross on your forehead with it, or just put a bit on your fingertip to remind you of Jesus’ Gethsemane experience. There’s nothing magical in the oil; it’s simply a reminder that we don’t have to live bound by sin anymore. Jesus gave everything he had so that we could know healing and holiness. Broken bread, poured out wine, crushed olives—tonight, these are symbols of the only hope we have in this world. Thanks be to God.

A Crowd, A Kiss, A Crown

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Mark 11:7-10

March 24, 2013 (Palm Sunday) • Portage First UMC

VIDEO INTRO

It’s a long, hard climb, from Jericho to Jerusalem. When you start out, in Jericho, in the desert, you’re over 800 feet below sea level. Jerusalem, the goal, sits nearly 3,000 feet above sea level, and the distance between them is only about twelve miles. It’s a rapid ascent, but if you were traveling from Galilee in the north to Jerusalem in the south for one of the great Jewish festivals, it would an ascent you would have to make (Wright, Mark for Everyone, pg. 146). I’ve never walked it, but I do remember the first time I was in Israel, and we had spent the day in the desert: Masada, the Dead Sea, Jericho, and then we headed up a narrow, winding road that is the setting for Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan. It was easy to envision the story, because there would have been lots of places for bandits to hide. And while we were thinking about that, suddenly, we came over the top of the Mount of Olives, and there, in front of us, was the city of Jerusalem, spread out like a beautiful jewel. It was breath-taking. And in some sense, I felt like one of those first-century pilgrims, having made a long journey and having finally arrived at the place where, they believed, God lived. Jerusalem—the holy city. At long last, we were there.

For the last few weeks, we’ve been walking with Jesus along “The Way,” seeking to better understand his ministry and his message by looking at it in its historical and geographical context. Early Christians, as I mentioned a few weeks ago, were called followers of “The Way,” because they believed, as we do, that Jesus taught them the best way to live. He said, “I am the way” (John 14:6), and so to live like him means to walk in his footsteps, to do what he did, to live like he lived, to follow “the Way.” And so during Lent we’ve traveled with Jesus all over the Holy Land, and we’ve looked at some major themes in his ministry and life. But this morning we come to the final week Jesus spent here on earth, the most important week of his life. The Gospels devote more time to telling the story of Jesus’ final week than to any other part of his life. In fact, John devotes fully half of his Gospel to the last week. Mark gives five chapters out of 16, Matthew gives eight out of 28, and Luke gives six out of 24. Now, granted, the chapter divisions came later, but I give you those numbers just to get a sense of how important this final week was to the early church and how important it should be to us as well. It’s the most important week in history, and so this morning, as we head into Holy Week, as we remember the events of that final week, we’re going to spend time following in Jesus’ footsteps in and around Jerusalem. It’s a story that begins at that bend in the road on the top of the Mount of Olives—on Sunday.

Mark says they have come from Jericho (10:46), where Jesus healed a blind man. As they passed through Jericho and the wilderness that surrounds it, they would have been in the same places where Jesus was baptized and faced the devil’s temptations three years earlier (Card, Mark: The Gospel of Passion, pg. 136)—that story we explored the first week of Lent. You’ve got to wonder what might have gone through Jesus’ mind as he walks through those arid places, perhaps for the first time since he was tempted there. Is there again a temptation to run away from the will of his heavenly father? Did he hear the same demonic voice he’d heard three years before? We don’t know, of course, but even if he did, he refused to turn away from his goal. Luke says Jesus had “set his face” toward Jerusalem, which is a way of saying he was determined; he wasn’t turning back (9:51 KJV).

When they get to the Mount of Olives, Jesus sends his disciples ahead of him into Jerusalem to get a colt, and gives them instructions about what to say to anyone who asks why they are, basically, stealing a donkey. Borrowing—we’ll go with borrowing, because they plan to send it back. But isn’t it curious that Jesus has walked all this way, up from Jericho—in fact, he’s walked all over the Holy Land. There’s no indication anywhere else in the Gospels that Jesus rides; he always walks. And now, when he’s half a mile from the Temple, he asks the disciples to go get him a donkey to ride. Why? Is he suddenly tired? Is he now too good to walk? No, it’s because Jesus is trying to tell them who he is. The donkey had been King David’s choice of transportation, most likely because the donkey was much more sure-footed in the rough, rocky Palestinian terrain than a horse would have been. VIDEO: MOUNT OF OLIVES It’s a steep walk down the side of the Mount of Olives; you have to be pretty sure-footed yourself today to walk it, and today it’s paved. Then, it would have been a dirt path. So the donkey would have been safer transportation for David and for Jesus. But it’s not really about safety. Jesus intends the people to make a connection between him and King David by riding a donkey. Here’s a king in the line of David coming into Jerusalem, and the king in the line of David they were expecting was none other than the Messiah, the Savior of the world. Beyond that, there was a prophecy from one of the minor prophets in the Old Testament, Zechariah. He had said, “Rejoice greatly, Daughter Zion! Shout, Daughter Jerusalem! See, your king comes to you, righteous and victorious, lowly and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey” (9:9). Jesus is telling them who he is simply by the mode of his transportation: he is the king in David’s line who is coming to save his people (McKenna, Communicator’s Commentary: Mark, pg. 224; Hamilton, The Way, pg. 137).

The Gospels all tell us, then, that a crowd gathered, and they put their cloaks over the colt as a make-shift saddle, then they threw garments on the ground and waved branches (only John’s Gospel—12:13—actually says they were palm branches, a symbol of Israel. Mark only says “leafy branches”). And they surrounded Jesus as he made his way into Jerusalem. The first thing to greet Jesus in this final week was a crowd—but what size of a crowd? Well, it’s Passover time, the time when many Jewish families would come to Jerusalem to celebrate. It’s one of the highest festivals in their religious year, because it commemorates the time when their people were set free from slavery in Egypt, centuries before, under the leadership of Moses. So it’s a big deal, and some accounts say as many as 200,000 extra people could have been entering Jerusalem (Hamilton 136). The population of Jerusalem was normally, some estimate, around 50,000—so that’s five times as many people as usual in the city for Passover. Not all of those were Jewish, though. Because of the huge increase in people, the Roman authorities were always present, to make sure there was no trouble. Adam Hamilton (139) speculates that it’s entirely possible there were two other important figures entering Jerusalem about the same time. Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor, would have been coming from Caesarea along with about 1,000 Roman soldiers, determined to keep the peace. Pilate was often in trouble with Rome, and he was determined not to let these Jews mess up his political career any more. The other person coming into Jerusalem was the puppet king of Israel, Herod Antipas, the ruler of Galilee. Both of these men, likely, had their supporters lining the streets, cheering them on as they entered.

That was, after all, the Roman custom. A parade. A triumph of sorts. Show the conquered people who was in charge. When a nation was first conquered, the emperor or general would ride in on a horse, leading a parade that included his warriors and his captives. The captives would be led along in chains as a demonstration of what happens to those who fight against Rome. Now, Pilate and Herod wouldn’t have had captives on this day, but they certainly would want to show their power, to make sure there were no thoughts of rebellion brewing in Jerusalem. And on the other side of town, in what was likely a smaller procession, likely smaller than most of the movies portray it, comes Jesus, riding a donkey, followed by his “warriors” (twelve fishermen called to be disciples) and his “conquered people” (ordinary, common folks whom Jesus had healed and set free). He comes in the same form as Pilate and Herod, but he comes not in power or force but with unrelenting love (McKenna 226). And he comes, not with victory on his face, but tears.

Did you remember that? This so-called triumphal entry is a time of deep pain for Jesus. In Luke’s Gospel, we’re told that Jesus pauses somewhere along the route, looks over the city of Jerusalem, and weeps. He looks down the halls of history and sees the day when Jerusalem is destroyed, and his heart is broken because they have put their hope in their walls and in their city and in their acts of righteousness rather than in the one who has come to bring them hope and salvation and peace (Luke 19:41-44). Today, there is a small teardrop-shaped chapel sitting along the Palm Sunday route called Dominus Flevit, Latin for “The Lord Wept.” This small church invites worshippers to remember this moment, to view the city today as Jesus did then, and to let your heart be broken by the things that break God’s heart. Others in the crowd may have seen this moment as a triumph, but it was a triumph marred by brokenness. As people cry out to Jesus as king, he is wiping the tears from his eyes (Card 137).

So there are lots of things going on here. The route is not unusual; folks came this way into the city every year for Passover. Jesus himself has probably come this way before. But today, he’s on a donkey and people are spreading out their precious garments for him to travel on. You didn’t do that for friends or even respected members of your own family. Remember, this is a dry and dusty environment. The garments would likely be torn up if you did this. And you didn’t tear branches off of a tree just because you were happy to see a city, or happy to see someone coming into the city. It’s a desert; every plant was valuable, and you don’t destroy them. But you did spread out your garments and you did wave leafy branches if you were welcoming a king (Wright 147). And you do sing if you’re welcoming a king. Now, granted, the words they sing are from Psalm 118, and may have been normal greetings at the time of Passover (Card 137). But these are directed at Jesus specifically. They are recognizing him as a king, as royalty in the line of David. So let’s see if we can capture some of their enthusiasm this morning. If you have a palm branch wave it in the air; we’re going to shout this antiphonally, which means back and forth. One side to the other.

Hosanna!

Blessed is he who comes in the

name of the Lord!

Blessed is the coming 

kingdom of our father

David!

Hosanna in the highest heaven!

Now, imagine shouting that all the way down the mountain, back and forth, waving branches, and the energy is building, and the excitement, no matter how large the crowd was or wasn’t, is growing, and they get to the city, and they go in the gate, and they head up to the Temple, and Jesus…well, Jesus looks around, then leaves town, goes back to Bethany to stay the night. You’ve got to think they were disappointed. They’ve just basically proclaimed Jesus as the new king of Israel, they’re expecting him to come in and maybe take on Pilate or Herod, run out the Romans, and establish his kingdom. And, instead, he goes home to sleep. You’ve got to think they’re wondering: what kind of king is this Jesus?

That is the question, isn’t it? And it’s not a question he answers on Sunday. In fact, in many ways, he spends the rest of that final week answering that question. What kind of king is this? Monday, Jesus comes back into Jerusalem and he goes back to the Temple. There, he finds a market set up in the Gentiles’ place of prayer. In other words, the Gentiles who wanted to follow the Hebrew God had no place of quiet, no place to pray. Instead, they are surrounded by money changers and people who are selling “unblemished” animals suitable for sacrifice. They were surrounded by merchants who were taking advantage of people, who would change your everyday currency into Temple currency (for a small fee) so you could pay the Temple tax, who would sell you an animal you could use in the sacrifice because yours would probably not be good enough, especially after you had traveled so far. It was a “den of robbers,” Jesus says. They were taking advantage of the poor and the priests and religious leaders were letting them do it and approving of it. So he runs everyone out, reminding them this was to be a place of prayer. What kind of king is this? Well, he’s one who cares about the people rather than the religious systems. On Monday, he made the religious establishment mad at him. In fact, Mark says, they “began looking for a way to kill him, for they feared him, because the whole crowd was amazed at his teaching” (11:18). I imagine some in the crowd thought maybe now was the moment. Now was when he would take over. And so they watched as Jesus went back to Bethany for the night. What kind of king is this?

On Tuesday and Wednesday, Jesus is back in the city, teaching in and around the Temple courts and engaging people in conversation. Most anyone who wants to talk to him is able to. But the things he is teaching are controversial. He talks about his authority, and won’t really tell the religious leaders where it comes from. He talks about taxes, and how you should give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar but also make sure to give to God what is God’s. He talks about the most important things in life: to love God and to love others. “There is no greater commandment than these,” he says (12:31). And he warns the people about the teachers of the law, how they do so much for show rather than to actually serve or please God. “These men,” he says, “will be punished most severely” (12:40). And then he talks about the end, and as I’ve said before, it’s often hard to tell when Jesus is talking about the end of Jerusalem, that event in the year 70 A.D. when the Romans destroyed the city, and when he’s talking about the ultimate end. It actually doesn’t matter, because he also warns us against trying to figure out when the end will come. No one knows, he says, not even he knows (cf. 13:32). But what’s interesting in all this teaching is how systematically Jesus has offended everyone. For those who find their power in the Temple system, Jesus has said their lengthy prayers and ritual observances will not get them closer to God. For those who want to rebel against Rome, Jesus has advised paying the tax. For those who want everyone to follow every little law to the smallest letter, he says it’s just important to do two things: love God and love others. Every single group in Jerusalem finds themselves on the wrong side of Jesus’ equation by Wednesday night. Some of them begin to firm up plans to get rid of him (14:1-2). But not once does Jesus make any sort of move to try to throw out the Romans or take over the throne of Israel. What kind of king is this? Certainly not the kind we expected.

Wednesday night, Jesus attends the Next-to-Last Supper. You’ve probably heard of the Last Supper, but this is the one before that, held at the home of Simon the Leper in Bethany. He probably should be called Simon the Former Leper. Jesus probably has healed him; is it possible he was the one out of ten who came back to thank Jesus (cf. Luke 17:11-19)? Either way, he wouldn’t have a home in town nor have guests for dinner if he still had leprosy. So they’re having dinner, when all of a sudden a woman comes in. She has a jar of expensive perfume, and she breaks it and pours it over Jesus’ head, which in that day was a sign of honor, a sign that she recognized God’s presence in Jesus. It was something done to priests or to kings. You can just imagine the shock in the room. Jesus has had his feet anointed before, that time by a sinful woman, but this is very extravagant and intimate. The perfume may well have been part of this woman’s dowry, her hope of getting married, and she gives that all over to Jesus. Can you sense the smell of the perfume filling the small house? I can. Last Sunday after worship, a small group of us gathered to anoint a member of our church and pray for healing, and I managed in the process to drop the bottle of anointing oil, which then spilled all over Susie’s office, my clothes, and spattered on those who had gathered. My hands smelled all day like that oil, and Susie’s office still smelled like that on Monday. It filled the place, just like this perfume filled the room. The disciples grumble about it, and how the perfume could have been sold and the money given to the poor, but Jesus tells them to leave her alone. “She has done a beautiful thing to me” (14:6). Mark says it was this act that caused Judas to give up on Jesus and to agree to betray him (14:10-11).

Even though Judas was the only one who decided to profit by betraying Jesus, I can’t help but think he wasn’t the only one disillusioned at this point. Jesus is not the king they thought he was. Jesus isn’t anything like they thought he would be. This week has not gone like they imagined. That’s why, I believe, when Peter, on Friday night, says, “I don’t know this man you’re talking about,” I don’t think he was lying (cf. 14:71). I think Peter really didn’t know who Jesus was anymore. I doubt any of them really knew. What kind of king was this?

That confusion only deepened on Thursday. Most of the day was probably spent in Bethany. Jesus knew once he left his friends there, he wasn’t coming back. So it’s likely he spent the day with them, one last time. He sends two disciples, Peter and John, into the city early to make preparations for sharing the Passover meal together (cf. Luke 22:8). And when evening came, Jesus gathered them together and shared one final meal. But even then, he’s still upsetting them. He upended the liturgy and began talking about his death and about how one of them would betray him. I can’t imagine the confusion, fear and frustration that was present in that room that night. He took bread, broke it, blessed it, and handed it to them, saying, “Take it; this is my body.” And then he took a cup, gave thanks, and passed it to them, saying, “This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many” (14:22-25). Forever, he gave us a reminder—bread and cup—more than a reminder, actually. He gave us symbols we can taste, touch, smell, feel—things we can hold onto that constantly remind us of his great love for us. And after he had done that, he took the disciples that remained (Judas had left) and went out to the Garden of Gethsemane.

Now, we’re going to look more closely at his time in the Garden on Thursday night, but after he prays, he wakes the disciples just as Judas arrives with the religious leaders and a crowd armed with swords and clubs. They’re coming out armed against a man who never carried a weapon other than the whip of cords he used to clear the Temple. Are there people in this crowd who were part of the crowd on Sunday? Some people will tell you no, that they’re two different crowds, but I’m not so sure. Jesus is not the kind of king they expected; their hopes and dreams have been dashed, broken beyond repair. Is it possible some are angry enough with him at this point for failing to do what they wanted him to do that they come against him after crying “Hosanna” on Sunday? Haven’t you known people like that? They prayed and prayed and prayed for something to happen, and God didn’t come through. God, they say, failed them, and they turn their backs on him. Is it that much of a stretch to think about people taking up clubs and swords against this one who failed to be who they thought he ought to be? When we try to define Jesus by our own expectations, we’re going to be disappointed at some point. He is not who we think he is. He’s not who we demand he be. He is not controlled by our expectations, our wants, our desires. He is Lord, which means we are the ones who are called to conform our lives to his expectations. We’re the ones called to walk his way, not the other way around. That’s what he’s been saying for the last three years to these people. Would we have gotten it any easier than they did? Let’s not rush to judge them, because we can just as easily turn on him like they did.

And in the midst of that rabble, a man steps out from the middle. Judas has followed Jesus for three years, and he goes to Jesus and greets him with a kiss (14:45). A sign of affection. A greeting, in that culture. A sign of respect. And, in that garden, a sign of betrayal. Did Judas expect Jesus to fight back? Did he hope he would force Jesus’ hand? Did he want Jesus to escape and to show his power? We don’t know. Any attempt to guess Judas’ motive is pure speculation. The Gospel writers don’t feel the need to justify Judas’ actions like we do. Judas simply kisses Jesus, allows the rabble to take him, and realizes what he has done. The crowd has no more use for him. Later, he will hang himself—a tragic end to a tragic story.

The disciples run off and the crowd takes Jesus back to face a kangaroo court. It was illegal to have a trial like this at night, but they have to get a verdict in so they can meet Pilate in the morning. And so they spend the night finding witnesses, people who will testify against Jesus. Now, the religious charge is that he was blasphemous, but they know that won’t fly with Pilate. He couldn’t care less about their religious squabbles. So when they approach Pilate, they charge Jesus with being a threat to Rome, and in fact when Pilate is close to releasing Jesus, someone cries out, “If you let this man go, you are no friend of Caesar’s” (John 19:12). That’s enough to stop Pilate, and he eventually, though reluctantly, agrees to crucify Jesus. It is history’s worst injustice—a completely innocent man condemned to die by one of most painful and horrific methods possible. Jesus is beaten by the soldiers, and given the only crown he ever wore on this earth: a crown of thorns. The crowd led to a kiss which led to a crown—a crown of painful thorns that represented every hurt, every bitterness, every broken part of this weary old world. His crown, thorns; his throne, a cross. And the question that has been hanging out there since Sunday comes back on Friday: what kind of king is this?

That is the question that each of us has to answer. Who is Jesus? What kind of king is he? C. S. Lewis many years ago famously said Jesus was either a liar, a lunatic or Lord of all. The sorts of things Jesus said and did define him, and put the choice before us, especially during this final week of his life. What kind of king is Jesus? He’s a king who shows us The Way. He listened to the praise of the crowd, he received the kiss of a traitor, and he wore a crown of suffering. He died so that he could take our sins on himself and make us right before God. He gave his life so that we could be set free from our sin, our wrongdoing, the ways we have broken our relationship with God. The final week of Jesus’ life, what we call Holy Week, is a story of love—God’s unrelenting love going to the full extent of self-giving so that we could have hope, salvation, and life. What kind of king is he? For me, Jesus is a king who gives direction and meaning to my life. He has for so many years, ever since I bowed my head and asked him to live in my life when I was in fifth grade. I’ve not always gotten it right. I’m not perfect. But when I look at the cross, when I realize again what he did for me there, I have to ask myself how I can keep turning away. Doesn’t what he did for me on that cross deserve me giving my life to him? Jesus is a king worth living for. Jesus is a king who shows me The Way. Jesus is a king who only asks me for everything because he gave his everything first. Jesus is a king to whom I daily swear my allegiance. What kind of king is Jesus for you?

There’s a song by Keith Getty and Stuart Townend that, for me, sets the tone for this week as I walk in Jesus’ footsteps toward the cross:

O, to see my name written in the wounds

For through your suffering I am free!

Death is crushed to death, life is mine to live

Won through your selfless love!

This, the power of the cross!

Son of God, slain for us!

What a love, what a cost,

We stand forgiven at the cross!

As we enter this Holy Week, what kind of king is Jesus—to you? Let’s pray.

Can Jesus Share Your Boat?

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

Luke 5:1-11; Isaiah 6:1-8

March 10, 2013 • Portage First UMC

VIDEO INTRO

Last summer, when we arrived in Israel, we went through security and customs, got our bags, and loaded onto the bus for the two-hour ride from Tel Aviv to Tiberias, a city which sits on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. Our tour guide, Mike, was very good at helping us get acclimated to the country, sharing history and interesting tidbits, including how Starbucks coffee wasn’t strong enough for the Israeli taste. Then, as we came into Tiberias, he warned us that something was about to happen to us. We were going to experience the “Below Sea Level Effect,” which he said makes everyone happy and smiling. As we passed the sign that said, “Sea Level,” he asked, “Is everyone happy?” Well, we were. Now, it could have been simply slap-happiness, being exhausted from the long plane ride and subsequent bus ride, but we were also glad to be nearing this place that we’d read about and heard about so much. By the time we reached the shore, we were 700 feet below the level of the Mediterranean Sea. We were at the lowest fresh body of water on Earth. Perhaps it was the “Below Sea Level Effect” that was the reason Jesus centered much of his ministry around this Sea, the Sea of Galilee.

VIDEO - SEA OF GALILEE The Sea has several names in the Bible, which sometimes gets confusing. It’s often named after one of the towns along the shore. For instance, in the book of Numbers, it’s called the Sea of Chinnereth. Sometimes it’s call the Sea of Tiberias. Here in Luke, it’s called the Lake of Gennesaret, and if Luke is the same Luke who traveled with Paul on the Mediterranean Sea, we can understand why he wouldn’t call it a sea. This is a little lake. Luke’s seen much bigger seas than this. In modern Israel, it’s known as Lake Kinneret, but to those who read the Bible, it’s always known as the Sea of Galilee. It’s a freshwater lake, much like our Great Lakes, except much, much smaller. The Sea of Galilee is thirteen miles long by seven miles wide. By contrast, our own Lake Michigan is 307 miles long by 118 miles wide. The Sea of Galilee is perhaps 150 feet deep at its deepest point, while Lake Michigan is 925 feet at its deepest. So the Sea of Galilee is very small, compared to what we know, but it has great importance in the life and ministry of Jesus. It’s the place where Jesus called his first disciples to follow him (Card, Luke: The Gospel of Amazement, pg. 75; Hamilton, The Way, pg. 95; Knight, The Holy Land, pg. 248; EO, Holy Land Study Guide, pg. 11).

We’re continuing our Lenten journey along The Way this morning, and so far we’ve walked with Jesus to his baptism in the Jordan River and his temptation in the wilderness. We’ve watched as he healed in his “own town” of Capernaum, and last week we went with him to the mountains as we listened to his vision for life. Today, though, we gather with the crowds as they listen to him teach along the shore of the Sea of Galilee. The crowds were getting rather large by now, and Luke tells us Jesus decided it would be easier to teach if he got in a boat and put it out into the water a ways. Luckily, there were two boats there, and the fishermen who owned them were nearby. Luke says they were cleaning their nets. Fishing, in those days as now, took place at night. Some fishermen say they fish at night because the fish can see the nets during the day (Hamilton 98), but others say it’s because the fish go deep during the warm daytime and come up near the surface in the cool evening. Now, fishing was vital to the economy of the Galilee, especially in Jesus’ day. Fish is still a hefty part of the diet in that part of the world, and the fish that is best known in Galilee is called St. Peter’s fish, a tilapia. It’s usually grilled, and as we discovered one day at lunch, served with the head and tail still attached. No filet-of-fish here. You get the whole fish. It was quite good, actually, and made me feel a bit like I was back there with Simon, James and John, along the shore.

They’re off to the side, cleaning their nets. After a hard night’s work, they would come in, sell their fish, perhaps cook a few for themselves, and clean their nets. Since they likely caught more in their nets than just fish, every morning, before they could go home and sleep, this was a routine they had to do (Card 75). Simon and his co-workers are probably counting the minutes until they can go get some rest, and then suddenly, this teacher asks to borrow his boat. I doubt if Simon was all that excited about allowing it, but remember, according to Luke’s account, Jesus has already healed Simon’s mother-in-law (cf. 4:38-39). Perhaps he felt like he “owed Jesus one.” And you’ve got to wonder if, as Jesus taught from the boat, Peter sort of dozed off and on. Some evenings, when I’m tired, I’ll doze off in the middle of a television show we’re watching. I inevitably miss the end of some mystery. And when Cathy wakes me up, I’ll say something like, “I wasn’t sleeping. I’m not tired!” My mom will tell you I’ve done that as long as anyone can remember. I don’t know why. What’s the harm in admitting that I’ve fallen asleep? But I sort of picture Peter like that—just about half asleep, worn out, when Jesus says, “Put out into deep water, and let down the nets for a catch” (5:4).

You can hear a bit of the weariness, or maybe crankiness, in Simon’s words back to Jesus: “Master, we’ve worked hard all night and haven’t caught anything” (5:5). I sort of picture him stopping there, and waiting for Jesus to say something, to let him off the hook, to say, “Okay, Simon, I’ll get someone else. It’s all right.” But he doesn’t. Jesus just stands there, and something in his eyes tells Simon he needs to do what Jesus says. “But because you say so, I will let down the nets” (5:5). Notice Jesus didn’t say they would go out and see IF they could catch something. He says, “Put down your nets for a catch. This is a sure thing, Simon.”

And they do. They put down the nets, and they catch a huge amount of fish, so many that Luke says these seasoned fishermen, these career Galilean sailors, are “astonished” (5:9). The word literally means, “to be made immovable.” They’re shocked, probably through a mixture of fear and amazement. I mean it’s one thing for Jesus to heal Simon’s mother-in-law, but this is something Simon is an expert in. He knows how to fish. He knows where the good fishing spots are. He’s worked all night, he’s worked hard, and caught nothing. Jesus simply points out toward the lake and says, “Go make a catch,” and it happens. If you want to get the attention of a fisherman, a tremendous catch is the way to do it (cf. Card 76). I don’t think this is a story about Jesus knowing where to fish. I think this is a story about Jesus getting the attention of simple fishermen—men whom, he knew, could go on to change the world.

There are two other stories we want to look at briefly this morning, where Jesus grabbed the attention of his followers on the Sea of Galilee. The first one, in Mark 4, we looked at in detail on Ash Wednesday. It’s the story of a raging storm that catches the disciples unawares in the middle of the night. They’re sailing from one place to another, and suddenly they are in the middle of a storm while Jesus sleeps in the back of the boat. They rudely wake Jesus up, and he calms the sea, an action that cause the disciples to wonder, “Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!” (4:41). And I suggested to you that evening that Jesus can still calm the storms in our lives. He is lord over the physical storms, but he is also lord over all the emotional and spiritual storms that threaten our boat. He is in the “boat” with us, just as he was with those disciples on that storm-tossed sea. Sometimes it seems, from our vantage point, that he is asleep, or doesn’t care, but he does. Perhaps he’s waiting for us to come to the end of our own resources so that we actually turn to him.

The other story is found in Matthew 14, and it also involves a storm on the Sea, except this time, the disciples are out there alone in probably a similar fishing boat as they were in before. In the mid-1980’s, a first-century fishing boat was found in the mud of the Galilean Sea, and after years of preservation, you can see what the boat Jesus and his disciples sailed in might have looked like. It would have been a small boat, maybe having room for 12 to 15 people, and that would have been crowded. This night, though, Jesus has sent them ahead in the boat while he goes up to the mountains to pray (14:23), and most likely, as he’s praying, he can see the little boat being shook by the waves and the wind. What’s interesting is Matthew doesn’t say Jesus went right away. Jesus continues to pray and “shortly before dawn,” likely after they’ve fought the storm for a while, he heads out to help the disciples. Except he doesn’t get in a boat. Matthew says, “Jesus went out to them, walking on the lake” (14:25). It was not frozen, but this is the one who is lord over the wind and the waves, so why does it surprise them and us that he can do this? It terrifies the disciples. “It’s a ghost,” they cry out, and Jesus says, “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid” (14:27).

That’s a rather strange thing to shout over the wind and the waves, isn’t it? “It is I.” It’s an awkward phrase in English, but in the Greek it’s a powerful statement. Ego eimi. Literally, “I am.” Take courage, Jesus says, I am. Now, why would that bring peace to the disciples? Where have they heard that before? Way back in Exodus, when Moses wanted to know what name he should give to prove that God had really called him to lead the Hebrews out of slavery in Egypt, God said, “I am. Tell them ‘I Am’ has sent you” (cf. Exodus 3:14). When Jesus is walking on the water, he’s answering the question they asked back in the first storm. Who is this that even the wind and the waves obey him? He’s answering the question that’s in their hearts now and they don’t have the ability or the guts to give voice to: who is this, that can walk on the water? He’s answering the question they asked way back at the shore when Jesus commandeered their boats: who is this, who can cause such a great catch of fish to appear out of nowhere? I am. Jesus is telling them, “I am God. I am the Lord of all.” And, more than that, Jesus is telling them, “I am worth following.” In fact, if Jesus isn’t worth following, then nobody is (cf. Wright, Luke for Everyone, pg. 54). On the Sea of Galilee, the disciples learn what it means to be called by Jesus.

Even in Luke 5, when they’re on the Sea of Galilee for the first time with Jesus, Simon Peter realizes something is happening. His response is as profound as it is rapid. He’s fully awake now, as he watches the fish pour into the boat, as he worries if the boat will sink before they get back to shore. When he realizes at least on a small scale what has happened, he falls down in front of Jesus, a gesture of submission, and says, “Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man!” (5:8). Now, remember, by the time these Gospel are written, Peter is a leader of the church. Peter is known for his obedience to the Gospel, to the Jewish laws. And yet, here in the beginning, Peter takes his place among the sinners. He acknowledges who he is in regard to Jesus (cf. Liefeld, “Luke,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 8, pg. 877). He reminds me of Isaiah. Perhaps you know the story in Isaiah 6, when God calls a young man to preach to the people. Isaiah was in the Temple, grieving the loss of a good king, when he got a vision of the Most High God. He heard the angels singing, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty,” and Isaiah fell down. “Woe to me!” he says. “I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips and I live among a people of unclean lips, and my eyes have seen the King, the Lord Almighty” (Isaiah 6:5). Isaiah knew no one could see God and live (cf. Exodus 33:20), and he knew his life. He knew he wasn’t holy enough to be able to stand in God’s presence. He assumed he was dead at that moment. That’s the same sort of response Simon Peter has. “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man. Whoever you are, I’m not worthy to stand in your presence.” And Jesus turns to him, I imagine with a smile on his face, and reaches out his hand. “Don’t be afraid; from now on you will fish for people” (5:11). You know, I wonder what would have happened if Simon Peter had known what that really meant: how it meant he would, in three years’ time, watch his master, Lord and best friend be crucified on a Roman cross, how it meant he would have his deepest beliefs and convictions challenged, how it meant he would preach about Jesus at the risk of his own life, and how it meant he would even die a painful death himself. Tradition says Peter was crucified, but he told those who were killing him he wasn’t worthy to die the same way Jesus did, so they crucified him upside down. I wonder if, had he known all of that, he would have repeated his request that Jesus leave him alone (cf. Wright 53). But he didn’t. And so he pulls up his boat on the shore, walks away from it and begins to follow Jesus. There, on the Sea of Galilee, he hears Jesus’ call and leaves everything to follow him, because if Jesus isn’t worth following, no one is. Maybe that’s the real “Below Sea Level” effect: answering Jesus’ call to follow.

What’s your “Sea of Galilee” experience? In what ways have you heard the call of Jesus to follow him? You know, technology has really corrupted our use of that word “follow.” Twitter, in particular, has corrupted what it means to “follow” someone, because, if you’re not familiar with Twitter, people put up thoughts, ideas, ramblings, anything they want in 140 characters or less, and then other people can choose to “follow” them. Therefore, when you “follow” someone you are blessed by anything that runs through their head that they feel the need to post online. It’s, in my opinion, worse than Facebook. But a lot of people are on Twitter, and they’re following—but in that setting, “following” simply means sitting there and checking out what someone else might be doing at any given time. That’s not what Jesus meant when he calls disciples to follow him. It’s not about just coming in here and sitting, or opening up his book once in a while and gathering a random thought or two. It’s not about just singing a nice song or having a Bible text printed on your t-shirt. As I said, for Simon Peter, and for the rest of the disciples, following meant giving your life. From that moment on, they were going to be fully engaged, not partly engaged—fully engaged in fishing for people. Following Jesus is not passive. You can’t sit by and watch it happen. Following Jesus is active. It’s messy. It’s dangerous. And it’s life-consuming.

We usually picture being a “fisher of people” as a nice, simple, quiet thing you do on the side. We even used to sing about it in Sunday School [in those un-politically correct days]: “I will make you fishers of men, fishers of men, fishers of men. I will make you fishers of men if you follow me.” But, as with many things Jesus says, he’s actually quoting Scripture there. This is not the first time there has been a call for fishers of people. In Jeremiah, God says he will send for “many fishermen...and they will catch them” (Jeremiah 16:16). Who is the “them” they will catch? If you read the whole passage, it’s a statement of judgment. God is seeking to “catch” those who have sinned against him to judge them. But, remember, God’s judgment is always redemptive. It’s a promise made in the context of bringing people back to their land after they have paid for their sins. So being a fisher of people is about judgment, but even bigger than that, it’s is about calling people back to God. It’s not meant to be an easy task, no more than fishing for fish is. No, rather, this is serious business, and it requires everything these men have. That’s why they leave their boats and nets behind (Card 76). They know they can’t be part-time followers of Jesus. They have to give it all. “When Jesus calls, he certainly does demand everything, but only because he has already given everything himself” (Wright 55).

Answering Jesus’ call means we actively join him on The Way, engaging in the mission we’ve been talking about for the last couple of weeks: pushing back the darkness and strengthening the broken places in our world. It will look different for each person. For me, that call came in a dorm room at Ball State, although I would argue in many ways it came first in a church basement classroom during Vacation Bible School when I first said “yes” to Jesus and allowed him to live in my life. But I went to college with one career intent: to become a journalist. And yet, four years later, when I left Ball State, I was headed to seminary. During those years, through the encouragement of many people who saw gifts and abilities in me, I began to hear God’s call to full-time pastoral ministry. I always say God called me slowly because that’s the only way I could keep up. There was no dramatic catch of fish on the lake for me. Rather, God nudged me into ministry situations, places where I was given an opportunity to teach and preach and plan and lead—the very things I am doing now. But even then, I was planning to work with an interdenominational college campus ministry—until I asked Cathy to marry me. That messed that plan up! They wisely didn’t allow people to be in the first year of marriage at the same time as the first year of ministry. And so I decided (or God directed) to go to seminary for a year, to see what they knew, and in the midst of that planning and preparation, God very clearly laid a call on my heart for the local church, where I’ve been ever since, seeking to follow Jesus as best as I can in pushing back the darkness.

Now, that’s my experience. God calls all of us in different ways. Here’s the thing: the call to us is to be full-time followers, full-time disciples. Whatever field of work we are in, we are still called to be disciples, shining the light into the dark places. We don’t get to be followers just on Sunday. We’re called to be followers every day, every minute. I have told some of you that I’m often envious of those of you who work in various fields because you have a better chance of making a difference in your workplace for Christ than I do. There are, in our current culture, doors that slam shut once someone learns you are a pastor. Too many negative images out there of “religious professionals.” So if you’re a teacher, you may not be able to speak openly about your faith in Christ, but you’re still called to be a full-time follower of Jesus, shining your light in the ways you can, loving the kids, some of whom may never have had that kind of love poured out on them. And there are other avenues that sometimes present themselves. I have a friend who, several years ago, learned that, in public schools, you can teach the Bible. Indiana has a state curriculum for teaching the Bible as Literature, and since she is an English teacher, she saw that as a chance to talk about faith, knowing that God promises his word will not return empty (cf. Isaiah 55:11). So for several years, she taught about the Bible in the public school system, and not only did students sign up for that elective class, they were engaged in discussions that went beyond the printed page. I saw that one time when I was invited to come to the classroom and speak about the book of Revelation. She had an opportunity, and she chose to shine her light as a full-time disciple of Jesus.

Even beyond that, there are countless ways we can push back the darkness and answer Jesus’ call in our workplaces, in our homes, in our neighborhoods when we begin to think full-time about what it means to be a follower. A lot of our kids get this. We have some great kids in this congregation, kids who are already trying to follow Jesus the best way they know how. One of our kids, Clara Harbart, takes part of her allowance and puts in the offering plate every week for Feed My Lambs. Another one put her allowance in the plate a few weeks ago along with this note: “I give this to the people that do not have money.” I have that note hanging in my office right by my desk. And, many of you got excited and helped with Emma and Claire Moerman’s birthday present. When they were asked what they wanted for their birthday, they said, “I think we have enough stuff. Can we collect food and donate it to the food bank for those who are hungry?” And word got out, and you all have helped them do that. You see, our age doesn’t matter. No matter how old or how young, we can follow Jesus in pushing back the darkness.

One of my favorite stories was told by Andrew Peterson, who is a Christian musician. In the early days of his career, his wife Jamie, would travel with him, but when they had kids, they decided she would stay home. Recently, though, they attended a retreat together in which the primary question was how each person there could shine light into the darkness. And Peterson says they were in a small group, each sharing their answers, and one author said, “Well, I’m writing a book that will help believers understand…” so on and so forth. A pastor in the group said he was preaching a sermon series to change the world. Andrew Peterson said he was trying to write beautiful music that would bring light to the darkness, and then he wondered what his wife would say. After all, she was at home with their children most days. But Jamie knew what she was doing and why. Her response was this: “I’m shedding light in the darkness by raising these three children in the Lord” (qtd. on Above These City Lights). What a perfect answer! Is there any higher calling than shining light into the lives of our children? Whether you’re a stay at home parent or a working parent, whether your grandkids are local or far away, we still have the highest privilege of shining Jesus’ light into their lives in whatever way we can, pushing back the darkness by guiding the next generation to follow along on The Way. That’s why we have people who unselfishly give up their Sunday afternoons week after week to lead our youth groups: SEGA for Senior High, PUSH for middle school and Mission Possible Kids for grades K-5. It’s not just to give our youth something more to do. It’s their way of answering the call to shine the light into the lives of the next generation.

Jesus says, “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.” The question for each of us is this: can Jesus share your boat? Can he use what you have, the gifts and skills and talents and resources you have, for the sake of his mission, so that the good news can go out wider and wider, reaching as many people as possible (cf. Wright 55)? Can Jesus share your boat? There are no bystanders in the kingdom of God. There is no passive following of Jesus. We’re called to use what we have for the sake of his kingdom. The boat for Peter represented so many things. First and foremost, it represented his livelihood, his financial success. In some ways, it represented his family—with the boat, he was able to provide for his family. It represented his security—a boat was necessary to be out on the water (unless you were Jesus) and it was at least minimal protection and security when the storms came up on the Sea. The boat was everything to Simon Peter. And yet, when Jesus called, he left it behind. He gave it all for the sake of a greater mission. Jesus calls us to fish for people—to invest what we have…our jobs, our skills, our financial resources, our desperate longing for security, our families…everything we have and everything we are for the sake of his work. That’s the call we hear standing on the shore of the Sea of Galilee. 

Usually, when you go to the Holy Land, the first thing you do on the first morning, after trying to recover from jet lag, is to take a boat ride on the Sea of Galilee. I’ve been sailing on that Sea now three times, and every time has been soul-filling, but I still remember the first time I was in a boat out in the middle of the Sea. That was in 1995; Christopher wasn’t born yet. Bishop Woodie White was our group leader that year, and he preached a sermon as our boats crossed the Sea of Galilee, and I remember him talking about how all of the land is holy because, in many places, we don’t know exactly where Jesus was or if this is the correct location or not. And so every place, we should be saying, “This could be it. He might have walked here.” But when it comes to the Sea, we know for certain, this is the place. This Sea is where Jesus sailed and walked on water. This Sea is the place where he called disciples to follow him with all their heart. And, I don’t know, but maybe, just maybe, Jesus intentionally did that on the Sea of Galilee so that we would know, so that we would always remember his call to become fishers of people. For the disciples, for the rest of their lives, the Sea of Galilee would remind them that Jesus called them to give their lives for his sake, and I imagine that was especially powerful after he gave his life for their sake and for ours. Who is this man? He is the one who calls us to let him share our boat, to follow him along The Way. Can Jesus share your boat? How will you answer his call? In what ways will you allow Jesus to use whatever you have for the sake of his mission? Let’s pray.