Sermon April 29, 2012
Acts 4:5-12
Psalm 23
1 John 3:16-24John 10:11-18
 

“Total Commitment”

There are lots of cliches out there about sheep. I grew up in cattle country and they weren't flattering. Sheep destroy grazing land. Sheep, I've heard, will follow each other through a hole in the fence or push down fences. Sheep are dumb and will walk into the most dangerous of situations without looking. Most of what I learned about sheep in cattle country was insulting.

I've read a few things about sheep, in different places and from different sources that make me think sheep aren't all that dumb. In the north of England, where Beatrix Potter bought a farm about 100 years ago, there are sheep who are heafed to their farms. That means that the sheep are never lost, but know where they belong. When they are purchased and moved, they can be retrained to recognize their new pastures. The lambs graze with their mothers on the “heaf” belonging to that farm instilling a life-long knowledge of where on the fell they should be grazing. It sounds almost miraculous to me. I'm sure cattle aren't that smart. So these sheep not only know the shepherd, they know the pasture where they graze, too.

We aren't all that familiar with sheep anymore, but sheep were ubiquitous in Jesus' world—here, there and everywhere. You can tell because everybody talks about them and eventually everything important gets compared to sheep or goats, sheep pens, shepherds or flocks at some time or another. Kings are shepherds good and bad; priests are shepherds, too, good and bad.

And in the Christian tradition, we have continued this system. The word pastor, itself comes from the Old French, pastur or Latin pastorem, or shepherd because of these biblical systems. But really, the only truly good shepherd, according to one commentator the truly beautiful or ideal shepherd is Yahweh, the Lord of the 23^rd Psalm.¹

When my friend, Sharon Watkins, was elected General Minister and President, the blessing and celebration prayer of her election referred to her as our new Shepherd leader. She quickly refocused the image on God as Shepherd and upon Jesus as the only good shepherd and savior.

But, having said all that, having established shepherd, sheep and flock as solid biblical metaphor, what does it mean to have a shepherd, be a shepherd or to be a sheep, a member of the flock?

To be succinct, to be a shepherd is a huge responsibility—a total commitment to the flock, each member and all of them together. And the biblical story, in several ways, reveals how people often mess up the office of shepherd and how God comes back and reveals the beautiful ideal. And today we have the privilege to have heard once again how God is our shepherd, how Jesus, within himself, reveals God even more fully as shepherd and caretaker of the Jesus' followers.

In the gospel text, Jesus refers to himself as the good (ideal or beautiful) shepherd who lays down his life for his sheep. According to Jesus the ideal shepherd knows that his sheep must thrive to be any good to him, so laying down his life makes sense. In contrast, Jesus says, the hired hand runs away in the face of mortal danger because any responsibility that the hired hand has comes through payment instead of actual affection. “A hired hand does not care for the sheep.”

According to one commentator, Jesus' claim that I know my own and my own know me is obvious visitors to the Middle East. They can see this even today, as the sheep are herded through passage ways and recognize – know – the voice of the shepherd who calls them. I know that herding animals know the voice of their caretakers—my uncle had sheep, but my father's cattle knew his voice, too. They knew the sound of his pickup and the sound of the horn, too. And he knew them. He knew the difference in how they were marked and though he wisely didn't name them, he knew them. He chose who would be fed out and which heifers needed to be penned to calf, too.

The life of a shepherd, though was even more intimate. Sheep were kept over time, when beef cattle may not be. Though a shepherd might eventually eat a sheep—and some would be sacrificed over the years at the temple—the reasons to have sheep meant keeping them alive and well to fulfill their functions. And sheep provided warmth from wool and their body heat was important. I once saw a house in the middle east that was built in two levels. The animals were in pens in a kind of dugout and the people slept on a wooden floored platform above them—the animals kept the place warmer than it would have been as their heat rose above them. Sheep were integral to the culture—even those who lived in cities knew about sheep. They were, as I said, everywhere.

Being enfolded in love by the Good Shepherd is an image of God's love for Jesus and for us. Many commentators make this observation, but one puts it succinctly, that through the Incarnation, "God knows the people from up close." Jesus has shared our human experience and knows intimately what it means to suffer and to die. No wonder that the sheep can trust this Good Shepherd. Johnston writes that we might even say that our shepherd "knows exactly what it is like to be a sheep, and by extension, what it is like to be snatched by the wolf" (The Lectionary Commentary: The Gospels). It isn't such a reach, then, to understand Jesus as the "Lamb of God."²

Jesus is the Good Shepherd who lays down his life—and also the Lamb of God who is snatched up by the wolf, in this case the wolf is the corruption of Rome within the temple hierarchy, to show that the wolf has no real power.

Jesus was totally committed to the role of Good Shepherd. He allowed his life to be taken and was give the power to take it up again. His total commitment to God's purpose meant that he showed us the relative powerlessness of the wolf—we will die sometime, but death is not the eternal victor.

When I started to write this sermon, I knew that my reason for emphasizing Jesus' total commitment was to make us realize, all of us realize that total commitment is more than what Jesus did—total commitment is what is expected of us. We must be totally committed as disciples of Jesus Christ so that when we face hard choices, choices that cost, we can trust God to carry us through. We can trust that God will take our sacrifices, as we have carried the cross when it was offered, and turn them into life.

Now this is where things become more difficult, making room for one another in the fold of God's love. It seems like we ought to find it easy and even natural to relax into the warmth of God's care, to move over and make room for everyone else. And yet this image, of religious leaders themselves not recognizing the immeasurable worth of each individual in the eyes of God, is just as powerful today as it is in any age. Leaders and their flocks in the church have a hard time not thinking about who's in the flock, and who isn't, and that can equate with who's loved by God, and who isn't . . . or at least, who isn't loved by God quite as much, or in the same way, as we are. And yet, it's not up to us to decide who's in or who's out; this text tells us that Jesus has "other sheep" elsewhere and that he intends to draw them in, too. This flock "is open-ended.³ There are always others who recognize the shepherd's voice and enter the fold"⁴. We may want to decide whose really in, but Jesus says that it's about who he recognizes, not us and his recognition by member of the flock, not by anyone else. And no one can tell us we are out, either. Jesus is the one who calls and no one else.

How we treat one another within the church itself provides opportunities for demonstrating our total commitment to the body of Christ and to Jesus, the head of the church. How we treat those who are rejected and on the margins of society also provides even more important opportunities for being totally committed to our discipleship of Jesus.

Our commitment wavers, or at least our behavior wavers from time to time and person to person. Some folks are easier to love than others—even Jesus knew that and Paul comments on it in his letters, but in the long run as Christians, members of the Body of Christ, we are committed to this kingdom and what we do matters. Our behavior and demonstrating of the love of Jesus Christ within our lives and in how we treat everyone nurtures the kingdom or stifles its growth. We have a hand in the gospel, each one of us.

Whatever we do, we do as sheep of the one Good Shepherd. We do it as one who follows the ideal shepherd, the beautiful shepherd, who lays down his life for all of us and all who are his sheep.

To the glory of God, who loves us and cares for us and for all creation.

1Bernard Brandon Scott. http://www.ucc.org/worship/samuel/april-29-2012-fourth-sunday.html

2Scott Black Johnston, http://www.ucc.org/worship/samuel/april-29-2012-fourth-sunday.html

3 Charles Cousar. http://www.ucc.org/worship/samuel/april-29-2012-fourth-sunday.html

4Texts for Preaching Year B, http://www.ucc.org/worship/samuel/april-29-2012-fourth-sunday.html

Sermon April 15, 2012

Acts 4:32-35
Psalm 133
1 John 1:1 - 2:2John 20:19-31

 
“Experience Resurrection”

“There lives more faith in honest doubt,

Believe me, than in half the creeds.” (Alfred, Lord Tennyson)

When I was looking for some thoughts on Thomas and his encounter with Jesus in today's gospel text I found this short verse. So I spent some time looking for the source of this quote—making sure that it was written by Tennyson, for one, but to read its context. I wanted to see what he was talking about when he wrote it. What doubt? What faith? What creed?

And as I read the full poem, one of many called In Memoriam, I realized that he wrote of someone who struggled with a task. In the struggle, the person didn't have much faith in ever being perfect. But because the person kept with the struggle, because he or she knew perfection was always beyond their goal, they always had an ideal to pursue. This person always improved and never stopped in their struggle. In their faith that there was always more, in their doubt that they would ever be perfect, there was faith in the abundance of what perfection had to offer.

This morning's scripture texts offer us two views of the church in the first century and neither present the perfect way of being church, but both are perspectives about being faithful to the resurrection of Jesus Christ amid need and doubt.

The gospel story begins by describing the first evening of that first resurrection Sunday. This is an infant church, at best. The disciples, though I guess not all of them, were gathered together in fear of being arrested in collusion with Jesus. The gospel of John uses the phrase, “in fear of the Jews,” though the men in that locked house were also Jewish people. But the fear was that they would be suffer as Jesus' had. And at this point in their life as disciples of Jesus, it was difficult to be terribly brave. A lot was left for them to learn what discipleship meant. So they hid.

In comparison, the word picture from the book of Acts describes the life of the church awhile later. All who believed were unified in their love for one another and their belief in Jesus Christ as risen Lord. They had such trust in one another that they decided to hold their property in common. According to this description, this particular early community had such trust in God and in one another that they didn't hold personal property, but shared according to what each one needed. These believers in Christ were no longer hiding their faith, but putting it and their worldly goods on the line. In what seems like just a few months, the followers of Jesus have become a community. And though this description

That first night when the disciples were first learning that Jesus had been raised was still one of incredible mystery and confusion. So Jesus' first words to them in that moment were words of reassurance. Be peaceful, calm down, rest assured—in John's poetry, “Peace be with you.” It had been a traumatic week. Even the exciting and enjoyable parts were full of tension. Then the whole thing ended in defeat, so they had thought. And then the surprise of resurrection was a little more than most could handle without fear and trepidation. So they sat in the dark and the isolation until Jesus broke the silence and fear—with peace. He didn't shout or sternly chastise them for their fear, it seems, but quietly became present among them and assured them of his life, resurrected and real.

And then they had to learn how to live with this news as a community. They had to learn to hold this wonderful knowledge within a diverse group of people—and right away they had to deal with Thomas and his honest, concerned doubt. He demanded with sincerity, it seems, to touch Jesus' hands and to see the wound in his side. All of those things, he imagined had to be clearly apparent on Jesus' physical body. It had been such a short time since he received them.

And so he saw, Jesus offered his hands, his side, and Thomas made the most profound declaration about Jesus in this gospel, “My Lord and My God!” and knelt. In the profound depth of his struggle, one might see the strength of his conviction. It was the experience of Jesus that convinced him—it seems he didn't actually have to touch Jesus' hands and side, but Jesus' presence bowled him over.

As the church began to live the life of a community, they had to struggle and work within the doubt that comes from life's questions, problems, obstacles and all the natural, normal things that happened. They figured out, in their need to live and work together, that they had to take care of one another, to love one another as Jesus had taught them. They began to learn and were inspired by the Holy Spirit, on the wind, in the fire and here in John's gospel in the very breath of Jesus—that part of their care for one another in that time and that place that love and care meant sharing their possessions in common.

They weren't far, just a few months perhaps, from Thomas' discovery—that the physical presence of Jesus Christ, in his actual body or in the body of Christ, the church, meant that Jesus' ministry continues in a very real and physical way.

Even though these two experiences of the love of Jesus Christ were told by two very different gospel writers—the author of Luke's gospel also wrote the book of Acts—there was a very real awareness in both narratives that love and compassion meant physical action. And in the gospel text for today, experiencing the resurrection meant that Thomas saw the compassion and love in Jesus' eyes—for him, certainly and for all the believers who would believe and continue Jesus' ministry of life and caring compassion for those who were in need.

As human beings one of the clearest ways we know that we are loved is when we are shown love—when we cry as infants, we know we are loved when arms hold us or change our diapers or when we are fed what we need to grow. We know love in a visceral way. I've done many funerals and when I talk to people about their loved ones, families almost always tell me about the loved one in terms of how that person showed their love. He worked hard for his family; she always had plenty to eat on the table; he always had time for my children; she made all of our clothes when we were kids; they were always together, even when they didn't talk much to each other. We know love in experience; and so we know life, even resurrected life, from experience.

The love of Jesus cast away all doubt from Thomas—but his doubt exposed how sincerely he wanted to love the living Jesus, so much that he had to experience that love to know that life. And we do, too, we have to know that we are loved by Jesus Christ. We have to know that God loves us. We must be aware of the power of the Holy Spirit in us. We don't know any those things perfectly, but we must know it in some flawed, human and wonderfully imperfect way.

We can't know the living Christ by just believing it in abstraction—when we have come to believe we have had some experience that has made us understand that we, too, have the love of God in Jesus Christ. We have come to know that experience—in the darkness of a prison cell, in the warm light of a church service, in the cold hands of those in need of a warm meal, or in our own fear and need for the love Jesus and his followers have to give. However it is that we know it, if we believe that Jesus is risen—we have experienced Jesus' life in our own in some way.

Thomas didn't doubt because he didn't believe that God could do what seemed impossible—Thomas doubted because he felt alone, abandoned, left out of the love, the peace and community where Jesus' came to stand. In community, Jesus appeared and revealed that in him, they could live in peace together—to remind them of what they had had and what they were to have as a community who were bonded by their love and their lives.

In Jerusalem, they chose to bond and love one another by sharing their resources in common. In many of the communities where Paul preached and taught the gospel, they also share their resources with each other and with the church of Jerusalem and others in need—and when they weren't just with one another, their leaders called them on it. In today's scripture, including the epistle reading, we are reminded to face ourselves with the sincerity of Thomas, to have faith honestly—to face our doubts, confess our sins and be true to the experiences we have of love, of community and of the presence of Jesus Christ—within ourselves and within the people who surround us.

To the glory of God—who loves us in our doubt and in our faith—in our honest experience of the life that we are to live in Jesus Christ. Amen.

Sermon April 8, 2012

Acts 10:34-43
Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24
1 Corinthians 15:1-11
Mark 16:1-8

“terror and amazement”

How many of you enjoy surprises? Real surprises?

Can you remember looking forward to the unknown as a child? Can you remember being in real wonder at something unexpected?

Sometimes we enjoy the surprise, but usually we want surprises to be within the realm of expectation. What I mean is that many of us like things the way they are and minor surprises are okay, but major shocks to our system are more than we really enjoy.

Jesus was all about shocking the system during his lifetime, it seems, and especially this week of his life we are currently remembering and celebrating. Each piece, each event of this week was meant to overturn expectation—expectations for the work of the Messiah, expectations for the disciples and expectations of the finality of death.

Together last week, we told the story of Jesus' final week before the crucifixion. As he rode into Jerusalem on a donkey colt, we saw him make a mockery of a Roman triumphal parade—governor on stallions and soldiers keeping order. The palms and the disorderly rejoicing of the crowds were meant to reveal the absurdity of military pomp and imperial authority. One Thursday night, we heard the story of how Jesus, teacher, Messiah, Son of God and Master stripped to the waist and humbled himself to wash his disciples feet. Teachers and disciples had very clear roles in Jesus' day—this would have been scandalous and Peter, for one, was offended by the very idea. Then he was arrested and tried overnight for crimes against the established religion and the Roman Empire—he was stripped and beaten, then held to be guilty enough and so on Friday he was executed by crucifixion. He was crucified, as many were who challenged established power. His death was meant to be an example of what happens to those who challenge authority.

He was dead. Dead according to the expectations of all who had seen, heard and experienced this week in Jerusalem 2000 years ago. Dead to the temple authorities, out of their hair. Dead to the Romans, another troublesome Jew gone. Dead to his disciples, who may have thought he would triumph at the last minute. Dead to the women who watched to see where they put his body, so they could return this morning and finish their loving care of him. That was what they expected—that he was dead. When people had been killed by crucifixion they stayed that way.

A Messiah, according to most believers in Jesus' day, was meant to ride in save the day, but he surprised them. And so this morning, so long ago, they awoke to sorrow and grief at their lost friend and teacher, but also at the loss of hope for the coming revolution which would bring the renewed kingdom at last into all of their lives.

Instead, the women headed out to the tomb to anoint Jesus' body, where they expected it to have remained through the day of sabbath rest. And they expect to do their duty and return home, but more surprises, more shocking news greets them. A young man, according to the gospel of Mark, tells them, “Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.” Because they were shocked and scared—full of terror and amazement—they ran and said nothing to anyone.

But wait a minute, that's not the end is it? According to the best manuscripts of Mark, it is. They left and went home. Did you expect that?

The first time I heard that—probably in seminary—I was shocked and annoyed that no one had pointed this out to me before. I knew the end of the story—I did. But I knew it from the other gospels and I knew a combined version of it.

And when the gospel writers tell a story in a particular way—it means something. It means something that Luke tells us about the shepherds and angels at Jesus' birth and it means something that Matthew tells us about the wise men and the star. It also means something that Mark begins the gospel with Jesus' baptism—like John—and it means something that Mark ends the gospel with the women running in terror and amazement.

It means, perhaps, that the cross was not to be overshadowed by this miracle. In fact, Fred Craddock suggests that Mark's "accent" on the cross is the very reason that he didn't include resurrection appearances that might pull focus away from it as the meaning of discipleship: "For Mark, the resurrection served the cross; Easter did not eradicate but vindicated Good Friday" (Preaching through the Christian Year B). In all of our Easter finery, in our celebration and our Alleluias, in flowers and white cloths, it jars our sensibilities to be reminded of Good Friday, to think that we worship an "executed God":  Megan McKenna quotes Mark Lewis Taylor, reminding us that "To follow the executed God today is to let die the god of religious respectability" (Mark Lewis Taylor, The Executed God, quoted in On Your Mark: Reading Mark in the Shadow of the Cross). At the heart of the Gospel of Mark is the way of the cross.¹

This is unexpected. That's what I thought when I first knew that Mark's gospel ended here. He doesn't say that Jesus wasn't alive—in fact, the young man does say that—but Mark doesn't give us a word picture of what that means beyond shock and fear, beyond terror and awe.

The power of God here shakes us up one more time.

There is no witness to the resurrection itself—we have witnesses to the messengers, and witnesses to an already resurrected body of Jesus, but no one saw it happen. It leaves a little room for mystery. Leaves us in awe and, “In fact, it leaves room for mystery—both in the Biblical narrative and in our own lives. After all, the life and death of Jesus seem fairly straightforward—we all know life, and some of us have seen people die, and we all will eventually die.

The resurrection reminds us of the mysterious ways of God, and the awe-inspiring gift of new life.”²

We left living in hope and assurance of the resurrection of the body—and our participation in that resurrection, according to Paul's witness and proclamation, but still in awe, still in wonder as to how exactly that might happen, when it happens and it will.

And so we celebrate with great joy this day—not pure and unadulterated cheerfulness or that pollyannish kind of attitude that nothing bad or wrong happens, ever—but with joy. Joy as a by-product of faith which tells us that we can trust God, even if we don't always understand. Joy as the mixture of life's events and gratitude for God's presence in them all.

As you might expect, or might not expect, who knows this morning—after the women left the tomb in terror and amazement telling no one—it seems they did tell, someone told. Someone said, “Jesus is risen!” And someone else said, “Christ has been raised.” And some other person said, “I saw him, he is alive!” And others began to experience the presence of the living, risen Christ in their lives—according to Paul's letter 500 people saw him! Including Paul himself, as one untimely born, he says. But better late than never, I guess.

You never know what's going to happen when you live your life in the presence of God. You never know how things are going to turn out when you are walking the way of the cross and following Jesus: Messiah, Teacher, Savior and Friend.

To the glory of our God: source of life and hope now and forever. Amen.

1http://www.ucc.org/worship/samuel/april-08-2012-easter.html

2http://www.libsandcons.com/5/post/2012/04/theology-of-the-resurrection.html

Sunrise Service

Sermon April 8, 2012

John 20:1-18

“Wow!”

Each one of us deals with loss and sorrow, with joy and celebration differently. Some folks are so different from us that we can't imagine why they do what they do; some folks, we seem to understand, at least a little bit.

A friend told me the story of a man whose father died. The man was a grief counselor, someone who dealt with loss on an almost daily basis. At his father's funeral, he wept and cried loudly. His sorrow was clearly expressed. Some of his family members wondered why, if he was such an expert on grief that he didn't handle his own better. Why couldn't he keep himself in better control? His answer to them, had he not been crying, loudly and well, was that he was handling his grief appropriately. He was sad; he was mourning; he was full to overflowing with sorrow and tears and he was showing it. Instead of making other people comfortable when he had suffered the loss of his father, he did what came naturally to him. He cried.

Each person in Jesus' life also expressed their grief at his loss in different way. His disciples who were men, the gospels say, hid in the room where they'd eaten the Passover with him. They were, it seems, completely stunned by the events of the week. Jesus, who had been their leader and upon whom they had hung their hopes for leadership, freedom and life was dead and gone. They had walked and talked with him, learned from him and followed his commands to preach and teach for a short while. Where would they go now?

The women who followed Jesus as disciples, are also described in the gospel stories. They stood and watched in the distance according to some; they stood at the foot of the cross according to one telling. And they were also concerned with caring for Jesus' body in death, as they may have cared for his food and shelter when he was alive. The women in a Jewish community had this duty in death, they would wash and anoint the dead for burial. But Jesus died, according to the gospels, just a few hours before the Sabbath began and was put into a tomb just before dark on Friday, so until after sundown on Saturday nothing could be done. And they would not venture into the place where the dead were buried until dawn on the next day. Then they would finish their care of his body, to anoint him properly and say their final goodbye.

But instead, that early Sunday morning so long ago, the women who came for one last goodbye were met with mystery. In John's gospel it is Mary Magdalene alone who came to the garden and found that Jesus was missing. And the Peter and the Beloved disciple come to check out her story, also finding Jesus' missing. When they don't see him, they return home, to continue their wait, perhaps? But Mary stays and weeps at this second, unaccountable loss. On top of the crucifixion, on top of the death of her teacher, she can't even mourn him properly—as she had intended.

The angels appear, telling her what to expect. Then Jesus himself speaks to her, “Mary!” And she calls him, “Teacher!” But he tells her that the story isn't quite over, he has more to do, she'll have to do her part and tell the others, while he finishes what he has to do and take his place in the world to come.

The disciples don't seem to believe her story—and have no evidence. Their experience of Jesus takes place elsewhere. They know Jesus as a part of their experience of one another. And they only experience the risen Jesus when they are gathered together as a community.

Mary's grief was expressed by her need to care for Jesus; in John's gospel she cam alone to see him one more time. And when she was alone, she saw him and he spoke her name. Jesus knows his own and calls them by name and Mary was one of his own who recognized his voice and knew him, too.

The gospel story establishes her as the first witness and the first to preach the good news of the resurrection of Jesus. Her witness was established by Jesus' voice calling to her, when he spoke her name, perhaps when she recognized the love, the care and the joy in his voice. Then and only then could she see him and recognize his face.

When we stand facing death, no matter how we do it, how we respond—in demonstration of our loss or in stoic reserve. We can remember that death is not the end, that death does not win and that God has made life the ultimate goal.

This is the good news! The good news, preached first by Mary, preached by millions who claim a risen Christ as Lord and Savior. Amen.