Silent God

1 Kings 19:11-18

11 He said, "Go out and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by." Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; 12 and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence. 13 When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. Then there came a voice to him that said, "What are you doing here, Elijah?" 14 He answered, "I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away." 15 Then the Lord said to him, "Go, return on your way to the wilderness of Damascus; when you arrive, you shall anoint Hazael as king over Aram. 16 Also you shall anoint Jehu son of Nimshi as king over Israel; and you shall anoint Elisha son of Shaphat of Abel-meholah as prophet in your place. 17 Whoever escapes from the sword of Hazael, Jehu shall kill; and whoever escapes from the sword of Jehu, Elisha shall kill. 18 Yet I will leave seven thousand in Israel, all the knees that have not bowed to Baal, and every mouth that has not kissed him."

            Silence. It’s uncomfortable. It makes us uneasy. There is tension in silence; it causes us to doubt what we’re experiencing, to question what’s going on. Everyday our lives are consumed by noise, engulfed in the cacophony of our existence, but when we find ourselves suddenly submerged in silence, well, we often aren’t sure of what to do. We can deal with the noise; we can thrive in the volume and rhythm of existence, but when everything is made quiet...it can be quite scary.   

            I remember in September of 1995, sitting in the dark in our living room with the front door open as the winds of hurricane Opal screamed outside. The thunder was incredible, and the sound of the rain hitting the house made me feel like I was down in the trenches and the enemy was firing on me from all sides. I was terribly afraid of thunderstorms as a kid, and hurricane Opal was by far the worst one I had ever experienced, but it wasn’t the ground-shaking thunder or the bright-as-day lightening that scared me the most…it was the silence that came with the eye of the storm. For, you see, it was in that silence that my mind had the opportunity to wrap around what had happened. It was in that silence that I realized that nothing was quite the same. It was in that silence that the uncertainty of what was coming with the other side of the storm struck me, and it scared me more than any lightening or thunder ever could. Silence can be frightening because it can mean we are experiencing a certain level of uncertainty.

            If the silence in the eye of a hurricane can cause an eleven year old boy in south Alabama such frightening stress, imagine the fearful stress Elijah must have felt in that cave on the side of Mt. Horeb. Elijah is already on the run—running for his life from Queen Jezebel after upstaging some 450 of her prophets on Mt. Carmel and ending a drought that had the country in crisis mode. She put out the hit on Elijah, and upon hearing the news, Elijah fled for his life. In the midst of his flight, he received a word from the Lord in the first part of verse 11 of our text today: "Go out and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by." Now, this news is just as frightening as the news concerning Jezebel’s bounty for Elijah. To be summoned to the mountain of God, to witness the Lord pass by, this is a big deal. Human beings don’t exactly get summoned to stand in the presence of God so they can receive a gold star or a holy pat on the back. If Elijah was going to stand on God’s mountain as God passed by, he knew the meeting wasn’t going to be pleasant.

            I suppose popular culture and our own imaginations have led us to some quaint picture of meeting God in a lovely, well-lit place, where God appears to us as a soft-spoken and lovely being who only brings us hope-filled news and tidings of prosperity. The Bible, however, seems to paint a much different picture, as many people in Scripture meet with the Lord and are immediately frightened by the mere presence of the angel who bears God message. Elijah shared this understanding about God; he believed that whoever saw God, stood in God’s presence, would surely die. And now God has called Elijah to come out and stand on the mountain as God passes by—Elijah must have been terribly frightened, yet he did as the Lord commanded.

            Elijah found himself standing on the side of Horeb, expecting God to show up in all of his majesty and glory, when the Bible tells us in the rest of verse 11 and the beginning of verse 12: “Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire…” Can you imagine the yo-yo of emotions Elijah must have felt? There he was, waiting for the Lord—the almighty creator of the universe—to pass by, when there was a great, mountain-splitting wind. Surely Elijah thought this wind was the coming of God’s presence. Surely Elijah must have been preparing himself for the arrival of God on the tail of such a great wind, yet we’re told, “the Lord was not in the wind.” Perhaps Elijah was a bit relieved, or maybe he was put even more on edge. Whatever the case, after that great wind came another, frightening sign—an earthquake.

            Earthquakes are terrifying. They can change the very landscape, and in the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, an earthquake can leave people picking up the pieces even two years later. After the great wind that broke mountains and rocks in its path, Elijah, standing in a mountain cave, is shaken by an earthquake, and before we have a chance to even ask, the text tells us, “but the Lord was not in the earthquake.” As the rumble of shifting rocks and the cracking of the earth settled beneath his feet, Elijah heard another sound—the sizzle of heat, for after the earthquake we’re told in verse 12: “after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire.”

            I can imagine Elijah would have been terrified yet confused by this fire that followed the earthquake. He’s witnessed three signs that accompany a theophany—an appearance by God. Surely he must have thought the fire was going to be it. After all, God appeared to Moses in a bush that blazed with fire; he led the Israelites through the wilderness with a pillar of fire at night. Surely this fire would contain the presence of the Lord, but we get even less time, fewer words to digest what has happened when we’re told—yet again—that the Lord was not in the fire. These three signs—a great wind, an earthquake, fire—surely should have signaled the arrival of the Almighty God, but they don’t. Instead, Elijah is left with what follows the fire: “after the fire a sound of sheer silence.”

Silence—after all that build-up, after all that creative drama, there was only a sound of sheer silence. The language implies that it was the kind of silence one can feel. It was the kind of silence that can be deafening, the kind of silence that comes in the eye of a hurricane, the kind of silence we experience when even the background hum of electricity is quieted, a silence that can be felt. Elijah had gone up to meet the Almighty God, the God of creation and deliverance, yet he was left with a silent God. Verse 13 tells us, “When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave.”

I can’t help but wonder what must have been going through Elijah’s mind when he heard that silence, when he wrapped himself in his mantle and stood looking out of that cave on Mt. Horeb. Did he think that God had left him? Had God passed by and he missed it? Did he begin to doubt that God had even called him there in the first place? Silence does that to us, you know? In those rare moments of silence we experience in our lives our minds can race out of control, conjuring up all sorts of thoughts and theories. We can find ourselves doubting everything when we are left in the silence too long. Think of all the times we cry out to God, and yet God is silent. Can you remember looking up towards the heavens hoping for some kind of answer, begging for some kind of sign, only to be answered in your petitions to the Almighty with silence? I wonder if that is how Elijah felt. I wonder if he stood there in the wake of the wind, the earthquake, and the fire, in the midst of that sheer silence, and began to wonder if God was really even there. But then, a voice breaks the silence in verse 13 when the Lord speaks to Elijah: "What are you doing here, Elijah?"

The silent God suddenly speaks to Elijah, and in the verses that follow, God instructs Elijah on what he is to do next. It’s only in the wake of that sheer silence that Elijah hears the voice of God. It’s only after the silence and the opportunity for fear and doubt that God gives Elijah his calling. It’s after the silence from God that the prophet goes out to meet the Almighty. God wasn’t in the great wind. God wasn’t in the power of the earthquake. God wasn’t in the burning heat of the fire. God wasn’t in any of the signs Elijah expected. No, Elijah only met God after the silence. Elijah encountered there on Mt. Horeb the silent God, the God who doesn’t solely seek our attention in the grandness of inexplicable signs, the God who doesn’t seek to compete with the orchestra of this world blaring in our ears and down in our souls. Elijah encountered the silent God on Mt. Horeb, because more often than we realize God speaks to us through the silence.

But silence is uncomfortable. It makes us uneasy. There is tension in silence. To be surrounded by silence means we’re losing money, we’re losing work, or worse even still—we’re losing time. We are immersed in world of noise, surrounded by the sounds and din of distraction that keeps our minds and our hearts from God and from one another. Perhaps in our fear and uncertainty of silence we miss out on hearing the voice of God. Perhaps in our desire to be constantly moving, always busy, we fail to hear the silent God calling us to his work. Let us learn from the story of Elijah to listen for the voice of God in the silence. May we seek to quiet the ruckus in our lives that distract us from God and call us away from loving our neighbors. Let us quiet our hearts and listen for the voice of the silent God as he speaks to us…even in the sound of sheer silence.

Let us pray…

The God who Blazes

Exodus 3:1-12

1 Moses was keeping the flock of his father-in-law Jethro, the priest of Midian; he led his flock beyond the wilderness, and came to Horeb, the mountain of God. 2 There the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire out of a bush; he looked, and the bush was blazing, yet it was not consumed. 3 Then Moses said, "I must turn aside and look at this great sight, and see why the bush is not burned up." 4 When the Lord saw that he had turned aside to see, God called to him out of the bush, "Moses, Moses!" And he said, "Here I am." 5 Then he said, "Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground." 6 He said further, "I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob." And Moses hid his face, for he was afraid to look at God. 7 Then the Lord said, "I have observed the misery of my people who are in Egypt; I have heard their cry on account of their taskmasters. Indeed, I know their sufferings, 8 and I have come down to deliver them from the Egyptians, and to bring them up out of that land to a good and broad land, a land flowing with milk and honey, to the country of the Canaanites, the Hittites, the Amorites, the Perizzites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites. 9 The cry of the Israelites has now come to me; I have also seen how the Egyptians oppress them. 10 So come, I will send you to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt." 11 But Moses said to God, "Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?" 12 He said, "I will be with you; and this shall be the sign for you that it is I who sent you: when you have brought the people out of Egypt, you shall worship God on this mountain."

            I had a friend back in Texas whose name was Markus. Markus was from Germany—and he never let anyone forget that. In fact, I was convinced for a while that he had a strange speaking disorder that forced him to begin every sentence with the phrase “In Germany…” Despite such a quirk, Markus was a great friend and an amazingly bright, theological mind. He and I often sat next to each other in class, and when the conversation was not up to the intellectual level Markus preferred he would often turn to me and tell me what was going on with him that day. From those several impromptu conversations with Markus, I recall one particular incident most clearly.

Markus told me that he was leaving the seminary one morning for lunch, when he saw our preaching professor, Dr. Gregory, walking across the campus, towards the parking lot and his waiting car. Apparently, Markus wanted to get Dr. Gregory’s attention, so he shouted out from the entrance of the building, across the lawn, towards the professor, “Hello, Dr. Gregory!” I’ll never forget what Markus said happened next: rather than turning to see who it was that was calling his name, rather than continuing on towards his car and what I’m sure was an important lunch date, Markus told me that Dr. Gregory stopped dead in his tracks and looked up—towards the heavens—as if God was calling his name. I told Markus I didn’t know what was harder to believe, that our professor thought God spoke with a German accent, or that God would call him “Dr. Gregory” rather than simply “Joel!”

I suppose if we went around this room today several of us could share experiences where we were sure we heard God call us by name; perhaps for some of us those have been life-changing moments. Of course, if we couldn’t recount such an incident in our own lives, then I think it’s safe to say we all know someone who has claimed to have heard God call him or her by name. Then there are, of course, those wonderful accounts in Scripture of God calling individuals by name. Of those great stories in Scripture, perhaps none is so widely-known and recognized as the story before us today—the story of God calling Moses by name in the third chapter of Exodus. Not only is it a story that is easily recognized among those of us in the Abrahamic faiths of the world (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam), but it is a story that has been popularized thanks to Charlton Heston and Cecil B. Demille in that 1956 cinematic epic The Ten Commandments.

This encounter with God serves as the climactic turning point in the life of Moses. Prior to this meeting on the mountain, Moses had been born to Hebrew slaves in Egypt, raised in the palace of polytheistic Pharaohs, exiled into the wilderness, and integrated into the life of monotheism in Midian. His life had been a roller coaster of sorts: born into destitution, raised with the most lavish of luxuries, cast out to die, and now he finally finds himself in a life of relative peace, when God calls his name. We know what happens next, don’t we? Moses leaves the safety of a shepherd’s life in Midian to raise a revolution in Egypt, to emerge as the deliverer for God’s people. He leads the Israelites out of Egypt, across the wilderness, and through the Red Sea, only to wander in the desert for forty years before dying just within sight of the Promised Land. Truly this encounter with God is a turning point—the biggest turning point—in the life of Moses, but for all that this encounter says about Moses, what does it tell us about God?

Well, I suppose the best place to begin in answering such a question is at the beginning of our text today. In verse one we hear about Moses keeping the flock and taking it out past the wilderness to the mountain of God, and in verse two we read, “There the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire out of a bush; he looked, and the bush was blazing, yet it was not consumed.” Did you notice what that verse actually says? Let’s read part of it again: There the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire out of a bush… Moses doesn’t just happen to see a flaming bush; this isn’t a meeting of mere circumstance or chance. The language here tells us that the angel of the Lord appeared to Moses; the angel of the Lord is the one who is doing the action here—God is the one initiating the contact with Moses. Now, if that’s stretching it a bit for you just keep reading, because after Moses turned aside to check out this sudden appearing, God called out to him in verse 4 "Moses, Moses!" God called out to Moses first. There’s no “Hey. Is anybody there?” coming from Moses; God is the first one to speak. This God who blazes is the God who initiates action.

Now, after this initial contact with Moses from God, something else happens, something that might seem a bit strange to the uninitiated. See, after God calls out to Moses, Moses simply replied, “Here I am.” I am convinced that at this point Moses has no idea to whom (or what) he is talking. He simply responded to the voice as if it was trying to place Moses or check his attendance. But that’s not the thing that seems strange—it’s what happens in verse 5: Then he said, "Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.” Moses is told to take off his sandals because he is in the presence of holiness, the presence of God! And you can tell that the reality of the situation hit him hard, because in verse 6 we are told, “… Moses hid his face, for he was afraid to look at God.” He hadn’t bothered to hide his face before because he was unaware he was in the presence of God. It seems this God who blazes, this God who initiates action, also demands reverence.

Let’s not be confused by what this means. Reverence isn’t merely lip service to the Almighty. Reverence isn’t proper protocol for the sake of proper protocol. Reverence isn’t summed up in the removal of one’s cap upon entering a church sanctuary. Reverence is the act of recognizing the Almighty God for who he is, especially when you are in his presence. Reverence is the recognition of the terrifying power of God, and it is clear that Moses recognized that power when he hid his face.

God, however, didn’t appear to Moses simply to frighten him into recognition. No, God appeared to Moses because he had heard the cries of his people. Scripture tells us so in verses 7 through 9: “Then the Lord said, ‘I have observed the misery of my people who are in Egypt; I have heard their cry on account of their taskmasters. Indeed, I know their sufferings, and I have come down to deliver them from the Egyptians, and to bring them up out of that land to a good and broad land, a land flowing with milk and honey, to the country of the Canaanites, the Hittites, the Amorites, the Perizzites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites. The cry of the Israelites has now come to me; I have also seen how the Egyptians oppress them.’” It appears that this God who demands reverence, this God who blazes, also holds compassion for his people. Moses is terrified by the flaming image of God before him, yet God speaks to Moses of his concern for the Israelites and his desire to bring them up out of their oppression in Egypt, but that isn’t the full reason God appeared to Moses.

In verse 10 God continues speaking to Moses: “So come, I will send you to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt." God appeared to Moses, because God planned to send Moses to carry out his will. The God who blazes is the God who calls us to his work. And who can blame Moses for his response in verse 11? There he says, "Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh, and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?" “Who am I?” Who are any of us to be counted worthy to do the will of God? Who are any of us to be found capable of such an enormous task as the one set before Moses? And remember, this isn’t the great man of faith, the great prophet, we find on the other side of the Red Sea; this isn’t the great hero of the faith who calls down plagues upon the great world power that was Egypt. This is Moses, the immigrant shepherd in Midian, the one who doesn’t immediately understand that he is in the presence of the God who commands reverence; this is the flawed, sinful son of slaves who is an exiled outlaw, and God calls him to go to the most powerful man in the known world and demand he set his slaves—rightly inherited possessions in his sight—free! Of course Moses would question God’s decision to send him, of all people, for such a task!

But then, from the blaze of the thorny bush, came the words we find today in verse 12: “[God] said, ‘I will be with you; and this shall be the sign for you that it is I who sent you: when you have brought the people out of Egypt, you shall worship God on this mountain.’" The God who blazes, the God who commands reverence, the God who initiates action, the God of compassion, calls us to do his will, AND HE GOES WITH US AS WE DO IT! God said to Moses “I will be with you.” He didn’t promise that it would be easy; he didn’t promise that it would be quick; he didn’t promise that it would be without costs; yet he promised something greater than all this. He promised to be with Moses, and in that promise we hear this truth: God promises to be with us as we go on our way in this world, doing his will.

These words from God to Moses speak to us from another time, from a different mountain. It was on that mountain that the God who blazes showed himself to the world after being in the grave for three days. The words to Moses from the blazing bush are echoed in the twenty-eighth chapter of Matthew’s gospel as Jesus commissioned his disciples: “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

Today, you and I are no different than Moses when he stood on Horeb. We are in the presence of the God who blazes, and today he is calling us, just as he called Moses on Horeb, just as Christ called the disciples at his ascension. He is calling us to put our trust in him, to trust that he is with us as we go on our way, seeking to do the work of God’s kingdom. Today we are confronted by the God who initiates action, who calls us by name, who deserves our reverence. Today we are confronted by the God of compassion, by the God who promises to go with us down whatever road his calling may take us. Today, we stand like Moses, in the presence of the God who blazes.
Let us pray…

Credit Where Credit is Due

Acts 3:12-19

12 When Peter saw it, he addressed the people, "You Israelites, why do you wonder at this, or why do you stare at us, as though by our own power or piety we had made him walk? 13 The God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, the God of our ancestors has glorified his servant Jesus, whom you handed over and rejected in the presence of Pilate, though he had decided to release him. 14 But you rejected the Holy and Righteous One and asked to have a murderer given to you, 15 and you killed the Author of life, whom God raised from the dead. To this we are witnesses. 16 And by faith in his name, his name itself has made this man strong, whom you see and know; and the faith that is through Jesus has given him this perfect health in the presence of all of you. 17 "And now, friends, I know that you acted in ignorance, as did also your rulers. 18 In this way God fulfilled what he had foretold through all the prophets, that his Messiah would suffer. 19 Repent therefore, and turn to God so that your sins may be wiped out…

            You’ve probably seen them, but I bet you’ve hardly noticed them. They litter the shoulders of the two-lane highways that cut their way north and south, east and west across this state. Some of them look simple enough; just a plain, white-painted, wooden building. Others may be wrapped in crumbling, red brick or maybe even made of concrete blocks, usually painted white or some pale shade of blue, faded by the sun and the passage of time. You’d never know what most of them are if it wasn’t for the hand-painted sign facing the highway or the little plywood steeple nailed to the roof. These micro-churches across this state likely outnumber all the megachurches across this country. These are the churches where I (and likely hundreds of others) cut my teeth as a preacher, and I can still recall what many of them were like.

            There was Riverview Baptist Church down around LaFayette, Alabama. It was a small church in what was left of a mill town. I remember the couple who picked me up and took me to lunch that day: they were a sweet older couple, and the husband called his wife “Momma” and whistled when he talked, because half of one of his front teeth was missing. That church sent me a birthday card a few weeks later. There was Duck River Baptist Church (I believe it was in Cullman, Alabama); they had an actual screen door on the front door of the church! There was another church (the name and place escape me) that had a ceiling fan directly over the pulpit, and it needed it because it was a block building with an old air-conditioning unit. As I got up to preach in that church I heard someone whisper, “Go back there and turn that fan off so it doesn’t blow the pages of his Bible around.” I don’t think I’ve ever sweat so much in the pulpit before. There are countless memories I have of those churches, those people, and those buildings, but there is one in particular that comes to my mind this morning.

            Again, I can’t recall the name of the church or just where it was (which probably tells you more about the church and the impression it left on me). I remember it was a small gathering of folks, even for one those churches, but what struck me most directly was what I noticed as I was gathering my things to leave the church after the service. At first, I assumed there was just something left in the sill of the window, but when I looked closer I noticed it was in all the windows, even on the ends of the pews. More still, I noticed it was on the piano, the organ, even the pulpit. It seemed every piece of furniture, every flat piece of construction, was marked with anywhere from one to a dozen little, brass plates. On every plate, engraved in clear print, was the name of an individual or family, a date, a dollar amount, and the reason for the donation. One of the plates would read something like: “Jim & Mary Smith. September 1987. $250. For the window frame.” Even the pew Bibles and hymnals were marked with the names of those who had given the money to buy them. As I looked around that room it quickly became clear to me who got the credit for the existence of that church, because not a single one of those brass plates, not a single hymnal nor Bible, said Jesus Christ.

            Clearly, we are a people who want our recognition; we want the credit for the things we do, the money we give, the time we serve. Whether it’s in the form of brass plates, wooden plaques, paper certificates, or a public slap on the back, we want the credit that we feel is due to us. If we have a hand in it, someone had better make sure everyone else knows it, or else we may never do it again. We may never give our time, our money, or our efforts to help out again. I wonder where the Church would be today if everyone who ever did anything demanded credit for their actions—I wonder how Luke would have written this third chapter of Acts if Peter or John had decided to take credit for their apparent actions.

            It was a sight to behold, I’m sure. Every day, about the time for “prayer meeting” at the temple, a small group of people would haul out this man, a man who couldn’t walk, a man who could only watch as the worshippers walked in and out of the gates of the temple, up and down the stairs. They’d sit him by the gate called Beautiful so he could beg for alms from the people as they filed in through the gate and into the temple complex.

You’ve probably seen people like him, but I wonder if you’ve ever noticed them. They stand in the parking lots of Wal-Marts with their cardboard signs needing a little help to get back on their feet; they walk along the shoulder of the highway; they sit in the medians at high-traffic intersections, sometimes with clever signs that say things like, “Bet you can’t hit me with a quarter,” or “Wife kidnapped by ninjas: need money for karate lessons.” They’re the modern-day equivalent to this man outside the temple gate. I suppose, however, the greatest difference between the man here in the third chapter of Acts and the individuals we see today is that this man outside the Beautiful Gate has no disability insurance, no local homeless shelter to stay in for the night, no local charities to help him buy food or medicine. This man’s sole source of income is the generosity of the worshippers who come in and out of the temple, and on this particular day recorded by Luke in the third chapter of Acts, two of those worshippers were disciples of the recently resurrected Jesus of Nazareth, Peter and John.

Luke tells us in verses three through seven prior to our text this morning that, When [the man] saw Peter and John about to go into the temple, he asked them for alms. Peter looked intently at him, as did John, and said, "Look at us." And he fixed his attention on them, expecting to receive something from them. But Peter said, "I have no silver or gold, but what I have I give you; in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, stand up and walk." And he took him by the right hand and raised him up; and immediately his feet and ankles were made strong. Now, I can imagine what a ruckus this would have caused, for Luke continues in verse eight: Jumping up, he stood and began to walk, and he entered the temple with them, walking and leaping and praising God.

See, not only had this man started walking—he was leaping, shouting, praising God! Beyond that, though, he entered the temple with Peter and John, a place he was forbidden to go as a lame man. He was causing a scene, and Luke tells us all the people saw him and they gathered in a place called Solomon’s Portico, while this man clung to Peter and John. It’s at this point where I believe we see that Peter and John are truly followers of Jesus; they’ve grown completely into their roles as apostles. Some might point to the miracle itself and say that’s the proof of their devotion to Christ. Some may even point to the fact that Peter and John stopped to speak to the beggar in the first place, rather than simply throwing him some pocket change. I, however, like to think that it’s right here, in this moment, when all the eyes of the crowd are focused on them, that Peter and John show the depth of their discipleship. Why? Because they don’t seek the credit for what just happened.

I can imagine what would happen if this took place today, if Peter and John had healed this man outside the doors of any megachurch: the news vans would swarm the place; questions would begin to fly at them about how they did it and why; Trinity Broadcasting Network would be on the phone along with Benny Hinn’s agent wondering if they’d like to join him on a televised crusade traveling the country healing everything from sore knees to brain tumors. Yes, I can imagine the circus that would follow as cell phone videos were uploaded to YouTube and people began texting their friends describing the miracle that they just witnessed. Of course, when these kinds of things happen today those involved are elevated to “hero” status, invited to important benefits, and given special recognition at the president’s annual State of the Union address. But not Peter and John, not the way Luke tells it.

The first words out of Peter’s mouth when he notices the gathering crowd and sees the look of amazement on each face are not words claiming his obvious accomplishment. No, neither Peter nor John begins to shout out their claims of power and ability. Rather, Peter responds to the crowd in verses 12 and 13 by saying: You Israelites, why do you wonder at this, or why do you stare at us, as though by our own power or piety we had made him walk?  The God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, the God of our ancestors has glorified his servant Jesus... Peter says, in a sense, “Why are you looking at us as if we had anything to do with this man’s newfound ability to walk? God is the One who deserves the credit here as he has glorified Jesus in the healing of this man.”

Neither Peter nor John takes credit for what has just happened. The truth is, though, it seems like it would have been easy enough for them to have done just that. After all, before their exchange with this man he was lame—from birth—and now he can leap! Why not stand up and claim the credit for their actions? Why not turn to the crowd and tell them that they had done it, even if it was because of their position as apostles? Why? Because Peter and John knew something of which we must constantly be reminded: apart from God, apart from Christ and the Holy Spirit, we can do nothing!

Peter goes on to tell the crowd in verse sixteen: And by faith in his name, his name itself has made this man strong, whom you see and know; and the faith that is through Jesus has given him this perfect health in the presence of all of you. It wasn’t any sort of power that Peter or John possessed that allowed this man to walk. It wasn’t some miraculous power to which only they had access. What healed this man—what gave this once lame man the power to walk, leap, and dance—was the power of faith in the name of Jesus Christ. It was his faith in the name of Christ, a name given to him by Peter and John, that restored his health. Neither Peter nor John took credit, because they understood that neither of them deserved the credit; it was all on account of the power in the name of Jesus.

But that isn’t where this story leaves us. It isn’t simply a recollection of Peter and John and their giving credit where credit is due. No, in fact, it seems like Peter even takes a little time to place blame—yes, blame—unto the crowd, not for this man’s suffering, but for the death of Jesus. Now, before we get carried away with Peter’s words and conjure up grotesque claims about the death of the Christ at the hands of the Jewish people, let us hear all of Peter’s words. After all, just as we like to take the credit when we do something worth applauding, the last thing we want to do is place blame when we may be just as guilty.

I remember sitting in the living room of my grandma’s house one Saturday afternoon. My two cousins (David and Brad) and I had been outside playing, and I decided I was going to go cool off in the house for a bit. While I was lying on the floor in the living room, staring up at the infomercial grandma was watching (something about “setting it and forgetting it”), all of the sudden we heard a loud pop…then another one…and another one…then a quick succession of pops and loud bangs as if someone was firing a machine gun. I jumped up, ran out the back door and into the backyard towards my granddaddy’s old shop. My dad had come running down the hill from his house too, and we met David and Brad, who were standing outside the third bay of the shop, trying to catch their breath. Their hands were stained with sticky, black paint, and they smelled a little like gunpowder, and that’s when I noticed the thin, grey smoke whisping out of the back of the shop. Turns out they had found an old can of spray paint and had painted their names on the rusty tin walls of the shop, but their prize was an unopened bag of bottle rockets, which I…I mean…someone had taught them how to light with an old truck mirror. My dad started yelling…I mean…lecturing them about how dangerous their actions were, when they both looked at each other, then me, and turned to my dad in unison and said, “Well Chris showed us where they were!” They saw the bus coming and decided to throw me under it!

Just as much as we want the credit for the good, we don’t want the blame for the bad, and that makes it easy for us to take Peter’s words to the Israelites in this crowd and run with them as words of blame. In verses 13 and following it seems like Peter is blaming them for Jesus’ death, almost as if he’s trying to redeem something for himself out of this incident (after all, if you can’t have the glory maybe you can stand above the losers): The God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, the God of our ancestors has glorified his servant Jesus, whom you handed over and rejected in the presence of Pilate, though he had decided to release him. But you rejected the Holy and Righteous One and asked to have a murderer given to you, and you killed the Author of life, whom God raised from the dead. To this we are witnesses… "

 Yes, it seems like Peter himself saw the bus coming and threw the Israelites under the tires. But listen again to verses 17 through 19: And now, friends, I know that you acted in ignorance, as did also your rulers. In this way God fulfilled what he had foretold through all the prophets, that his Messiah would suffer. Repent therefore, and turn to God so that your sins may be wiped out… Did you catch it? It’s there in verse 18: In this way God fulfilled what he had foretold through all the prophets, that his Messiah would suffer. Again, Peter gives credit where credit is due. God used these actions, the rejection of Jesus, to fulfill what he had foretold through the prophets. Again, Peter’s words, recorded, by Luke, remind us that we can do nothing without God; he can even use our ignorance for his purpose.

In the end, Peter and John give credit where credit is due—to God and God alone. They take none of the praise and they place none of the blame. In his last words to the crowd in our text, Peter calls the gathered people to repent and turn to God. Peter knew that there was no action any of them could do that would wipe out their sins (even in the shadow of the temple), the only way was through repentance and the power of the name of Jesus Christ. Today, may each of us in this crowd realize that we can do nothing apart from the Almighty God. May we let go of the constant desire for recognition and the ever-present need to place blame. May we repent, turn to God and the cling to the power of Christ’s name, and there may we give credit where credit is due.

Let us pray…

"I am the True Vine" (Palm Sunday 2012)

John 15:1-11

1 "I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower. 2 He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit. 3 You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you. 4 Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me. 5 I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing. 6 Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned. 7 If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. 8 My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples. 9 As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. 10 If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and abide in his love. 11 I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.

            Today, we hear the seventh and final “I am” statement of our Lord in the fourth gospel: “I am the true vine…” Whenever I hear folks talking about vines there are quite a few images that immediately gather at the forefront of my mind. There’s the image of those hot, summer Saturdays in South Alabama, when my two cousins and I would ride in the back of Grandma’s truck over to Uncle Ray’s house. As far as I know, Uncle Ray wasn’t in any way, shape, form, or fashion our uncle, but he was a good friend of the family and let my grandma have anything she wanted out of his garden. We’d spend the better part of the day, picking peas and butter beans, but what my cousins and I wanted most grew on a vine that ran along the ground—watermelons! We were able to pick a couple and sometimes even eat one right there on the tailgate of that old, blue Chevrolet. That’s one image that comes to mind when I think of vines—watermelons.

            Then there’s the image of the house where I spent most of my childhood. The backyard of our house on North Hill Street in Enterprise was less of a yard and more of a steep hill that ran down into a wide ditch, and all along that ditch, covering every square inch and climbing up into the trees on the other side, was a grand, green curtain of kudzu. Most of you know what kudzu is, that fast-growing, green, leafy vine that stretches out all over everything. Nothing can really kill or eat kudzu, so once it begins to take over all you can do is fight it back with the sharp blades of yard tools and hope to keep up. Kudzu—that’s another image that comes to mind when I think about vines.

            Perhaps, though, the image that comes to my mind that strikes closest to what Jesus and his disciples would have known comes out of my college days. Prior to the start of my junior year at Samford, I spent one week on a farm in Southwest Georgia. I went as a part of a small group of students trying to see what it would be like to have an intentional community on Samford’s campus (to be honest, the project wasn’t all that successful). During our time on the farm we helped out with the daily work, and one of the jobs we had to do was pick muscadines and scuplins (or scuppernongs depending on who you ask). Between dodging June bugs and trying to stay out of the fire ants, we’d pick the grapes and place them in quart-sized baskets, and load them carefully onto a cart. Those old vines seemed to go on forever until they gathered into one big stalk that looked like it had been in the ground at least since the Civil War. The sweet smell of muscadine grapes, that’s an image I rather enjoy when I hear words about vines.

            Perhaps that is the sort of image that provoked Jesus to use such a metaphor in this “I am” statement. Maybe, as they left the upper room after supper (in chapter fourteen), Jesus and his disciples walked by a vineyard, or perhaps they saw a small vine growing in the courtyard outside someone’s home, and the sight triggered this little parable from Jesus. It is possible he saw a vine growing and decided to use it as an object lesson to his disciples as they walked closer to the fate that awaited Jesus that night. Whatever it was that brought this metaphor to Jesus’ mind, when the disciples heard him speaking about a vine it is likely they had their own images come to mind, and I’m certain none of them thought about watermelons, kudzu, or even muscadines.

            There is a very good chance, however, that when Jesus said, “I am the true vine…” his followers had a rather specific image cross their minds. You see, for a first century Jew, vines were everywhere: not only were they common in the landscape of the Ancient Near East, but they were often engraved on ancient Jewish coins (and still engraved on the coins used in Israel today)[1]; at the entrance to the Holy Place of Herod’s temple in Jerusalem there were two, great, golden pillars, around which were fashioned intricate, golden vines with polished clusters of grapes.[2] The vine was a symbol for Israel—perhaps even a symbol of patriotic pride, yet when the ancient prophets spoke of Israel as a vine it was quite often in reference to Israel’s failing to produce fruit: in other words, even though Israel saw itself as God’s vine, the fruit of blessing as God had declared in his covenant with their ancestor Abraham,[3] they had failed in bearing the fruit of that blessing. So, perhaps the image of a vine simultaneously created within those disciples feelings of ethnic pride and religious failure.

            But hold on. Jesus says in verse one, “I am the true vine…” His words imply that whatever image of a vine they had before is false, for he is the true vine. Furthermore, not only is Jesus the true vine, but he says (in the second half of verse one), “and my Father is the vinegrower.” Right away, Jesus reminds us that he shares a special relationship with God the Father. It’s a deep, mystical relationship between the Father and the Son, a relationship that Jesus continues to weave into the vine metaphor in verse 2 when he says, “He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit.” Even in these words that describe the relationship between God the Son and God the Father, we begin to see how we as believers play a part in this relationship with the true vine, for in verse five Jesus says, “I am the vine, you are the branches.” God the Father is the vinegrower; Jesus the Son is the true vine; and Jesus’ followers are the branches. I have a feeling Jesus meant to conjure up more than feelings of pride and failure when he used this image with his first disciples; I believe Jesus’ words are meant to empower his followers as the branches that bear fruit.

            In verses three through six Jesus says, “You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you. Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me.  I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing. Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned.” Now before we take the burning imagery of verse six and attempt to run away to the altar call with it, let’s try to hear all of what Jesus says in these verses.

            In verse three Jesus says to his disciples that they “have already been cleansed by the word that [he] has spoken to [them].” The word translated as “cleansed” shares the same root as the word translated as “prunes” in verse two: it suggest an act that allows a productive branch of a plant (in this case, a vine) to produce more fruit, whether in size or number.[4] So when Jesus says his followers have already been cleansed by his words, he means they have been prepared to produce fruit; that is to say, they are ready to spread the Good News Jesus has been sharing with them. There is, however, a sort of catch to being fruitful, for just as a branch cannot produce fruit if it is severed from the vine, a disciple cannot bear the fruit of the kingdom if he or she is severed from Christ. This is what all this talk from Jesus about “abiding” means for the life of his followers.

            You see, back in verse six Jesus speaks about what happens to those who do not abide in him, those who do not produce fruit: “Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned.” Now I know we want to use this verse as some sort of proof-text about hell and how it’s like a fire, but I’m actually not convinced that’s entirely what Jesus is talking about with these words. After all, he’s just spent this time talking about what it means to abide in him and bear fruit, and how it is impossible to do anything without him, yet he doesn’t mention anything about heaven or eternity at all. No, it seems to me what Jesus is driving at for those of us who follow him is a sense of purpose. After all, why are branches gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned? It is because they have no purpose; in fact, if they are left alone they can decrease the produce of the fruitful branches. In other words, it seems to me that in these words from Christ to his disciples then, and to those of us who call ourselves his disciples now, we hear him defining our purpose—to bear fruit as we abide in him.[5]

But there is so much more to this idea of abiding and bearing fruit that simply calling oneself a Christian and attempting to do good works. In verses seven through eleven Jesus continues with his words to his followers both then and now: “If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you.  My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples. As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and abide in his love. I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.” The whole reason we abide in Christ is so that we may share in this relationship he has with the Father (remember: The Father is the vinedresser; Jesus is the vine; we are the branches). We abide in Christ to bear fruit, and in bearing fruit we bring glory to God.

Again, this isn’t just some formulaic approach to religion. What Jesus is telling us with these words is that when we abide in him—in his love, when we bear fruit for the kingdom—spreading the gospel, we glorify God. We find our entire purpose as we abide in Christ. This experience called faith isn’t solely about where we will spend eternity; it isn’t just about whether or not we can avoid the fire. This thing called faith is about finding our purpose and meaning in Christ, in this grand and glorious relationship with the Almighty God, while we glorify Him here and now.

On this Palm Sunday, a day we mark as the beginning of Holy Week, we recall these words of Jesus to his disciples. May they be words that instruct us and encourage us as we seek to live out our faith. May they be words that challenge those of us who seek little more than safety from the fire. May Christ’s words cleanse us as we seek to bear fruit for the kingdom, and may we strive each day to be found abiding in Christ and the relationship he offers us to God the Father. May we bear fruit as the branches of the True Vine.

Let us pray…           

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[1]Kostenberger, Andreas K. Zondervan Illustrated Bible Background Commentary: John. Grand Rapids, Mich.: Zondervan, 2002. P. 144.

[2] Kostenberger, Andreas K. Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament: John. Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker Academic, 2004. P.450

[3] Genesis 12:1-3

[4] See margins of the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV).

[5] Beasley-Murray, George R. Word Biblical Commentary: Vol. 36 (John). Waco, Tex.: Word Books, 1987. P.273.

"I am the Good Shepherd"

John 10:11-18

11 "I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. 12 The hired hand, who is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away—and the wolf snatches them and scatters them. 13 The hired hand runs away because a hired hand does not care for the sheep. 14 I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, 15 just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for the sheep. 16 I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd. 17 For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. 18 No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again. I have received this command from my Father."

            On May 21, 1980, one of the greatest movies of all time premiered in theatres across the U.S. It was (and still is) a movie that goes against the conventional wisdom that sequels are never better than the original. The official, full-length name of that movie is Star Wars: Episode V—The Empire Strikes Back. Now, most followers of the Star Wars saga (which consists of six live action movies, an animated series, a feature-length animated movie, along with countless novels and fan-made films) believe The Empire Strikes Back is the best movie in the series, and I think I know why. Not only is Empire filled with wonderful special effects and thrilling action, it is known for having one of the most surprising plot twists in all of cinema. For those of you unfamiliar with the Star Wars saga, I’ll do my best to fill in the gaps.

            There is a scene in Empire where the protagonist, Luke Skywalker, is in a climactic lightsaber (think laser-sword) battle with the greatest villain of all time, the half-human/half-machine, Darth Vader. At a devastating point in the fight, Darth Vader severs Skywalker’s right hand from his arm. Luke recoils from Vader, clinging to the smoldering, singed wound made by his enemy’s saber; he retreats all the way out onto a dangerous antennae-looking structure overhanging a deep chasm of blinking lights. After offering Luke the chance to join him on the “Dark Side,” Darth Vader asks if Skywalker knows about his father, and Luke says, “I know enough…you killed him.” Then Darth Vader says five of the most famous words in modern movie history, “No. I am your father!” (I suppose one could say that is a secular “I am” statement of its own.)

            The first time a public audience heard those words was in May of 1980, nearly four years before I was born. They are words that have become a meme in our culture; they have been parodied or redone time and time again in many different ways by many different people. So, by the time I actually saw The Empire Strikes Back, I already knew what Vader was going to say to Luke—I already knew that he was his father. The original impact, the weight, the shock of those words was lost on me. All I can do is imagine what it must have been like to sit in the movie theatre and watch that scene—hear those words—for the first time, to hear the collective gasps of shock and surprise from those watching. I suppose you could say that my familiarity with this scene has robbed it of some of its original power and meaning.

            I think those of us who live here in the “Bible Belt” can say the same thing when it comes to many sayings and scenes from Scripture: we’ve become so familiar with them, seeing and hearing them everywhere around us, that we’ve grown somewhat callous towards their original power and meaning. It’s as if we’ve been oversaturated and desensitized by their presence all around us. In fact, in many cases, they’ve become little more than inspiration for poorly written music and cheap artwork.

            I have a friend back home who is, well let’s just say, not a shining example of Christian morality. He does, however, own a nice house, complete with nice furniture and sensible decorations. There are, though, a couple of items in his living room that are a bit odd to those of us who know him. There sits, on his coffee table, a cheaply bound, black, fake-leather, Bible. If it is ever moved it is only when curious guests come to visit or if the coffee table needs dusting. Then, over on the far wall, there hangs on the painted paneling a rather interesting piece of art. In a wide, gold-trimmed frame there’s the printed image of a sunny, wind-swept meadow, and in the foreground, a soft-haired, smiling man clad in red and blue, cradling a little ewe lamb. The caption beneath it in barely visible calligraphy reads, “I am the good shepherd.” These are the first words we hear from Jesus in our text this morning in verse eleven, words that perhaps we’ve heard so often (like those from Empire), words with which we are so familiar, that their original power and meaning are just a little lost on us: “I am the good shepherd.”  

            Now, the image of Jesus as the good shepherd is as old as any image ever used to represent Christ. It is the image that is found on the ancient walls of the catacombs, beneath the roads of the Roman Empire. It’s the image that is wonderfully crafted in some of the oldest icons of the Eastern Church, showing Christ as a shepherd with a sheep across his shoulders. Countless stained glass windows across the Western hemisphere glow with the image of Jesus the Good Shepherd, pasturing his flock as they graze on a field of green glass. Then there are all of those paintings, paintings like that one in my friend’s house. I’ve seen them everywhere: in church vestibules, in funeral home parlors, even on the walls of doctors’ offices. It’s an image that is so familiar to us that it has been made into clock faces, throw rugs, and even lampshades. It’s an image that saturates our collective Christian conscience. But does it truly capture the power and meaning of Jesus’ words in the text before us today?

            In these verses, we encounter the fourth ἐγώ εἰμι (“I am”) statement from Jesus. It comes immediately after the third such statement (which we heard last week) in verses seven and nine of this same chapter. Jesus has recently healed a man on the Sabbath, who had been born blind. Some of the Pharisees have confronted Jesus about his apparent lack of concern for the Law, and Jesus responds with this extended shepherding metaphor here in chapter ten, a metaphor that includes his claim to be “the gate [by which] Whoever enters…will be saved.”

            One of the driving themes in this “figure of speech” (as the evangelist of the fourth gospel calls it) is the inclusiveness of Christ’s flock. You’ll remember in verse nine that Jesus promised, “Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture.” That same concept of inclusion is repeated in Jesus’ words in verse sixteen before us today: “I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd.” He said this in the hearing of those Pharisees in order to make sure they understood that Gentiles and other non-Jews would also be included in the Messiah’s kingdom—in the Christ’s flock. So perhaps our image of Jesus as the good shepherd ought to include more than just the one, cute, little ewe lamb in his arms, but a multitude of sheep—sheep of all colors, races, and nations. Maybe that goes a little way in filling out our image of Jesus as the Good Shepherd, but does it fully capture what Jesus is driving at in these verses?

            Perhaps one of the more problematic and controversial things that Jesus says in this passage comes at the beginning of verse fifteen: “…the Father knows me and I know the Father...” Throughout the fourth gospel it is Jesus’ claim that he is the Son of God, sharing a special relationship with the Father, which often leads to trouble and accusations of blasphemy. He says those words in the context of verse fourteen: “I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me.” While it may be difficult to put those words into an image, they do help us, I think, to fill out this image of Jesus as the good shepherd, one who is known by God the Father and one who knows each of his sheep. He is a shepherd with divine connections who is personally invested in his sheep. Still, is this the best image we have for Jesus the Good Shepherd? Can we still only see him as the gentle, caring man in the meadow looking tenderly after his sheep? Or are we missing altogether what Jesus is truly saying when he claims, “I am the good shepherd?”

            Jesus first says those words in verse eleven: “I am the good shepherd,” but he continues in that same verse: “The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” He says similar words in verses 17 and 18: “For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again.” The good shepherd is more than gentle. The good shepherd is more than kind. The good shepherd does more than simply look after the sheep. “The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep…in order to take it up again,” and “No one takes it from [him], but [he] lay[s] it down of [his] own accord.” How does one even begin to picture a shepherd who willing lays down his life for the sheep? Can you still picture him in the warm grass of a meadow? Does he still smile with a calming look of affection? What does this shepherd who willingly lays down his life look like?

            In Cullman, Alabama, in the most unlikely of places, is one of the most beautiful sites my eyes have ever seen. When I was in college and running around on Sundays with other Samford students around the state preaching, one particular Sunday we happened to pass one of those brown signs on I-65 that marks an exit for a park or tourist attraction. The sign said “The Shrine of the Most Blessed Sacrament” this exit. My friends and I were feeling a bit adventurous that day, and since we apparently were in no hurry to get back to Samford, we took the exit in search of this so-called shrine.

            We drove for what felt like miles until what little civilization there is in that part of Cullman County disappeared, and we found ourselves on a little two-lane road driving past seemingly endless fields of grass. All of the sudden, as if out of nowhere, there were a few houses on both sides of the road, and just a little farther we found ourselves at the gates to this “Shrine.” As it turns out, The Shrine of the Most Blessed Sacrament is a Catholic Church and monastery; it’s the home of Mother Angelica, famous for her appearances on the Catholic television network EWTN. So, we drove on through the gate, parked in the lot, and made our way up the concrete stairs and across the brick-paved courtyard to the heavy wooden doors of the church.

            Now, as a Baptist college student, who had just preached in a small, rural Baptist church, what I saw inside those doors was breath-taking: stained glass windows, wonderful carvings depicting the Stations of the Cross lining the sanctuary, gold—gold everywhere. The place had an air of holiness about it. I remember feeling like I was breathing too loud, as if I would shatter the holy atmosphere with the volume of my exhaling. What caught my attention in that room, however, was the altar. There were two images flanking the center of the altar. On the left, an almost life-sized sculpture of Mary, the mother of Jesus. I didn’t look too hard at it, for the image on the right side is what arrested my attention. There, in what I can only assume was painted porcelain, was the crucified Lord. There was Christ, hanging on the nails of the cross.

I suppose as Protestants, particularly as Baptists in the Southern U.S., we don’t see such things in our sanctuaries. We prefer the clean, triumphant power depicted in the empty cross, but there, in that sacred place, I was confronted with the corpse of the Son of God. I don’t know if it was the intent of the artist, but it was difficult to discern if the figure of Christ was meant to be dead or near the brink, but when I saw it, I saw the lifeless body of Jesus. I saw there, on the cross, the Good Shepherd who lays down his life for the sheep.

Jesus says, “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.”  It is in the image of Christ on the cross that I find the full power and meaning of those words. It is in knowing that, before we can celebrate the victory of resurrection on Easter Sunday, we must acknowledge the pain of death on Good Friday. It is in knowing that, before we can glory in the joy of eternity, we must deal with pains of sin and evil in this world.  It is that image of the Good Shepherd, the One who lays down his life for us, that I find hope in the darkest of times in this world. For Christ, our Good Shepherd, has willingly laid down his life—felt the pain of death—for us, so that we may live.

Let us look to the Good Shepherd, the one who knows us, who calls us by name, the one who saves us. Let us look to him not only as a gentle shepherd of the field, but as the Good Shepherd with arms willingly outstretched on Calvary’s cross for our sins. May we hear his voice and take comfort in his willing sacrifice on our behalf. Let us look to the Good Shepherd.

Let us pray…

"I am the Gate"

John 10:1-10

1 "Very truly, I tell you, anyone who does not enter the sheepfold by the gate but climbs in by another way is a thief and a bandit. 2 The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep. 3 The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. 4 When he has brought out all his own, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they know his voice. 5 They will not follow a stranger, but they will run from him because they do not know the voice of strangers." 6 Jesus used this figure of speech with them, but they did not understand what he was saying to them. 7 So again Jesus said to them, "Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep. 8 All who came before me are thieves and bandits; but the sheep did not listen to them. 9 I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture. 10 The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.

            “I am the gate,” or “I am the door.” Doors. Have you ever given any thought to how many doors you walk through in a given day? It’s likely you walked through several doors inside your home this morning, only to walk out the door to get into your car or on the bus (through a door). Then you entered through two sets of doors to get into this room and at least two other doors if you were here for Sunday School. I counted the other day and, not including cabinets, we have thirteen doors in our home (and our house isn’t very big): thirteen doors, three of which are exterior doors.

            Have you ever given any thought to what a door actually does? I suppose we’re so used to them being there, so used to them opening at the turn of a key and the twist of a knob, but doors are actually quite vital to our current, comfortable way of life. You see, doors keep things out, things we don’t want inside with us. Imagine if your home didn’t have a door—just an opening; you’d likely wake up in the morning with squirrels in the pantry, mosquitoes swarming the bathroom, and neighborhood dogs digging through your trash in the kitchen. If your home didn’t have a door it would be vulnerable to thieves and criminals when you’re away. Doors also keep out the weather; they allow us to change the temperature and humidity inside our homes and keep them where we want them. Doors keep out the wind and the rain, the cold and the heat. Inside our homes, doors even keep curious dogs with a chewing habit out of our closets! Doors are vital in preserving our way of life, our comfort, because they keep things outside that don’t belong inside.

            But doors don’t just keep things out. No, in fact they perform another function that is altogether contrary to keeping things out: they let things in. Think about it this way: what would your house be without a door? It would be a box, a box with no way in and no way out. It would essentially be an oversized terrarium! Without doors we wouldn’t be able to welcome friends and family into our homes; we would be unable to invite guests into our sanctuary for worship. Without doors we would be unable to come and go as we please. So I suppose in a way, doors provide us with a certain level of freedom as they allow us to keep out the things that don’t belong inside and allow us to bring in and keep the things we do want inside. Doors (along with gates) are simultaneously the tools of exclusion and inclusion: their function is somewhat of a contradiction.

It’s this same sort of contradictory identity that I often struggle with when it comes to the Christian faith: faith in Christ is simultaneously exclusive and inclusive.

It’s that simultaneous exclusiveness and inclusiveness that led to many of Jesus’ conflicts with the religious leaders of his day. In the ninth chapter of John, we hear how Jesus healed a man who was blind from birth—a man who would have been excluded from the normal circles of society due to his infirmity (which would have been believed to have been caused by his or his parents’ sins). As if Jesus’ healing of this man was not enough to catch the attention of the Pharisees and everyone else who was around that day, it just so happened that is was the Sabbath, and one didn’t go around healing folks on the Sabbath—it was forbidden by the Law! After these Pharisees catch wind of what Jesus did, they drove the man who had been blind away. Jesus found him, and after a brief conversation with him, Jesus turned his attention to the Pharisees and their own spiritual blindness at the end of chapter nine. It’s after this exchange with the Pharisees that Jesus spoke the words we have heard here today.

            Now, I can understand if some of the imagery Jesus used is lost on us. After all, I don’t think many of us here today are shepherds, at least not in the Near Eastern tradition, but Jesus spoke with words and images that had meaning to those who were gathered around him to hear. In verses one through five we get a glimpse into the way of life for a shepherd in ancient Judea as Jesus’ words tell about thieves and bandits (which were very serious threats to the shepherds of the Ancient Near East), gates, and the ways in which sheep could discern the voice of their shepherd over the voices of strangers. You see, flocks would often graze together in the same pasture, but when it was time for one flock to move on, the shepherd of that flock would call to his sheep (yes, sometimes even by name) and the sheep knew to follow their shepherd.[1] Because of such a system, strangers couldn’t simply sneak away with extra sheep in their flocks. With this “figure of speech,” Jesus tries to take a jab at those Pharisees and other religious leaders who had tried in the past to lead God’s people in the wrong direction. He tries to show them that he is (as we will see next week) the Good Shepherd, but the gospel writer tells us in verse six: “Jesus used this figure of speech with them, but they did not understand what he was saying to them.” I get the feeling it was like Jesus was trying to tell them a joke and they just didn’t get the punch line.

So after they fail to understand Jesus’ words, we hear Jesus try to speak to them again in a different way in verses seven through ten. In this version of Jesus’ “figure of speech” with the Pharisees, He references again those thieves in verses eight and ten: “All who came before me are thieves and bandits; but the sheep did not listen to them…The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy.” Those who would steal sheep from a flock had no real interest in caring for them, only selling or killing them—they only had selfish intentions. Here, Jesus attempted to take another verbal swing at the nature of those Pharisees and other religious leaders who opposed him: they had no genuine concern for the spiritual condition of the people, only a concern for strict adherence to a list of rules and regulations.

The words in this passage, however, that catch our attention today are found in verses seven and nine: “Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep…I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture.” This is the third of Jesus’ ἐγώ εἰμι (“I am”) sayings in the Fourth Gospel: “I am the gate” (or as it says in other translations, “I am the door”). It was not uncommon in both ancient Greco-Roman and Jewish cultures to think of the entrance to heaven as a gate.[2] So perhaps in using such a word, especially to describe himself, Jesus conjured up all kinds of images and emotions in those who heard his claim.

“I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved.” Think about those words for just a minute. Is Jesus making a claim regarding the inclusiveness or the exclusiveness of salvation? On the one hand he says, “Whoever enters” implying that there isn’t a necessary requirement for eligibility, yet at the same time in saying “by me” implying that there is only one way. Is Christ being inclusive—allowing all to enter, or exclusive—allowing only those who come through him to enter? The answer is “Yes.”

You see, Jesus as the Gate, or Door, is the only way which we may enter into the salvation of God, but he is the only way by which all may enter into the salvation of God. Some will try to tell us there are other ways; some will try to tell us that not all may enter. But Christ the Gate is the way by which all may enter; he is the only way by which we may all enter into the glory of an eternity spent in the presence of God. And what’s more is that Christ the Gate is the way by which we may have life, for Jesus says in verse 10, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” As much as the inclusive exclusiveness of faith in Christ is about the eternal reality of heaven, it is about the present reality of the here-and-now. As much as faith in Christ is about freedom from the punishment of impending judgment, it is about a life lived in the freedom afforded us by Christ to “come in and go out and find pasture.” There is freedom in knowing that Christ is the only way by which all may enter into the salvation of God. There is a comfort to be found in knowing that Christ the Gate came to die so that you and I may have life—and not simply a life of existence, but a life of abundance in him.

Perhaps you are here today and you believe that not all are welcome. Perhaps you’ve carried into this place a heart of exclusion and prejudice. May you hear the voice of Christ calling his sheep and realize that there are many who hear his voice. May you come to find that your brothers and sisters come from different nations, races, languages, and walks of life, that the sheep of his fold as many and diverse. May you hear the voice of Christ leading you in the paths of righteousness and follow after him.

Or perhaps you are standing outside the sheepfold today, outside the grace of God and the freedom found in His Son. Perhaps you are concerned that you aren’t qualified to enter through the gate. May you hear these words of Christ Jesus today with new ears: “I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture.” May you come to believe that Christ has come to save you so that you “may have life, and have it abundantly.” May we all find the inclusive exclusiveness of faith in Christ the Gate so that we may live an abundant life in the freedom of following Jesus in the work of God’s kingdom.

Let us pray…

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[1] Beasley-Murray, George R. Word Biblical Commentary: John. Waco, Tex.: Word, 1987. p. 168.

[2] Kostenberger, Andreas J. Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament: John. Grand Rapids, Mich.: Baker, 2004. p.303.