"God in the Mystery" (Trinity Sunday)

John 16:12-15

12 "I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now. 13 When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth; for he will not speak on his own, but will speak whatever he hears, and he will declare to you the things that are to come. 14 He will glorify me, because he will take what is mine and declare it to you. 15 All that the Father has is mine. For this reason I said that he will take what is mine and declare it to you.

            Have you ever taken the time to go outside at night and just look up at the stars? If you haven’t, do yourself a favor tonight and do it. I don’t do it as much as I used to, but every once in a while, after everyone in the house is asleep, I’ll let the dog out the back door and stand on our deck and just look up. I used to do this for hours: I would stand in my dad’s backyard after getting off from work and just stare up at the sky until my neck hurt. I love looking at the stars; in many ways it helps to keep me humble, to know my place in the universe. You see, if it’s a clear night, and the lights from town aren’t so bright, you can stare into the sky and before long you’ll see more stars than you ever thought possible. Places which were once black begin to sparkle with the faint flicker of far off stars, and if you stare long enough, you’ll begin to notice the sky moving as the earth spins on its axis.

            I stare up at those stars and think about how far away they all are, how none of them are really anywhere close to a lightyear away, how some of them are probably even gone now, with their light just now beginning to reach my eyes on this planet. I like to think about how each of those stars likely has planets revolving around them, how some of them aren’t simply stars, but far off galaxies whose mass is only visible to me as a tiny dot of light. I like to stand there in the yard, on the deck, craning my neck, my eyes darting from one constellation to the next, unable to take the whole dome of sky in at once, contemplating the vastness of the universe and how beautiful and glorious it all must be, but then I begin to feel overwhelmed. Maybe it’s thankfulness in the recognition that the planet on which we live is such a random act of creation that there’s no way it’s random at all. Maybe I get overwhelmed with the possibilities that exist in a universe that seems so great that it will never be fully understood, or perhaps I am simply overwhelmed with the beauty and splendor of countless stars against a backdrop of nothingness. Whatever it is, it doesn’t take long for that feeling to subside when my dog begins to bark or when the heat pump pops to life, shaking me back to reality on this planet, back to the rhythms and realities of life. To tell the truth, as much as I like to gaze up at them, I don’t know much about those stars: I don’t know their names, locations, or classifications, but they still intrigue me. Their mystery still enthralls me, and perhaps it’s that overwhelming mystery that causes something within me to look up on a clear night, to not take for granted the beauty of a night sky. Perhaps it’s the mystery that calls my eyes upward.

            If I’m honest with you, it’s a similar sense of mystery that continues to drive me on this journey called faith. To me, faith really requires mystery—blurred edges, unanswered questions, doubt, paradox, thin places, and the unknown and unknowable. To me, it seems the very nature of God is found in the inexplicable mystery of one God in three persons, in the reality of God as Trinity (Father, Son, and Holy Spirit). It’s an elusive mystery, this Trinitarian reality of God. If we try to explain it, we almost always get it wrong; it’s like trying to catch a handful of smoke, yet theologians have tried to put God into words for centuries—we have tried to put God into words, into boxes, into images for centuries in various attempts to resolve the tension, to solve the mystery that is God. Yet God always stays ahead of us; the Holy Spirit blazes on in front of us, calling us with those words of Jesus to“come and follow.”

            I think that may have been at least part of what Jesus is getting at in the words from John’s gospel before us this morning. This is part of Jesus’ “Farewell Sermon” to his disciples prior to his crucifixion, resurrection, and eventual ascension. Jesus tells them, "I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now.” Jesus hasn’t told them everything. Jesus hasn’t had time to tell them everything, to explain it all, to lay it all out in graphs, charts, maps, and theological dissertations with multi-syllabic words and annotated footnotes. Jesus hasn’t given them all the answers, all the right words to say, all the right doctrines to believe. There are still many things they don’t know—and many things they don’t know they don’t know—but Jesus tells them, “you cannot bear them now.”

            Does he not have faith in his disciples? Does Jesus think that they can’t cope with the whole truth? Does he think they’ll be so overwhelmed that they’ll just throw their hands up and forget the whole thing? That happens, you know? You try your hand at something, maybe you build a birdhouse for the backyard, and it turns out so nice, you decide you can build a dining room table, but a few hours into measuring, cutting, gluing, and screwing, you realize you’re in way over your head and you don’t even have the right tools it takes to build a table, so you just give it up and throw the wood on the burn pile!

Some people are the same way with their faith: they give church a try, pick up a Bible and start reading, but before long they’re told they have to do this and not do that, or they’re told that they have to believe this and rebuke that, or someone tells them that their way of thinking is the only “right” way and all other ways are heresy. It doesn’t take long before they’re overwhelmed, swamped with all these opinions and directions until they decide to throw the whole thing out the window and carry on where they left off before anyone ever talked to them about Jesus. They just can’t bear it all.

            Maybe that’s why Jesus tells his disciples he’s got more to tell them but they just can’t bear it now. Maybe he knows there’s only so much a mind can manage; only so much one can digest at a time, only so much fuel a fire can burn without being drowned out. It’s important to point out, however, that Jesus doesn’t just leave his disciples with what he has taught them thus far. No, there is still more to learn, more to do, more to be, and when the time comes—“When the Spirit of truth comes,” they’ll continue on, continue to grow, because the Spirit “will guide [them] into all the truth.” Notice how Jesus doesn’t say, “When I’m gone, you’ll know everything, have it all figured out, and you’ll be able to tell those who have it right from those who have it wrong.” Notice Jesus doesn’t say, “When the Spirit of truth comes, he will tell you everything you need to know, so memorize it, make sure you get it all down right and don’t deviate from it.” Notice Jesus says instead, that when the Spirit of truth comes it will “guide them…” The Spirit is an active force in the life of a disciple of Christ, always guiding us, showing us what it is Christ would have us to do, who God would have us to be. This is why the fourth gospel relays these words from Christ about the Triune relationship between the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in these verses: it is through that mysterious relationship that the Spirit guides us in the truth that can only be found in God.

            Notice what I said there: “the truth that can only be found in God.” I think we can get too bogged down in thinking that “the truth” is found only in a certain way of reading the Bible, or a specific way of doing worship, or a precise method of baptism, or a particular way of praying. We can convince ourselves that our way of understanding is the right way—the only way—and then God is only a part of our way, the Spirit is simply a card we play when we want to prove a point, to justify our way of understanding the truth. We’ll say things like “I was led by the Spirit,” when it seems the Spirit always leads us to where we wanted to go in the first place!

            Jesus tells his disciples then and us now that there are still many things we don’t know—a lot of things we don’t know—but the Spirit will guide us to what we need to know, because the Spirit reveals that which is from God. There are still many things Jesus has for us to learn. To think we’ve got it all figured out, that we know it all, or that we somehow hold the key to understanding everything is nothing short of a lie! We are only fooling ourselves if we believe that. Of course, the good news in that is found in the reality that we don’t have to have it all figured out! We don’t have to understand the detailed intricacies of an orthodox doctrine of the Trinity; we don’t have to try to fill in the historical gaps in Scripture, or have an answer to every difficult question in this life. If we are being led by the Spirit of God, there will be times when the Spirit is still a ways ahead of us and the only answer we may have to the questions we face in this world will be “I don’t know”—and that’s alright! Living in the tension of mystery is a part of follow Jesus on this journey to bring about God’s Kingdom.

            Listen, if you’re afraid you don’t know it all, that you don’t know enough, well, you aren’t alone. Honestly, for me, I tend to feel most connected, most “plugged-in,” most in tune with God’s Spirit when I realize that I don’t know it all, that I’m not supposed to know it all, and that maybe my sense of certainty is actually keeping me from more fully experiencing God. When I let go of my self-assuredness, when I come to grips with the fact that I don’t know, that I’m not sure, that I just don’t have it all figured out, that’s  most often when God moves in my life, when the Spirit’s guidance and direction becomes most evident.

            I think that may be a piece of the mystery of God as Trinity. I think that God’s reality is expressed in this indescribable “three-in-one” relationship in part to remind us that ultimately God can only be known in relationship, in a mysterious, trusting, self-giving relationship. We are invited into that relationship, to experience the fullness of God’s love in relationship with God. Now, are there things we ought to know? Of course. Are there things we still don’t know? Of course! Jesus still says to us, “I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now.” We cannot bear them now, but in time, with the Spirit’s guidance, we will come to understand the things of God, the ways of the kingdom. Until that day, however, be faithful in what you do know, in the ways of God and God’s kingdom of which we do know. Be faithful in seeking the Spirit’s guidance. Be faithful in admitting you don’t know what you really don’t know. Be faithful in following Jesus on the journey wherever you may be along the way, for as the Apostle Paul says, “now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.”[1] Amen.

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[1] 1 Corinthians 13:12

"Spirit of Adoption" (Pentecost Sunday)

Romans 8:14-17

14 For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. 15 For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received a spirit of adoption. When we cry, "Abba! Father!" 16 it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God, 17 and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ—if, in fact, we suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him.

            How can you tell if someone is a Christian? Seriously, I wonder what criteria you use to determine if someone is a follower of Christ. Can you tell by the clothes they wear? Can you tell someone is a Christian if he tucks his shirttail in his pants, if his hair doesn’t touch his ears, if she wears skirts below her knees with sensible shoes, if their t-shirts say things like “Jesus is my homeboy?” Can you determine if someone is a Christian by the bumper stickers on their car, those with stickers that say things like “Jesus Saves,” “God is my co-pilot,” or those that show their endorsement for a particular political party being the obvious Jesus followers? Can you spot a Christian by the way they talk? Do they abstain from “cussing,” opting rather to use euphemisms and speak in coded “Chritianese”? Can you determine if someone is a genuine follower of Christ by their record of church attendance, the number of Bible verses they’ve memorized, the things they post of Facebook, the amount of money they give to a church or charity? Can you spot a Christian by the way he or she is “blessed” with material comforts and an all-around happy life, or is the answer found in the kind of music they listen to and the number of times you see them with a Bible tucked under their arm? I wonder…how can you tell?

            Well, in the text before us, the Apostle Paul gives us a rather ambiguous suggestion: “all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God.” So there you go; if you want to know how to tell who is and who isn’t a Christian—or as Paul says “children of God”—all you have to do is make sure he or she is “led by the Spirit of God.” Alright. Sermon’s over. Let us pray…

            Well, if you’re like me, that doesn’t quite settle such an inquiry, does it? I mean, really it just leads to another question: what does it mean to be “led by the Spirit of God?” Now, before you begin to chime in in your internal monologues about how being led by the Spirit means you do this or that and you don’t do this or that and you read your Bible and you pray…I think such a question deserves our serious attention, most especially if we believe that we are “children of God”—if you believe you are “led by the Spirit.” After all, to simply assume that being led by the Spirit is akin to following an exercise program or obeying a list of rules and regulations is to make the mistake of those scribes and Pharisees of Jesus’ day. So, still this refined question lingers a bit longer: what does it mean to be “led by the Spirit of God”

            To be honest, on this Pentecost Sunday, I wish Paul would just lay it out their plain for us. I wish it was more obvious, like a smack in the face, a clap of thunder, or maybe something like, I don’t know, the sound of a rushing wind and tongues of fire coming down out of heaven, but being led by the Spirit of God doesn’t always work like that. In fact, what happened at Pentecost seems to be the exception rather than the rule. It seems so often we’re like Elijah, waiting, hoping to hear the voice of God, to see the Spirit light up the way before us like a heavenly highway of holiness, but instead we’re made to wrestle with the “sound of sheer silence.”[1]

Paul’s words aren’t much help in the way of highlighting clear answers. He does, however, give us a bit of insight into what being led by the Spirit of God doesn’t look like: “For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear.” The Spirit of God is not a spirit of fear. The Spirit of God does not cause us to tremble in the face of affliction; she is not a Spirit that leads us into the defensive stances of those who fear the loss of a world in which their comfort and peace were so securely kept. No, the Spirit of God is not a spirit of slavery, keeping us locked in some twisted relationship founded in fear, in the threats of judgement, punishment, and pain. To be led by the Spirit of God is to be led in freedom, freedom from fear, from defensiveness, from the threats of those who attempt to make you feel less holy, less righteous than them, from the judgement of false religions and legalism. The Spirit of God is not a “spirit of slavery to [cause you to] fall back into fear.” No, the Spirit of God is a Spirit of adoption, a Spirit which draws us into the divine relationship of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Paul says, “When we cry, ‘Abba! Father!’ it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God.” This Spirit of adoption—the Holy Spirit—shows itself through us when we cry out in prayer, in distress, in joy, in celebration, in heartache, in our grief to God. This crying out to God, however, is not simply some last-ditch effort in securing safety, nor is it some bargaining chip or attempt to show one’s own righteousness in shouting out God’s name at every opportunity in hopes that it might actually work! No, Paul is sure to use the Hebrew word “Abba,” even though it may be a bit redundant as it means “father,” but this is the word Jesus himself used to address God, a word that was transmitted in its original language through ancient Greek and Latin texts and even survives in our modern English texts because of the weight of its meaning, its deeply personal, relational meaning. Paul says, “When we cry, ‘Abba! Father!’ it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God,” because when those who are led by the Spirit of God cry out to God—to Abba—it is because they know God; they cry out to God as an injured child cries for his “Dada.”

This crying out to God isn’t some religious after-thought, some attempt to invoke the holy in order to get one’s way. No, this is crying out to the God whose steadfast love (hesed) for us is so deep and unyielding that we cry out trusting God is there in the first place! It is a cry of trust, that God is our God and we are God’s children and, as Paul goes on to say, “if [we are] children, then heirs, heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ.” We share in the wondrous bond with Jesus! As children of God, we share in the great, eternal relationship that exists between the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—it is the very Spirit that draws us into that relationship! We are “heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ,” and for an awful lot of folks, those words are about getting something, about being included in the will as benefactors of some heavenly fortune in the afterlife. For them, being heirs with Christ is all about what they’ll get when it’s all over, about what God is going to give them when they step through the pearly gates, but the words of our text this morning, the words of the Apostle Paul in Holy Scripture, do not halt here with these words about being joint heirs with Christ.

Paul continues in verse 17: “if [we are] children, then heirs, heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ—if, in fact, we suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him.” Suffer? Me, a child of God, suffer? But I thought we weren’t “given a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear.” I thought being a child of God meant I’d be through with all of this suffering business, that I’d be through with all this negativity, that my pains and trials would be all gone, that my worries and doubts would be wiped away by my faith and a red-letter bible, that if I just pray enough, go to church enough, hang out with the right kind of people, if I just did everything I’m supposed to do and none of the things I’m not, if I’d make a stand against the wrong things and a show about the right things, if I’d just “let go and let God,” then I wouldn’t have to suffer. Yet here’s Paul, telling me—telling us—that we’ll be children of God, led by the Spirit of God, heirs with Christ—“if,  in fact, we suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him.” So then, does that answer our first question? How can you tell if someone is a Christian? Is it because they suffer?

Now, before we go down a road that leads to self-mutilation, understand this: yes, children of God are not exempt from suffering, but why do they suffer? You see, when we are driven by a spirit of enslavement to fear, our suffering is of our own making; it is a result of our anxiety about a world spinning out of our control; it is a result of our fear—our fears about those things different from us, those things we don’t quite understand, those things that cause us to have to think, to change, to grow. When we are driven by a spirit of enslavement, our suffering comes from our fear and that suffering and fear become and end unto itself. As children of God, heirs with Christ, we have not been given such a spirit. No, we have been given a Spirit of adoption, a Spirit of freedom from fear.

As children of God, indwelt with the Spirit of adoption, we suffer with Christ, which means we suffer as Christ suffered, and such suffering is not of our own making. It is from outside of ourselves, the result of living selflessly in a world obsessed with self and its manifestations of power, comfort, greed, intolerance, and hatred. As children of God, we join in Christ’s suffering as we seek to live lives that confront the “powers that be,” those who abuse the name of God for their own gain. We join with Jesus in his suffering as we refuse to ignore those on the margins of our society, as we refuse to overlook those who are of no direct benefit to us, as we reject the notion that in order to be a “good Christian” is to be quiet and fall in line with those in places of power who might otherwise cause us harm. When we join with Jesus is proclaiming the kingdom of God among us, when we join with Jesus in feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, welcoming the stranger, loving the sinners—we will suffer as Jesus suffered, because those with the power to inflict suffering will aim their threats at those whose very lives are turning the world right-side-up. We will suffer with Christ as we suffer with those he came to save. We will suffer with Christ as we stand up to injustice and hatred in this world, as we seek to bring God’s kingdom on earth as it is in heaven, because the truth is, there are an awful lot of folks who don’t want heaven on earth, because that would mean they’d have to share it with “those people.”

On this Pentecost Sunday, we have received a Spirit of adoption, the Holy Spirit of God, and that Spirit brings us into the divine relationship; it calls us to join with Jesus in his suffering because we know that such suffering is not an end unto itself. No! The suffering of Christ, the suffering we share with Jesus, the suffering we remember as we share in the Lord’s Supper this morning, is not the end! It is the way to glory! It is the path that leads to more and more of God’s kingdom breaking into this world! We have received a spirit of adoption, freeing us from fear, liberating us with love—liberating us to love, to love without fear even though it will lead to suffering, yet we trust that such suffering is not the end and is in fact the path towards glory and the full reality of being children of God in God’s kingdom.  Praise be to God! Amen!

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[1] 1 Kings 19:12

"Outside Agitators" (Seventh Sunday of Easter)

Acts 16:16-24

16 One day, as we were going to the place of prayer, we met a slave-girl who had a spirit of divination and brought her owners a great deal of money by fortune-telling. 17 While she followed Paul and us, she would cry out, "These men are slaves of the Most High God, who proclaim to you a way of salvation." 18 She kept doing this for many days. But Paul, very much annoyed, turned and said to the spirit, "I order you in the name of Jesus Christ to come out of her." And it came out that very hour. 19 But when her owners saw that their hope of making money was gone, they seized Paul and Silas and dragged them into the marketplace before the authorities. 20 When they had brought them before the magistrates, they said, "These men are disturbing our city; they are Jews 21 and are advocating customs that are not lawful for us as Romans to adopt or observe." 22 The crowd joined in attacking them, and the magistrates had them stripped of their clothing and ordered them to be beaten with rods. 23 After they had given them a severe flogging, they threw them into prison and ordered the jailer to keep them securely. 24 Following these instructions, he put them in the innermost cell and fastened their feet in the stocks.

            On May 13, 1963, Governor George C. Wallace sent a telegram to Washington D.C. addressed to the Alabama delegation of senators and congressman, outlining what the governor believed to be the root cause of recent unrest in the state, specifically the bombings that took place in Birmingham just two days prior in an attempt to assassinate leaders of the Birmingham campaign of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC). In that telegram, Governor Wallace says, “During the past several weeks the city of Birmingham has been set upon by outside agitators who have done everything within their power to create internal strife and turmoil…Particularly questionable was the bombing activity of Saturday night, May 11.”[1] It was one case of many, where Governor Wallace would place the blame for the violence and unrest that took place here in Alabama in those days on “outside agitators,” those he believed were coming from other places outside of Alabama, those who held contrary views (as Governor Wallace saw it) to those in Alabama, those whom he believed were simply troublemakers seeking to cause problems where (as he would claim) none previously existed.

            It was an attempt to shift the source of the strife of those days away from the sinful practices of segregation and the unjust Jim Crow laws to an imagined group of antagonists, an attempt to misdirect the attention of the masses in order to uphold the status quo and turn their anger and frustration towards those who were “outside,” those who were different, those who were striving to bring about change and a real difference in their communities and in the broader society. That phrase, “outside agitators,” was a political work of linguistic ingenuity; it allowed for blame to be placed on a group of those who were utterly “other,” while simultaneously avoiding addressing the actual issues at hand. It was a verbal finger pointing that created a scapegoat for the unrest and irritation found in those whose ways of living were being disrupted by the in-breaking of justice. It was an attempt to redirect attention away from the actual maleficence of societal norms towards those who sought to correct them. “Outside agitators” were labeled as such because it was a convenient attempt at marking those who stood to cause change and bring justice as “the bad guys,” the ones who were really causing all the trouble.  

With that in mind, I don’t doubt that if George C. Wallace had been a resident of Philippi in the first century, he would have labeled Paul and Silas as “outside agitators.” I mean, in the passage we’ve read this morning, Paul and Silas are simply on their way “to the place of prayer,” the makeshift synagogue outside the city, by the river, the place where (as we saw last week) Lydia listened to the Good News, was baptized, and welcomed Paul and his company into her home. That ought to remind us that Paul and Silas are indeed “outsiders,” folks who “weren’t from around here.” As they’re walking to this place of prayer, they “met a slave-girl who had a spirit of divination and brought her owners a great deal of money by fortune-telling.” She followed Paul and [his crew, and] she would cry out, ‘These men are slaves of the Most High God, who proclaim to you a way of salvation.’" Now, (according to Luke) they weren’t preaching in the city; Paul and his companions weren’t passing out tracts on the way to this place of prayer, nor were they carrying signs or shouting from bullhorns as they went on their way. Apparently they didn’t need to do any of that, because this slave-girl ironically proclaims to all of those within earshot that Paul and the believers with him were there to “proclaim… a way of salvation.”

            She was like Paul’s personal hype-man (or in this case, hype-woman), getting the crowd pumped up and ready for what’s about to go down, telling everyone what they’re about to experience—except, in this case, Paul doesn’t really want that kind of attention. In fact, Luke tells us that “She kept doing this for many days,” and Paul became “very much annoyed,” so he “turned and said to the spirit, ‘I order you in the name of Jesus Christ to come out of her.’ And it came out that very hour.” This isn’t a typical exorcism: Paul doesn’t expel the demon from this girl because it was having an adverse effect on her, because she was ill or behaving in a self-destructive manner. No, Paul orders the spirit to come out of the woman because, well,  he is annoyed! He’s tired of being followed by a girl who keeps shouting his business to everyone. Maybe he was annoyed because of her persistence—the way she was always there, like that guy who’s always working the register when you need to check out, and he wants to talk your head off about everything from the weather to the latest installment of some video game you know nothing about. He’s always there, and it’s always the same thing. Perhaps Paul was annoyed by the fact that it was this possessed, fortune-teller who actually understood what he was doing, that the wrong person seemed to be getting the point, that the wrong kind of person was at least acknowledging what Paul was saying, or maybe Paul was annoyed because when she said “These men are slaves of the Most High God…” she didn’t mean the God of Israel (YHWH) but the chief god of the Roman pantheon, Zeus, or at least it could have been interpreted that way. Paul may have been annoyed because of the confusion she was causing.  Either way, Paul had enough, so he ordered the spirit to come out of her, and it did, without a whole lot of show either.

Now, this would be a perfectly acceptable place to leave this story, and we could chalk it up as another tale of the apostles’ ability to exorcise demons, of their miraculous abilities that served as evidence and justification for the message they proclaimed, but there’s more to this story than just Paul’s ordering a spirit out of a nameless slave-girl. There’s more to this story than Paul’s annoyance that leads to an exorcism. You see, the events that follow Paul’s denouncing of the spirit in the slave-girl are quite exemplary when it comes to what it’s truly like to be a bearer of the gospel of Christ. What happens after Paul’s expulsion of the girl’s divining spirit isn’t necessarily what some of us might think would happen after such an event.

Luke tells us: “when her owners saw that their hope of making money was gone, they seized Paul and Silas and dragged them into the marketplace before the authorities.” Now, perhaps I’m a bit naïve; maybe I’m a bit too hopeful for the good nature of humankind, but I would have thought these people would have been glad to see a girl returned to health, put back in her right mind, freed from a spirit that caused her to be anything besides “normal,” an included part of the community. My hopes for the better marks of humankind, however, are too often proven wrong—especially when money is involved! It’s at the realization that “their hope of making money was gone” that the owners of this slave-girl (who otherwise disappears from the narrative) are agitated. Their greed, their freedom to exploit a vulnerable, young woman, is now gone, and rather than simply saying goodbye to their apparent free ride, they go on the attack; they catch up with Paul and Silas and drag them into the marketplace in order to put them on trial in the court of public opinion.

Now, it’s interesting what happens next: the owners of this girl bring their charges against Paul and Silas (Right here, I want to say something: can we just acknowledge here how awful it is that they are referred to here as the girl’s “owners” and there seems to be no direct revelation as to exactly how many “owners” she has? Perhaps the more daring among us might refer to these people for what they are—pimps for paranormal profit!). The folks bring their charges against Paul and Silas, but notice—they don’t charge them with relieving the girl of the spirit, nor do they make the case against them as economic enemies threating to rob the community of valuable tax revenue or financial stimulus. No, these are their charges: "These men are disturbing our city; they are Jews and are advocating customs that are not lawful for us as Romans to adopt or observe.” They called Paul and Silas (in a sense) “outside agitators,” foreign folks who’ve come into their city to stir up trouble, to push their agendas, to stir up otherwise peaceful folks who’ve gotten along just fine before they got there. Paul and Silas are called out for their difference, the ways they’re not like the “good folks of Philippi.” Rather than charge Paul and Silas with the offenses they have committed against these slave owner, they’d rather point out the immigrant status of these two men; they’d rather point out they ways they’re behaving differently, because, you know, being different is quite often a more severe offense than actually breaking the law, especially if such differences force me to give up something, whether it’s comfort, wealth, power, or privilege.

They point out Paul and Silas as Jews (though later on it will come back to bite them that Paul is actually a Roman citizen), claim they’re agitating folks with their “outsider” ways of thinking and doing (even though there is no evidence in the text that suggests they did anything inside the city, restricting their ministry to the “place of prayer” outside the city), but perhaps the most disturbing thing about their prejudiced prosecution is what Luke tells us in the final three verses of our text this morning: “The crowd joined in attacking them, and the magistrates had them stripped of their clothing and ordered them to be beaten with rods. After they had given them a severe flogging, they threw them into prison and ordered the jailer to keep them securely. Following these instructions, he put them in the innermost cell and fastened their feet in the stocks.”

Why are Paul and Silas imprisoned? Is it because they broke the law? Is it because they were deemed as dangerous to the welfare of the broader community? No! They were stripped of their clothing and beaten with rods because their actions as agents of God’s kingdom liberated a girl from a life of exploitation and abuse. They were severely flogged because the status quo was thrown out of whack by their very presence as ones empowered by the Holy Spirit to break the chains of oppression and a societal system that allows for advantage to be taken of the disadvantaged. They were thrown in the innermost cell with their feet in the stocks because the masses can quickly turn on those who are different, those who are foreign, those who speak a word that is different from “the way we’ve always done it.”

You see, Paul and Silas are beaten and imprisoned not because they “preached the gospel” (Luke never gives us any indication they preached at all in the city up to this point). No, they were beaten and imprisoned because they were easily singled out as different, and the gospel they believed, the salvation they proclaimed and brought to reality (if even in an act spurred by annoyance!), is one that cannot help but upset the status quo.

All of us who act as agents of the Kingdom of God carry with us the subversive label of “outside agitator,” for that is what we ought to be! We ought to be living our lives in such a way as to upset the status quo—not long to be a part of it! And just so you don’t misunderstand me, I don’t mean we are called to be some moral watchdog, poised on the outskirts of society pointing our fingers at those individuals who step a toe out of line with our conviction. No, I mean we are called to be agents of liberation, women and men who see the sin inherit in the social structures of civil religion and the evil evident in economic systems meant to make the rich richer and the poor poorer. Rather than allowing ourselves to be distracted by what some in places of influence and power may label as “immediate moral issues,” we are called to be people who bring about real change in the world: to bring the good news of God’s love to those who have been told they are not loved (either directly or indirectly by a system and culture that devalues them), to welcome the foreigner, to care for the widow and orphan, to eat with the reprobate, to feed the hungry, to heal the sick, to talk to the stranger, to throw the doors open wide and go out into the highways and hedges and tell them all they’re invited to the Lord’s feast! We are called to be the selfless people of God in a world which worships and honors selfishness!

Let me tell you, if you begin to live the words of Jesus, if by your actions you (like Paul and Silas) begin to shift the foundations of society, if you begin to bring about such change as to “comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable” there will be those who will point their fingers at you and call you an “outside agitator.” They will find what makes you different: they’ll point out that you’re too young, too old, too dumb, too educated, too rich, too poor. They’ll say you’re a woman doing a man’s job, a man who worries too much about so-called “women’s issues.” They’ll say you’re not being faithful to tradition, that you’re too stuck on tradition, that you’re too liberal, too conservative, too stuck in the middle. They’ll call you crazy, naïve. They’ll say you’re just causing trouble, and they’ll try to shut you up, to gather folks against you by pointing at how different you from everybody else—even if it’s not true. They’ll try to do that, and when they do know this, that means the Spirit of God is moving. That’s when you know God’s kingdom work is being done, because the rough places are being made smooth, the crooked places made straight, the mountains are being brought low, and the valleys are being exalted—all of which take time and the steady power of God’s unyielding Spirit of love and the courage to be different, the courage to stand up in the face of those who abuse the systems put in place to put others in their place, the courage to be an “outside agitator.” Amen.

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[1] You can find a .pdf copy of this telegram at the Alabama archives website here: http://digital.archives.alabama.gov/cdm/singleitem/collection/voices/id/2957/rec/1 (accessed 5/6/2016)

"Lydia" (Sixth Sunday of Easter)

Acts 16:9-15

9 During the night Paul had a vision: there stood a man of Macedonia pleading with him and saying, "Come over to Macedonia and help us." 10 When he had seen the vision, we immediately tried to cross over to Macedonia, being convinced that God had called us to proclaim the good news to them. 11 We set sail from Troas and took a straight course to Samothrace, the following day to Neapolis, 12 and from there to Philippi, which is a leading city of the district of Macedonia and a Roman colony. We remained in this city for some days. 13 On the sabbath day we went outside the gate by the river, where we supposed there was a place of prayer; and we sat down and spoke to the women who had gathered there. 14 A certain woman named Lydia, a worshiper of God, was listening to us; she was from the city of Thyatira and a dealer in purple cloth. The Lord opened her heart to listen eagerly to what was said by Paul. 15 When she and her household were baptized, she urged us, saying, "If you have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come and stay at my home." And she prevailed upon us.

            This wasn’t where they were supposed to be. There was a plan, an itinerary, and a route mapped out. Paul and his company had plans to continue his ministry in Asia Minor, heading north by northeast, towards the Black Sea and the territories of Bithynia and Pontus, perhaps even Armenia and Cappadocia. These areas were in Paul’s ministerial wheelhouse, territories with higher populations of Jews, people with whom the apostle was comfortable speaking and sharing the good news of Jesus. Paul had plans, and most likely they were plans he had meticulously mapped out, plans he had prayed over, plans that seemed (at least to him) to be the best in carrying out his mission and sharing the gospel in a more effective and efficient way. Paul had plans, but as so many of us know the old cliché contains a great deal of truth: “if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.”

            In the few verses prior to our text this morning, we are told twice that Paul’s plans were interrupted, rerouted, or just blocked altogether by the Spirit. In verse 6 we’re told that Paul and his crew had to cut “through the region of Phrygia and Galatia, having been forbidden by the Holy Spirit to speak the word in Asia.” They had to change course, make other plans because the Spirit had “forbidden” them from preaching in Asia. That seems a bit odd, doesn’t it, that the Holy Spirit would forbid someone to speak the word of God’s Good News in Christ to anyone? But it isn’t the only time it happens to Paul. No, Luke tells us in the very next verse (verse 7) that Paul and company “attempted to go into Bithynia, but the Spirit of Jesus did not allow them.” No reason is given. There’s no mention of dangerous conditions, no words about extreme violence or natural disasters in that part of the world awaiting these missionaries. Even if there had been, it seems that would be more reason for them to have gone, especially given the nature of the early Church (and one could argue, the Church now) for rapid growth in places where it faces the largest obstacles and harshest persecution. Twice we are told Paul was prevented from going where he had planned on going by the Spirit, without so much as an explanation why. Isn’t that frustrating?

            Isn’t it frustrating when you have it all laid out, when you have a plan, your ducks in a row, when your life is written out with every “i” dotted and every “t” crossed, just to have it all collapse for seemingly no good reason? It doesn’t seem fair to work so hard in making a path for yourself, to find a groove in which you seem to work best, to invest so much energy in laying down life’s tracks only to be told the bridge is out, the way is blocked, or that you just simply aren’t allowed to go that way.

Maybe your life has been a gravy train with biscuit wheels, but I know there have been plenty of times in my own life when my train was stalled on the tracks, when my plans were changed or altogether scrapped. When that happens, it can make us question everything we’ve done up to that point, make us question our direction in life, our very vocation, and even who we are. When our plans are thwarted, when our life is knocked off course, or when the way we’ve always done things is suddenly (or even gradually) changed, it can cause us a great deal of anxiety about who we are and what we’re supposed to be doing. If we’re not patient, open to the moving of God’s Spirit in our lives, we can decide we’re either going to forge ahead with our plans, taking on whatever difficulties may come, or we’re going to just give up because there’s just no use in trying to start over. If we’re not sensitive to the Spirit of God, we can wind up walking away instead of prayerfully, patiently waiting.

            You see, Paul wound up waiting; he wound up waiting at Troas Luke tells us in verse 8. As far as Luke tells us, Paul doesn’t really do any ministry in Troas; he doesn’t undertake a new preaching ministry, doesn’t seek out a new audience in an attempt to reestablish himself as an apostle to Jewish-minded converts in Asia Minor. No, Paul just waits.

            Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t like to wait. Perhaps I’m a product of an instantaneous culture, the result of a time so technologically tuned that I can instantly order anything on the phone in my pocket and have it arrive at my door tomorrow (maybe even this afternoon). Maybe it’s the fast pace of our culture and its goal of squeezing as much out of an hour as we can, or maybe I have too much of my dad in me, too much influence from a man who seems to have an aversion to siting down when there’s always something broken to fix or something old to replace. I don’t like to just stand around waiting with my teeth in my mouth for something to happen; I’ve got to be doing something. I just don’t like to wait, and I know I’m not alone here.

Sometimes, though, we need to wait. Sometimes we need to stop, to breathe, to look around us, to listen. We may not like the circumstances that bring us to a halt or the way we’re sometimes forced to wait, but sometimes we need to wait. We need to wait, because if we don’t we might just fly right on by what God has for us, what God is actually calling us to do.

See, it’s while Paul is waiting in Troas that he receives the vision (the call) from the man from Macedonia in verse 9: “During the night Paul had a vision: there stood a man of Macedonia pleading with him and saying, ‘Come over to Macedonia and help us.’" This is what he had been waiting for: a call from God—action! We’re told in verses 10 through 12 that, “When he had seen the vision, [they] immediately tried to cross over to Macedonia, being convinced that God had called [them] to proclaim the good news to them. [They] set sail from Troas and took a straight course to Samothrace, the following day to Neapolis, and from there to Philippi, which is a leading city of the district of Macedonia and a Roman colony.” It was like they had a travel agent on speed dial! Paul has the vision and immediately they’re off! Luke even outlines the course of their journey for us (which I’m sure many of you can find in the back of your Bibles; just look for a map that traces “Paul’s Second Missionary Journey”). I find it interesting, however, that once the crew arrives in Philippi they “remained in this city for some days.” There they were again, waiting.

You know, I’m convinced that God doesn’t often line the way with neon signs or giant billboards to tell us where heading in the right direction. It seems to me that God prefers to leave clues for us, traces of God’s direction for us to follow. Maybe because it takes less faith to follow a map, to plug the address in the GPS and simply turn right when it tells us to turn right or left when it tells us to turn left. Maybe God’s directions have built in “pit stops,” times and places where we have to slow down, when we have to quiet our lives and ourselves in order to discern the next step, to wait for God to give us the next “holy hint.” Perhaps that’s why Paul and his posse had to pause in Philippi for a few days, to discern where God was leading them next.

When it seemed that the hordes of the Macedonian seekers weren’t showing up where Paul and his team were waiting, he returned to a method that had worked for him in the past: on the Sabbath day he went to find a synagogue. However, this was Philippi and Jews were in the minority. In fact, the text suggests that since Paul and his followers came upon “a place of prayer; and…sat down and spoke to the women who had gathered there,” there may not have even been the required number of ten Jewish men to necessitate a formal synagogue. So Paul is clearly outside of his comfort zone, at least outside the normalcy of his evangelistic strategies. And it only gets more outside the ordinary when we witness who it is that leans in to listen: “A certain woman named Lydia, a worshiper of God, was listening to us; she was from the city of Thyatira and a dealer in purple cloth.

Didn’t Paul see a man in his dream, a Macedonian man?! I thought he was entering the European continent with the gospel to spread it among the Gentile men in their pagan temples and unholy homes. I was under the impression that when Paul got the call to go to Macedonia it was in order to bring about a sweeping display of the gospel’s power to convert people by the hundreds, to cause change in the hearts and minds of those furthest from the truth of who and what God is. But here is Paul, at an impromptu synagogue, telling this woman—a single, rather well-off, Gentile, God-fearing woman—the Good News, and she’s listening to him. She’s listening because “The Lord opened her heart to listen eagerly to what was said by Paul.” God is the agent of action, just as God has been throughout Paul’s ministry, and as such, God is moving in and among the least expected people in the least expected places and in the least expected ways along the journey.

Luke tells us that “When [Lydia] and her household were baptized, she urged [them], saying, ‘If you have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come and stay at my home.’ And she prevailed upon [them].” The proof of Lydia’s conversion is her display of hospitality to these folks she has just met, these men who have arrived with the news of God’s grace, love, and forgiveness through Jesus Christ. It’s very likely that Lydia went on to become the founder of the church there in Philippi—a church that Paul would later write to in such a way as to make one believe it was his favorite church. Lydia becomes the first European Christian, the first believer in this new direction of God’s kingdom expansion. Her conversion is the direct result of God’s active presence in leading Paul in his ministry. Lydia’s faith can be traced back through Paul’s faith, a faith that required times of purposeful pause, of serious reflection and discernment, a faith that didn’t always go in the direction or at the speed Paul may have wanted it to go, but God shaped Paul through it all. God shapes us through the pauses, changes, and unexpected people along our own faith paths.

When we are faithful and intentional in listening for the direction of Christ, when we recognize the need to wait, the reality that our direction may not be God’s direction, then we will realize the truth that God shapes us by causing us to step outside of our comfort zones and usual approaches to faith. Then we will realize that our plans, routes, systems, and structures may not actually be from God. When we take the time to truly listen for the leading of God’s Holy Spirit we just might find that God doesn’t line the way with flashing lights and obvious answers, but that there’ll be more waiting than we’re comfortable with and more people with whom we may have never expected to cross paths. So let us be patient. Let us not be fearful n frustrated in waiting, listening, and discerning. Let us be the people of God who seek the way of the Lord and follow it wherever it  may lead and to whomever it may take us. Amen. 

"New Coming Down" (Fifth Sunday of Easter)

Revelation 21:1-6

1 Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. 2 And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. 3 And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them; 4 he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away." 5 And the one who was seated on the throne said, "See, I am making all things new." Also he said, "Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true." 6 Then he said to me, "It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give water as a gift from the spring of the water of life.

            There were about two dozen or so of us seated in the red-upholstered seats in the modern-designed auditorium with its concrete walls, dark wooden panels, and polished metal railings and accents. We occupied just the first few rows as the room could easily hold a few hundred people. On the stage before us was a podium with a single chair next to it, a screen just above that single chair, and the podium was facing a longer, “L”-shaped table. We had taken the afternoon to board the metro and embark on a rather long stroll through the newer side of the city to the Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam (the Free/Independent University of Amsterdam). We were there to witness a Ph.D. defense, or “promotion” as they call it in the Dutch tradition.

We sat in that awkwardly warm auditorium, carrying on conversations about what it might be like, how long it would be before we’d be in that position, why it took place in such a big room, what we were going to be doing in class until 9:00 that evening, when, through the back doors of the room came about ten men and women in black robes, and black felt hats, led by a woman carrying an odd looking mace with bits of clanging metal attached to the top. The rear of this parade was brought up by two men in very formal tuxedos (complete with white ties and tails).

            The woman with the mace was the pedel, a sort of M.C. for the proceedings. We were told that she was the official time-keeper; she was to make sure that the thesis defense was to last exactly one hour—sixty minutes—and not one minute more. After the rest of the robe-clad academics took their seats, the tuxedoed candidate took his place behind the podium, while a friend occupied the single chair off to the side (we were told that traditionally, this person was there in case the candidate couldn’t finish the defense, likely due to being rendered unconscious from an actually, physical fight with the promoters). After giving a summary if his research, he fielded questions from the various professors and academics seated at the table (mostly about his research methods and possible ethical issues in his reporting). After what I’m sure to him felt like an eternity, a couple of us noticed the pedel as she emerged from a side door carrying her mace. She walked down the center aisle of the theatre, stood in front of the stage, and stared at the clock on the wall just off the stage to the right. Then, as if she had some pent up need to slam something down, she raised the mace up in the air and drove it into the floor as the metal bits attached to its head clanged like a gong, and she shouted hora est! (which means something like “It is time!”).

            I remember the look on the guy’s face when she said those two words. It was like he had been holding the breath in one lung for an hour, and when she announced the hour, he could finally let all of that tension out of his chest. Later, we were told that, while the defense was to be taken seriously and one could still not be promoted following a poor defense, the ceremony was more a formal act akin to graduation, so one just had to survive the hour and he or she would be promoted to Doctor of Philosophy (Ph.D.).

            Just survive the hour, just hold on until the time is up, hang on until it’s all over. Like a point guard on the leading team holding the ball in the final seconds of the championship game, just let the clock run out. Like the quarterback who takes a knee when his team is up by nine with twenty-three seconds to go, just let the clock run out, just let the end come. Like a doctoral candidate who’s put in all the labor to earn for him/herself that coveted degree, just fill the air with words until your time is up.

            You know something? I’m afraid that’s what a number of us who call ourselves Christians do. Seriously. Especially—especially when it comes to what we believe about “THE END,” how this whole thing is going to wind up when God slams the mace on the floor and shouts “hora est!” We’re just sort of holding on, holding half our breath, hoping we’ve done enough of the right things and abstained from enough of the wrong things that when the mace does fall, when the trumpet does sound, when the hour finally does come, we’ll be able to uncross our hidden fingers and fully exhale because it’ll all be over and all the bad stuff—all the people and things we don’t like—will finally go away, and we’ll be given our reward. So all we have to do is hold on, wait, stick it out, grit our teeth and bear it a little while longer.

             Some would make the argument that this is what Jesus’ Revelation to John is all about, about “conquering,” sticking it out to the end, not giving in to temptation, discomfort, and persecution. Some would say that the book of Revelation is a sort of warning, a letter written in order to scare us straight, to keep up focused on “the end,” a letter written in order to point believers’ eyes towards the future and the great realization that all of this stuff is going to end anyhow, so just buckle down because we’re all going to get through this. And I have to tell you, it’s not a bad way to think about things—really. To focus on the future, to trust that God will eventually put an end to all that’s wrong with the world, I mean, isn’t that the only way it can happen? Of course! But what if we’ve missed something in our obsession with holding our breath? What if God isn’t asking us to hang on until the end when God will show up with a sledge hammer and a sword? What if—what if, God is already here among us, calling us to join in the redemptive work of transforming this world into God’s perfect kingdom?

            Now, I know, this passage we’ve read from Revelation is one with which many of you may be somewhat familiar, a passage you’ve heard more than once. And I also know that the book of Revelation comes with all sorts of baggage for folks, baggage packed by preachers, Sunday school lessons, science fiction novels, and big-budget, cinematic thrillers, but let’s all listen to its words together again, specifically those words spoken by “the loud voice from the throne” in verses 3 and 4: "See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away." And all God’s people said…Amen!

            That’s a stirring passage, one that ought to bring us hope, give us a sense of peace about the future, about the certainty of God’s coming. “The tent/dwelling/home of God is among mortals. God will dwell with them and they will be God’s peoples…” God will dwell with mortals? I think this may be where we start to slip gears a bit when it comes to understanding “the end,” and perhaps more importantly, the present, the “now.” You see, while these words from John’s Revelation of Jesus seem to suggest that God hasn’t yet come down to dwell among us mortal folks, there are other words from Scripture—words from the same (what we call) Johannine tradition itself—that tell us that God has already pitched his tent among us: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God…He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God. And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father's only son, full of grace and truth.”[1]

God is already among us! Christ, Emmanuel, “God with us,” the Holy Spirit, is already dwelling here with us. So, what then, do we make of these words from Revelation? When John the Revelator records those words spoken by the “loud voice from the throne” he is bearing witness to the fact that God has indeed made God’s home among mortals, that God, God’s self, is among us already. However, God’s presence among us isn’t meant to be some secretive, undercover surveillance job, wherein the Almighty simply hides behind the invisible veil of immortality, watching us, making notes about our every failure and triumph, waiting for the right time to peel back the cosmic curtain and finally reveal God’s full self to us. No! God’s presence among us is as real as the very air we breathe just as full of mystery. God’s presence among us calls us into relationship with God, into communion with the Almighty; God’s very presence among us is a call to join with God in bringing about the fulfilment of the prophetic promises of the kingdom!

God’s presence among us ought to inspire us to action, to take part in ending those things that bring pain, suffering, and injustice upon others. God’s presence among us ought to stir us to actively join with God in wiping away the tears from the eyes of those who mourn as we faithfully set about bringing an end to those things that cause our crying, as we seek to put an end to causing one another pain. God’s presence among us along with God’s words in verse 5 of our text call us to be a part of God’s in-breaking kingdom now, for God doesn’t say, “See, I’m going to make things new, one day, after it gets really, really bad and I just can’t stand it anymore. No! God says, “See, I am making all things new.” The very grammar of these words points to the reality that God is actively making all things new even now, that the kingdom of God is breaking into this world even now, and we—you and me, all of us who call ourselves Christians—can join with God as God’s presence is among us to bring about this kingdom where all things are new.

Now, I think here I ought to say that we can’t do this on our own. Maybe that goes without saying as we witness a world where so many think they’ve got the answers, the quick fixes, the policies that will put our state, country, or our world back on the right path, and we watch as they just create further divisions and spawn more vitriol among folks who would otherwise get along. We can’t bring about God’s kingdom on our, because, well, it wouldn’t be God’s kingdom if we could: sure there are a lot of folks who want to see their version of God’s kingdom come, a kingdom of folks who look, think, and act like they do, a kingdom with a gate around it, but that’s not God’s kingdom. However we may interpret this passage before us, one thing is certainly clear—God is among the peoples of the earth bringing God’s kingdom to reality. God is the main source of the action, the primary protagonist in producing perfection. However, that doesn’t mean we sit idly by, waiting for God to do it all so we can get what’s coming to us when it’s all over.

There are some words, some memories that are sort of burned into your mind, things that happened that you know changed the trajectory of your life, moments that laid the tracks that brought you to where you are now. There’s one I always come back to, even though it may seem like a rather small, really unimportant memory. I was thirteen. It was Friday or Saturday night, because I was at my dad’s house, on the couch in the living room (it was a time when there were more people than bedrooms at my dad’s house, and as I was the only boy, I slept on the couch when I came on the weekends). I remember my stepmom getting up and going out to the carport to talk to my dad (I think she wanted me out of the living room so she could watch TV or something). Dad was outside replacing the intake gaskets on the ’78 Cutlass Supreme he and my stepmom drove, and I distinctly remember hearing my step mom say to him, “Why don’t you let Christopher help you?” And my dad replied, “He doesn’t want to do any of this. He won’t want to help me.”

Now, folks, hearing my dad say that sparked something in me. I got off the couch, put my shoes on, and went outside where I told my dad I was there to help. He looked at me (a little stunned) and pointed at a coffee can that had push rods and lifters soaking in oil and a cardboard box that held the gaskets.  I spent the rest of the night out there, handing my dad wrenches, asking questions about how this worked or how that worked, trying my best to learn and help, because I knew it wouldn’t be the last time. Did I fix the leak? Did I replace the gaskets? Did I really do what my dad couldn’t do by himself? Of course not, but taking part in it, helping my dad do it, that changed me, that shaped me.

Maybe that’s what God’s presence among us is all about. Maybe God invites us to bring about God’s new kingdom—not because God needs us or because we have to do it in order to earn a spot in it, but because our participation with God, our joining with the presence of God among us as God is making all things new, our cooperation with the ever-living, ever-moving, ever-loving Spirit of God in bringing about the reality of God’s kingdom changes us. Maybe God calls us off the sidelines, into the action because it shapes us, prepares us for the coming kingdom, prepares our hearts and minds for the wideness of God’s grace in the kingdom when we get our hands dirty with God’s work. Perhaps we shouldn’t simply be waiting for the hammer to fall, the trumpet to sound, the buzzer to go off, the sky to rend open, maybe—just maybe—God has already begun bringing about the fullness of God’s kingdom as God dwells among us even now. Maybe the new is already coming down, and Christ is calling our gaze upward, to reach our hands upward, but not so we may long for something “up there,” beyond the clouds, but so we may long to dwell with the God who is already living among us, that we may long to bring God’s new kingdom down to us, so we all may live in the presence of God together. Amen.

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[1] John 1:1, 10-14

"Sheep's Ears" (Fourth Sunday of Easter)

John 10:22-30

22 At that time the festival of the Dedication took place in Jerusalem. It was winter, 23 and Jesus was walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon. 24 So the Jews gathered around him and said to him, "How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly." 25 Jesus answered, "I have told you, and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father's name testify to me; 26 but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. 27 My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. 28 I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand. 29 What my Father has given me is greater than all else, and no one can snatch it out of the Father's hand. 30 The Father and I are one."

            Any of you have one of those friends who is really into a television show? You know the type: it’s all they talk about; it’s all they read about; they seem to be all but consumed by the show, its characters, and its plot. They are absolutely obsessed with the show, and since they’re your friend and they want to share this most wonderful thing in their life with you, they really want you to watch the show too. So, being the good friend you are, you decide one week that you’re going to check out this life-changing piece of television art for yourself (secretly praying it doesn’t consume you and turn you into someone who endlessly obsesses about an hour-long cable drama). You sit down on your couch, maybe you’ve popped some popcorn, got yourself a tall glass of something cold to drink, turn on the TV, and prepare yourself for what’s coming. It quickly becomes obvious, however, that you’re lost: You don’t know who any of these people are, why you should care about what they are doing, and most of the names, places, and events that unfold make absolutely no sense to you because (unlike your obsessing friend) you haven’t seen the first three seasons, read the fan blogs, or poured over the original source material (whether it’s comic books, novels, etc.). Your experience of the show and its narrative are limited because you lack the context of what’s going on. Sure you get the gist and the overall premise isn’t lost on you, but as for the details, those small things that actually contribute a great deal to understanding what’s really going on, you’re completely lost.

            I think this can happen to us when we read Scripture too. We can know the gist of the narrative—maybe we’ve even read it more than once before, but there are details, those small things that actually contribute a great deal to understanding what’s really going on. Sometimes these details are subtle, more like literary “winks” written into the text as a sort of nod to the original audience. These sorts of details may seem unimportant to us, yet they would have jumped off the page to those who first read or heard the words. There are times when these sorts of details may not affect our understanding of the text a great deal, times when these details may only serve to reinforce what we already know and believe the text to be communicating to us, but then there are those times when those small bits can add a facet of understanding to the text that causes us to read the text again, to listen with new, different ears. I believe there are a few of those sorts of bits that speak to us in the text before us this morning, so let us listen to them with new, different ears.

            Right away, in our text this morning, we are told, “At that time the festival of the Dedication took place in Jerusalem. It was winter, and Jesus was walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon.” Seems like some harmless exposition, some scene-setting, but I wonder how many of you know what the festival of the Dedication is, or where the portico of Solomon is located in Herod’s Temple, or if there’s any real importance in reminding the reader that “it was winter.” It may help to give us a little context.

The festival of the Dedication is what we actually know today as Hanukkah, a festival that celebrates the victory of Judas Maccabeus over the Seleucid king Antiochus IV Epiphanes, who had desecrated the altar of the temple for three years by erecting a statue of the god Zeus in the Most Holy Place (this is actually the “abomination that desolates” mentioned in the book of Daniel). Judas and the Maccabees overthrew Antiochus, cleansed the temple, and rededicated its altar for the worship of the God of Israel. The festival of the Dedication, unlike other festivals, could be observed at home, without a pilgrimage to the temple in Jerusalem. It was observed with the lighting of candles, a celebration recalling the victory of one of Israel’s own over the Gentile oppressors, a festival that celebrated the power and might of one “messiah” who had proven triumphant over the heathen Gentiles and their desecration of the temple. While it may not have been one of the major festivals of the day, the festival of the Dedication surely would have had people talking about the Messiah, the Gentile, Roman oppressors, and the need for a revolt in order to purge Jerusalem and the Temple of the Gentiles’ presence.

I don’t doubt that with such talk, with such imagery in the hearts and minds of the people, there may have been questions, murmuring about this Jesus of Nazareth possibly gathering up a movement to, like Judas “the Hammer” before him, overtake the Romans and reinstate some sort of Jewish government over the city of Jerusalem, if not over all of Judea. I suppose that’s why “the Jews gathered around him…said to him, ‘How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.’"

Here again, though, there’s a bit of context we’re lacking. You see, at first reading, “the Jews” (the fourth gospel’s designation of those Jewish leaders in opposition to Jesus and his movement) seem anxious, almost wanting Jesus to surprise them and claim to be the Messiah. “How long will you keep us in suspense?” It sounds like they’re on the edge of their seats, on the verge of either believing and following Jesus or throwing him and his whole ideology out of town in order to make way for whoever is next in line to call himself “messiah.” Here’s the thing though, what these people literally say is “How long are you going to keep taking away our life?” Now, that sounds a lot different than “How long will you keep us in suspense?” doesn’t it? Even still, those words may not mean exactly what we might think they mean. You see, “How long are you going to keep taking away our life?” is an idiom, an expression that has a more colloquial meaning, and in this case it is better understood as “How long are you going to keep annoying or irritating us?” So the question in verse 24 is perhaps better understood as something like “"How long will you keep annoying us? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly. Stop speaking in riddles and avoiding our questions."

These Jewish leaders are annoyed, irritated with Jesus. He refuses to answer their questions directly, refuses to fess up to whether or not he’s the Messiah. Perhaps Jesus just likes messing with them, likes to keep them on their toes, but judging by his response to them in verses 25 through 30, Jesus has already answered their question: "I have told you, and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father's name testify to me; but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand. What my Father has given me is greater than all else, and no one can snatch it out of the Father's hand. The Father and I are one." “I’ve already told you,” Jesus says, but like the cold, winter air just outside the protective walls of Solomon’s portico, their understanding of Jesus is cold, frigid with the unmovable expectations of those who already have it figured out, those who already believe they know who and what the Messiah is supposed to be. Jesus has already told them the answer to their question, but they can’t hear because they have the ears of those who’ve already decided what God’s Anointed One is supposed to do, who the Messiah is supposed to be. They are like those folks today who ask for your opinion—not so they may learn from your perspective or genuinely learn more about you and what you stand for, but so they can decide whether you agree with them or not and whether they like you or not.

“The Jews” had the image of one like Judas Maccabeus, one with a name like “the Hammer” who would rise up as a powerful, nationalistic, political hero, one who would storm the palaces of the Romans waving the flag of his people in one hand, while wielding a terrible, swift sword in the other. Perhaps they had in mind a messiah who would make it worthwhile to be a part of the Jewish elite, part of the upper-crust of the Israelite establishment, one who would fully reinstate the temple cult and its practices that favored those who could make the journey to Jerusalem, those who could afford the sacrifices. For these Jewish leaders, Jesus’s works spoke less of a messiah and more of a social worker, one who spent time with the poor, the needy, the sick, the outcast.

Sure, he had performed some signs of power and wonder—miracles like feeding thousands of people, healing the sick, giving site to the blind, even raising the dead, but had any of those actions actually driven out a single Roman authority? Had Jesus’ actions actually benefitted the nation as a whole? What about the temple? What about national pride and a desire to be governed by their own people? Jesus hadn’t done anything to bring anything like that about. In fact, it seemed (upon further inspection) that the crowds that were following Jesus were filled with the type of folks who were the last ones you’d want leading a revolution: fishermen, tax collectors, lepers, the formerly-demon-possessed, women, children, gentiles, Samaritans, prostitutes, the homeless, the blind, the lame, the crazy, the strung out, the hopeless, addicts, Roman soldiers, the poor—all of the wrong kinds of folks it takes to get a movement going, all the wrong kinds of people it takes to start a revolution, all the wrong kind of people period!

No wonder these Jewish leaders are annoyed! There’s all the hype, all this talk about Jesus being the Messiah, and he can’t even put together a decent following of decent people. They’re frustrated, annoyed, because Jesus won’t answer them directly, but the truth is Jesus has answered them loud and clear, they just don’t like the response they got from him, so they refuse to take it seriously, to listen to it with ears tuned to the voice of the Good Shepherd.

Aren’t we like that sometimes? Don’t we have our expectations of what Jesus should do, of who Jesus should be? Don’t we bring our own certainties to the table when it comes to defining who Jesus is? We’ve read the Scriptures. We’ve heard the prophecies. We’ve listened to the preachers tell us about the “sweet bye and bye” and the Christ who has promised us health, wealth, and prosperity. We’ve got our own expectation of a Jesus who likes what we like, despises what we despise, a Christ who sees things our way, who speaks our language, and meets our needs. But isn’t it annoying when Jesus doesn’t meet those expectations? Isn’t it frustrating when Jesus proves to be more than the image we’ve carved out for him, more than the box we’ve tried to keep him in?

When we listen to the words of Jesus found in Scripture, when we listen for the words of Jesus from the Holy Spirit, when we listen to his words with our own ears—ears tuned for happy platitudes, self-serving theological arguments and proof-texts—I’m afraid, more often than not, we wind up like “the Jews” of our text this morning: at best, “in suspense,” but mostly frustrated and annoyed because Jesus isn’t fitting into our plans, our picture of what a Savior is supposed to be. However, when we listen with the ears of sheep listening to the voice of the Good Shepherd, we cannot help but hear the very heart of God! When we listen with ears tuned for the kingdom—a kingdom made up of all of the wrong kinds of folks it takes to get a movement going, all the wrong kinds of people it takes to start a revolution, all the wrong kind of people period—when we listen with those kinds of ears, we are sure to hear the Good News that has made a way where there once was no way for any of us.

That’s not to say there won’t be times along the way when we won’t get annoyed, irritated, or frustrated by words of Christ, the truth of the gospel. After all, Jesus’ words are for everybody, the gospel is for everybody, and let’s face it—we don’t like everybody! We may not want other sheep following our shepherd, listening to his voice, getting in on all the grace going around, but the truth is there is a wideness to the love and grace of Christ that is beyond our expectations, beyond even our comprehension. That’s why we can listen in the first place. That’s why we know the Savior’s voice in the first place, because in spite of our stubbornness, in spite of our expectations and desires for a custom-made Christ, God still gives us grace. The voice of Christ still calls to us with words of love. May we listen to his call—not with ears searching for what we want, but with the ears of sheep who belong to the Good Shepherd. May we listen to the savior’s voice and follow him, wherever and with whomever he may call us. Amen.