Peace Community Church

Revelations 21 and 22
May 5, 2013
Steve Hammond

Anybody here want to try to sum up in a sentence or two what you think the Book of Revelations is about? Not what you think about the Book of Revelations, but what you think it is about. How about this? Jesus is a better deal than Caesar, and the Realm of God has way more to offer than the Roman Empire could ever imagine.

Granted that’s a much different take on Revelations than what you read about in things like the Left Behind books or hear from radio and TV preachers or radio and TV preacher wannabes. But, I think, it’s one that makes more sense. I think it’s good, to think about the Book of Revelations in a new way, or rather a way people used to think about it before it got occupied by the end times folk.

One way to begin looking at Revelations in a different way is to consider how its author ended up writing it. The text says it was written by somebody named John. He was writing it from the Isle of Patmos. And why was he on Patmos? He was exiled there. And why was he exiled there? Because he thought Jesus had a better deal to offer than Caesar did.

It’s not enough to say John was exiled because he was a Christian. Rome was more than willing to tolerate Christians or any other religious group. All they had to do was acknowledge that Caesar was Lord and that the Roman empire was established by the gods and worthy of its citizens ultimate allegiance.

The trouble came for John and other early Christians when they proclaimed Jesus as Lord, not Caesar, and offered their allegiance not to the Roman Empire but the Realm of God. That’s what got Christians top billing at the Roman Colosseum or an all expenses paid trip to places like Patmos.

This last book of the New Testament was never meant to become this really scary and confusing story we have made it into. It was written to encourage Christians of its age and, indeed, all ages to stake their claim with Jesus, no matter what the empire offers to or forces on us. John knew that all Caesar and the Roman Empire had was the power of death, while Jesus and the Realm of God has the power of life. That’s a big difference that the empire would rather that we not take into consideration.

So throughout the story you have this unfolding drama of Jesus and Caesar, the empire and the Realm of God. And it culminates with what we read today about the new Jerusalem descending from heaven, swallowing up the Roman and all other empires. And who is at the center of the new city? Jesus, the one that Rome thought they had dealt with by killing him. Do you see why John thought Jesus had a better deal to offer than Caesar did?

The challenge the Book of Revelations offers us is not the challenge of deciphering the code of the end times, like so many claim it is. Rather, I agree with a much older understanding that suggests the challenge the book offers us is that of figuring out how we live as followers of Jesus in the Empire.

That’s why we can’t let interpretations about the Book of Revelations let us deny that followers of Jesus really have any connection to this world. They say Heaven is our home, not this earth. Caesar is neither here nor there for them. The Realm of God is all about heaven, and the empire is all about this forsaken world.

I don’t think John imagines there is this gulf between heaven and earth that can’t be bridged. There is not just one left standing, heaven or earth, at the end. The end of his story is not about the destruction of the earth, as so many claim it is. The end of his story is about a new heaven and a new earth. It’s about the new city, the new Jerusalem descending to the earth, and all things being made new, not all things being destroyed by a Jesus led blood bath.

One of the things that gets confusing about the Book of Revelations is that John keeps switching between heaven and earth. He can’t keep them separated in his mind, because the living Jesus occupies both. In John’s vision heaven and earth have become one.

What does it say in Genesis about what God thought of the world when the creation was finished? “God saw everything that God had made, and indeed, it was very good.” So why would we think that all God wants to do now is evacuate the chosen ones to heaven? Do we think the incarnation was nothing more than a hit and run? If that were the case why would Jesus ask us to pray that God’s will be done on earth as it is in heaven? It ought not to surprise us that the last scenes in the New Testament are not in heaven but here on earth.

When I read the end of Revelations, it’s like reading the beginning of Genesis. There is the river that runs down the center of the city just like the rivers that formed the boundaries of Paradise. There is no violence or corruption there. And there by the banks of the river in the middle of the city is the Tree of Life, and it’s the leaves of that tree that heal the nations. And all kinds of people are there. Different tribes and different races. Even the kings of the earth are there, the folk who have been the sworn enemy of Jesus throughout John’s story.

It was stories like this that led the early Christians to make the symbols of their faith things that the church doesn’t tend to use much these days. Do you remember what Jesus said to that women about the living water bubbling up into eternal life? The early Christians did. And when they portrayed what it meant for them to follow Jesus it made more sense to use symbols like water and rivers, and other images of Paradise like trees and plants overflowing with fruit. They were symbols of the power of life, like that Tree of Life in our Sanctuary. The cross, which was the Empire’s sign of the power of death, did not hold central place in the life of the early church. It didn’t become a major symbol for the church until the time of the crusades. I guess the church had bought into the power of death. But we don’t have to.

John’s vision showed that heaven is close by, that there’s not this insurmountable gap between heaven and earth. The book of Revelations shows that the power of life that is in Jesus is right here and right now. The testimony of the Gospel is that we can be about the work of healing the nations. And there is plenty of healing to be done. Sure the nations have the power of death, but we have the power of life. And that power means we don’t abandon the nations to death, but bring the power of life to the nations, bring healing.

That’s what makes Jesus such a good deal, I think, in John’s eyes. Even if the nations can’t imagine a power greater than their power to bring death, we can. And if we have a hard time imagining that, John says just listen to the saints who now occupy heaven. They know the power of that life in its fullness. They just want us to hang on to that life no matter what the empire does, because they know that life, not death, is the end of the story. I agree with John. That’s a pretty good deal, if you ask me. The empire can never match it, much less beat it.

April 28, 2013
John 13:31-35
Mary Hammond

One of my many unforgettable moments in ministry occurred during the funeral of Bob Thomas in 1993. Many of you never had the opportunity to know Bob. He is one of the principal reasons this church still exists. In 1979, the aging congregation that worshiped here seriously considered closing the church’s doors. Bob envisioned a fresh way forward for the “eleven members plus Jesus” as he always described them. And here we are today.

An African-American, Bob made his mark throughout many turbulent decades before, during, and after the Civil Rights Movement. Oh, the stories he could tell, both hard and amazing! He was a humble, passionate follower of Jesus, a gentle giant when it came to servant leadership. Everywhere he went, Bob committed himself both to reconciliation and care for the most vulnerable.

Bob was always turning his dreams into deeds. While in his 80′s, he could often be found sitting next to Steve Hammond, 50 years his junior, as the two of them traveled on overnight bus trips with rowdy Oberlin College students to protests and peace marches in New York City and Washington, D.C. Even today, 20 years after Bob’s passing, he continues to inspire my journey.

At Bob’s funeral, held at First Church to accommodate the massive crowds, his nephew stood up and challenged each one of us present to continue to carry the torch that Bob was passing on to us. I thought about Bob’s decades of faithful public service and I determined that day to seek election to the Oberlin School Board.

A third of the John’s Gospel is devoted to the last week of Jesus’ life. This account of Jesus’ ministry comes to us in such a different form than the synoptic Gospels–Matthew, Mark, and Luke–provide. Chapters 13 through 16 in the Gospel of John read to me like a contemplative memoir of the final deeds, teachings, and instructions of Jesus as he prepares for his death and prepares to leave his ministry in other hands. Like Bob, and each one of us, Jesus had a torch to pass on.

The language of “glory” is used to describe how intimately connected Jesus is to the One he calls Abba, or Father. This isn’t a word that we use frequently outside of religious circles. The verb, glorify, or in Greek, doxazo, is employed several times in just two verses–a combination of past, passive tense and future, active tense. This usage gives the sense that the past and future are merging together in the moments at hand and the ones to come. The image of Jesus “now glorified” implies that his mission is nearing completion. The glory that is in God and in Jesus embodies the deep unity between the Holy One and the Incarnate Presence.

“In a little while, you won’t see me,” Jesus warns his followers and friends. They are dumbfounded. They do not want this to be. How can Jesus sum up his last instructions? There is so much to say—some of which they are not even ready to hear. But if they remember nothing else, Jesus wants them to remember one thing. So he offers them a new commandment: “Love one another as I have loved you. By this shall all people know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” The Greek word he uses for “love” is agape–that deep, unconditionally committed love of God.

In the Hebrew scriptures, the Jewish people are instructed to love their neighbors as themselves (Leviticus 19:18). Jesus, however, asks his followers to both receive his love and share that same agape love. In this, God is glorified–not only glorified, but actually known and seen. The incarnate presence is re-introduced again and again in this world through the love that Jesus’ followers demonstrate.

There is something so deep and rich about these instructions. In an article for the May 2013 issue of Sojourners magazine, activist and author Shane Claiborne writes about his visit to Iraq in March 2003, shortly after the “shock and awe” bombing campaign. On leaving Baghdad, the group from the United States had a terrible car accident. Iraqis saved their lives. Claiborne writes, “As they took care of us, we found out that three days before, our government had bombed their hospital. The bomb hit the children’s ward. And they still saved our lives” (Sojourners, May 2013, “Friends Without Borders” by Shane Claiborne, p. 36).

At the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C., a story is told about Rev. Joachim Alexandropoulas, an Orthodox priest on a Greek island during World War II. Nazis came to him one day, demanding that he immediately provide a list of every Jew on the island. When he met with the soldiers the next day, he gave them a list with only one name on it: his own (see workingpreacher, org).

Most of us may never encounter decisions about practicing agape love as stark as these. When I look out over these pews, though, at your faces, I see so many people who do know, experience, and share that kind of love in so many everyday situations.

I’m going to close with a very personal story about agape love. I have hesitated all week about whether to include it in this sermon because it is a deep “Sarah story,” and I guard those stories carefully. Yet, it is a testament to that love of which Jesus speaks.

Louis LaGrand is a grief counselor who has written several books on the topic of after-death communication, a field not as publicly discussed as that of near-death experiences. In his book, “After Death Communications: Final Farewells,” LaGrand speaks of eight ways that people across cultures, generations, and belief systems describe after-death encounters with loved ones who have passed on. The most common for me have been through either metaphors evoked by nature or what I call “heart to hearts”—a sense of Sarah’s heart communicating with mine.

One day, I was walking down College Street. It was not long after Sarah’s suicide, and the actual facts of that Thanksgiving Day in November 2011 were rolling through my thoughts and tormenting my heart. Unexpectedly, a voice touched my soul, saying so clearly, “I don’t want you to remember me that way.”

I was startled. Instinctively, arguments welled up within me. “Well, if you don’t want me to remember you that way, Sarah, why did you do this?” In my mind, I rattled off a host of other traumas that people experience in this world that cannot be simply erased from consciousness at will.

Eventually, I settled down enough to ask the obvious next question, “Well, Sarah, if you don’t want me to think of you this way, how do you want me to think of you?” I must admit, I asked that question in a rather petulant, demanding, grief-stricken way.

The response was brief. It was startling, unforgettable, and radically transforming. Just three words. Uttered in quiet gentleness.

“Remember my love.”

I could never make this up.

Sarah’s request became a gift that I could learn to give both her and myself. Nothing can erase the events of that day, but this spiritual discipline redirects my agony toward love. and it has been a Spiritual Discipline. Anytime Sarah’s actual suicide comes to my mind, which thankfully happens less often than in the early months after her death, but still does happen, I cast these three words, “Remember my love,” over those images.

Day by day. Grief by grief. Memory by memory. I flood the darkness with light, with radiance, with more light. Love embraces and holds it all–in life, in death, and in life beyond death.

‘If you remember nothing else, remember this,’ Jesus urges his followers. “Love one another, as I have loved you. By this shall all people know you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

Amen.

Acts 9:32-43
April 21, 2013
Steve Hammond

“DONNA, I DON’T KNOW IF YOU’RE COMING TO THE FUNERAL, BUT I HEARD Daddy’s gonna try to raise Randall from the dead. Call me.”

That’s the opening line of the memoir Holy Ghost Girl* by Donna Johnson. Virginia Douglas recommended that book to me. It’s pretty good. Here is the next little bit from the book.

“My sister left the message as my husband and I stumbled into our darkened kitchen hauling groceries, deli takeout, and briefcases. We had finished another twelve mind-numbing hours at our marketing firm, making deals, finessing budgets, and placating clients, employees, and sometimes each other, racing toward every deadline as though it were life or death. The red light of the answering machine winked at us from the counter. My husband flipped on the overhead light. ‘That preacher’s going to resurrect his son? We’re going, right?’”

Remember this book is a memoir, not a novel. This is a true story that has been repeated throughout the history of the Church based on passages such as the one we read today about Peter raising Tabitha from the dead.

To just about everybody it seems silly, or comical, that the preacher, Brother Terrell, who is the focus of Donna Johnson’s memoir would try to raise his son from the dead. But I’m still living through the death of one of my children and I can sure understand why any parent would try something so desperate.

The story of Tabitha (she’s also called Dorcas) is moving in its familiarity. She was a woman who was so obviously loved and well known for “doing good and helping out.” When Peter arrived her friends got out some of the clothes she had made, those memories they could hold in their hands. It sounds like she took ill and died rather suddenly. There was the shock, the tears, the mourners gathered around her body. Most of us have experienced something like this. We have felt what they felt. Mary and Martha, the sisters of Lazarus, and Jesus his friend, experienced the same grief themselves.

And like Lazarus, the story didn’t quite end the way anybody was expecting. Peter raised Tabitha from the dead. And what do we do with that?

Here’s what happened at Randall’s funeral. “With the congregation in his thrall, Brother Terrell abruptly stopped preaching and handed the microphone to one of his associates. As the amens and hallelujahs softened, the associate minister waved forward a group of preachers. One of them carried a bottle of olive oil. They walked down the ramp to the casket. The church went silent. My sisters glanced over their shoulders, eyes wide. One of Pam’s younger sisters buried her face in her hands. The minister who had been Randall’s friend took the bottle of oil and tilted it onto a white handkerchief. He put the cloth on Randall’s forehead and spoke while the others laid hands on the corpse. ‘Brother Randall, in the name of Jesus, if you want to come back, then go ahead and come on. In the name of Jesus. We’d be glad to have you.’ After what must have been one of the shortest prayers in Holy Roller history, the preachers stepped away from the body. Shoulders relaxed in the family section. Randall would remain dead and his body would stay in the coffin. The organ music swelled and Brother Terrell moved to the side of the coffin. The audience lined up to shake his hand as they had years earlier. As they filed by, they gripped his arm, pulled him close, and offered their condolences. “So sorry for your loss.” “We’re praying for you every day.” “Don’t give up. God’s gonna see you through.” The miracle didn’t happen that day.

As much as Brother Terrell and so many others have tried over the centuries, they haven’t been able to do what Peter did that day. We could simply dismiss the story of Tabitha as either nonsense or simply some kind of narrative devise to enhance Peter’s standing in the first century church. I think that would be as much of a mistake as imagining we could replicate it ourselves. I think, rather, it is a story we just live with the best we can. That’s what Donna Johnson does. Randall wasn’t raised from the dead. But throughout her history with Brother Terrell she saw things that she could only describe as miracles, despite her skepticism.

There is another miracle, though, I think this story points to right at the end. Just this little line at the end where it says that Peter spent a long time in Joppa as a guest of Simon the Tanner.

Okay, I’m going to put you Biblical scholars to the test. Beside the stories that went on with Peter in the city of Joppa, do you know where else we read about Joppa in the Bible? It’s the city where Jonah left on his voyage to Ninevah.

Now some people think the miracle in the Jonah story is the one about Jonah being swallowed by the fish and delivered safely to his destination. Others of us think, though, that the more impressive miracle in the story is that in spite of all of Jonah’s intentions, God’s mercy and grace and love were offered and received by a people who lived outside of Israel. It’s a story of the walls coming down and people like Jonah and those in Nivevah learning to see God in new ways, even if Jonah didn’t like it.

And that is exactly what happened with Peter. It was while he was at Simon’s house, a house he should never have been in in the first place as a practicing Jew, he received a vision to go to the home of Cornelius.

Peter initially felt the same that Jonah did. There was no reason he should enter the home of a gentile like Cornelius. It was against his religion. Why would God have anything to do with the gentiles, anyway?

I don’t want to go into that whole story this morning, but I surely would recommend you read it in Acts 10 and 11. It is really one of the more significant stories in the Bible. Here’s a little bit of the story. This is when Peter first meets Cornelius. “You yourselves know that it is unlawful for a Jew to associate with or to visit a Gentile; but God has shown me that I should not call anyone profane or unclean.” Then a few verses later Peter says “I truly understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears God and does what is right is acceptable to God.”

To read about Peter saying that is another miracle. A miracle even more profound, I might suggest, than raising Tabitha from the dead. Some miracles take hard work, and reaching across the lines and tearing down the walls of division is a miracle you have to work for. It seems like it was easier for Peter to raise Tabitha from the dead than enter the house of a Gentile and claim that God loved those folk as much as God loved Peter’s folk.

All you have to do is look around this, nation and the world, from the bombings in Boston to Baghdad, to see that there are miracles we need to work for. There are so many divisions, so much pain and death and destruction caused because of the walls that divide us. They are hard miracles, but miracles we can work to accomplish.

When it came time to try to raise Randall from the dead, you notice that it wasn’t Brother Terrell who tried. He had realized that there wasn’t going to be a replay of the Tabitha story. And I don’t think it mattered to him. If you read the book you will discover there is a lot about Brother Terrell not to like. But on the day of his son’s funeral he found himself where so many of us have been. He had joined the community of the grieving. You don’t care about the walls and divisions there, because there is something much more profound that unites people. There are so many miracles out there.

John 21:15-23
April 14, 2013
Mary Hammond

“Do you love me?”

How many times have we asked or heard this question? How many times have we wanted to speak it, and yet held back? It is such a poignant question, full of so much heart, hope, and vulnerability. What happens when we ask this question, and the response is “no,” or “not so much,” or “not in the way that you love me”? Then, what?

According to the Gospel of John, Simon has now seen Jesus three times since the resurrection. In each instance, he is with a group of other disciples. But finally, Jesus has a few moments to engage in one-on-one conversation with Simon. Jesus gets right to the point. “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?”

“More than these what?” we ask. More than these other disciples love Jesus? More than Simon loves his vocation as a fisherman? More than he loves his fellow disciples, family, and friends? More than everything and everyone he loves and values in this world?

“Simon, do you love me more than these?”

Given the fact that the disciple cannot gauge how much the others love Jesus, I have to assume that the Resurrected One is asking Simon how deep and committed his own love truly is. Simon’s past professions of devotion don’t square with his behavior after Jesus’ arrest, when he three times denies knowing Jesus.

Jesus addresses this disciple by his birth name, Simon, rather than by the new name, Peter, meaning “Rock,” that Jesus previously gave Simon. Do you remember the story? Simon confesses that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and Jesus confers on him this new name (Matthew 15:17-18). And yet, the fisherman often acts more like his old self than and less like Peter, or Rock.

“Do you love me more than these?” Jesus asks.

“Yes, Master, you know I love you,” Simon responds.

Three times this interchange occurs, reminiscent of the three times Peter denies Jesus in the courtyard.

There are critical aspects of the Greek language absent in English translations that help illuminate this dialogue. So we’ll have to have a little Greek tutorial here.

While English offers one word for “love,” there are three words for love in Greek: agape, philos, and eros. Agape is generally associated with God’s deep, unconditional love. Yet, that word is also used in the Gospel of John on occasion for loving the darkness. In John 3:19, we read that the “people loved (agape) darkness more than light.” So, its shades of meaning can embody intensity and unconditional commitment, not solely divine love. Philos is the love between friends. To complicate things, the word seems occasionally to be used interchangeably with agape in the Gospel of John (see John 3:35, agape; and John 5:20, philos). Generally, however, the nuances of these two words for “love” differ. The third word, eros, is associated with sensual love.

This differentiation is critical to the dialogue between Jesus and Simon. Jesus asks Simon if he loves him, using the word agape. In this instance, it is most likely associated with that fullest, deepest, unconditional love of God. Simon replies with philos, the love between friends. They repeat this exchange. Jesus asks Simon again if he loves him. The third time, however, Jesus uses the word Simon uses–philos. And Simon again replies with philos, the love of a friend.

Is Jesus looking for a kind of love from Simon that he, at this time, is not able to offer, or perhaps does not yet even comprehend? Does Jesus then alter his question to reflect what Simon is actually capable of giving?

In Simon’s final response to Jesus, he says, “Master, you know everything there is to know. You’ve got to know that I love you.” The word “know” here is expressed through two words with different meanings in the Greek. In the first sentence, “know” or oida refers to ordinary, everyday knowledge. “ Master, you know everything there is to know.” This is knowing from the head. But in the second, “know” or ginosko refers to interior, mystical knowing. “You’ve got to know I love you.” This is knowing from the heart.

Each time Simon asserts his love for Jesus, the Resurrected One asks him to do something. First, Jesus says, “Feed my lambs. Then, “Shepherd my sheep.” And finally, “Feed my sheep.” It is not enough for Simon to simply bluster and proclaim his love for Jesus. Didn’t he once swear he would follow Jesus to the ends of the earth and even die for him (Luke 22:33)?

The most astounding part of this interaction for me is that Jesus moves beyond forgiving Simon to trusting him with Jesus’ very own mission. Beyond forgiveness to deep trust. Amazing.

Jesus tells Peter that his future is in God’s hands, not his own. Throughout his youth, Peter did what he wanted to do. But as time passes, he will be led places he would not, on his own, choose to go. The Gospel writer editorializes, interpreting this remark as relating to the manner of Peter’s death, which history tells us was by upside-down crucifixion.

There is a maturing in our relationship with God throughout the passing of the years that comes amid stumbles and successes, paired with dogged devotion and rugged perseverance. Peter’s professed love for Jesus shapes itself over the long haul into concrete ministry that comes with a cost. Peter’s maturing process leads him all the way to his own cross, reversing his cowardice in the face of Jesus’ cross so many years before. The disciple’s journey is a powerful testimony of grace, transformation, and patience.

“Do you love me more than these?” Jesus asks Simon, and asks us.

In the wake of our daughter Sarah’s breakdown and suicide, this extended cancer journey has forced me to hear this question in ever deeper echoes of the heart. We learn so much about ourselves when we walk through the fire of adversity and loss. The consuming energy of its flame illuminates our unconscious attachments and unrealized assumptions. We find ourselves wanting to scamper out of the mess as expeditiously as Peter did in the Courtyard after Jesus’ arrest.

Like Simon Peter, I have been questioned by Jesus—“Do you love me more than these?”

I have had to re-examine my own heart and its greatest attachments. Jesus calls us to be deep, authentic lovers here on earth. Yet, we are also called to release everything and everyone we love to and for him. Sometimes our steps become very clumsy and halting in this paradoxical dance between passionate loving and profound surrender.

“Do you love me more than these?” Jesus asks.

What is your conversation with Jesus, when he poses this question to you?

Amen.

Resurrections!
Luke 24:1-12
April 7, 2013
Steve Hammond

It would be simpler if there were just one Easter story in the Bible, but probably not better. The fact that there are four gospels included in the New Testament canon indicates that this story of Jesus from birth to resurrection defies a simple retelling. And if we are going to find our way into that story, there have to be a variety of ways for us to get there, because we aren’t all alike.

The stories do diverge about their details, but there are also some pretty consistent parts in all the stories. One of those is that nobody expected the tomb to be empty when they went down to the cemetery that Sunday morning. In all of the stories it’s some or, at least, one of the women followers of Jesus who first go to the tomb. In a couple of the stories they took spices and ointments with them to finish preparing the body of Jesus for his grave. Maybe it’s a story about those folk who have to do something when such a tragedy has hit. They want to show their devotion, their appreciation, their grief by cleaning, caressing, touching for the last time the one whose touch had meant to much to them.

In Matthew and John’s stories there is nothing about preparing the body for burial. In those stories Mary Magdalene, accompanied by the other Mary in Matthew’s story, just goes down to see the tomb. For her, or them, it seems it’s a time to just grieve outside the tomb. There must have been questions running through their minds like, How could it have ended here? How did it go so wrong? How did we get it so wrong? What would have happened if only the authorities hadn’t turned against him or if he had fought back? How are we going to go on without him? Is this pain ever going to go away? This what not a time for Mary or the Marys to do something with their grief. It was a time to feel it.

So nobody expected the tomb to be empty when they got to the cemetery. That’s what all the stories tel us. And they also all tell us that when they did get there the tomb was empty. And they were very confused.

That’s not surprising. Craig Koester, Professor of New Test at Luther Seminary in St. Paul says it this way. “Experience teaches that death wins. The Easter message says that Jesus lives. When such contradictory claims collide, it only makes sense to continue affirming what we already know. The women bring the message of resurrection to the others, and they respond as thinking people regularly respond: they thought that the message was “an idle tale, and they did not believe them.”

Actually not in all the stories. In Mark’s story, the women don’t say a word to anybody. “Then they got out as fast as they could, beside themselves, their heads swimming. Stunned, they didn’t say anything to anybody.”

That kind of makes sense when you think about it. I mean what would you have done? Keeping your mouth shut, so people wouldn’t think you were crazy, is surely an option.

In the other stories, though, the women did talk. Another consistent detail in all the stories is that it was the women who first realized that Jesus was alive. If I were going to compose my own story about how the resurrection might have happened in first century Israel, it wouldn’t have been women who were at the center of the story. It would have been those folk who were eventually elevated to the status of Apostle that would get my attention. Who, in that context, would ever take seriously a story where women played such a crucial role? And why go the extra step of calling the Apostles’ faith into question by having them dismiss the witness of the women, which turned out to be accurate, as idle chatter?

I mentioned last week that there’s a lot of running going on in all of the gospel stories. Except for Luke. That story offers a bit calmer narrative. It says the women, and in Luke’s story it’s a whole bunch of women, were perplexed when they came to the empty tomb. And they weren’t so much frightened by the empty tomb as they were the two men in dazzling white who asked them, in my opinion, one of the great questions in the Bible, “Why do you seek the living among the dead?” The men also remind the women that Jesus said this was exactly what was going to happen.” And then it says they returned from the tomb and told all of this “to the eleven and all the rest.” It doesn’t say anything about them acting like a bunch of hysterical women. They just go back and make their report which, of course, the eleven, and probably all the rest, dismiss as idle tales.

If you really want action in your Easter story, a bit more Hollywood, then Matthew is the story for you. There is an earthquake as the women approach the tomb. They just don’t find a guy or two sitting in an empty tomb, but they watch an angel of the Lord descend from heaven and roll the stone away. It says his appearance was like lightening and his clothing white as snow. “And the guards trembled and became like dead men.”

It’s only in Matthew’s story that you get this thing about the guards. The religious authorities asked Pilate to place a guard around the tomb in case any of Jesus’ disciples tried to steal his body and claim he was raised from the dead. But we also know from the subplot in this story that the guard did really see the angel roll back the stone and were paid off to not say anything.

That story does make a much better theatrical production than the others and offers all kinds of possibilities. I think about those guards trying to hold off the resurrection. It kind of reminds me of those gun activists who insist they need all their high powered assault weapons in case they have to fend off the government at some point. The government, of course, has tanks, missiles, special operation forces, helicopters, chemical weapons, bombers, drones, and the like. The soldiers in front of that tomb didn’t have any greater hope of keeping Jesus in his tomb. But the story does has some additional pop.

There are all kinds of ways into the Easter story. Way more than the four the gospels offer. But like all stories the Easter story takes us to new places. Here is something else from Craig Koester, “The Easter message calls you from your old belief in death to a new belief in life. The claim that the tomb could not hold Jesus, and the idea that the one who died by crucifixion has now risen is so outrageous that it might make you wonder whether it might–just might–be true. The message was so outrageous that Peter had to go and take a look for himself (Luke 24:12). He had to wonder, “What if it is true?”
[We who follow Jesus] have heard the rumor that Jesus is alive and come to hear [the story] again for ourselves: “What if it is true? What if death is real, but not final? What if Jesus is not merely past but present? What if Jesus were to meet me here? What would life be then?”
The Easter reading stops with Peter’s amazement, but the Easter story continues far beyond, as God continues to challenge the certainty of death with the promise of life. Go ahead and tell God that you think it is outrageous to expect anyone to believe that Jesus has risen. Go ahead and tell God that you believe that death gets the final word. None of this is news to God. God has heard it all before and simply refuses to believe it.”

Something that I knew but didn’t think about until this time, is that it is only in John’s story that anybody encounters Jesus in the garden. Mary sees Jesus, and after finally figuring out who he is, grabs hold of him for dear life. In the other stories, though, except for Mark’s rather abrupt ending, “they didn’t say of word about it to anybody,” nobody sees the risen Jesus until later.

Some people need to find a way to really grab hold of Jesus, but for most of us, our faith comes from the stories of others, what they have experienced, what they have heard and seen. We enter the story through the stories of others. And others enter the story through our stories. And the same crazy thing happens that happened that first Easter. We find resurrection.

John 20:1-18
Easter 2013
Steve Hammond

If you read all the gospel stories about the resurrection of Jesus you realize there are a lot of people running. They are either running from the tomb, to the tomb, or back and forth.

In John’s story, Mary goes running from the empty tomb to find Peter and the other disciple, the one Jesus loved. The two of them literally go racing back to the tomb, running neck and neck. The other disciple, who is also known at the Beloved Disciple in other translations, beats Peter to the tomb. But he pulls up and Peter goes rushing past him straight to the finish line inside the tomb .

I know it wasn’t actually a race to see who got inside the tomb first. But that detail about the Beloved Disciple throwing the race is a bit of an interesting detail that the writer of the story thought was worth mentioning.

Nobody really knows who the Beloved Disciple was, but I read some real interesting speculation this week about his identity. The traditional assumption is that the writer of John’s gospel is claiming that title of Beloved Disciple for himself. But Mark David, in his blog “Left Behind and Loving It,” (great name for a blog by a Christian writer by the way), writes this, “I’ve always felt that ‘the disciple whom Jesus loved’ is not ‘John,’ as traditionally described, but ‘Lazarus,’ who is described this way in John 11:3. (Not many people are willing to go there with me, so feel free to roll your eyes at this point.) If so, I would certainly understand why BD/Lazarus would stop outside of the tomb instead of entering it. I hear that being dead for four days in a tomb makes you react like that afterwards.”

Do you remember the story about Lazarus, the brother of Martha and Mary? The three of them were great friends and followers of Jesus. Lazarus got sick and word was sent to Jesus that he should get to Bethany and do something. But Jesus decided to delay his trip there and Lazarus died before Jesus arrived. So Jesus did the next best thing. He called Lazarus to come out of his tomb even though he had already been dead for four days. That story also says it was when Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead that the authorities decided it was finally time to deal with Jesus once, and they thought, for all.

If Lazarus was, indeed, the Beloved Disciple–and for today’s purposes we are just going to assume he was–you can understand as Mark David suggests why he didn’t go rushing into the tomb of Jesus. Once you have spent four days dead in a tomb, you have a different perspective than everybody else.

This story also tells us, though, that Lazarus may have lost the race, but he did eventually go in the tomb. While Peter was standing around scratching his head and trying to figure out what was happening, the Beloved Disciple or Lazarus, just took a look around and became the first to believe that Jesus had been raised from the dead.

Lazarus knew something about tombs that nobody else, except Jesus knew. And standing there he realized that the power of the tomb, a power he knew so well, indeed, finally been broken.

Remember how in his own tomb story they had to unwrap Lazarus from his grave clothes. They would have had to uncover his face before he could see. Notice that in Jesus’ tomb the face covering had been neatly folded up and placed off to the side. Lazarus realized, I think, that what happened that morning meant we could start seeing the world in a whole new way. The power of death was broken, now the call was to look for life.

Easter morning is our invitation to look at life from the inside of an empty tomb. The grave cloths are lying there with no real purpose anymore. The stone has been rolled away and the call we have to follow Jesus takes us away from the tomb.

The call of Jesus was always a call to leave death behind, to roll back the stone. He knew that death’s power was not just confined to the tomb, but that our captivity to death impacts everything about how we live in this world. It’s the tomb, or it’s power, that dictates our reliance on violence, separates from others because of their race, gender, language, or the thousand other ways we separate from each other. It’s the tomb that drives us to our greed, our militarism, our nationalism, and our hedonism.

The stone, though, has been rolled away. Jesus walked away from the tomb. Death took it’s best shot and it wasn’t good enough. Jesus was done with death, and Lazarus was the first one to figure it out. Jesus didn’t even give death it’s full three days–just the minimum to make it sound like three days–much less the four that Lazarus got. Jesus was up and out of there because he had life to get to.

We have life to get to ourselves. The path where we follow Jesus picks up right outside the tomb. And it leads us farther and farther away from that useless hole in the wall that, nevertheless, has such a hold on us.

To follow Jesus doesn’t mean we deny death and all that it is about. Rather, it’s just the opposite. We confront death because we know it’s power has been broken. We can go back into that tomb with Lazarus because we know there in no there, there.

When Jesus walked out of his tomb, he was in a garden, which sure makes me think about a much earlier garden in the Biblical story, the Garden of Eden or Paradise. If Paradise had a facebook page I would like it. I’m a big fan. I think Paradise is much closer than we think, even all around us. What tombs and all our death dealing ways do is hide Paradise from us.

That empty tomb tells us that doesn’t have to be. I think that was one of the things that Jesus had in mind when he proclaimed the Good News of the Realm of God. He was saying that Paradise is there for us to grab hold of. We just need to tell death to get out of the way, that we have chosen non-cooperation.

Lazarus may have raced Peter to the tomb, but I don’t think he ran away from it. He didn’t need to. Death no longer had it’s grip on him, even though Lazarus had seen it up close. But his tomb was different than the tomb of Jesus. When Jesus walked out of his tomb everything changed.

So what are we going to do about that tomb of Jesus? Run to it in disbelief, yet hope? Run away from it because it still has a power over us? Stay outside and peer in? Look at those empty grave cloths and believe? Maybe all of those things?

What do we see outside the tomb? What can we see when we roll up the grave cloths and put them off to the side and follow Jesus out of the tomb?

Luke 19:28-48
March 24, 2013
Mary Hammond

Preaching on Palm Sunday is always an interesting challenge for me, because Jesus’ processional into Jerusalem begs for re-enactment–sights, smells, sounds, and all–the chaos, the grit and dust of the streets, the fervor and emotion of that day. I will never forget, during my childhood, attending my grandparents’ Methodist Church one Palm Sunday. A man in costume processed into the church on a live donkey as we shouted our praises and waved our palms! Now, that was a Palm Sunday to remember!

We do our best here, as we add our singing and palm waving to the children’s march around the sanctuary. Yet, our twenty-first century rendition merely hints at the intensity inherent in those raucous events so long ago.

The surface of the scene which we recall is noisy, enthusiastic, and ebullient. Its underbelly is secretive, nefarious, and sinister. The crowds offer homage to Jesus in hopes of deliverance from the crushing grip of the Roman Empire. Instead, God comes disguised as a humble, suffering servant.

How do we hold the complexity of this day–and the days that follow it–in our hearts? How do we join the joyful throngs in the streets while listening for the sinister whispers from the back rooms and alleys? How do we cheer in expectation of deliverance while paying attention to the false Messiahs we humans so easily worship? How do we truly learn from the One who really came?

We in the 21st century church are gifted with hindsight as we tell this ancient story. Not one person in the crowd that gathered in Jerusalem was blessed with our vantage point. To them, this was drama unfolding before their eyes. It was late-breaking news.

As I ponder Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, I am riveted by the intentionality that Jesus experiences and the seeming spontaneity of the crowd in all its acclamation and fervor. There is no opportunity for Jesus to set up a Facebook event page (I don’t think he would, anyway). There is no twitter feed or list-serve to post on. There is no chance for the disciples to announce a public processional in the local newspaper.

There is just this man named Jesus, determined to go to Jerusalem, no matter the opposition or cost. There is just this man who loves, heals, serves, and teaches. There is just this man who welcomes and befriends the marginalized and forgotten, while challenging the rich, powerful, and well-connected. There is just this man who consistently gets into trouble for his disregard of proper behavior and proper company. And there is this makeshift parade, this spontaneous outpouring.

Jesus is adored. He is followed. Some have purer motives than others, to be sure. Some have faithful hearts but misplaced hopes. Some look for quick fixes and fast answers. Still others view Jesus as a threat and nuisance, even a blasphemer who makes a mockery of God.

Recently on CNN, I watched the crowds pack Vatican Square, waiting for the white smoke to billow forth and proclaim the selection of a new pope. Hundreds upon hundreds stood for hours, at times in the rain. I saw the sea of umbrellas pop up.

When the moment of decision finally came, I heard the cheers, saw the tears, witnessed the embraces. I listened to newscasters discuss what it could mean that the new pope chose the name “Francis,” was the first Jesuit pope, and the first pope from South America.

As a rather non-liturgical person, I was struck by all the pomp and circumstance, the elegant dress and detailed protocol, the crowd’s devotion. I couldn’t help but compare and contrast this event with Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, not on a king’s stallion but on a commoner’s donkey.

“This all must feel rather uncomfortable for a Jesuit pope who took a vow of poverty and simplicity,” I mused.

Amid all this anticipation and celebration of the pope’s selection, amid all the simplicity and spontaneity of Jesus’ procession into Jerusalem, the real issue is always what comes afterward.

With Jorge Mario Bergoglio’s selection as pope, will the poor of the world get more attention than they have for so long? Will Pope Francis tackle the sexual abuse scandal in the Catholic church in bold, uncompromising ways? Will he preserve the conservative moral teachings of previous popes? Will the long cries of lgbtq Catholics, women religious, and others be heard? Will he connect with young Catholics around the world, responding to their ideas and yearnings? These are all questions that are being asked in various circles worldwide.

No matter how big or splashy an event can be, no matter how beloved a leader can be in the moment, no matter how adoring a crowd can appear–whether at a parade, processional, solidarity march, ordination, coronation, or installation–it is what comes afterward that makes the real difference.

We know what comes afterward for Jesus. The cheering crowd gives way to a profoundly different trajectory–a savior weeping over Jerusalem and cleansing the Temple with his bare hands. A final meal among friends, hours of agonizing prayer followed by betrayal and arrest. Physical and verbal abuse, a death sentence wrung out of a crowd. Execution on a Roman cross, burial in a borrowed space.

And on Sunday morning, the mystery and miracle of an Empty Tomb.

There is something fundamentally wrong with leaping from the accolades of Palm Sunday to the celebration of Easter morning. The critical days between Sundays are filled with faithfulness and fickleness, insight and denial, friendship and betrayal, grace and cruelty, joy and sorrow. Life is experienced at its most visceral and challenging level. The stakes are high and the outcomes unclear.

I invite you to take this journey with Jesus, both individually and in community. The liturgical folks have it right when they gather every day of Holy Week to remember each step along the way with Jesus.

Thursday night, we come back together here in a service of scripture, silence, song, prayer, and Communion. We remember Jesus’ Last Supper, his betrayal, and arrest. Friday evening there is a Taize Service at Fairchild Chapel. The juxtaposition of light and darkness as reflected in the simple chants of Taize help us recall the agony of Jesus’ crucifixion and the dashed hopes of his followers as well as the promises of God that continue to endure. Easter morning we arise to sorrow transformed into joyful amazement.

Some of you are not able attend the evening events, but you can accompany Jesus right where you are. Read through the Gospel stories of his last week. Meditate on their striking power. Accompany Jesus on the journey from his entry into Jerusalem to the cross and the empty tomb.

We are invited to bear the sorrows of the world with Jesus. Imagine if millions of Christians worldwide did this together between today and next Sunday! Each of us can hold in our hearts the countless thousands and millions who have suffered and continue to suffer every day from the indignities of injustice and violence unleashed by abusive power. Jesus experienced this journey intimately. We enter the darkness and bask in the light.

Don’t jump from hosanna to alleluia. Life is not like that. Your life and my life is not like that. Jesus’ life is not like that. Enter Jerusalem this week and stay with Jesus there. Amen.

Mark 14:1-11
March 17, 2013
Steve Hammond

I think it’s interesting to note how much of the Gospel stories are about the last week of Jesus’ life. Nearly 40 per cent of John’s gospel is from Palm Sunday on. About a third of Mark and Matthew’s gospels take place during that last week. And even though Luke’s gospel only devotes a bit less than a quarter of it’s narrative from that one Sunday to the next, that’s still a big proportion given Jesus’ ministry lasted something like a thousand days.

If you put all of those stories in the different gospels of the last week together, there are, at least, three of what I call remembering stories. The most famous one is from Luke’s story of the Last Supper when Jesus broke the bread and said, “do this in remembrance of me.” The second is also from Luke’s Gospel when Jesus hears those words echoed back to him by a thief being crucified next to him. “Remember me when you come into your kingdom.” The third is from today’s reading when Jesus says the story of this woman will be remembered wherever the gospel, or the good news is proclaimed.

So what do you think Jesus was hoping we would remember when he said, “Do this in remembrance of me?” What do you think the thief being crucified with Jesus was hoping for when he also asked to be remembered? And what do you think Jesus imagined we would remember about this woman?

It seems to me that this woman (in John’s Gospel she is identified as Mary, the sister of Martha and Lazarus, but unnamed in the other gospel stories) is amazingly courageous. She was putting herself in more than a little bit of jeopardy by approaching Jesus the way she did.

In many Middle Eastern and Arab countries, the sexes are strictly segregated to this day. This woman was bringing great shame on herself and family by simply approaching Jesus, much less touching him. If Jesus hadn’t come to her defense she could, at the very least, have been dragged away and publically humiliated. They could have run her out of town, or even worse.

She took the risk, though. She figured out what was going to happen to Jesus long before his male disciples did. And she wasn’t about to let him die without expressing her love, gratitude, and sorrow for this turn of events. She also must have had this profound trust that Jesus would not reject her, nor demand that she be punished for this offence to all propriety.

Another thing I want to remember about this woman is what she teaches us about the difference between belief and trust. I don’t know what this woman believed about Jesus. If she was like most of Jesus’ early followers, she could never be accepted into the membership of most evangelical churches in this country today because her beliefs about Jesus would seem lacking. What she believed about Jesus didn’t matter to her or Jesus. But what she trusted about Jesus did matter. It was that trust she had, not the correct belief she was able to state, that led her to take the risk she did.

She learned that, I think, from Jesus himself. He took plenty of risks himself, some that seemed as crazy as a woman approaching a man at a first century Palestinian dinner, and rubbing that oil into him. He defied all kinds of religious norms and customs. He knew the kinds of things he was saying and doing could lead to a Roman cross. It was all crazy. But he took the risk. Why? Because he trusted God. Jesus didn’t just believe in God. He trusted that God would be with him no matter what if he stood for God’s ways of love, mercy, justice, compassion, inclusion, and peace. Jesus trusted God to his grave and beyond. And that woman knew that someone who had such a great trust in God could be trusted himself.

When I read the story of this woman I think about another Biblical character, but not anybody who was at that dinner that day. Or, at least, he’s not included on the guest list. In John’s gospel this story becomes a clash between Jesus and Judas. It’s not like Mark’s story where some at the dinner begin to object to what this woman is doing. It’s Judas who objects. Maybe that’s why John’s story doesn’t include the thing Jesus said about how this woman will be remembered. Because what we end up remembering in John’s story is Jesus and Judas going at each other.

There’s something else in John’s story that is different. Remember that in Mark’s gospel Jesus says, “For you always will have the poor with you, and you can share kindness with them whenever you wish.” But in John’s Gospel all Jesus is recorded as saying is that “you will always have the poor with you.” Now many commentators, religious and political, have taken that little phrase from John’s gospel to suggest that Jesus didn’t really care that much about the poor and didn’t expect us to either. They say that in spite of everything else Jesus said about taking care of the poor, including the version of this story in Mark’s gospel.

So, anyway, I don’t think of Jesus and Judas when I read this story. I think of this woman and Nicodemus. Do you remember the story of Nicodemus, “the ruler of the Jews who came to Jesus by night?” What a contrast between him and this woman. Nicodemus sought out Jesus at night, less any of his colleagues see him with Jesus. He wanted to talk to Jesus, be with him. But Nicodemus was scared to death of what might happen if anybody found out. But this woman, approached Jesus in broad daylight. She didn’t care who saw her or what they did to her.

Throughout the gospels we read about people who were the outcasts, the women, the poor, the unclean, the heathen, the rejected and marginalized getting what Jesus was about. The ones you would imagine would get it don’t. They were trying to compare Jesus to their belief systems, and he never lived up to any of that. But when they started trusting Jesus, that was a different story.

By the end of the story, t turns out, Nicodemus took a pretty big risk himself. This woman anointed Jesus for his burial. Nicodemus helped take Jesus’ corpse down from that cross and place his body in the tomb. And some very important and displeased people had to notice that Nicodemus was aligning himself with Jesus in such a visible way. If you read the story about Nicodemus you realize that he didn’t understand a word of what Jesus was saying. But somewhere along the way, something changed. He started trusting Jesus. And he trusted Jesus enough to put himself in danger for Jesus’ sake, as Jesus had put himself in danger for Nicodemus, the woman in this story, the thieves on their crosses, Judas, and all the rest of us.

“Remember me,” Jesus said. He also said we would remember this woman.“Remember me,” that person cried from an adjacent cross. What and how we remember is important. We don’t remember what they believed. We remember their trust.

Here’s a suggestion. The next time someone comes up to you on a street corner or at a family gathering and says, “Do you believe in Jesus?” feel free to say something like this. “I trust Jesus. And I trust the God he trusted, just like that woman Jesus said we would remember wherever the gospel is preached.”

Luke 15
March 10, 2013
Mary Hammond

[The three Parables of the Lost–the Lost Coin, the Lost Sheep, and the Prodigal Son–were acted out during worship. This was followed by a period of Congregational Reflection on how the stories, shared in that form, impacted the congregation. The Congregational Reflection was rich and deep! I was the Storyteller, the Woman, the Shepherd, and the Father. Glenn Gall played the Lost Sheep and the Elder Son. Steve Hammond played the Prodigal Son. The Congregation filled the roles of the 99 sheep, the rejoicing neighbors, and the rejoicing angels].

Luke 15 opens with an introduction to these three parables. Now that we have dramatized these stories, let’s listen to that introduction again. “By this time a lot of men and women of doubtful reputation were hanging around Jesus, listening intently. The Pharisees and religion scholars were not pleased, not at all pleased. They growled, ‘He takes in sinners and eats with them, treating them like old friends.’ Their grumbling triggered this story.”

It is important to remember that Jesus is responding to criticism from the religious community regarding the company he keeps. We may have lots of methods for looking at these parables in Luke 15, but this fact cannot be forgotten in our approach.

Why does Luke tell three stories, not just one? He places them side-by-side. In broad brush strokes, we can describe Jesus’ audience as ‘marginalized’ and ‘mainstream.’ The ‘marginalized’ include those the religious leaders describe as ‘sinners’–the poor, infirm, unclean, those of dubious reputation. The ‘mainstream’ include those who are in the center, not on the margins, of religious society. They might hire servants instead of being servants. They enjoy some level of stability, recognition, and financial means within a first century social context.

Pondering this motley crew that Jesus addresses illuminates the genius of telling all three stories. The main characters of a shepherd and a woman, in the first two parables, are unlikely to grab the attention of religious leaders and Pharisees. Shepherds are rough-hewn, generally unsavory characters. And a poor woman searching for her single lost coin is about as noticeable on the public radar system of the elites in Jesus’ time as she is today.

These first two stories connect with the hearts of the marginalized. If these individuals are looked down upon, so is the shepherd and the poor woman frantically searching for her lost coin. If these individuals seem insignificant, so might the one lost sheep among the 99 and the one lost coin among the other nine.

The third parable recounts the story of a wealthy father and his two sons. Now, there’s a relatable context for the religious leaders and Pharisees! The man has servants and hired hands. He has resources adequate enough to prematurely dole out an inheritance to his youngest son. Yet, he still possesses enough wealth for the maintenance of his remaining estate and his own advancing age.

It is actually important to the context that this third parable is about a wealthy father and his two sons. The father/son bond is the most highly valued social relationship in ancient patriarchal culture. Jesus touches this connection head-on as he responds to criticism about keeping company with ‘sinners.’

Jesus offers a very personal challenge to the Pharisees and religious leaders: “How would you respond to your own son if he lost his way and after a long while returned home, repentant?”

The shepherd and woman seek, seek, and seek some more. They prioritize that one sheep and that one coin, investing their time and energy in restoring the lost. The wealthy father and landowner waits, waits, and waits some more. When his son finally returns home, the father prioritizes that fractured relationship. He is ready to re-invest his time, energy, and wealth in this son, in spite of the young man’s past rebellion. In each parable, commitment to relationship is fundamental to the outcome.

Were the marginalized in Jesus’ day the targets of hate speech that moved beyond whispered criticism to derogatory slurs and discriminatory practices? We know that this is true, just from reading the Gospels and studying social history.

I think about the acts of hatred and intimidation that have taken place on the Oberlin College campus the past several weeks. Those who invest deeply in relationship across many diversities cannot see one another in the same light as they did while still strangers. We have each experienced this transformation again and again in our lives.

The response Jesus offers to the tragic disdain the Pharisees and religious leaders harbor toward those they deem ‘sinners’ is this: Jesus invests in relationship with the marginalized. He dines with them. He invites them into friendship with him. He includes them in his ministry. He empowers them for ministry. He treats them as equals.

The God of heaven, with all the hosts of heaven and the community of neighbors and friends on earth, rejoices with us when reconciliation and restoration win the day. Amen.

Luke 13:1-9
March 3, 2013
Steve Hammond

At last year’s Peace Camp we had a gathering of a newly forming group in Baptist Peace Fellowship life called Contemplatives In Action. It’s kind of weird that the acronym is CIA, but we are people who believe in redemption. Anyway, after that gathering I signed up for the daily meditations written by the monk, Richard Rohr. I know some of the folk in this congregation have been reading his stuff for a long time.

In the meditation for last Sunday, February 24, he said that theology matters. Is he right? Or is that just something you would expect from a monk who gets to spend lots of time reading theology? [Ask people what they think]

Here’s how that meditation starts. “Your image of God creates you—or defeats you. There is an absolute connection between how you see God and how you see yourself and the whole universe. The word “God” is first of all a stand-in for everything—reality, truth, and the very shape of your universe. This is why theology is important, and why good theology and spirituality can make so much difference in how you live your daily life in this world. Theology is not just theoretical, but ends up being quite practical—practically up-building or practically defeating.”

Let’s test Richard Rohr’s contention by taking a look at that gospel passage we just read. We actually will begin with the end of the passage, about the apple tree. Now in the older translations you probably know this as the parable of the fig tree. Eugene Peterson has updated it a bit in his translation called the Message.

People usually approach the parables as allegories, even though that’s not the best way to read them. You remember that allegories are stories where the different characters or objects are meant to represent something else. There’s a very classic way to interpret this story of the apple tree, or the fig tree, if you prefer.

Who do you suppose we traditionally understand to be the owner of the property, the one threatening to cut down the tree that isn’t producing fruit? Who is the gardener? Who is the tree? Now when you put this whole story together with God, Jesus, and people (humanity), how does the story go? Something like this…God is set to judge people for their sins and ready to chop them down, i.e. destroy them, because they aren’t bearing fruit. But Jesus intervenes and convinces God to give them (us) another chance.

That’s one way to look at that parable. But there is another way to read it that is more in line with the kind of thing Jesus might have been thinking about. Don’t think of it as a allegory where everything has to mean something. What if Jesus was just saying something like this? “You know, God is like a gardener who lovingly tends an apple tree until it’s ready to start dropping apples. God is there through disease and infestation, through drought and flood. God is even there trying to keep stupid landowners from chopping down the tree.”

And, I think, Jesus’ listeners would have understood how stupid it would have been if the landowner had the tree chopped down. I don’t know about apple trees, but it turns out that fig trees back in Jesus day most often started producing fruit somewhere around their fourth year. So why would a landowner want to chop down the tree before it’s time. Who knows? Maybe she’s stupid. Maybe she thinks that her trees should be better than everyone else’s to be worthy of her land. Maybe it’s just Jesus saying sin makes us do crazy things which gets us back to the first part of today’s story.

Now before we look at the beginning of the story we need to get back to Richard Rohr, and his thing about how theology matters. How we read this or any other story in the Bible depends on how we understand God in that story of the apple or fig tree. Is God the landowner ready to chop the tree down, or the gardener who is nurturing and protecting the tree until it bears fruit? That’s theology. And it does matter. Remember how that meditation started? “Your image of God creates you–or defeats you.”

The story does, interestingly enough, start out as a theological discussion. “Hey Jesus, what about those guys Herod killed while they were offering their sacrifices. He not only killed them, but polluted the altar by having their blood mingled with the blood of the animals?”

They are asking a question that goes all the way back to Job and beyond, as Mary can tell us. Why do these awful things happen? Is it punishment for sin? Was there something about these guys Herod killed that we didn’t know? If God didn’t stop it from happening then was that their judgment?

Jesus ups the ante in the discussion. It’s one thing for a wicked man like Herod to go around killing people for seemingly no reason. That’s what tyrants do. But what about that tower that fell down in Siloam, Jesus asks? Herod didn’t cause that. It just fell and 18 people were killed. What’s that about?

Jesus, it seems, wants to move the discussion in another direction. “Let’s not speculate on the sins of others? What about your sins?” There are some who read this story and tell us that Jesus is saying that all sin is the same. The kid stealing a loaf of bread to feed his hungry sister is just as bad, in God’s eyes, as Herod or any other mass murderer, child abuser, or the person stealing bread from the kid’s family. All of us deserve God’s wrath, they say, and it’s God’s prerogative as to when Herod strikes or the tower falls, or when the tree is chopped down. That’s their theology and, I think, it ends up defeating them.

What if Jesus is suggesting, though, that this whole thing about sin and it’s consequences is not prescriptive but descriptive. It’s not that God is looking for every opportunity to judge us for our sin, prescribing punishment, but trying to describe to us what happens if we keep living the way we do? Maybe we can go on for a while, but something will happen. We will end up hurting ourselves, the people we love, the community where we live, and the world we share with so many others. When Jesus calls us to repent, he is simply calling us to turn from death to life. That’s theology, people, and it does have an impact on how we live with each other, with God, and ourselves on a day to day basis.

A problem with theology, of course, is that you can use it to box in your ideas and understanding of God. But the idea of theology is to expand our understanding of God, not diminish it. As Richard Rohr says it in his meditation, “a mature God creates mature people. A big God creates big people.” It’s all got to do with whether your God chops down trees or nurtures them. That’s theology..

Do you know what story follows this one? The story of the bent over woman Jesus healed on the Sabbath. All the folk whose theology told them that God chops down trees got really mad at Jesus. Did he really think he could get away with violating the Sabbath? But Jesus showed them a big God, a God who believes the tree is going to bear fruit. That was his theology.

We are all going to be doing theology this week. Not reading some books, or having some long discussions and theological discourses, not all of us, anyway . But we are all going to be living our theology. Who we understand God to be is going to shape everything we do this week. Our theology, our image of God is, indeed, going to create us or defeat us. That’s why theology matters.