One Name Under Heaven

a sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Easter, Year B

Acts 4:5-12 and John 10:11-18

For those of you who are using our new online membership app, Realm, you may be aware that two-factor authentication was just launched a few weeks ago. Two-factor authentication is an on-line security feature that many Realm users had been anticipating and hoping for, as two-factor authentication asks for users to use two distinct forms of identification before allowing access to personal information. For example, if you log in to the app using your phone, then it might send an email with a special login code to make sure you are really who you say you are.

Even if you haven’t made the shift to using our Realm app, my guess is that you have encountered it with banking or social media information. I’m pretty sure even the app I use for birding uses two-factor authentication when I try a new device because, you know, my bird life list is top-secret, sensitive information. OK, not really.

Like it or not, we live in an age of passwords and passcodes, and login IDs, and verification schemes. To get into anything, we have to create a very clever combination of numbers and letters and symbols and Zodiac signs and emojis and woe to the person who forgets what they’ve come up with. Then the whole process starts over with a new email and a new login code for that. I just long for one name!

All of this is to say that this is what it sounds like Jesus is like in this story from Acts when Peter rises before the tribunal of religious authorities. It sounds like Jesus is some sort of passcode or two-factor authentication for salvation. “There is salvation in no one else,” Peter says, filled with the Holy Spirit,“for there is no name under heaven given among mortals by which we must be saved.” It sounds as if God has set up heaven like some sort of tightly locked up bank account and the only way you or I or anyone else can gain access to it is to type in the right word, which is Jesus.

Peter before the Sanhedrin

Chances are you have probably heard Peter’s sentence used that way at some point. I know I have. Oftentimes this verse is used as some kind of mission or evangelism strategy. For example, people are told you don’t profess the name of Jesus or somehow figure out that code that God has set up then you are going to be out of luck when you die. And while I understand the comfort, the security, that may give some people, is that all Jesus is good for, as a type of passcode? In this rigid interpretation of Peter’s confession Jesus is no longer a person, someone you might have a relationship with, someone whose voice you might respond to. Jesus just becomes a device, a key to deliver something else that we might want, not to mention something cruel and divisive that condemns outsiders or people who don’t know the code to a dismal future. And clearly, if we look at what’s going on with Peter, he never means Jesus to be those things.

As some may remember from last week’s readings, Peter and John have just healed a man who was lame from birth. The man who is healed becomes a sign of God’s power that Jesus is the one God anointed to overcome the sin and evil in the world. The healing gets a lot of attention from the crowd, and now Peter and John are on trial before the religious authorities who fear the disruption that Jesus’ followers may bring and who want to stamp out any reference to Jesus’ name and story. In Peter’s testimony to them, the point of Jesus is not to just recite or claim his name so that you or I or anyone else can go to heaven when we die, but that we may run to Jesus now and receive forgiveness and mercy and unconditional love.

Peter wants his accusers and other listeners to understand that Jesus’ presence has power. Even if it is disregarded, God will just keep raising it up, over and over. Jesus can be trusted because Jesus’ love always works to undo and overturn the powers of sin and evil. Jesus liberates, Jesus frees people from oppression, Jesus heals the sick and forgives everyone.

Jesus does not condemn or ostracize anyone. Peter knows this and has seen the power of Jesus up close and is giving a defense of what has happened  because he has been arrested and called before the authorities.

And that is crucial to understanding what is happening here. Peter is on trial. It is very likely that his life is on the line. He is not on the attack, so to speak, preaching a sermon trying to win people over, making sure they have their spiritual houses in order. He is making a statement to the authorities about what Jesus can really do. God has sent Jesus to rescue God’s people through his love and that is something Peter is willing to stand on even as they threaten to persecute him.

When have you come to trust Jesus? In what times have you realized that Jesus’ authority on love and life is something that can always be relied upon? When has your back been against the wall, so to speak, and you’ve realized that the words of Jesus, the way of Jesus, the love of Jesus is what threw you a lifeline? Have you experienced how the kindness and humility of Jesus has transformed a situation of anger and tension? Have you watched as a dead end in your life has somehow, unexpectedly and unpredictably given way to a new beginning? If you haven’t yet, Peter wants you to keep your eyes and your hearts open. He knows that these are the tried and true ways that the risen Jesus works to save the world. There is one name we can trust that brings this new life, and it is Jesus.

But there’s an important tension we can’t ignore. For even as we hear Peter claim that there is no name under heaven by which mortals can be saved, we also hear Jesus himself say that there are other sheep that do not belong to this fold and he will bring them also. People have long wondered what other sheep Jesus may be talking about here. Perhaps they are other congregations or groups of followers that his disciples may not have known about? Could Jesus be talking about the Samaritans, that ethnic group in Jesus’ time who were not considered part of the Jewish family? Is he meaning people of completely different faiths and religious communities, faiths and communities that may even coexist with us today?

Jesus christ said about the shepherd,vector illustration

It’s hard to say, but no matter how we may interpret it, it must mean there is a foundational graciousness to life with Jesus that we must be careful never to limit or confine. Living as Christ’s flock means always being attentive to the fact that others we perceive to be outside our community may, in fact, be the ones whom Jesus is leading, hearing Jesus’ voice in tones we don’t recognize yet. He is working towards greater unity in ways that we might not perceive. We can be sure of his love, but we also keep in mind that the abundant life that Jesus brings is always going to be bigger than any words or doctrines that you or I might find lifegiving at any given moment. As the Reverend Ben Cremer says, “our Christianity should sound like, ‘the world is full of neighbors to be understood and loved,’ not ‘the world is full of enemies to be feared and conquered.’”

For a few days this past week I travelled to Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary in Columbia, South Carolina, to take part in the last Alumni Days celebration before the seminary moves its campus to Hickory, NC, and the campus of Lenoir-Rhyne University. It’s the reality of most church life nowadays—declining numbers in seminary and in congregations have left enrollments so low that it is difficult, if not impossible, to sustain infrastructure from previous years…infrastructure like a separate seminary. This year’s incoming class has just two Lutheran students. Southern Seminary, as it is called, is the place where no fewer than seven of Epiphany’s current and former staff members and interns have received formation for church service. It is a special, holy place for many of us, and the time there this week was bittersweet.

Christ Chapel at LTSS

One of the things the seminary did for this week’s celebration was to pull out and put on display most of the past composite photo arrangements of the past year’s graduating classes. As we sipped our drinks we could walk through hundreds, if not thousands, of faces of people who had been shaped by the call to serve and sent out into the world. It was like a treasure hunt—going back through the years I found Joseph’s photo in 2007, then Christy Van O’Linda Huffman’s in 2005. I saw our visitation pastor Mark Cooper’s and then Tom Bosserman’s. I saw Joseph’s father in the class of 1972. It was really quite overwhelming, especially as I prepare to rest and refocus during a time of sabbatical, to see myself quite literally placed amid this great cloud, this huge flock of people, most of whom I do not know but who had nevertheless heard the voice of the Good Shepherd to serve as a leader in the church. It made me think of how I have a responsibility to encourage new people to hear that call to serve.

I tell this not to raise any anxiety about the state of things, but maybe because those composites got me thinking. They got me thinking about how the Good Shepherd might view all of us as he walks us through the world. We are all in different groups and categories at times, many of which we make up to separated ourselves in needless ways. Jesus walks through the world, gathering us all together—these from this ethnic group, those from that race, these over here from that gender, that class, that religion—into one big group together. We are patiently, lovingly assembled by a leader who lays his life down for the sheep. He keeps us safe from forces that snatch and scatter us.

And through the mission of the church our service becomes a demonstration of how Jesus is that Good Shepherd, that he ultimately is working to bring life to all, and that he does it always in ways that involve some kind of self-sacrifice. He goes through the valley of the shadow of death with us. And pours our cups to overflowing.

The world is full of people to understand and love. Rather than forcing people to make some kind of choice about Jesus and presenting him as a code for getting into heaven we should just urge people to hear his voice—all people. With the confidence of Peter we can testify to Jesus’ ability to heal and save, but with the humility of a sheep we can keep our ears trained on what he says, for he is constantly calling, constantly calling out to a composite crowd, one flock, one shepherd.

Thanks be to God!The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.  

Connections

a sermon for the Third Sunday of Easter, Year B

Luke 24:36b-48

Like many of you, I find time somewhere in my day—usually in the morning—to work some of the free puzzles in the New York Times. Wordle is fun, as is the Mini Crossword, but the one I get the most excited about is Connections where have to figure out connections between seemingly unrelated clues. The game presents you with sixteen words that all somehow fit neatly into four categories, but you don’t know what the categories are. You have to figure them out as you go. The end result is four rows of four related words. Some of the categories are pretty straightforward, while others are more obscure. For example, one of the Connections puzzles from last week included the words clown, king, colonel, and mermaid, and you needed to see that they all belonged together as fast food mascots.

In any case, what I notice is that each day when I open up and start the game I find myself utterly bewildered by what I see. I have a few minutes where I look at the sixteen words and nothing jumps out at me. I think to myself, “I will never figure this puzzle out. Nothing seems clear.” I find that I have to look at the words for a while, sometimes even say them aloud, before I ever start to see any connections. If it’s not Connections for you, then I bet there’s another game where you have to wait for clarity and resolution. A pathway through Amen Corner, perhaps.

I feel that this is a lot like the disciples’ encounters with Jesus after the resurrection. In every story we have in the gospels, the disciples start by staring at Jesus right before them and not really perceiving him at all. They are are bewildered, puzzled, and sometimes, like in this morning’s lesson, they are startled and terrified. If they have a category for him to fit into, it’s “ghost.” It’s going to take some real looking at Jesus, overcoming that initial discomfort and skepticism, in order for them to see the risen Jesus for who he really is.

This strikes me as very realistic for some reason. That the disciples must work through some doubt, that they didn’t just automatically respond to him as their Lord, helps me with doubts I often have in my faith and in times when I’m discerning how God might be present. Or am I the only one that feels that way?

Interestingly enough, in all of the gospels that have post-resurrection accounts, the way Jesus’ followers finally come to see him is through eating. Sometimes it is in a home with breaking bread and other times, like in this morning’s story, it is with some broiled fish. We may think this is painfully ordinary and ho-hum, because eating is something we do every day, but it is, in fact, in eating with Jesus that the disciples understand their connection to him—the connection they have to his generosity, the connection they have to his ministry, the connection they have to his new life. In the ancient world, especially, eating with people was one of the most intimate things you could do. This act invites them into seeing him for who he really is.

As many of you are aware, we are sending 22 high school youth and five adult leaders this summer to the ELCA Youth Gathering in New Orleans where they will be a part of ministry and mission for the church on a large scale. You have been so gracious in your support of this trip. All of this preparation makes me remember of one of the last trips I took with our youth group, which was ten years ago to the eastern shore of Virginia where we served the migrant worker population that lived and moved among the agriculture industry in that area of our state. We worked in the run-down trailer parks that were their temporary homes, running camps for the children and sending out work crews to do some painting and lawn care.

The week culminated with a meal that the migrant worker communities provided for us. They cooked dishes from their Central American homelands and spread it all out on tables they had set up in the midst of the trailers. It was a hot night in late July. The cicadas were buzzing and bats were zooming overhead. The small children were running around and playing with our youth, swinging on their arms like they were human jungle gyms. We didn’t speak Spanish and they didn’t speak English. None of us knew the names of the dishes they had made, and, quite frankly, it was the first time many of us had eaten that kind of food, but it was delicious and the food itself worked a kind of magic. It helped us feel more bonded with these people we had served that week, put us more on an even playing field.

I know the meal was placed at the end of the week as a way for them to thank us, and I’m not criticizing that program decision in any way, but I have always wondered what the week would have been like that that special meal been the first thing we did together. How would it have formed our relationships for the week? How might we have understood our deeper connections and commonalities right at the beginning?

There is a deep wisdom in Jesus’ decision to eat first-thing in his experiences with his followers after his resurrection and not waiting until later—a deep wisdom we can take for granted in these days of Door Dash and fast food. The first thing God does for humans at the beginning of creation is give them things to eat. The most transformative event in Israel’s history and faith involves a meal, the Passover. Jesus himself forges his ministry around the dinner tables and banquet halls of Palestine, and he makes a meal the sign of his new covenant of love on the night before his crucifixion.

That’s the theology. From a scientific perspective, to eat one must be alive, willing to move forward in some way. And we are God’s Easter people. And from a social standpoint, to eat means one recognizes dependence on other people as well as one’s inherent vulnerability, since we can only receive nourishment from outside ourselves. The act of eating forms community at its most basic level and that is what Jesus has come to transform: how we connect with one another. And, perhaps most obviously, Jesus’ eating proves he is not a ghost. He comes to physically gather his people into God’s presence and to feed us with God’s love and grace, to get us around the table, eye to eye and hand to hand. It’s why we begin our week around a table, eating. Fed and restored, it is how we get launched into the places we will go.

Just as mother’s milk becomes the first sustenance for an infant’s life that first moment of eating with his disciples becomes the beginning of their new life. So much probably swirls in their minds about connectedness and faith as they stare at Jesus eating fish that morning. Fear and puzzlement slowly give way to understanding and to the formation of a new identity. He sits down and shows them the Scriptures and tells them about this new life of forgiveness and compassion they won’t just talk about but embody. Jesus reminds us with the bread and the wine we aren’t just supposed to talk about love and mercy and self-sacrifice but to put them into practice.

In an article this past week published in The Atlantic, Derek Thompson, who himself is an agnostic when it comes to the existence of God, discusses what Americans have lost as they’ve given up going to church. It’s an insightful reflection, considering the fact that author himself doesn’t really identify with a religious group, having left the faith of his childhood long ago. But now he is starting to rethink that, observing that many Americans have found no alternative to build a sense of community outside religious groups. One statistic he shares really stands out: the United States, he explains, “is in the midst of a historically-unprecedented decline in face-to-face socializing.”[1] “Boys and girls ages 15 to 19 have reduced their hangouts by more than three hours a week. There is no statistical record of any period in U.S. history…where young people have spent more time on their own.” The same kind of isolation applies to all groups, Thompson finds.

I don’t know what to make of all that, but I do know that here, Jesus is trying to combat our isolation, again and again. And even as we give thanks for the ways, for example, our worship livestream has connected us through the gospel news to people far from us, we can recognize that Jesus is still seeking to gather us for this new life of love around his table and the other tables where God’s mercy is freely given. God doesn’t want us to be scattered and lonely, but connected and nurtured so that we may be strengthened for mission.

One of the ministries this congregation has been involved in over the past few years is Moments of Hope. Many of you have made lunch sacks for Moments of Hope, or MoHope as it is often called, which goes out into Richmond each Saturday with hundreds of these meals for anyone who is hungry. Sometimes they end up feeding up to 600 or more. Two weeks ago the place where the tables were set up decided they no longer wanted to host the meal distribution, so a frantic search for a new area parking lot area was undertaken.

I asked Faye Coppage here what the organization of Moments of Hope was looking for. The requirements were that it be outside, on the busline, and in the city or near the city line. The idea is that their feeding site be convenient and accessible for both those feeding and those being fed. Thanks be to God that a new site was found within a few days. Feeding hungry people will continue. There will be more moments of hope.

Jesus is God’s presence for us, convenient, accessible, gracious, free. Death tried to prevent him from loving us, but he overcame that on the cross. Now he comes as the one feeding us, gathering us at a table that has been set up like a parking lot, assembling us as residents of a life’s trailer park where we gain sustenance for the journey and forgiveness for our souls. Jesus gathers us to eat with him, the doubting and the lost, the hopeful and the committed, with the hope we will see connections. Connections everywhere—between each person with outstretched hands, connections between this table and the ones that feed the world. Connections between Jesus’ cross and God’s grace. He has hopes we will see connections of real love put into action, as Jesus says, into all nations.

Thanks be to God!

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

[1] https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2024/04/america-religion-decline-non-affiliated/677951/

Footrace

a sermon for the Resurrection of Our Lord, Easter Sunday

John 20:1-18 and Isaiah 25:6-9

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene arrives at the tomb and sees the stone has been removed. Her first response? She runs. She runs! In the dark, to two of Jesus’ disciples, to tell them what she’s found and what is their first response? They run. In fact, it’s a race—a race to the tomb to see who can get their first. Lots of running, especially first thing on Easter morning. None of the other gospel writers have quite so much running, but John makes sure we know. At this point this seems less like a cemetery scene and more like…first grade recess.

First grade recess, in case you don’t know, is all about running and racing and who is fast and who gets beat. And maybe I’m just reading too much into this resurrection scene, but you have to understand our own first grader came home this week—the same week I was preparing for this sermon—with a booklet his class had made him. Each kid was asked to write a few short sentences about him (he was the “Star of the Week”) to praise him and make him feel proud about himself. Flipping through the pages, we sensed a theme:

“Dear Jasper, you are kind and nice. You are a fast runner.”
“Dear Jasper, you love animals and you are a fast runner.”
“Dear Jasper, you are like a cheetah because you are so fast!”

But that’s the playground at school. This is a graveyard, and there are allegations of body-snatching. What’s going on? Are the disciples and Mary Magdalene just excited? Could someone with evil intentions be onto them, ready to ambush and arrest them too? Bible scholars have long speculated about what might be going on here at the scene of the resurrection. Some have suggested that the unnamed beloved disciple was younger than Peter. Fresher, stronger legs helped him run faster than the arthritic Peter.

Others have interpreted more serious differences into their running speeds. For example, if Peter is traditionally seen to represent Christianity’s Jewish roots, and the beloved disciple, who is most likely John, to represent Gentiles, then it is important that Peter be the first one into the tomb, since Gentile Christians come to faith only after the Jewish Christians do.

Still others read this footrace as symbolic of the competitive nature between Christianity’s two earliest strands, the ones who formed around Peter’s leadership and those who were more closely associated with John’s. Was their desire to outrun one another a sign of early dissention and rivalry?

Another theory is that these two guys were racing for publishing rights to the story so they could sell it for $69.99, plus shipping! I am not a fan of that theory.

Most of these assumptions are fun to entertain but they will never be resolved. Maybe we should re-direct the question: did you run here this morning—if not literally, with your feet,  then with your mind? Why did you put on the Easter finery and force the little ones into theirs? Do you harbor an inner desire that this weary, war-torn world be changed, shaken up? Are you hopeful for a new beginning out of the ashes of your past?

In some ways, however, being fixated on all the running only detracts from what is really important here: Jesus’s body is no longer in the tomb and there aren’t too many good reasons for that which immediately come to mind. It isn’t until they each take turns going into the tomb itself that it begins to dawn on them what has actually happened. The stone is rolled away and the tomb is empty because Jesus is risen.

The graveclothes are a clue:  stolen body would have not left costly linens behind, for those were not only valuable to tombraiders in the marketplace, but useful in carrying and relocating or maybe even hiding a corpse. But there they are, some of them even neatly rolled up, which makes me a little resentful that the first thing Jesus does in his risen life is make his bed and fold the laundry. Interestingly, the writer of the gospel tells us that the beloved disciple sees and believes after he enters the tomb. But then we’re told that neither of them fully understand the meaning of the Scripture about the resurrection.

I don’t know about you, but I find this to be a very realistic detail about their response to this amazing event. All too often belief in something—or trust in God, if we want to think of it that way—does come before truly understanding it all. We see this in several of the people Jesus meets throughout his life—people like Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea, those who actually show up at the end and prepare the body for burial—people who are drawn to believe and to expand their faith but who don’t immediately have the comprehension or courage of convictions to back it up.

I bet it is where many of us are today about many things regarding faith. We are amazed, we are curious, and we even might stake our life on something about God, but we don’t fully understand it. Like the first disciples, we are drawn to hear the news and maybe even to trust it—

to trust that God really has overcome the powers of darkness and evil; to trust that in Jesus God has claimed this world for good; to trust that on the cross Jesus was lifted up that all of humankind would be drawn to God, not just select ones.

As the prophet Isaiah declared centuries before, we are drawn to trust that vision of a life where all God’s people are gathered to God’s holy presence where gifts of God’s goodness are not held back and we sing and we rejoice that death has been swallowed up forever. The shroud that that is cast over all peoples—the graveclothes that are spread out in the tomb—will not just be folded and set aside, but destroyed. And God will wipe away every year from all faces. This is the vision some of us trust, others of us run to, still others hold back in grief and suspicion.

Which is why we must be thankful for the one who doesn’t get caught up in a footrace that first morning, Mary Magdalene. She does have tears on her face that still need to be wiped away. Mary Magdalene lingers—lingers in her grief, in her dismay, in her confusion. She’s the investigator here, the detective, the one who still wants to know what has actually happened to her Lord’s body. It’s not faith she lacks, or understanding, or grasp of the Scriptures, but more the details. Maybe, deep down, she still seeking word from her Savior, himself, and the only way that will happen is to open those emotions up.

When she finally sees Jesus, she supposes him to be the gardener, the groundskeeper, and in a way, that’s exactly what he is. Like one who tends the earth, he is skilled at bringing forth new life, even in us. He can make an ordinary scene beautiful, an area of mud and stone teem with life. In this case, it’s the whole cosmos.

Last week at one of our men’s gatherings someone happened to mention the Easter of four years ago, right at the outset of the pandemic, when we had to pre-record everything because we couldn’t gather in person. This gentlemen said what stuck out to him the portion of that worship video where we asked people to record themselves responding to the Easter proclamation of “Christ is Risen! Alleluia!” with “He is risen, indeed! Alleluia!” What struck him was that people recorded those messages in their gardens, some people standing against a backdrop of vibrant azaleas or a dogwood tree.

I had clearly blacked out that component of pandemic worship (I’ve blocked out a lot of the pandemic) so I returned this week to our YouTube channel and scrolling back through all hundreds of videos, watching Pastor Joseph’s hair start long and then get steadily shorter back to April 12, 2020.  And as I watched that segment of that worship video again, the part with people sharing their joy from their own yards and gardens, many in selfie mode, I was reminded in an emotional moment just how those clips spoke resurrection to me, lost as I was in my COVID darkness. It was almost too much for me to watch. We were so distant then, afraid, isolated. I had figured each of you then just to be gardeners on the screen, but in a real way you were the very presence of the risen Lord. Your smiles and your words called through the screen in a way that resonated deep inside of me. And I don’t think I was the only one who felt that way.

What Mary’s encounter by the tomb teaches us is that Jesus always seeks to bring clarity to confusion, hope to despair, new life to death. He is patient, unperturbed by our lack of understanding. We have a Lord who comforts by calling us by name, which is to say in ways that make us feel known and understood and claimed. God has raised Jesus, today and every day. The graveclothes are folded and bed made. A new, unending day of possibilities lies before us all.

So, whether you’ve run here today, for whatever reason, eager to believe, or whether are lingering at a point in your life, looking for more facts, more evidence, more clarity…may you trust that the God who raised Jesus from the dead is patient and caring, persistent and willing to wait for faith to come. But if you should believe and trust this message of Jesus’ victory over death then run along now.  The world is waiting to hear what you have to say. Run along now. In fact…I know someone who’d be happy to race you.

Thanks be to God!

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.                                                  

Were You There?

a sermon for Good Friday

“Were you there when they crucified my Lord?”

Me? Was I there? Are you asking me that?

I guess I always kind of thought that hymn was a rhetorical question. Was I there when they crucified you Lord?

I’m not really sure how to answer. I guess, technically-speaking, I was not there when they crucified him—as in there-there. I mean, that was that about 2000 or so years ago, right? All I’ve got is a handful of documents from that time period from people who knew people who were there when they crucified him, but I’m not sure that’s what you’re talking about. And yes, from what they say it sounds like it would make me tremble too. He was treated like a criminal of the day, hung on the cross to die in agony, no one lifting a finger. I suppose everyone felt that the circumstances were just out of their control, that the forces of power and violence were too overwhelming and complex to really steer the whole scene off-course.

And not to mention it was hard to be really convinced that this Jesus was the guy whom God had anointed. I mean, how could God allow this to happen…a crucified Lord! It makes me think of Gaza these days, or these Ukrainian villages on the front line of war, and how all the pain and death we witness on the news just seems awful but also beyond my ability to change it. I would just as soon not look at the images or hear the reports about innocent suffering of our day and go about my life. My problems. My suffering. So, no, I was not there when they crucified our Lord. Let’s move on.

Oh, so now you want to know if I was there when they nailed him to the tree. I think you can go ahead and assume I wasn’t there for that if I already wasn’t there when they crucified him. Nailing is an integral part of the crucifying, right? At least that’s how I understand it from the history books. I bet it was terrible to hear as it happened. Just gives me the shivers.

But that word “tree” in your question makes me a little uncomfortable. I know that cross was made of wood and all,but must we really call it a tree? Plus, a tree, in this instance, especially with your voice singing it in that gospel style, makes me think of, well, of a lynching tree. And that is a part of American history that I’d just as soon not be reminded of. Those were things some of my white-skinned ancestors talked about and maybe participated in, but can’t bear that shame, can I?

Besides, how dare you compare the two? I mean, Jesus was trapped by a gutless, bloodthirsty crowd, and then accused of charges that were made-up. Then they didn’t give him any way to defend himself before they tortured him and mocked him and killed him in front of everyone as a public spectacle. The whole time he was innocent and helpless. It was like they just hated him for being who he was, and afraid of where accepting him might take them, afraid of a world where all peoples might be together. I mean, how is that even similar… to…a… lynching? Well, OK, maybe you have a point. I guess I can admit some similarities, and I wasn’t there when they nailed him to the tree but I can see how this strikes close to home for you. Now I am starting to tremble a little bit.

You have another question, don’t you? Was I there when they laid him in the tomb? Well, if I wasn’t there for the first two, can I really say I was there there for this part, when they remove him from the wood, flesh tearing from the nails and then carefully wrapping him in a burial linen? That’s part and parcel to the whole crucifixion thing, especially since it wouldn’t be appropriate to leave a dead body up therefor the Sabbath and its preparations. I wasn’t there when they laid him in the tomb, but I can say I’ve been at other burials, when other people have been placed in the ground. And what I can say is that it never gets easy. Whether they are a young person who took their own life, or a middle-aged person who died of cancer, or an older person who died peacefully after a long life the grief is always there.

What’s also there is this sense of abandonment, of finality. And I can’t fathom that God would ever submit himself to that. God is eternal, right? All-knowing, all encompassing, and to contemplate some part of him succumbing to what we all must succumb to just doesn’t calculate. Unless, God wants to know what death is like, unless God cares enough to go through that for us, with us.

Tremble? That makes my whole brain ache. And so I guess your question suggests, then, that God knows what it’s like when things for us end. And not just the big ending, when we die, but all of the other little endings along the way. The relapse into drug addiction… the failing of a marriage…the estrangement of a dear child or parent. That’s truly something to ponder: that in being laid in a tomb is a promise that God is well-acquainted with everything we would ever go through.

So I suppose I see where your questions are going. Was I there? Was I there? Was I there? Well, Jesus on the cross gives us the ability to ask certain piercing questions of God… questions like, “Were you there, God, when we crucified our Lord?” And, “Are you there, God, when I’m suffering here with life?” “Are you there, God, when I stand in nothing but my own shame, my shame for my complicity in violence,  my apathy in speaking up for others, my regret of my own bad choices?”Are you there, God, with forgiveness? With compassion? With your unconditional love? With your support as I try to move forward? And, by God, I think I know the answer that question now. And I am trembling with you. Trembling with thankfulness.

So, I guess that’s it, then? Trembling with thankfulness and in resignation. God has come to claim us in Jesus, wherever we are. Oh no? You have one more question for me? “Was I there when God raised him from the tomb?” Well, now, that sounds preposterous. It just keeps on coming! Give me couple—maybe three—days to get back to you.

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

March Madness

a sermon for Maundy Thursday

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

It’s that time of the year, right? March Madness. In the NCAA basketball tournaments, women’s and even men’s, anything can happen. What should be a regular, obvious pecking order of seeded teams and historically-dominant programs can be ripped up and thrown away at the swish of a basket. Cinderella teams can upset the order of things, sending hot shots back home with their dreams dashed. Underdogs can play their hearts out, teaching everyone something about humility and foregone conclusions and great expectations. Stars are born and new legacies forged, and today a new round of March Madness will begin as the men’s sweet sixteen team square off in Boston, Los Angeles, Dallas, and Detroit.

The term March Madness was first coined by a high school official in Illinois in 1939, but it became more widely used once announcer Brent Musberger used it during the 1982 men’s NCAA tournament. I think many of us probably have a favorite moment in March Madness history. I’ve been visiting a number of our homebound members this week for holy communion visits, and at least three local nursing homes have posted giant NCAA brackets that greet you as you come in the door. Tip-off for my own Wolfpack was at 7:09. And if you don’t mind me for a second…(check phone)

But if we really want March Madness, then we’ve come to the right place. If we want to talk about pecking orders being ripped up and thrown away, if we want to talk about an underdog playing his heart out, if we want to be a part of a new legacy being forged, then Maundy Thursday is where it’s at. In the Upper Room where Jesus gathers with his disciples on the night before his arrest, we witness a complete reordering of things. Those who should be at the top lower themselves to the floor and the ones who feel on the sidelines are made members of a team and given a task. It is madness, it is passion, and it will sweep us in.

The first thing that is mad is that a betrayer is among them. He has not been sent away or left out, but rather included in this meal. Judas, called Iscariot, has already made up his mind to turn Jesus in to the authorities so that he can make a clean break and get out of this whole ordeal before it goes south. In most leadership structures, and especially many political organizations, loyalty is of utmost importance. Keeping yourself surrounded by yes-men or yes-women is the way to claim and maintain power. But Jesus doesn’t do this. He assembles everyone he has called, regardless of their allegiance and regardless of their dependability. He shares this meal with absolutely everyone he can, because that’s how expansive his kingdom is, how gracious and generous is love is.

A formal scientific study by researchers at Cornell University and the University of Chicago several years ago looked into the effects that meal sharing had on diplomacy. Previous research had shown that when people ate similar foods together it led to their feeling emotionally close to one another. Building on that, these researchers looked at whether the specific way in which food was shared around a table led to better and more fruitful negotiations. As it turns out, their studies proved that when common food was shared family-style, with people needing to pass bowls and baskets around, people developed bonds much quicker and were able to cooperate on problem-solving tasks better. And this held true, whether the participants were friends or strangers to begin with.

At this table of a new covenant, Jesus means to bring all people in and feed us together, betrayers and deniers and doubters included. It sounds like madness, because loyalty is usually prized. If you have ever felt like one of Jesus’ betrayers. If you’ve ever let God down or let one of Jesus’ fellow followers down, if you’ve ever made a decision you’re ashamed of, know that you are welcome at this table and that all is forgiven.

The next thing that is madness here is this stuff about the footwashing. The number one seed should not be doing thing kind of thing, but there he goes, getting down on the floor, taking off his outer robe and taking each of our feet, one-by-one. This is an act that completely reorients our understanding of where God is looking. God has God’s sights on the ugliest, dirtiest, roughest part of our lives, not the parts we fancy up and present to the world. And God looks there with tenderness and compassion, with a desire to clean and restore, not to condemn. Here we have a Savior who not only devalues blind loyalty, but is completely humble himself, willing to do the work that only a slave would do.

Are you prepared to let your Savior wash your feet? Are you ready to live in a kingdom like this, where the life-giving, vulnerable tasks of the servants among us are lifted up as worthy of God’s name? I think Peter does not like this upset. It busts his bracket, but Jesus persists, loving him anyway, calmly moving through the motions of patience and care. Come, and let the Lord of life clean you through and through. Let him act as your servant even though he is your Master. This is how much he loves you.

The last part of his madness is that Jesus expects us to play right along. He gives us a new commandment, right here in the middle of all this tension and suspense. He means for all of this to be an example so that the great love of God will not begin and end here on this night around this table, but rather flow forth like river, watering the whole earth. “By this everyone will know you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

It is madness first of all that Jesus expects us to go out and wash each other’s feet and to humble ourselves on the floors of the world. Because that can be humiliating and degrading and difficult. And furthermore it is crazy that this is how we will be known to the world, that these kinds of loving and self-emptying will be our hallmark.

In early childhood education there is a concept called environmental print. This is print that occurs in everyday life, such as signs, labels, and logos. Environmental print is used as beginning example of children being able to read. Even though they cannot understand letters yet, they still can “read” a cereal box label that says “Lucky Charms” or a box that says, “Barbie” because it is recognizable to them as text.

Followers of Jesus have an environmental print in the world, and it is the specific ways we serve and love sacrificially. People may not understand everything about us, but they should be able to see something loving we do and say, intuitively, there is Christ among them. That is God’s mercy at work.

But wouldn’t it be easier or more effective if there were another way for us to be recognized? Couldn’t we just wear cross necklaces or something instead? Or what about attending a certain church or youth group? Couldn’t that just signal to the world that we’re Jesus’ followers? What about the way we vote in elections or the political party we identify with? Couldn’t we just own a certain copy of a Bible to prove our nearness to Jesus’ cause?

But, no, that is not Jesus’ command. The command is love one another as he has loved us. For you see, Jesus has other plans for us than what clothes we wear or what groups we join or how we align ourselves politically. Jesus plans for us are ones that will reflect his own his own madness, his own passion, a loving madness of the cross. For he will not just wash feet and gather enemies and strangers around his table. He will feel the brunt of betrayal and undergo the shame of denial. Jesus will also offer himself up for each of us in death.  It is a love that knows no bounds, and yet he has confidence that even in our humble, jumbled lives we may somehow mirror it for the sake of the world.

Maximus the Confessor, a theologian of the early church who lived in the seventh century, said “Love alone, properly speaking, proves alone that the human person is in the image of the Creator.” Said another way, love is what makes us most like God. It is not our ability to create beautiful works of art, or our ability to put people into space or our ability to accomplish great physical feats (although a well-executed alley-oop is a thing of perfection) but rather our capacity to look at the face of another human, even one with whom we vehemently disagree, and empty ourselves for them.

Jesus know the world will see that from his followers, in ways big and small, and say to themselves, “Madness! Holy madness! Look at those silly underdogs…I bet they’ll go all the way.”

Thanks be to God!

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

Voices

a sermon for Palm Sunday/Sunday of the Passion

based on Walt Wangerin’s “Cry of the Whole Congregation”

Four voices. Four distinct, unique voices from four people who, as far as we can tell never knew each other or even came into contact with one another. And not only are the voices distinct and unique, but each one is uttered with an urgency and clarity untarnished for roughly two-thousand years. And, despite their differences, their individual perspectives, all four speak with remarkable similarity, especially given their independence of each other.

As it happens, we know their names—at least, the names that got attached to each voice fairly early on—but we know almost nothing else about them or their original audiences. The stories they told with their voices took precedence over anything they would tell us about themselves. And those stories all focused on a particular subject: a savior named Jesus.

Mark, the Evangelist (Valentin du Boulogne)

Mark, who probably spoke first (or at least got written down first) was most likely Greek, and most likely speaking in or around Rome in the first century to a group of believers who were unfamiliar with Jesus’ Jewish roots. The stories he had heard and assembled about Jesus paint the picture of a servant Savior who is at once swift and forceful in overturning the powers of evil. For Mark, the impact of this Savior’s words is almost overshadowed by the number of miracles and healings he performs.

St. Matthew and the Angel (Guido Reni)

Then there is Matthew’s voice, which for a long time was thought to belong to one of this Jesus’ original Twelve followers. We figure Matthew was most likely a Jewish Christian who wrote in a locale much closer to where his subject actually lived. Matthew understood Jesus primarily as a teacher—a teacher, moreover, who was skilled in interpreting Jewish law and forming a community of followers. And so Matthew’s voice presents a Jesus who tells more parables, who gives clear instruction about forgiveness and church discipline and who likes to stress the moral dimensions of Jesus’ kingdom.

Luke the Evangelist (Valentin du Boulogne)

Luke is the softy of the bunch, choosing to stressing Jesus’ concern for the least, the lost, and the little. He’s the one who collects and records Jesus’ parables of the lost coin, the Good Samaritan, and the Prodigal Son…and what would Christianity be without those? Luke is the most educated of the voices, most likely a doctor who travelled with the apostle Paul around the Mediterranean for a while, and his sophisticated grammar and style show it.

St. John, the Evangelist

And then there is John, the outlier. He is, by far, the most poetic of all the voices, accomplished in the use of metaphor and irony. Unlike the other three, John chooses to tell a few stories in depth rather than hashing out everything he ever heard about the man. For John, Jesus’ signs were of utmost importance. We typically call them miracles, but for John they were signs because they signal something about God’s glory that was being revealed in Jesus. John wrote for a congregation or a group of congregations who were likely Jewish but who had been ostracized from the religious community because of their wild claims about Jesus. John sometimes gets a bad rap because people find him a little “extra,” but somehow the whole picture wouldn’t be complete if his voice were missing.

All four had their special emphases to make, their theological points to drive home, their particular perspective. And all of them are telling the truth. Yet something profound happens to these four distinct voices when they get to the part of their story where Jesus enters Jerusalem just before the Passover. Differences in their perspectives begin to fade away and their voices start to unite. All at once, they start telling the same story with some of the same key details. Yes, there are some discrepancies in a few words now and then—signs of their distinct perspectives creep in here and there—and some of them record Jesus’ encounters with the temple authorities more fully than others, but, by and large, the four voices start to tell the same story. It’s like that old familiar bedtime story you read to your kids. You can’t change things. Every word has to be right, or they’ll call you on it.

Something happens—something momentous and powerful and unprecedented—surrounding this man Jesus from Nazareth as he comes from the backwater villages of Galilee into the fevered Passover celebrations of Jerusalem during the time of the Roman army’s occupation. Something is happening—something worth remembering correctly—as he borrows a room for one last meal with his disciples. Something significant is happening as he faces betrayal and denial from these same disciples and is handed over to his enemies. Something miraculous is happening as he is stripped and hung on the cross and treated like a nobody.

It is as if all four voices know that, regardless of what else they communicate about the man and his ministry, this part containing his last days is the most important. It is the crux of his mission. This part of the story will define him, more than any of his teachings, miracles, signs, or parables. Jesus of Nazareth, these voices mean to tell us, came in to the city highly regarded by his people as a new king but ended up getting crucified instead after a charade of a trial and being laid in a borrowed tomb. And somehow the news borne by these voices change the world and the destiny of all creation.

In our study of the Apostles’ Creed in confirmation class we usually put on our theologian hats for a while and took a look at what have come to be called “atonement theories.” It’s a bit of a fancy word. Maybe too fancy.  Atonement theories are essentially assessments of these events that seek to explain just why Jesus had to die and how his death makes us one with God.In short, who was this Jesus and why did his death matter?

Did Jesus need to die, for example, because someone needed to pay the price of human sin? That is one theory. Or did Jesus die because that is how God needed to conquer evil and darkness once and for all? That is another theory. Or perhaps Jesus died because God needed to give his people an example of how they are to love one another completely; that is, by laying down one’s life for another? We look at Scripture passages and hymn lyrics and popular songs that seemed to support any number of these theories for how Jesus’ death restored us to God. What we discover, however, is that there is no one right or wrong theory; they all contain some element of truth, and they all kind of overlap and blend together at some point. Maybe the meaning of Jesus’ death and resurrection is simply too profound to be wrapped up neatly in a few words, or contained in one voice.

What is interesting, though, is that those four gospel voices themselves never seem to be too concerned with exactly how Jesus’ death reconciles us with God. They simply get down to the facts of what happened on that fateful week and let the power of the story speak for itself. They do their best in communicating the chain of events that allow us to understand that in the person of Jesus God is somehow intersecting with this world in a way no one can fully comprehend. They do their best in lending their voice to a story that is so crucial to creation’s existence and future that even had they been silent, the stones themselves would have found a way to proclaim it.

For even though words to explain it often fail us, we know it is this story of Jesus in Jerusalem that lets us know how completely God loves us. We know that it is this story of Jesus at his Last Supper which compels us to serve our neighbors whether they live here in Crestview or in the ghettos of Gaza. We know it this story of Jesus in Gethsemane that reminds us it is not our will that will eventually have sway over our lives, but rather the will of the God who sends him. We know it is this story of Jesus before Pilate that frees us from the need to justify ourselves before God and compels us to speak up for those who are victims of an unfair justice system. We know it is this story of Jesus on the cross that allows us to look even into the tragedies of war and disease and poverty and speak a word of comfort and promise that God does not forsake his children even in the hour of death. We know it is this story of Jesus in his last days in Jerusalem that somehow wraps up all our shortcomings and presents them to God and offers us, in exchange, a new way of living that is filled with hope.

And so this morning we hear a rendition of those events, and you’ll be asked to lend your voice to the story. The particular version we recite does not belong to any one of those four voices; rather, it is a compilation of all of them together, like they are speaking in harmony. Specifically, note what your voice does as our worship plays out. Pay attention to the particular words that come out of your mouth, how they begin with praise but end with death threats.

And when today’s reading of that story is finished…when the last nail has been pounded through weakened flesh, when the last bystander has left the scene, when the taste of that wine and bread on your tongues has begun to fade, and when, on Sunday, the women hurry to the tomb with their embalming spices, the four ancient (yet modern) voices will want to know…what will we do with ours?

Will we join our voices and our lives with theirs in the urgency of proclaiming these amazing events and how they change the world? Or will we shut up and stand in silence and leave the stones to speak in our place?

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

Deconstructed

a sermon for the third Sunday in Lent, Year B

Exodus 20:1-17 and John 2:13-22

Let us imagine, if we can, the situation of the Israelites as they camp out at the base of Mount Sinai as told by this morning’s Scripture from Exodus. They have just endured the trauma of the escape from Egypt and a three-month extended camping trip in the wilderness. They have left everything. Granted, they did not have a whole lot as slaves in Egypt; but nevertheless everything that they had known for several generations. Now they have next to nothing. Even the manna that they eat to survive, the bread-like substance that falls from the sky each day, can’t be saved from one day to the next.

They have also just cheated death. After an initial easy departure due to the havoc caused by the Passover on the Egyptian households, the Israelites ended up having to flee for their lives. The chariots and horses of Pharoah’s mighty army, symbols of how incredibly strong he was compared to them, had pressed down ruthlessly upon their little band of refugees as they ran across desert sand on sandalled feet. But Moses had stretched out his hands at the Red Sea and the waters mysteriously receded so they could walk through to safety.

And, perhaps most important, they are finally free— free from the backbreaking brickmaking work of their forced labor. Imagine what that feels like! They’re free from occupying their role as the lowest rung of the ladder in Egyptian society, free from their persistent haunting thoughts that God had forgotten all about them. But God had remembered them and had liberated them. Now no one was over them, no other people put them down.

So imagine all of this and then realize that they find themselves, once again, at the bottom of something. This time it’s the bottom of a huge, imposing mountain which they’re forbidden to go near or touch. It’s all wrapped in smoke and booms and thunders with God’s presence like the inner chamber of the Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz. There they are…and then down comes their leader Moses with…a set of laws that they are supposed to follow?

Now just imagine that! You go from being at the bottom of society, subject to Pharoah’s whims and decrees, only to be handed a new set of laws and commandments three months into your freedom. I can’t help but think of the enslaved people of this country, who endured more than two centuries of forced menial labor, who only came to emancipation through a bloody Civil War, only to find themselves bound by Jim Crow laws and segregation and voter suppression schemes to keep them down. I imagine the Israelites were dumbfounded. Is this really what their new life of freedom and dignity is going to involve?

As it turns out, these laws are not supposed to do that at all. The Ten Commandments,  which form the core of the law that Moses delivers at Mt. Sinai become the way the Israelites’ freedom looks. This is not so much a handing down of rules, but the beginning of a new covenant, a renewed relationship between God and God’s people. With the ten commandments, or ten words, as they are more accurately called, God raises up God’s people to a beautiful way of living that will set them apart. Through their acceptance of them, the Israelites will become God’s treasured possession, like the most valuable jewel in a crown that God will wear. For with these Ten Words, God is tearing down all of the oppressive systems that the world devises, and is raising up a new covenant of respect and responsibility for all people, one where everyone is cared for and integrated in a productive society.

Other ancient cultures had codes and laws but what the Israelites received was different on a number of levels. One of those is that it lacks a set of clear consequences; that is, if you disobey these rules what will happen. These commandments exist unto themselves, and motivation for following them isn’t fear of what God will do if you don’t, which is often how I fear we mean them when we try to hang them on a courthouse wall. The motivation for following them is enjoying the gifts of the life they safeguard, in simply being the new community God is raising up.

In a way, it’s kind of like how we treat good manners. There is no specific punishment that will come to you if you have bad table manners. No one is going to reprimand you in public if you chew with your mouth open, or if you dive in before everyone’s served, or if you dominate conversation. But if you demonstrate politeness, if you pass food and not hog it, if you leave your napkin on your lap, then people start to feel safe and honored in your presence. The Commandments are much more serious than table manners, of course, but the concept is similar.

Martin Luther explains this expertly in his Small Catechism. He says the eighth commandment don’t just forbid us, for example, from saying false and hurtful things about our neighbor, but requires us to interpret our neighbor’s actions and words in the best possible light. It safeguards everyone’s reputation and dignity. The seventh commandment isn’t just about not taking what doesn’t belong to us, but doing everything in our power to help our neighbor keep her property and means of making a living. It safeguards fair trade and a healthy economy.

I particularly love the way one of our confirmands explained the fifth commandment on a test a few years ago: ” ‘You shall not kill,’ the 5th commandment,” is the hardest for me to follow,” he shared. “Almost every day I have an opportunity to give to someone’s life but I sit back and don’t do anything. It is hard in a school environment to stand up and support someone, and it is easier to put them down instead when you’re around your peers.”

With the Ten Words God tears down the hierarchical and oppressive systems of Pharoah and the other empires (and high school societies) and calls us to a higher ideal, his treasured life, and yet we still fall short. Even the good law becomes a trap, a tool that we twist into a device by which we think we can earn God’s favor. Rather than joyfully living into the law’s demands we let it become a checklist of do’s and don’ts that make some people feel in and others feel out.

With this in mind, it is not hard at all to understand Jesus’ actions as he enters the Temple in Jerusalem. What he sees there makes him sick. In all of the money changing tables and people selling animals for sacrifices he sees yet another system, another oppressive system that exploits people. The gift of a relationship with the living God has been twisted again to form a trap, to make people check boxes, to burden them with guilt.

This could be one reason why a growing number of people today identify as “spiritual but not religious.” There is even a large presence on social media of people who talk about and share stories about the abuses of their religions and how as adults they’ve become disillusioned with things they used to believe and be a part of. This trend has a name: it’s called deconstruction. Deconstruction is what happens when you start picking apart your faith and rearranging your beliefs and values. This morning we see that Jesus takes part in deconstruction himself.

There are even some aspects of his religious identity that make him uncomfortable. The temple in Jerusalem comes to signify all that; that is, all the parts of religion that ultimately oppress or exploit people and don’t free them for a life of love and mercy.

So imagine, then, how the religious leaders feel this morning when Jesus drives out the money changers and starts talking about deconstructing the temple! It sounds ludicrous, inconceivable! I remember when the county announced they’d tear down J.R. Tucker High School after they would build a new one on site within a year. It seemed a bit ambitious, but the dangers presented by the old building and the benefits of a new design and architecture would be worth it, and it worked!

For the religious leaders in Jesus’ time, tearing down the temple and rebuilding it in three days seems preposterous. But that’s not Jesus’ point. In critiquing what the temple’s religion has become, Jesus places himself as the new way to be in relationship with God. Jesus will be the presence of God on earth. Not a temple, not a set of laws. Not even a set of holy writings. Jesus and his self-giving love and pure forgiveness of others will embody God’s way for us. And when he is crucified, all our timeworn ways of trying to make ourselves holy and justify ourselves before God will be torn down. When his body is deconstructed on the cross, God himself will feel the brunt of all our exploitative religious systems and doctrines. God will dismantle our understandings of wisdom and power and replaces them with foolishness and weakness. Jesus conquers by losing and wins everything for God by handing himself over.

And therefore Jesus’ resurrection will open up for us a new life that is everlasting, validating his way of peace and justice for all people. When, through our faith, we live into these ways of Jesus,  when the Spirit of God leads us into greater self-giving, God will automatically help us, too, dismantle systems of oppression and hierarchy wherever we encounter them, inside ourselves and in the world.

This week I made a quick trip to my hometown to pay respects to a special Sunday School classmate who died this week at the age of 49. A child with special needs, as they say, Angie never really acquired much speech, and she related to people on a different kind of level, needing us to pay attention to her sign and body language. But God chose Angie to tear down some of my early biases about giftedness and human worth. Through the wisdom of God and her mother and the pastor, Angie was seated each week around the same Sunday School table as the rest of us, which was especially meaningful because during the week she was in a self-contained environment. When I walked into the funeral home, I was greeted by others from my old church who also hadn’t seen Angie in years, but who remembered her and had been impacted by her joy and presence.         God is always wanting God’s people to live as one, to flourish in bonds of mutual respect and love. It is God’s foolishness, and it is greater than our wisdom.

So if you happen to be deconstructing your faith these days, or if you feel abandoned or trapped and wonder where God might be…if you feel the weight of the world’s brokenness and longing, take heart in the God of the cross. And don’t just imagine yourself sought for and gathered up. Trust that you already are. Trust that you already are.

Thanks be to God!

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

Already Dead, But Over It

a sermon for the second Sunday in Lent, Year B

Genesis 17:1-7 and Mark 8:31-38

On Wednesday evening as I was standing in line waiting for soup in Price Hall conversation among the people I was standing with turned to downsizing. One person was sharing that they were in the process of moving and were therefore getting ready to go through their belongings trying to decide what needed to be kept, and what needed to go. As a person who is sadly very much in the accumulating phase of my life, with three children still in the house and myself years from retirement, I started to wonder what that must be like. I often imagine a big bonfire.

This person then said, “The whole process is just overwhelming.” It takes not just a certain amount of physical fortitude but emotional fortitude to sift through years of memories and possessions and ultimately let many things go. At that point another couple had wandered up and had started to listen and join in. They shared that they, too, had gone through the grueling tasks of downsizing a few years before but that ultimately it was all so liberating. “It’s all so, so freeing when you’re done with it,” the wise woman reiterated, and we all nodded,  as if deep down we already knew exactly what she was talking about.

Over and over in scripture the life of faith is presented as a kind of downsizing—learning to lay down certain things in order to take up a new kind life and be freed. Abram does it, along with his wife Sarai. In beginning a relationship with him, God calls Abram to downsize, to leave their ancestral land behind, to let go of all the relationships and property that might have belonged to him one day, and venture forth to something of his own. It’s hard to imagine hearing that kind of invitation and believing it at the ripe old age of 99, but off he goes, laying aside that former life of his in order to live into a new reality.

And what is the new reality? God promises Abram will not just receive a new land and a new name, but be will become a whole nation. Kings and peoples will come from Sarai, who has never born even one child. That promise must have been difficult to trust, given the circumstances, but Abraham ventures forth in faith. As the apostle Paul would later say, Abraham “hopes against hope” in downsizing his own dreams, his own designs, in order to cling to God’s.

Lent this year asks us to think of the path of Jesus in this way. No matter what we tend to think faith is or is about, no matter what ideas we have about what faith is supposed to look like, the stories of God’s people in scripture and God’s covenants with them urge us to hope against hope, realizing that God raises us up from the ashes of our past to a new beginning. It is a process of moving forward, and in moving forward letting go of many of the things and ideas we think are important but which aren’t. It is a process of laying aside certain sets of beliefs or relationships or priorities and taking up the new ones that Jesus gives us. It is a journey where fear subsides and gives way to faith.

In last week’s lessons we heard about how God chooses to forget humankinds’ sinfulness and our ways of violence in order to remember God’s grace toward us. Through Noah’s delivery in the ark and then through Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness, we see that God creates new beginnings. This week the new beginning involves losing our lives to gain them, laying aside our own often selfish goals in order to take up the cross and follow Jesus.

That is precisely where we find Jesus this morning, in fact, teaching his disciples that he himself will be the model for this. Just prior to this conversation in Mark’s gospel, Peter has rightly identified Jesus as the Christ, or the Messiah. Jesus then needs to clarify immediately and openly what kind of Messiah he will be; that is, what kind of Savior and representative for God Jesus will be. He will be a Savior that doesn’t come to conquer and establish his authority through human demonstrations of power. He is a Savior that does it through rejection and death. And despite how utterly objectionable Peter finds that kind of Savior to be, Jesus is undeterred. Despite how much Peter is horrified (and embarrassed) by the thought of following someone who will be scorned at by all the people who seem to matter, Jesus knows that he comes to choose a different way. He will lay aside his own life so that God will eventually raise him us to a new and glorious reality.

Much of the world was shocked and saddened last week by the murder of Alexei Navalny, the leading voice of the opposition in Russia who for years had been one of the only people brave enough to question Vladimir Putin’s policies and hold on power. He had been imprisoned for a while in a distant prison in Siberia, his exact whereabouts and conditions unknown. I am not an expert on Navalny or all of his views but I think much of the world was captivated by how he persisted in his quest to make his country more democratic and less corrupt even when it meant danger to his own life.

After being poisoned by what was likely Putin’s forces in 2020, he was evacuated to a hospital in Germany, where he made a recovery. In an interview with “60 Minutes” in 2020, Navalny was asked whether he feared for his life. In response he said, “my job is not to be afraid and to go back to Russia.” As his obituary in the Economist states, “Navalny often talked as if he had died already, and had gotten over it.”

And so he did return to certain suffering, like Dietrich Bonhoeffer once did to Nazi Germany. In one of his last appearances before his death, Navalny was seen joking and cheerful, a sign that he refused to be broken because he was now living for the “beautiful Russia of the future.” It remains to be seen when that future will arrive, but Navalny’s witness of letting go of life for the sake of a new one should inspire us all to deeper convictions.

Jesus, the Savior who suffers and is rejected, sees and knows the beautiful kingdom of the future. He sees and knows the beautiful beginning that will come from the ashes of the cross and the new life that will come from the ashes of our past.    It is a new life of forgiveness out of the ashes of hurt. It is a new life of compassion out of the ashes of indifference. It is a new life of love for those who think they’re unlovable. It is a new life where our neighbors’ needs become important to us. It is a new life where self-denial takes the place of—and is far more rewarding than—the self-assertion and self-promotion our culture peddles in.

And, to be clear, self-denial is not self-loathing, a distinction we often blur. Jesus never calls anyone to despise who they are. Self-denial, rather, means laying our own privilege and sometimes our rights aside in order to bring about a vision of God’s future, a beautiful future where all are cared for. Self-denial is a path that reveals just how dependent we really are on God and God’s love, how dependent we really are on everyone else.

There was an endearing story that surfaced last week about the NBA star Horace Grant, who played for the Chicago Bulls in the 1990s. Many people knew him not just for his mad defensive skills, but for the large, gaudy eye-goggles he used to wear when he played. Grant wore them because he had an eye disorder, but then he ended up getting surgery to correct it and didn’t need them anymore. However, he had gotten so much fan mail from parents and grandparents of kids who wore glasses that Grant decided to continue wearing them in games without the prescription in them. Grant says people kept coming up to him explaining that his wearing goggles in the game helped the kids who had to wear glasses or goggles feel less awkward and be less bullied. In a small but significant way Grant demonstrated self-denial. He laid aside his privilege and took up the goggles to follow Christ’s example.

I wonder how often we really think of God’s kingdom in this way? I wonder how much Jesus realizes we could change this world if we did? More often than not Christ’s followers think their responsibility is to deny the rights and lives of others. Jesus doesn’t ask us to do that—not once. Jesus never expects us to call out the actions or behaviors of other people, deciding what they do or don’t need to give up. Look at what happens to Peter when he tries to call out Jesus this morning! Jesus asks those who claim to be his followers to look inside—to do our own inventories of our storage units of the soul and decide what might need to go or be changed. I think we’re afraid to do that, to be honest, afraid, like Peter, of the sacrifices involved. We then cling to the old life however we can, not wanting to give up our old life, and so we’re held back from the beautiful future. And still God calls us forth, urging us, reminding us how liberating it will be.

That exciting life of the future has been given to us already in baptism, Similar to Navalny, we can say we’ve really already died, and gotten over it. We’ve already died in the waters of the font, the old self drowned—downsized!—and now we get to live in God’s beautiful new future. It is a future where a fellowship hall full of women lay aside an entire Saturday of beautiful weather, for example, to come and learn more about prayer and strengthen faith with new friends.

It is a life where a form of self-denial is practiced in the kitchens of dozens of congregation members who purchase and then make lunches for Moments of Hope to be distributed to hungry people on the streets of Richmond.

It is a life where the cross liberates us from collecting the meaningless mental junk we’ve accumulated through things like racism and xenophobia and Christian nationalism. It is a life where God takes our minds and continually sets them on divine things—divine things of mercy and kindness, justice and humility—because God has decided we’re worth it. God looks at what we’re all about, takes stock, and plunges us in for a deep cleaning. We rise from the water, wipe our eyes once again, and learn to walk with Jesus. We learn to move forward into suffering and service only to discover, over and over, we gain everything…everything that ever really matters.

Thanks be to God!

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

Mr. Irrelevant?

a sermon for the Transfiguration of Our Lord [Year B]

Mark 9:2-9

Big game today? People are saying that Super Bowl LVIII could be the most watched Super Bowl of all time. In fact, some are saying it could be the most watched television broadcast of all time! Some of this is due to the commercials, of course, but a lot of the hype this year centers around a certain celebrity relationship involving one of the Kansas City Chief’s star players. Taylor Swift, the top pop star in the world, is fresh off her historic win at the Grammy awards. He is one of the best of his position ever to play the game. And they are a definite draw. Others will have their sights set on Patrick Mahomes, quarterback for the Chiefs, as he pursues his own third and possible back-to-back Super Bowl victory. Still others will be drawn by the half time show, which this year will be performed by Usher and Alicia Keys, two of the most popular R&B artists of our time.

Some attention, however, will be on the quarterback of the other team, the 49ers, who has not even been starting in that position for two full years yet. His name is Brock Purdy and was drafted for the 49ers in just 2022 as the final pick in the entire draft, number 262, earning him the nickname “Mr. Irrelevant.” It’s one of these situations where not many thought he had it in him. His stats were not all that high coming into the pros. Halfway through last season he was still the third-string quarterback. His salary is among the lowest for his position. According to everyone who knows him, the humble Brock Purdy is not a spotlight seeker. But here he is.  The moment has found him, and he is thrust into the spotlight on the biggest stage as the first-ever Mr. Irrelevant quarterback to start in Super Bowl. All claims of his irrelevance have already been laid to waste.

I say all of this because that is one way we can think of our Lord’s Transfiguration. On a mountain most likely somewhere in north Israel, Jesus, another humble leader who comes from obscurity is thrust into the spotlight, and any questions about his relevance and identity are finally addressed. Despite what the disciples may think about him, despite what the old Nazareth townspeople claim him to be, and despite what his religious opponents say, Jesus is not Mr. Irrelevant. God’s voice makes it clear: Jesus is God’s own Son, the Beloved, and he deserves to be listened to.

BRUGES, BELGIUM – JUNE 12, 2014: The Transfiguration of the Lord by D. Nollet (1694) in st. Jacobs church (Jakobskerk).

Jesus’ transfiguration is one of those events that often is hard for my modern mind to make sense of. First there is this part about his clothes changing into bright white, then there’s the images of Moses and Elijah joining him—two guys long dead—and then there’s the booming voice from the sky. The whole sounds a bit like something out of a science fiction or animated movie, like that scene in The Lion King where a young and disillusioned Simba looks up at the clouds in the night sky and suddenly they form the shape of his father, Mufasa, who has a special message for him. I mean, things like that don’t really happen, do they?

But on another level, we hear of people having mystical experiences all the time—and if not mystical, then surreal and inexplicable. Haven’t each of us, at some point, been somewhere or witnessed something that just overwhelmed us with its mystery and power?

I remember being with one of my campers years ago when I was a counselor at Lutheridge in North Carolina. I had a cabin of middle school boys all from around Miami, and we went on a hike one day in the Blue Ridge Mountains. This one kid had never been out of Florida. When we got to the top of Looking Glass Rock he just stood dumbstruck looking out over the rolling landscape. No one could move him. To me it was just a mountain scene, but for him it was a religious experience. He was transfixed by this moment where he could see the grandiosity and complexity of creation with fresh eyes.

Looking Glass Rock, NC

Jesus’ transfiguration is that kind of moment. The disciples are transfixed by Jesus’ beauty and and they come to understand him in a new way. He comes to have new relevance in their lives. They receive a vision they need to remember, establishes validity they need to take to heart, and highlights a voice they need to hear.

The vision comes from this moment of Jesus’ robes turning dazzling white. It’s like a sneak peak of the glory that awaits him after his life and mission is brought to its completion. Through the days and weeks before this moment, it has started to become apparent that Jesus’ purpose is going to reach a big climax, but none of his disciples are sure that that might be. Jesus has explained just prior to this transfiguration that he is headed to Jerusalem where he will be handed over to the authorities and be killed. Just after they come down this mountain Jesus will reiterate that fate two more times, in order to make abundantly clear his mission as God’s Son will not just be one dramatic and exhilarating healing experience after another.

Because, quite honestly, that’s what it has turned into. Healing, miracle, another healing, another miracle, winning an argument with the religious leaders…this is what following Jesus seems to be about. But really to God’s kingdom going to require some astonishing suffering. And so this moment of transfiguration gives them a vision to hold onto as they trudge through the tough days of the cross. It’s like a little peak at the resurrection glory that we will all take part in one day after we come through this valley of tears. Jesus will want them to hold onto that vision when they eventually see him hanging on the cross in darkness and death.

Besides vision, the transfiguration says something about Jesus’ validity. You have to imagine that for the first crowd drawn to Jesus, even the disciples closest to Jesus, like Peter, James, and John, there may still be some lingering questions about Jesus’ authority. There was a lot of “Who is this guy?” going on. Seeing him appear with the two greatest figures of Israel’s history and the Jewish faith would have helped give weight to what Jesus was all about. He’s not a flash in the pan. Moses represents for the laws and teachings of God’s people, and Elijah stands for the line of prophets to came to announce God’s intentions. Seen together in this moment they show Jesus’ words and actions have the countenance of the whole Hebrew tradition.

And more than that, there is an element of baton-passing going on. Just as Moses led God’s people through the wilderness into the Promised Land and as Elijah and the prophets sustained God’s people through the rise and fall of the kingdom, Jesus will now lead God’s people through suffering and death to a new life. It is time for new journeys of faith for God’s people, and Jesus is the one who will pioneer and nurture it.

Obviously this Jewish-centered validity hits different in this day and time. Moses and Elijah don’t bear as much weight in our secular mindsets. Furthermore we live in what people are calling a “post-truth society” where people doubt almost every authority, perhaps rightly so, and lead with skepticism rather than faith. We make up facts to suit our agendas, rather than the other way around. How is Jesus’ validity established for you? What I think this moment of transfiguration says is that Jesus is not just one among many possible saviors. There is something about him specifically that is connected to the very heart of God’s mission that his people are to be a light to the world.

Lastly, there is the voice of God sounding from the cloud saying that Jesus is the beloved Son of God and to listen to him. Something like this had occurred at Jesus’ baptism, but it’s not clear anyone but Jesus had heard it. Now the voice is telling the disciples around Jesus to pay attention, to listen to the things that Jesus says. We do this think in youth group where we say, “Clap one time if you can hear my voice.” And then you get a few claps. If there’s still talking you can say, “Clap two times if you can hear my voice,” and that’s usually all it takes so you can say what the group needs to hear. With the transfiguration God is saying, “My Son has some relevant things to say.” And then suddenly they’re left with only Jesus.

We are so prone to seek God in these lofty moments of wonder and awe, as if we will determine God’s relevance by how often and how deeply we feel spiritually moved. Like Peter, we want to freeze these moments, whether they’re on a literal mountaintop or on a retreat, or in a special book we’ve bought. Said another way, so often our faith searches for divine experiences, but we have a God who is seeking a human experience. Everything done at the transfiguration reminds us that God has come to us and brought his love right here. That has been confirmed and settled in Jesus. God’s vision of glory is one of life conquering death, the light winning over the darkness. His authority is valid because he has the backing of all of God’s story. And his voice of humility and compassion and love is trustworthy.

to Jerusalem

Oh, it’s so tempting to consider Jesus Mr. Irrelevant, these days, especially when he eventually puts himself dead last on the cross. He puts himself in last place so that we all may be in God’s care forever. It’s so enticing to look for vision, valid truths, and voices elsewhere. And yet God has promised that, no matter what, Jesus is always relevant to our lives and to the hopes of the world.

The transfigured Jesus is always relevant because he suffers for us. He doesn’t lie to us about life and its dark moments, that a life lived well will have moments of hardship and pain, especially when we’re doing the right thing.

The transfigured Jesus is relevant because Jesus shows us truly how to love. Love that is self-giving, love that serves the neighbor is always going to be relevant to the world.

And Jesus is relevant because he is ultimately victorious over death. His suffering, his love, lead to a new life that cannot be taken away from us.

And so we can go from here, from everywhere, no matter what hardship lies before us, knowing now that our relevance is settled debate. That is the vision we walk down the mountain with, the vision that compels us to offer our lives to others and have compassion on the world.

Thanks be to God!

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

The Whole City

a sermon for the fifth Sunday after the Epiphany, Year B

Mark 1:29-39

“The whole city was gathered at the door.”

This the first day of Jesus’ ministry, and already the whole city is at his door. It is an overwhelming turnout. It must be a surprise that so many would respond, and so quickly. He has so far only performed two impromptu miracles, but word travels fast. It’s like they know Jesus will listen and care and maybe, if they get there in time, do something for them.

It’s not too unlike what happened this very week on X, formerly known as Twitter. On Sesame Street’s X page Monday morning, Elmo—yes, that Elmo—just made a simple post: “Elmo is just checking in! How is everybody doing?” the red furry monster wrote. Immediately, the whole city was at his door, so to speak. Celebrities and people of all walks of life took time to write a response, with many of them baring their souls and sharing their inner pain in a way that is uncommon even for social media.

People, it turned out, are not doing well. The Detroit Free Press, probably referring to the Lions’ loss the previous day, wrote, “We’ve been better, Elmo.” A user named Contrarian was much more heavy, responding, “Every morning, I cannot wait to go back to sleep. Every Monday, I cannot wait for Friday to come. Every single day and every single week for life.” Another account named Woshingo told Elmo, “I’m at my lowest. Thanks for asking.” By Tuesday morning, Elmo’s post had more than 143 million views, 10,000 responses, and 39,000 retweets. The people behind the Sesame Street X account were so overwhelmed, in fact, that they had Elmo post a follow-up message reminding people to take care of their mental health. Despite his simplicity and childlike mannerisms, people find Elmo trustworthy and sincere, and we seek these people out when we’re struggling.

For whatever reason, that is how the people of Capernaum and the surrounding communities come to view Jesus that day, even here at the start of his fame. As he pulls back the door and steps out on the front step of Simon’s house, he sees they are backed up for yards. More people are arriving by the minute, gathering at the edges and shifting forward. They’ve brought food with them, and pillows, in case the wait is longer than they expect. They crane their necks to catch a glimpse. The ones watching this spectacle on the Jumbotron begging that the camera focuses on him for longer than just a few seconds, celebrity that he is.

There in the front, just by the walkway, is a man with stage four cancer. The chemo treatments have been paused because fluid is mysteriously building up in his lungs and it’s become hard to breathe.

Just behind him is the woman who fell last week in her bathroom. She has a fractured hip, and they say it will take weeks to heal, so she’s in a wheelchair.

Next to her is another woman who looks fine, but she felt a lump last week and a follow-up mammogram revealed something that is going to need immediate attention. They’ve caught it early, but she’s got two small kids at home.

There, behind her, is a man whose legs keep swelling for some reason. He doesn’t know if it’s a heart issue or something else, but he’s dragged himself here with a rollator and he can sit for hours if he has to.

He’s chatting with the woman on his right who just had a stroke last year, but her speech is still slurred and now her swallowing is getting worse. Her family has her set up for a move to assisted living, but she’s scared to give up her independence.

She was brought by a friend who seems OK on the surface, but she’s started drinking again and no one knows yet. She’s afraid she’s a failure.

Behind her is a mom and dad with two children, different ages, but one is four years old and still hasn’t said a word, won’t maintain eye contact, and the other one has legs that are contorted with some strange muscle problem and he’s never been able to walk correctly. The mom and dad just don’t know what’s going on, and they are concerned about their children’s future, their education, their lives beyond 18.

Overwhelmed yet? The whole city was gathered at the door. We’re just getting started, but the point is made. These are not just numbers in a Bible story. These are people—people who are much more than their problem, but who still feel so bound by it, and fearful. It’s a whole prayer list—written in 10-point font, single spaced, taking up five pages of the worship bulletin—and they’re all at Jesus’ feet. They want to breathe easier, they want to walk without pain, to wake up and not want to go right back to bed. And they have faith Jesus is the one who will help them.

I heard of a surgeon this week who went to visit a family of a patient he worked on over a year ago. He had performed a complicated delicate procedure That had given the man about 18 extra months. But now he had just died under hospice care in a hospital room. The surgeon walks into the in the hospital room as the family weeps in silence, feeling the heaviness that it’s over. They watch the surgeon himself begin to cry, moved at their grief. Had be become too attached? Hard to say. But the family later told a friend that of all the many doctors their father had seen over the past several years, that was their favorite. That’s the kind of doctor these folks want that morning at the front step: one who will understand, one who will do his best, one who will love.

“Doctor-Hospital-Bedside Manner” (Mike Savad, 1915)

And Jesus does that day. He doesn’t go back inside, but instead steps out into the masses. Mark tells us that he heals many, but that doesn’t mean he heals them all. Nevertheless, he works nonstop, wearing himself out. The first one, in fact, was Peter’s mother-in-law, whom he raises from illness on the bed with a pull of the hand. Without any fuss, she gets up and begins to serve them. Her  relief from the fever translates directly into service towards others. Maybe all those people heard that part, that she just went right back to work. Here we get a glimpse of how Jesus’ healing impacts things. It is not release from disease for the sake of release, but release for the sake of the world—healed to fulfill one’s vocation, to continue God’s holy act of bringing people together

Last week in confirmation class the students were given an activity where they were asked to write down what they saw as the meaning of life. It was an exercise to show that as creatures created in God’s image, we are spiritual beings, prone to ponder deep questions and wrestle with matters of the spirit. I have to confess that I wasn’t sure what kinds of responses they might give. I’m scared to think what I would have said at that age. But one of them, a boy in 10th grade, just looked me in the eye and said, with all the confidence of a saint: the meaning of life is to give and receive compassion. Simon’s mother-in-law would likely agree with that young man. That student is wise beyond his years. Somehow he has probably realized at some point that we’re all in that multitude outside the door, and that Jesus restores us with his compassion only so that we can then give compassion to others.

But then, after all of this, a peculiar thing happens. Jesus seems to get worn out, right there on day one. Is he even disinterested? Before the sun rises on the next day, he’s gone. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of sick don’t even get a chance to share their needs. Jesus is up in the wilderness, far away from everyone, spending time with God. He is so distant that his followers have to hunt for him for a while. “Everyone is searching for you,” they tell him, but he doesn’t go back. He moves on to the next place, and he says they need to go on not in order to heal more people, but to proclaim the message and cast out demons. In fact, the healings that Jesus does perform are clustered in the first part of his life. The longer his life goes on, the fewer people he heals.

Scholars note that right here on the front step we already have the first occurrence of the gradual misunderstanding of Jesus’ mission by those closest to him. He becomes known as a healer of physical and maybe mental trauma, but he himself understands his purpose is much larger than that. The people need to know that he’s not just going to heal them. They need to know he is going to suffer for them. The kind of compassion he comes to give will require sacrifice, like he has skin in the game.

Perhaps that’s why that family responded so to that surgeon this week, even as their loved one died. Jesus comes not to stand removed from our pain, above it, like a dynamite faith healer up on stage in a suit with us down below, but to enter our pain fully: to become broken himself. He comes to mirror all of our sorrows, all of our griefs, to hold them in his body.         A terrible loneliness looms in his future—his own death when no one will reach out to him, no one will raise a finger to bind up his lacerations, much less heal him. Jesus moves on from this scene with the masses because he must move on to the cross, and from the cross to the tomb, and from the tomb to a new life that will not be cumbered by tears and cancer and addiction and needing to bare our souls to Elmo. He will be able to stand by the bedside and assure us: all will be restored.

As hard as it is to hear sometimes—because we all want miracles—God has sent Jesus to show compassion on more than just me and my individual hardship, or you and yours. Jesus comes to address that deeper illness, that brokenness within each of us that stands in the way of allowing us see each person as our brother or sister. And because of his love that brokenness will be made whole and is being made whole, even if our ailments aren’t immediately  He comes to reestablish the vital links that exist between all of us, He comes so assure the man with the cancer, the woman who can’t swallow, the child in hospice that they have been claimed by him forever, just as Bailey has. He comes to establish us as a city unto ourselves…a city of his compassion, compassion that we give and receive with each other as we wait for that new day to come.

And as we do, the world will pause and look at us and see the forces of evil turned back and be overwhelmed. It will be their turn, you see. Overwhelmed. By life and love.

Thanks be to God!

The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.