Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Beachfront Breakfast (Third Sunday of Easter 2013)


John 21:1-19
1 After these things Jesus showed himself again to the disciples by the Sea of Tiberias; and he showed himself in this way. 2 Gathered there together were Simon Peter, Thomas called the Twin, Nathanael of Cana in Galilee, the sons of Zebedee, and two others of his disciples. 3 Simon Peter said to them, "I am going fishing." They said to him, "We will go with you." They went out and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing. 4 Just after daybreak, Jesus stood on the beach; but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus. 5 Jesus said to them, "Children, you have no fish, have you?" They answered him, "No." 6 He said to them, "Cast the net to the right side of the boat, and you will find some." So they cast it, and now they were not able to haul it in because there were so many fish. 7 That disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, "It is the Lord!" When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he put on some clothes, for he was naked, and jumped into the sea. 8 But the other disciples came in the boat, dragging the net full of fish, for they were not far from the land, only about a hundred yards off. 9 When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread. 10 Jesus said to them, "Bring some of the fish that you have just caught." 11 So Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, a hundred fifty-three of them; and though there were so many, the net was not torn. 12 Jesus said to them, "Come and have breakfast." Now none of the disciples dared to ask him, "Who are you?" because they knew it was the Lord. 13 Jesus came and took the bread and gave it to them, and did the same with the fish. 14 This was now the third time that Jesus appeared to the disciples after he was raised from the dead. 15 When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, "Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my lambs." 16 A second time he said to him, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Tend my sheep." 17 He said to him the third time, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, "Do you love me?" And he said to him, "Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my sheep. 18 Very truly, I tell you, when you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt and to go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go." 19 (He said this to indicate the kind of death by which he would glorify God.) After this he said to him, "Follow me."

            I’m often fascinated by the notion that our sense of smell has such a strong tie to our memories. With a passing sniff of the stuff in the air, our minds can suddenly recall people, places, and things we have otherwise forgotten. We might not be able to place a finger on the source of such a scent, but our brain (specifically the part of our brain called the hippocampus) has a fascinating way of manufacturing long-term memories simply by our sense of smell. [1]
             I know for me, any time I smell freshly cut grass on a sun-filled, spring day, I immediately recall my first day of baseball practice in the third grade. Or anytime I walk into someone’s home and it is so cold that it makes the air smell wet with condensation from the coils of a window air conditioner, my mind takes me back to those days when the school bus would drop me off at Ma’s house, and we’d play blackjack for pennies at the kitchen table while the air conditioner in the window loudly strained at keeping up with the humidity of South Alabama. Even the smell of old oil and grease on a worn cement floor calls my mind back to those first times I ever saw the underbelly of a car, holding the droplight for my dad as he attempted to keep whatever jalopy he was driving at the time held together. Even the smell of whatever chemical it takes to create the temporary hairstyle that is ironically called a permanent, recalls the memories of when my mother went through a phase in her life where she was certain she had to have a perm.
Perhaps you’ve noticed such a connection in your own life. Maybe the smell of the spray of the ocean as it crashes on the beach takes you back to those first summer trips you made with your family when you were a child. Maybe the smell of warm soil, mixed with the salty scent of sweat transports you back to those days on a family farm or grandma’s garden. It really is amazing how strongly our sense of smell is tied to memory. Of course, the way our sense of smell recalls memories isn’t exactly under our control, and as such, we may even find our noses triggering memories we had hoped were long lost, emotions we had hoped would not resurface. 
             Like the smell of misting rain on one of those awkward in-between days in September, when the earth is trying to decide if it’s ready for autumn, my mind forces me to recall the day I had to do my first funeral as a pastor—the funeral of my grandmother. Like the smell of hot wires and metal can recall the trauma of losing one’s house or the way the smell of whiskey brings to mind the loss of a loved one to addiction. Sometimes such a scent can be apparent, one we experience every day, but our brains secretly spring the trap of sentiment on us, and our minds are transported to another time and place we had hoped to never visit again. It can be an aroma as obvious and specific as aftershave, or it can be subtle and commonplace, like the smell of breakfast in the morning, but that scent can trigger our minds to recall something we had thought was buried deep within the mausoleum of our memories. It can even be a smell as familiar as a charcoal fire.
            It’s in chapter 18, verses 17 and 18 of John’s gospel where we first catch a whiff of smoke. Jesus has been arrested in the garden of Gethsemane after breaking bread with his disciples and washing their feet. It was during that meal that Peter had vowed his allegiance to Jesus, his willingness to lay down his life for Christ. In chapter 13, verse 37, Peter says, “I will lay down my life for you,” but Jesus replies to him in verse 38: “Will you lay down your life for me? Very truly I tell you, before the cock crows, you will have denied me three times.” And, with smoke-filled nostrils in chapter 18, verse 17, Peter denies Jesus the first time: “The woman said to Peter, ‘You are not also one of this man’s disciples are you?’ [Peter] said, ‘I am not.’” In verse 18 it says, “the slaves and the police had made a charcoal fire because it was cold…Peter also was standing with them and warming himself.” With the smell of burning charcoal in his nose, Peter denied knowing Jesus for the first of three times; he would deny him twice more in verses 25 through 27 of chapter 18. In verse 27, after Peter’s third denial, he hears the cock crow, with the smell of charcoal and smoke still fresh on his nostrils.
            The events that followed Peter’s denial happen with the kind of swiftness mostly associated with vacation days. Jesus is tried, accused, and sentenced to crucifixion. He is executed on a cross, and his body is placed inside a borrowed tomb. About three days later, Peter hears the news that the tomb Jesus was placed in is now empty, so he runs to check it out and finds it just as it was told to him. That afternoon, Jesus appears to all of the disciples as they were hiding out in a locked room, fearful that the same group who had Jesus arrested and executed might be after them. The writer of John’s gospel relays the events following Jesus’ arrest and Peter’s denial with a relative quickness, but to have lived in the midst of that confusion, the heartbreak, and the panic must have surely made the days feel like eons. It would have felt like enough time to forget.
            After Jesus appears to the disciples a second time and wipes away Thomas’ doubts, we come to the text we’ve heard here today, an epilogue to the Fourth Gospel.[2] It’s an interesting scene: Peter in verse three simply declares that he is going fishing. Now, maybe Peter was one of those people who can’t stand to be still, one of those people who would much rather have something to do to keep them from going stir crazy than stand around waiting for something to happen. Maybe Peter figured it was time to get back to normal; perhaps he thought that life after Jesus’ resurrection was supposed to be like it was before only with the added knowledge that Jesus had overcome death. I’d like to think that Peter was a practical person, and he was likely bored, hungry, or both, so he decided to do what he had done for most of his life—fish.
            Now, after Peter decides to go fishing, the rest who were with him decide to join in. I imagine Peter’s lungs filled with the cool night air as he and the others set the nets in the water. The smell of the water, the boat, the smell of fish, likely brought all kinds of memories to the forefront of Peter’s mind as he and the others repeatedly threw their cast nets between the trap nets in the water, only to draw them up empty.[3] That night, according to verse 3, they caught nothing; in fact, throughout all four of the gospels, the disciples never catch any fish by themselves. No, they never catch any fish until…Jesus shows up.
            In verse 4 we find out that Jesus is standing on the shore of the lake as the sun came over the horizon. He shouts out to the disciples on the water in verse 5, “Children, you have no fish, have you?” They shout back, “No.” So Jesus tells them to try the right side of the boat, and “they were not able to haul it in because there were so many fish.” I have to think that mixed with their excitement and amazement was just a tad bit of frustration—after spending all night fishing, a stranger shouts from the shore to try the other side of the boat, and apparently that’s where the fish had been all along!
            In the midst of all of the work and excitement that goes into hauling in such a large catch of fish, “That disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, ‘It is the Lord!’” and at the sound of such news, Peter tucks in his clothes[4] and jumps in the sea. He’s off swimming to the shore, towards the one he’s been told was the Lord. He’s excited; this is the risen Jesus, the one who triumphed over the grave, the one who appeared to them even though the doors were locked. Peter is swimming to Jesus—to the Lord, and he is so enthused, so motivated by seeing Jesus, that when the others have rowed the boat in with the heavy net of fish, Peter (in verse 11) “went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, a hundred fifty-three of them; and though there were so many, the net was not torn.” It seems as if Peter is infused with some source of divine strength![5]
Peter seems to be on top of his game. This is the Simon Peter Jesus called from the shores of Galilee. This is the Simon Peter who stood out as the leader among Jesus’ followers. This is Peter, Petros, Rock—the Rock on which Jesus said he would build his church. This Peter, the one who jumps in the water, swims to Jesus, and hauls in the large catch of fish—this post-resurrection Peter—is a far cry from the shifty-eyed apostle who denied Jesus three times while warming himself by the charcoal fire…
There it is again, in verse 9: “When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there…” Peter no doubt smelled that charcoal fire burning there on the beach, cooking some fish and bread for a beachfront breakfast. Perhaps his sense of smell hadn’t triggered the memory yet, but the author of this gospel wants to trigger ours. Peter is surging, he almost seems superhuman. In the smoky smell of burning charcoal, however, Peter and Jesus have a private conversation—a conversation that would bring memories rushing to the forefront of Peter’s mind, memories that would deflate this disciple.
In verses 15-19, Jesus asks Peter the same question three different times: “Do you love me?” Peter replies each time, “yes.” Then Jesus tells Peter “feed my lambs…tend my sheep…” Three times Jesus asks Peter if he loves him. Three times Jesus tells Peter to look after his flock. Three times…Once by a charcoal fire, Peter denied Jesus three times. Once by a charcoal fire, Peter told Jesus how much he loved him—three times. Once, with the smell of smoke wafting in the air, Jesus commands Peter to tend to his sheep; it’s as if Jesus said to Peter once again, “You are the rock on which I will build my church.”
I don’t doubt the smell of charcoal and the three-fold formula of Jesus’ questions brought to Peter’s mind how he had denied Jesus—not once, but three times—before. And I don’t doubt that it must have troubled Peter to know that he was eating and talking with the same Jesus (now resurrected) he had denied just a few days before. But despite Peter’s previous denial, despite how it must have weighed on his heart and mind, Jesus still calls him to “Follow me.”
In our journey with Jesus, there will come times when we will stumble, times when we’ll let our guards down, times when sin will get the better of us. There will also come times in our journey with Jesus where a photograph, a song, a tattoo, or maybe a scent will remind us of who we once were, something in our past of which we are not proud. There will be times when we will all be in Peter’s place—having denied Jesus, either by our words or deeds and forced to remember such denial. It will be easy to let those memories overtake us, to give in to who we once were, to let our past flaws and failures keep us from becoming the people Jesus calls us to be. But Jesus, just as he did to Peter, asks us a simple question, “Do you love me?”
No matter what mistakes we have in our past, no matter what shameful memories may be conjured up by the fragrance of our past failures, Jesus asks one simple question, and he asks it in the present tense: “Do you love me?” Despite where we’ve been, or what we’ve done Jesus still calls us to “Follow me.”
Whether you can look back on your life and see a legacy of which you can be proud, or whether you look back and see a life filled with trouble, Jesus still asks, “Do you love me?” Whether you came here today bearing the weight of memories filled with sorrow and sin, or whether you came into this room with a spirit of wholeness and joy, Jesus still sends the call, “Follow me.” And whether you’re here today sure of where you’re going, or if you haven’t got a clue, Jesus still calls his followers to “feed my lambs…tend my sheep.” Do you love Jesus today? Will you follow him? Will you join with us as we seek to feed his lambs and tend his sheep?
Let us pray…
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us, for we are sinners. Help us not to be weighed down by the memories of past sins and denial. Show us the way to restoration in your love for us and our love for you. Eternal God, call us to Yourself. Help us to let go of our sins and trust in your redemption and resurrection. Move in our presence that we may respond to your word as we have heard it in this place today. In the name of the living Lord Jesus we pray. Amen.


[2] George R. Beasley-Murray, Word Biblical Commentary, Vol. 36 “John.” Word Books: Waco, TX (1987). p.395
[3] Gary M. Burge, The NIV Application Commentary, “John.” Zondervan: Grand Rapids, MI (2000). p.582-3
[4] Andreas J. Köstenberger, Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament, “John.” Baker Academic: Grand Rapids, MI (2004). p.591
[5] Ibid. p.592 

Monday, April 1, 2013

Resurrection Moments (Easter 2013)


Luke 24:1-12
1 But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared. 2 They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, 3 but when they went in, they did not find the body. 4 While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. 5 The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, "Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. 6 Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, 7 that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again." 8 Then they remembered his words, 9 and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. 10 Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. 11 But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. 12 But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened.

            On our coffee table at home is a simple, two-sided glass picture frame. On one side of the frame is one of Sallie and my engagement pictures, taken by a friend of ours about seven years ago. On the other side of the frame is a different sort of picture. It’s a picture that was taken over the Fourth of July weekend of 2008 in San Antonio, Texas: we’re standing in front of The Alamo. Now, I have to tell you, The Alamo (for those of you who’ve never been) isn’t exactly what you’d expect—at least it wasn’t what I was expecting.
            For whatever reason, I was expecting to be halfway to the desert, at least on the outskirts of San Antonio, looking for this big, antique, stone building, scarred from its famous battle and years of weathering in the South Texas sun. I was expecting to see the kind of building John Wayne defended as Davy Crocket; I was thinking we’d drive up to a wide, concrete parking lot, with a huge, tan, castle-looking structure in the distance. What we found, however, was nothing like what I was expecting.
            The morning we were going to visit The Alamo we got dressed in comfortable walking clothes (I figured we’d need to be comfortable to walk in the near-desert climate on the way to the site), hopped in the car, and started following the brown road signs marking the way to The Alamo. Well, before too long I realized we were driving in downtown San Antonio (I remember thinking how strange it was that we would have to cut through downtown…). But before long, we found ourselves parking between the office buildings that rose up like giant saguaro (suh-wah-ro) cacti all over the city, and we continued following the signs on foot. Then it just sort of snuck up on us: we turned the corner of a construction-clogged city street to find ourselves almost directly in front of an old, dust-colored building no higher than a two-story house. We found The Alamo, stuck between the modern buildings of downtown San Antonio like a lost remote control in the couch cushions. It wasn’t at all what I was expecting: it was in the middle of the city and it seemed way too small, but it’s strange when you find something you weren’t expecting and it changes your perspective.
            You see, finding The Alamo in downtown San Antonio among the polished steel, the glistening glass, the paint-striped asphalt, and concrete sidewalks, immediately made me aware of the reality that this modern city wasn’t always so modern. It made me greatly aware that this little mission-turned-fortress must have indeed been something of a miraculous battleground as Santa Anna as his troops laid siege for thirteen days on the troops inside. I think if I had found what I expected to find—an antique Texas relic drying on the edge of the wilderness—I may not have been so captivated by its story. But you know, it really is something when you find what you weren’t expecting and it changes your perspective.
            I’m sure Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them were expecting something completely different when, on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared. I’m sure they expected to find in the darkness of early dawn, a heavy stone disk securely sealing the entrance to the rock-hewn tomb. I’m sure they expected to ask for help once they arrived since the men who had so closely followed Jesus in his life have now scattered and are in hiding after his death. I’m sure they expected to brace themselves for the stench of decomposition as they entered the tomb to treat the corpse of their beloved friend and teacher they expected to find inside. I’m sure they carried with them all kinds of expectations about death, graves, corpses, and grief, but when they arrived at the tomb that morning, they did not find what they expected to find…they found something else entirely, and what they found changed their perspective, changed their lives.
            Luke tells us “They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in, they did not find the body.” The same Greek word is used there talking about what the women found, εὗρον: they expected to find (εὗρον), a stone blocking the way, and they expected to find (εὗρον) the body of Jesus inside. But they found, instead, what they weren’t expecting: the tomb was empty and the body of Jesus gone. Had someone taken the body? Were they in the wrong place (it was dark after all)? Was this some kind of cruel joke, a final rubbing of salt in the wound to his followers? Upon finding anything but what they expected, the women “were perplexed about this.” But before they had time to figure out what was going on, “suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them”—this certainly isn’t what they were expecting, because Luke records their response to this sudden appearance of dazzling men in verse 5: “The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground.” These unexpected, angelic figures speak to the confused and frightened women "Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again."
            That’s all it took, a little reminder of words they had heard along the way, and in a literary instant, these women go from perplexed and terrified to being the first, joy-filled proclaimers of the truth—“returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest.” But there again, their story isn’t what the elven and all the rest were expecting. After all, these were women in the first-century and they were grief-stricken, so maybe they don’t have the most credibility among a bunch of first-century Jewish men. In fact, Luke tells us in verses 11 and 12: “But [the women’s] words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. But Peter got up and ran to the tomb.” The men, hiding out in some undisclosed location, don’t believe the women, yet there was something that caused Peter to run and “double-check.”
            Now, I wonder what Peter expected to find. Perhaps he expected to find what the women had expected to find earlier: an intact tomb, the body of Jesus, three-days-dead, inside. Maybe, in the clearer light of a later morning, Peter expected to discover the truth behind what those women had claimed to see, perhaps he expected he might even discover that they had indeed been at the wrong tomb all along. But when Peter arrived at the tomb, “stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves.” He didn’t see what he expected to see—all he saw were the linen grave cloths and nothing else. “[T]hen he went home, amazed at what had happened.” That’s all it took—one look inside the tomb, not a personal appearance from Jesus himself, not some sort of resurrection note in Jesus’ own post-death hand—one look, and Peter went from a hiding, doubtful disciple, to an amazed witness. Peter didn’t find what he expected: he found something different, and it changed his life.
            In those first resurrection moments of that first Resurrection Morning, the unexpected transformed perplexed, terrified women into excited, sure witnesses. In those first resurrection moments of that first Resurrection Morning, the unexpected transformed a denying, doubtful disciple into an amazed apostle. That’s what resurrection moments are: unexpected, transformative moments that can change our lives if we are receptive to their truth. Peter, Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women were all transformed by these resurrection moments—moments that revealed to them the truth that Christ is who he said he is, moments that might otherwise leave one perplexed, terrified, or amazed.
            Of course, these sorts of resurrection moments still happen in our presence today. They are those unexpected, transformative moments that might otherwise leave us scratching our heads wondering, “Why?” They are not moments surrounding an empty, borrowed tomb, but those moments of undeserved kindness: when one offers to help pay for the groceries of a total stranger in line at the market, when the piano player at my home church slips a twenty into my hand after church just because she wants to. They aren’t moments highlighted by the presence of a once-dead corpse, but moments marked by the very real presence of the body of Christ: when a congregation comes together to rebuild its community and help to feed hungry children, when a body of believers unites in order to make sure the elderly in its community are loved and looked after, when a church is more than brick walls a and a whit steeple. These resurrection moments don’t always happen in the dim light of early dawn, but they happen in the cold nights when a warm blanket and a hot meal are offered to the one who needs it, when friends and family gather around a child the day she has to lay her mother in the ground.
            Resurrection moments are happening all around us, every day. They are those moments when the reality of the living Christ is made known by the testimony—the words and actions—of those who believe that Jesus is who he said he is. Because you see, the great thing about this retelling of Jesus’ resurrection in Luke’s gospel is that the women who first saw the empty tomb—a resurrection moment if ever there was one!—ran to tell others. They ran to create more resurrection moments as they shared the good news of Christ’s resurrection. We are called to do the same. We are called to make the resurrection of Christ a reality in the lives of those around us—and not only through the retelling of the story of that first Easter, but through the way we live our lives for others.
            We make Christ’s resurrection a reality—creating resurrection moments—when we go out of our way, sacrificing our time, money, or resources, in order to bring food, comfort, joy, or love to someone else. We create resurrection moments when we hear the bad news of the world—poverty, sickness, hatred, injustice—and we seek the Good News to the world by striving to right those wrongs. We create resurrection moments when we gather together to relive the story, when we gather around the bread and the cup, for while we eat and drink to commemorate Christ suffering and death, we eat and drink together with our brothers and sisters throughout the world and the ages of time. And when we, the Body of Christ, come together around the table, Jesus is alive in our midst—it is truly a resurrection moment.
Let us pray…
Eternal God, Almighty Father, Everlasting Spirit, Risen Son, on this day when we celebrate your victory over sin and the grave, we come to the table for this resurrection moment in this place. We ask, Holy Spirit, that you stir among us; may we respond to those moments in our lives where Christ’s resurrection has been made real to us. May you bless this time, bless this bread, bless this cup. And help us, O God, as we live between Christ’s resurrection and our own, to create resurrection moments along the way that speak to the truth of our salvation through your life, death, and resurrection. In the name of the resurrected Lord Jesus we pray. Amen.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Out of Sight, Out of Mind (Fifth Sunday in Lent)

John 12:1-8
1 Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. 2 There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. 3 Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. 4 But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, 5 “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” 6 (He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) 7 Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. 8 You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

            Can you remember a time when you were a kid when all your friends at school were doing that one thing you really wanted to do, but your parents wouldn’t let you? It didn’t matter how hard you pled your case to them, they weren’t budging. You could carefully craft a proposal explaining all the benefits they would receive if they just let you go along with your friends; you could speak of the ways in which your social interactions with others in your peer group would lead to a healthier self-image and a more well-adjusted personality when you reached adulthood; you could even try the direct approach, engaging in a heated dispute with your parents, matching each of their arguments with an equally aggressive counter argument until you were hoarse from attempting to filibuster your parents into submission. You could try any and every trick in the book, but they weren’t changing their minds on the issue—they weren’t going to let you join in with your friends.  So you reached for that secret weapon, that one comeback, that last-ditch missile of reason that every kid attempts to use when every hope of getting what they want is lost. You stood before your parents like a confident prosecutor with a signed confession in hand, and with all of the conviction you could muster at that age you said, “But, my friends and all the other kids at school are doing it!”
             Oh how foolish we were to think such a puny piece of rhetoric might shatter our parents’ impenetrable will to ruin our chances of having fun. Each one of us in this room who has ever uttered such a phrase to a parent or guardian in a final attempt to get our way knows exactly what follows such an attempt. Whether the words come in an elevated tone of anger and frustration or a surprisingly soft voice, laced with the confidence of a knock-out punch, parents everywhere have learned the quickest way to pull the wind from the sails of a child’s argument is to simply look them in the eye and say, “I don’t care what the other kids at school are doing/going; you’re not!” With that, the music plays and the credits roll—the discussion is over.
            Why did we ever think we could get away with such a lazy argument? “All the other kids are doing it.” So what? Perhaps there’s something in the way we’re wired as children that causes us to reason that if everyone else—or even one other person—is doing something, then surely there’s at least the precedent for doing it ourselves. I, however, have a different theory. You see, I don’t think this kind of reasoning evaporates with our childhood. Oh no, I think it is refined with age; it evolves into a more efficient and a likely more successful approach to justifying our own desires. You see, I think with time we realize that justifying our actions by calling on the examples of the same actions from others doesn’t really get us anywhere. So we make a few adjustments in our reasoning, and our positions no longer seem so unreasonable. Let me explain what I mean.
            I was having a conversation with a lady once, who was telling me about her frequent trips to Las Vegas. Now, let me interject here and say that I don’t find anything necessarily bad or evil about Las Vegas as a city, but I think you know what this lady was coming around to…Anyhow, she was telling me that she didn’t think what she did with her time in Vegas was really all that bad because it wasn’t like she was running around abusing drugs or alcohol, cheating on her husband, or spending money she didn’t have. She justified her behavior by comparing it to what she viewed as worse. She made her actions seem okay compared to the wicked actions of some hypothetical person who committed much more egregious sins.
I’m afraid we Christians in the Bible Belt have mastered this evolved way of reasoning, and I’m even ashamed to admit that I’ve heard it most often from pulpits not unlike this one. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard sermons about those sorts of sins that so-called “worldly people” practice. I’ve heard preachers worth millions of dollars preach against the supposed sins of those on welfare; I’ve heard the hot wind of televangelists who con thousands out of their life savings proclaim that refusing to tithe is refusing to believe; I’ve heard preachers rail against homosexuality only to be charged with sexual crimes against children. They have made it an evil art to point at the supposedly greater sins of others in order to keep their own sins out of the spotlight; they choose to point to what they believe are larger, public sins of others in order to justify their own, hidden sins. It’s a true tragedy, and it doesn’t end in the pulpit, nor did it begin in the pew. It’s been with us for quite some time. In fact, we have heard an example of such twisted reasoning from the Fourth Gospel here today.
            It’s “Six days before the Passover” and Jesus is in Bethany at the house of Mary, Martha, and the recently resuscitated Lazarus. The narrator of the gospel sets the scene for us: there’s a dinner prepared for Jesus; Martha’s busy serving; Lazarus is reclining at the table; and Mary—well, Mary is making a scene. In verse 3 we’re told that “Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.” This would have been nothing short of shocking to those reclining around the dinner table. Mary literally lets her hair down (something a good, Jewish woman would never do in public), anoints Jesus’ feet (a most private and provocative part of a person’s body in the first century) with some outrageously expensive perfume, and then wipes his feet with her hair! Jaws must have dropped, maybe even her previously dead brother Lazarus choked a bit on a mouthful of bread after what she did. The New Testament scholar Tom Wright says Mary’s action would be comparable to a single woman walking up to a single man and hiking her skirt up above her thigh![1]
            On top of such a provocative gesture of worship, Mary has seemingly wasted some very expensive perfume. In verses 4 and 5 we hear Judas’ voice as he attempts to point out the real problem with what Mary has done: “But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, ‘Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?’” Now, let’s put on hold the fact that Judas is the one who would betray Jesus (a fact which this Gospel never hesitates to remind us), because it seems as if Judas might actually be starting to get it. Think about it: Judas doesn’t call Mary out for her uncouth behavior; rather, he points out her waste of what amounts to a year’s wages, money that could have been given to the poor. If I had been there, I would have patted Judas on the back and said, “Good job, Judas! I think you’re starting to get it. We should have used such an expensive thing to benefit the poor.” Judas seems to have great intensions, but you know what they say about intentions and the kinds of paths they pave.
            Jesus sees right through Judas’ well-intentioned words though in verses 7 and 8: “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.” While there is so much to say about Jesus’ response, I think it is verse 8  that serves to pull the wind from Judas’ sails. You see, the author of the Fourth Gospel gives us a bit of parenthetical insight into Judas’ character and his response to Mary’s action in verse 6: “(He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.)” Jesus sees through Judas’ objection to Mary’s action; this isn’t a genuine concern for the poor, this is an attempt to shine the light on the perceived sin of another in order to hide his own sin. Jesus’ point is made even clearer when one considers that his response to Judas is an allusion to the words of Moses in Deuteronomy 15:11: “Since there will never cease to be some in need on the earth, I therefore command you, ‘Open your hand to the poor and needy neighbor in your land.’"
            If Judas’ concern had truly been for the poor, he would have brought it up long before now. He would have brought it up each time a coin was slipped into the common coffer box in his possession; he would have been making such objections whenever the opportunity presented itself, but here, in the wake of such a public act of worship, Judas decides to point out Mary’s misuse of her resources. His true desire is not to call her out for her outlandish behavior or to call attention to an injustice, but rather to shine the light on someone else’s sins so that his own, somewhat hidden sins, may not seem so great. Before we throw Judas under the bus, though, I think we ought to take a look in the mirror.
After all, it becomes so easy to point out the sins in others doesn’t it? It is especially easy if we think we can categorize sins, if we are able to label some sins as bigger, nastier, or more appalling than others. From our pious perch in the pew we can point to those outside the walls of fellowship and cast judgment on their sins, for while we may be sinners ourselves, at least we aren’t sinners like them. If we can find one or two public sins, sins of which we are sure we are not guilty, and pour our efforts into pointing those sins out in others, then we can push our own sins to the periphery, a place where they can be “out of sight, out of mind.”
I’m afraid we haven’t outgrown that sense of reasoning we had as children; we still think that if someone, somewhere is guilty of the same sin—or better yet, a “worse” sin—then at least we aren’t all that bad (I know I am guilty of such flawed reasoning). If, like Judas, we can take advantage of someone’s public display of what we think is a sin, an injustice, then we just might feel a little better about ourselves and our own ways of living. And it’s right when we start to think we’ve figured it out, just when we’re slipping into that confident sense of comfort, Jesus springs the truth on us—if we’re really worried about sin, we’d better start with our own. For just as Jesus reminded Judas that the poor were there all along, he reminded Judas that he was just as guilty of not giving to them. Just as we point to others and proclaim their lifestyles as sinful, just as we cast judgment on others and announce their inferiority in righteousness, just as we attempt to label and rank sins in an attempt to keep our own sins out of sight, Jesus reminds us that we are just as guilty as anyone at whom we point our accusing fingers.
With that same truth in mind, know this: while we are all guilty when it comes to the sin we carry, we are all given the chance to be forgiven. Whether we bear our sins before the judging eyes of others or keep them buried out of sight, out of mind, Christ offers forgiveness to all who wish to have it. As we draw closer to the cross with Jesus, may you know this day that the stains of sin we all bear may be cleansed by the blood of Christ. May you no longer seek to point out the sins in others so that you may find comfort in your own, less visible sins. May you seek the forgiveness that comes only through Christ today, and may you join this congregation in out connected journey of faith as we follow Jesus to the cross, the grave, and on into the glorious reality of resurrection. May you not hesitate on day longer.
Let us pray…
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us, for we are sinners. Remind us that our sins are no smaller or less wicked than the sins of others. Show us, O Lord, the path of forgiveness that leads through the cross into an everlasting life of love and discipleship. Help us to confess our sins and follow you ever closer on this journey of faith. Give us the strength to respond to the presence of the Holy Spirit as it moves among us even now. In the name of our loving Lord Jesus we pray. Amen.



[1] John for Everyone

Monday, March 11, 2013

Two Sons (Fourth Sunday in Lent)

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
1 Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him. 2 And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, "This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them." 3 So he told them this parable:
"There was a man who had two sons. 12 The younger of them said to his father, "Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.' So he divided his property between them. 13 A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living. 14 When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to be in need. 15 So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. 16 He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything. 17 But when he came to himself he said, "How many of my father's hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! 18 I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; 19 I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands." ' 20 So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. 21 Then the son said to him, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.' 22 But the father said to his slaves, "Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. 23 And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; 24 for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!' And they began to celebrate. 25 "Now his elder son was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. 26 He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. 27 He replied, "Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.' 28 Then he became angry and refused to go in. His father came out and began to plead with him. 29 But he answered his father, "Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. 30 But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!' 31 Then the father said to him, "Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. 32 But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.' "

            Don’t you hate it when things don’t go the way they’re supposed to go? Now, I’m not necessarily talking about those times when things don’t go the way you want them to go; I’m talking about those times when the precedents of life are interrupted by unexpected outcomes or malfunctions. Those times when, despite how many countless days in a row you walk out the door, put the key in the ignition, and start your car, the day comes you’ll turn the key and the car won’t start. That isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Or what about those times when, no matter how many mornings your alarm went off at the correct hour it fails to wake you up that one day—that one day—you need to be at work or school early? That isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Never mind those days when, despite how many times you’ve traveled the same route to and from the doctor’s office, there’s construction that has backed traffic up for miles causing you to miss your appointment. That isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
Then of course there are those much more important things in our lives interrupted by surprises and unplanned hindrances. There are those who eat right, exercise, wear sunscreen, and avoid artificial everything, yet the diagnosis of cancer passed on to them from their parents is unavoidable and takes them before their fortieth birthday. That isn’t how it’s supposed to go.  There are those who long to have children, to raise a family of their own, but biology betrays them and leaves them baby-less. That isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Then there are those who are fortunate enough to bring new life into this world; they read every book, attend every class, and go out of their way to love their children, to raise them in the best way they know how, yet their children turn down destructive paths, breaking hearts and burning bridges all along the way. That isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
Fortunately for us, we find ourselves this fourth Sunday in Lent, waist-deep in a parable about things that don’t go the way they’re supposed to go, a parable about a father who doesn’t do what he supposed to do because of two sons who don’t do what they’re supposed to do. If you’ve spent very many Sunday mornings holding down a pew, you’ve likely heard this story once or twice: we commonly call it “The Parable of the Prodigal Son,” though I’d like to (if only for this morning) call it “The Parable of the Father and his Two Sons.” Chances are, many of you could tell this story without peeking down at the Bible in your lap.
Jesus says, "There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.’” That isn’t how it’s supposed to go. In the Ancient Near East (and in many parts of our modern world) a son—especially a younger son—doesn’t stroll up to his father and demand his share of an inheritance. It’s nothing short of insulting! In fact, the father would have had every right to beat his son on the spot and deny him his inheritance outright![1] This younger son essentially says to his father, “I don’t want to wait for you to ‘kick the bucket.’ I wish you were dead now so I could have my share of what’s coming to me!” That isn’t how it’s supposed to go: a good son would work hard for his family, take care of the estate as his father ages, and then, when his father dies, inherit his portion and continue caring for the family land. After all, an Israelite’s land was more than personal property—it was his God-given gift.[2] For this younger son to ask for his share of an inheritance is already a great breech of cultural protocol, but he takes it even farther—he sells the land. He sells his portion of his family’s God-given land; he trades dirt under his nails for cash in his pocket and leaves his family for a foreign land. That isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
Now, fast-forward to the end of the story. The younger son has returned home after coming to his senses, and there’s a big “welcome home” party in his honor. Jesus tells us he “was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing.” This older brother, who for all intents and purposes has done everything the way he’s supposed to do by keeping his inheritance and honoring his father, “called one of the slaves and asked what was going on.” The slave tells him about his brother coming home and how his father rolled out the red carpet for him—even killing a fatted calf for the party. Well, as you can imagine, the older brother “became angry and refused to go in.” Then, “His father came out and began to plead with him. But he answered his father, ‘Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!'” That isn’t how it’s supposed to go either.
The older brother is so angry about what he deems to be an unfair situation, that he doesn’t even address his father—he just begins an angry monologue declaring his perceived mistreatment. For a son to speak in such a way to his father—with such angry words and without so much as addressing him—was beyond disgraceful. Furthermore, to reject his father’s urging to come and join the celebration would have only added insult and shame.[3] That isn’t how it’s supposed to go. A son is supposed to obey his father. A son should rejoice with the rest of the family when his younger brother returns. A son should join in the celebration and make the family whole, but this son, this older son, decides to sit it out and pout about how unfair he’s being treated. That just isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
But you know, I suppose if one needed somebody to blame for all this, someone on whom to pin this string of contrary behaviors, the father in Jesus’ story is just the one. After all, when the younger son steps out of line, does this Ancient Near Eastern father do what his traditions and culture has told him is the right thing to do? Does he deny his son’s request and erase his name from the will? Does he put his youngest son in his place for such an act of shame and humiliation? No! He gives his son everything he wanted. In fact, Jesus says “he divided his property between them.” Even the oldest son got his inheritance early. That isn’t how it’s supposed to go. He should have made an example out of his youngest son. What’s more, Jesus tells us that after the youngest son decided to turn back and was on his way home, “while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him.” No self-respecting man would run—especially dressed in his robes, and especially not after such a reprobate child![4] The father in Jesus’ parable not only runs out to meet his wayward son, but he literally “falls on his neck” and kisses him! He should have waited on the porch, and once his son reached the house, he should have given him what-for; he should have ran him off, told him he was no longer a son after the way he behaved—but that isn’t what the father in Jesus’ parable does. He welcomes back his repentant son, the one who had boldly defied his father and practically spat in his face. That isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
Then there’s the way the father in Jesus’ story treats the oldest son. When his oldest son is absent from the party, he makes a repeated effort to have his son join the celebration. A father shouldn’t have to ask his son more than once to obey his request. A father should expect his oldest son to extend the same feelings of reconciliation. A father shouldn’t have to march out to the field and beg his oldest son to join in, but this father does.[5] That isn’t how a father is supposed to act. That isn’t how it’s all supposed to go.  
I can imagine the looks on the faces of those tax collectors and sinners as they were coming near to listen to this story from Jesus. I can imagine their lives were products of what happens when things don’t go the way they’re supposed to go. After all, the Pharisees and the scribes that were also there “were grumbling and saying, ‘This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.’" That’s not the way things are supposed to go; sinners shouldn’t eat with good, law-abiding Jews. Tax collectors—practically traitors working for the Roman Empire, collecting taxes from their Jewish brothers and sisters—shouldn’t have a place at the table with real Jews. I can imagine the faces of those Pharisees and scribes as Jesus told this story: they probably weren’t sure who to root for. Everyone in the story is doing things the wrong way; every character is going against custom and tradition—this just isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. If these Pharisees and scribes had it their way, the father would have disowned the youngest son when he had the chance and the older son would have continued to work hard and obey his father, never stepping a toe out of line!
Perhaps that’s how we’d tell the story too. After all, it’s a bit brash for a young son to ask for his inheritance from his still-living father, to practically wish he was dead. It would be within his right to disown his son or, at the very least, discipline him. If that had happened, there would have been no conflict with the older son, no need to break from what is normal and right to beg him to join the party. If the father had just done what was right and fair in the first place, he wouldn’t have had to make a fool of himself running after his youngest son in his robes. If things had just gone the way they’re supposed to go…but you know, grace doesn’t always go the way things are supposed to go.
You see, just as the father in Jesus’ parable graciously goes out of his way to show his love and care for his sons, Jesus eats with sinners and tax collectors. Just as the father in Jesus’ parable seems foolish for running after his prodigal son, so does Christ seem foolish for dying upon a cross. But as the Apostle Paul said, “God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong.”[6] Everything about this parable isn’t the way it’s supposed to go, but then again, everything about grace—God’s grace—isn’t the way it’s supposed to go.
When we run headlong in the opposite direction, away from God, we deserve whatever mess we get ourselves into. We deserve to be cut off, denied our inheritance. Whenever we refuse to acknowledge someone as our brother or sister because of who they are, what they’ve done, the color of their skin, the language they speak, who the love, the size of their bank accounts, or even their last name, we deserve to be cut off, rebuked, and disciplined for our selfishness. That’s how it’s supposed to go, but thanks be to God that isn’t how grace is supposed to go. For God’s grace says we are welcomed when we turn back to God. Grace says we’ve been given the divine privilege to be reconciled to God and to one another. Whether you can identify with the younger son or his older brother, God the Father offers grace enough to welcome you home, grace enough to reconcile you to himself and to all of God’s people.
Sure, we may hate it when things don’t go the way they’re supposed to go, but praise God for grace. God offers us grace when we don’t go the way we’re supposed to go. God offers us grace through his son Jesus, grace that welcomes us home, grace that reconciles us to each other, grace that sees past how we so often go the way we’re not supposed to go. May you come to yourself this morning and realize that God is waiting for you to come home. May you who have worked in the field faithfully for so long realize that God is welcoming home those who you may find unfit to call brother or sister, and may you be reconciled even to them. Today, may we all realize that God offers us grace we don’t deserve, so that we may call him Father and he may call us his children. May you respond today to the God who is waiting for you to come home and be reconciled.
Let us pray…
Eternal God, our heavenly Father, help us to see how we have gone the way we’re not supposed to go. Holy Spirit, convict us so that we may come to ourselves and come running back to you, Lord Jesus, give us the strength to see our sins, repent of them, and be reconciled this day to you and each other. In your name we pray. Amen.



[1] Mark Strauss, Zondervan Illustrated Bible Backgrounds Commentary: Luke. Zondervan: Grand Rapids, MI (2002). p. 447
[2] Leslie J. Hoppe, Feasting on the Word, “Fourth Sunday in Lent: Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32.” Westminster John Knox Press: Louisville, KY (2009). p. 119
[3] Darrel L. Bock, Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament: Luke. Baker Academic: Grand Rapids, MI (1996). p. 1318
[4] Leslie J. Hoppe, Feasting on the Word, “Fourth Sunday in Lent: Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32.” Westminster John Knox Press: Louisville, KY (2009). p. 119
[5] Darrel L. Bock, Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament: Luke. Baker Academic: Grand Rapids, MI (1996). p. 1317
[6] 1 Corinthians 1:17

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

A Waste of Dirt (Third Sunday in Lent)

Luke 13:1-9
1 At that very time there were some present who told him about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. 2 He asked them, "Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? 3 No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. 4 Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? 5 No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did." 6 Then he told this parable: "A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. 7 So he said to the gardener, "See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?' 8 He replied, "Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. 9 If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.' "

            Six years ago this past Friday I was sitting beside the hospital bed of a total stranger. I was spending the semester as a chaplain at Hillcrest Baptist Hospital in Waco, and it was my last visit for the day. I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, and out of common courtesy and common sense, I ignored it. I left the patient’s bedside after prayer and reported to the room where our class of chaplains debriefed before being dismissed for the day. I walked out the sliding doors at the front of the hospital, across the road, and through the parking lot before I realized I still had a missed call and (as it turned out) a voicemail on my phone. It was my friend Chris, his voice laced with an odd tone of concern: “I just wanted to call and see if you had heard anything from your family. Are they ok?”
As you can imagine, I was bit confused. Why was he asking about my family? Did he know something I didn’t know? I decided I’d call him back when I got to the seminary (I had a class that night), so when I sat my books down on the table in the classroom I pulled my phone out and called Chris. Before I could even ask why he had left such a strange message, he asked, “How is everyone?” “About the same I guess,” I said “why do you ask?” He said, “You mean you don’t know?” By this point I knew something wasn’t right, so I asked, “What’s going on?” Chris proceeded to tell me that an EF4 tornado had ripped through my hometown of Enterprise earlier that day (I assume it was while I was making my rounds in the hospital) and it was all over the news that the tornado had hit the high school and a number of students had been killed in the destruction. I told him I’d have to call him back, and I ran out into the common area at the end of the hall where three computers were set up on a counter along the wall. I Googled the words “Enterprise tornado,” and there on the screen in front of me were images of what used to be my high school.
I called my parents (who both live in trailers but were fortunately well out of harm’s way) and then I called my friend Steve. Steve is the auto-mechanics teacher at Enterprise High School. When Steve answered his cell phone, his voice told me he had been screaming, crying, or likely some combination of both. He only had a few seconds to talk, but I remember him distinctly asking me to pray; “Pray, Chris.” That’s all I really remember him telling me. The news came later that evening: eight students and one elderly resident died that day.
            In the days that followed, people in Enterprise began trying to put their lives back together…and they began asking questions. “Why did this happen? Could this have been prevented if we released the kids earlier that day, or would they have been caught in the storm while riding the bus? Was there a better place for those students to take shelter? What can we do to make sure this doesn’t happen again?” Of course, in the wake of such tragedy and destruction we search for answers and try to imagine alternatives to reality; we want to be sure we do everything within our power to avoid such devastation again.
            Perhaps it was with that same drive, the drive to avoid a repeat of danger, that Luke tells us, “At that very time there were some present who told [Jesus] about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices.” Now, there’s no evidence of such an incident outside of Luke’s gospel, but that doesn’t mean that it wasn’t in Pilate’s wheelhouse of tyranny. History tells us Pilate had several similar episodes during his reign, so the likelihood that he actually committed such a slaughter involving Galileans and their sacrifices is great.[1] But why did this group decide to bring this up to Jesus now? Back in chapter 9, verse 51 Luke tells us “When the days drew near for him to be taken up, [Jesus] set his face to go to Jerusalem.” In other words, at that point in Luke’s narrative it became clear that Jesus is determined to go to Jerusalem, a place where he would face death. Perhaps these particular members of the crowd have caught on and so they approach Jesus, telling him about the slaughter of these Galileans (perhaps even these folks are from Galilee themselves) in order to prevent a second such slaughter. Jesus, however, doesn’t seem to so much as flinch at the news or the notion that a similar fate might be in store for him and his followers.
            In fact, after he is approached by such a concern, Jesus counters with another story of tragedy in verse 4 when he asks about the eighteen killed when the tower at Siloam collapsed. Again, there’s no evidence of such an incident outside of Luke’s narrative, but that doesn’t make it any less true—remember, this is two thousand years ago; there aren’t exactly a great deal of building inspections or maintenance regulations, so the collapse of a tower or even the scaffolding used to construct or repair it is extremely likely.[2] Jesus’ point in responding to their concern about Pilate and the possible recurrence of disaster is clear when he asks in verses 2 and  4 “Do you think these who died by the hand of Pilate or in Siloam were any less righteous than the rest of the people in Jerusalem?” His answer in both instances is nearly identical in verses 3 and 5: “No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did." There was nothing necessarily evil or sinister about those who died in Pilate’s slaughter or in the accident at Siloam. With those words Jesus shattered a commonly held belief that untimely death or tragedy was the result of sin.[3]
            Of course, that is still a commonly held belief today, for it wasn’t long after Hurricane Katrina ravaged New Orleans that “the great” Pat Robertson took to the airwaves to tell his nearly one million 700 Club viewers that the hurricane was part of God’s judgment on America for legalized abortion. Hal Lindsey (author of The Late Great Planet Earth) pronounced Katrina as the beginning of God’s judgment on America as well, and Chuck Colson believed it was God’s way of calling our attention back to our nation’s lack of preparation for terrorist attacks![4] The even sadder truth is that these three men were not alone in such theological assumptions, but Jesus tears down their misguided theories with the same words he speaks to dismiss the fears of those who spoke up from the crowd: “Were they any worse than you, than us? “No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did." Those aren’t exactly words of comfort are they? “No, they weren’t any less righteous than you, but you’ll still die just like them unless you repent.”
            Now, what do you suppose Jesus meant by that? Surely Jesus wasn’t trying to suggest to them (and to us) that if one simply repents, he or she won’t have to worry about dying at the hands of a madman or in some tragic accident? That surely isn’t the suggestions of a loving God who weeps for the loss of twenty innocent children and six of their teachers at the hands of an armed and unstable young man. That isn’t the suggestions of a Christ whose heart no doubt broke at the loss and devastation caused by an earthquake in Hait—a country already known as the poorest country in the Western hemisphere. So surely Jesus isn’t implying that they’ll avoid such a death; in fact, later on it will seem as if Jesus implies that they will indeed die by the hands of persecutors if they decide to follow him. So what did Jesus mean when he said, “unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did”? Perhaps there is an answer in the little parable Jesus tells them in verses 6-9 of our text: "A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, ‘See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?' He replied, ‘Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.' "
            It would’ve been a common experience in their day: an owner of a vineyard would have left a steward in charge while he attended to other business, then after three years (about the time it takes for grapes to begin producing), he would have returned to see how the vineyard was coming along. It wasn’t uncommon to plant fig trees and the like along with the grapevines, but when the owner returns and finds that the fig tree (which should have produced fruit for three years) is barren, he instructs his gardener to chop it down. After all, there’s no use in wasting good soil on a tree that doesn’t produce any fruit.[5] The gardener, however, wants to give the tree one last chance, so the owner of the vineyard makes a deal with him: he can try to revive the tree, but if there are no figs next year, it’s coming down! Now what do you suppose such a story has to do with tragedy and repentance?
            Imagine what must be going on in the minds of those who are following Jesus on his journey towards Jerusalem. They know there’s a great possibility of danger there: they could be stopped and killed by the Roman authorities who will stop at nothing to keep the peace and control their citizens; they could be harassed by the religious authorities who are angry and annoyed by Jesus’ teachings; even if they could manage to avoid all that, there’s still a chance some part of that ancient city might just collapse on them! Danger and death seemed inevitable in Jerusalem, and they just wanted to avoid it, to prolong their lives as long as they could.
Don’t we do the same? Don’t we try to avoid danger whenever we are aware of its presence? Don’t we try to prolong our lives by whatever means we can? No one in their right mind lunges headlong into the path of destruction if they hold the power to avoid it. No one wants to die when life is an option—especially a long life. No one wants to be cut down when they are healthy and alive with many years ahead of them. Maybe the gardener in Jesus’ parable had that same feeling about the fig tree: it was a young tree, with plenty of years of growth ahead of it. Perhaps he hated to see it cut down so soon. But what use is a fig tree—young or old—if it never bears any figs?
Maybe that’s the point of this little parable from Jesus. Maybe that’s what he meant when he said, “unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did." Maybe this isn’t a call to repentance in order to avoid physical death, but a call to bear fruit! You see, whether it’s a politically orchestrated massacre, an accident in ancient architecture, a natural disaster, a head-on collision on I-20, cancer, or even old age, we will all one day die. To paraphrase what is perhaps the best sketch from the best comedy troupe in human history, one day “we will stop pining, we’ll pass on. We will be no more. We will cease to be…expire and go to meet our maker…we will be bereft of life, pushing up the daisies…ring down the curtain and join the choir invisible!”[6] Death is unavoidable, yet that doesn’t mean we should run and hide from it, hoping to stave it off as long as we can.
Jesus says “unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did” as a call to each one who desires to follow him, who calls on his name, to turn from a life of sin and mere existence, towards a life of brave faith and fruitfulness. His parable illustrates the point so well, for we can exist like a fruitless fig tree—growing taller, wider, and simply existing, yet serving no purpose, bearing no fruit—or we can repent and begin living, unafraid of danger and death as we bear fruit for the Kingdom of God.
On this side of eternity, we can chose to exist, caring only for ourselves, preserving our way of life, our comfort. We can choose to avoid danger and discomfort for the sake of prolonging our lives and our luxuries. We can exist and grow as we breathe, eat, and age, but in the end we won’t be any better than a fruitless fig tree—just a waste of dirt! But there is another way; we can choose to live, to turn away from a life of mere existence, to repent of our sins of self-satisfaction and self-preservation. We can repent and let go of our fears of discomfort, danger, and death. We can choose this day to repent of our sins, take up our cross, and follow Christ—even into harm’s way. For when we repent of our sins we are not suddenly made invincible to the realities of tragedy and biology; when we repent, we begin to bear fruit in the garden of God’s kingdom.
So, as we draw ever closer to Jerusalem, to danger, to death, on this journey with Christ, will you repent? Will you let go of whatever is holding you back from joining Christ and his Church in his kingdom’s work and begin boldly bearing fruit? Or will you cling tightly to your comfortable existence and continue to be—like a fruitless fig tree—little more than a waste of dirt?
Let us pray…



[1] Darrel L. Bock, Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament: Luke. Baker Academic: Grand Rapids, MI (1996). p. 1205
[2] Leslie J. Hoppe, Feasting on the Word, “Third Sunday in Lent: Luke 13:1-9.” Westminster John Knox Press: Louisville, KY (2009). p. 95
[3] Michael B. Curry, Feasting on the Word, “Third Sunday in Lent: Luke 13:1-9.” Westminster John Knox Press: Louisville, KY (2009). p. 93-97
[5] N.T. Wrght, Luke for Everyone. Westminster John Knox Press: Louisville, KY (2004). p.163
[6] From Monty Python’s Flying Circus. You can watch the sketch here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=npjOSLCR2hE