This is one of the better-known passages in all of scripture.  Typically called “The Great Commission”, this text is notable for being Jesus’ final instructions to his disciples before he departs physically from them.  It may seem strange for Matthew to end his gospel with instruction rather than action, but highlighting Jesus’ role as teacher is a typically Matthean emphasis.  Furthermore, Matthew ends his gospel in such a way as to shift the spotlight from the work Jesus has done in his earthly ministry to the work that Jesus will now do through the lives of his followers.  The page has been turned.  The torch has been passed.  We are to be the body of Christ now.  Matthew suggests here that the story of Jesus’ ministry continues in and through us.

That’s not a new message to most Christians today.  Most of us have heard the Great Commission and learned that it is a clear call to us – for action, for ministry, for service.  Consider the words of a familiar hymn based on this text:

Lord, you give the great commission:
“Heal the sick and preach the word.”
Lest the Church neglect its mission
and the Gospel go unheard,
help us witness to your purpose
with renewed integrity;
with the Spirit’s gifts empower us
for the work of ministry.

Lord, you call us to your service:
“In my name baptize and teach.”
That the world may trust your promise,
life abundant meant for each,
give us all new fervor,
draw us closer in community;
with the Spirit’s gifts empower us
for the work of ministry.

Lord, you make the common holy:
“This my body, this my blood.”
Let your priests, for earth’s true glory,
daily lift life heavenward,
asking that world around us
share your children’s liberty;
with the Spirit’s gifts empower us
for the work of ministry.

Lord, you show us love’s true measure:
“Father, what they do, forgive.”
Yet we hoard as private treasure
all that you so freely give.
May your care and mercy lead us
to a just society;
with the Spirit’s gifts empower us
for the work of ministry.

Lord, you bless with words assuring:
“I am with you to the end.”
Faith and hope and love restoring,
may we serve as you intend,
and, amid the cares that claim us,
hold in mind eternity;
with the Spirit’s gifts empower us
for the work of ministry.

Again, the hymn does as the Great Commission does: shifts the focus from Jesus’ work to our work, yet without severing the connection between the two.  In truth, they are very much one in the same.  However, there is something missing from the hymn, just as there is something missing from our traditional interpretation of the Great Commission.  It’s a very subtle piece of this text that we are all apt to overlook (perhaps due to our familiarity with it), and it’s found in verse 17:

When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted.

Isn’t that a fascinating way to end a gospel?  Isn’t even more fascinating considering the message of the text?  Here is Jesus, sending his disciples out into the world to carry on his work and his ministry.  Here is Jesus the risen Lord, nail holes and all, going out on a high note.  But some doubted. Isn’t that just like the disciples?  Isn’t it just like us?

Far too often among Christians there’s a discernible pressure to know things for certain, to hold and express your convictions fervently and confidently, to follow Jesus without question.  The reality of following Christ is that it’s rarely that simple.  There will be plenty of times when we question, and hesitate, and doubt ourselves when faced with the work that we are called to do.  You see those three words in verse 17?  But some doubted. That’s us.  There we are in the gospel.  It’s like holding a mirror up to our faces.

But you know, that’s okay.  It’s extremely comforting to know that after some doubted, Jesus gives those same hesitant disciples authority, as well as a promise that he will always be with them.  After doubt comes the Great Commission.  Jesus doesn’t seem to mind that some doubted, because he knows something that we typically forget: the kingdom that Jesus ushered in does not depend on our abilities, but on God’s power.  This text is an echo of last Sunday’s Pentecost event, in which the disciples are given the gift of the Holy Spirit’s power – which is precisely the point.  It’s not their power at work here.  It’s God’s, and God’s alone.

First Look is a weekly commentary on the upcoming gospel lectionary text, written by Rev. Lee A. Koontz.  It is usually published on Mondays.

Text: 1 Corinthians 1:1-17

Over the past few weeks there has been a certain question that I’ve heard over and over again in different places.  The first time I heard it, it was asked in response to Howard Camping’s prediction that the rapture would occur on May 21st.  At the time I happened to be making plans with a friend of mine, and after writing all of the details on my calendar, I remarked, “This is assuming that the rapture doesn’t occur on May 21st.”  We didn’t take the rapture into account when we made our plans, of course.  My friend’s reply was telling.  He rolled his eyes and said, “I’m so tired of hearing about that guy.  What Bible is he reading anyway?”  It was a rhetorical question, meant to dismiss Camping’s prediction as the result of sheer ignorance.  What Bible is he reading?

The second time I heard the question was shortly after our presbytery voted on Amendment 10-A, which changed the ordination standards currently written in the Book of Order.  The language of the amendment elicited strong reactions from both sides, and there was considerable debate regarding what the passage of the amendment would mean for us as a denomination.

Some applauded its broadening of the requirements for ordination to focus not just on sexual sins but “to submit to the Lordship of Jesus Christ in all aspects of life.”  Others called passionately for the amendment to be voted down because it removes the current language requiring candidates to exhibit “fidelity in the covenant of marriage between and man and a woman or chastity in singleness”.  The day after the Presbytery of Charlotte voted on the amendment, I was reading through newspapers and articles on the internet surrounding that vote, and in the comments section of the Charlotte Observer’s article on our vote, someone had asked a question that caught my eye.  It simply read, “What Bible are they reading?”  Once again, the question was rhetorical, and it was meant to dismiss the affirmative vote on Amendment 10-A as the result of sheer ignorance.  What Bible are they reading?

I’m not sure why that question has stuck with me like it has.  I think that on a personal level, I’m interested in what it means to ask it.  It seems to uncover a tendency we all have to view those who interpret the Bible differently than we do as ignorant, or just plain wrong.  People on both sides of just about any debate do this.  What Bible are they reading? It seems to suggest that the truth is right there in black and white, and all you have to do is read it for yourself.  The reality, however, is that things are rarely that simple.  It’s been said that if you put three Presbyterians in a room together, you’ll end up with four different opinions.  It seems that not only is math not our strong suit, but neither is agreement with each other!  This is especially true whenever we begin talking about “hot button” issues.  Passions run deep on both sides.  The conflict is often bitter and uncivil.  The culture warriors are entrenched in their beliefs, unwilling to give any ground whatsoever, lest their side be perceived as “losing”.

But you know, that’s nothing new.  We aren’t really doing anything that hasn’t been done before.  The issues may be different from generation to generation, but the pattern of conflict is the same.  I’ve been ordained for almost six years now, and it very much seems to me that we are fighting the same battles over and over and over again, and they aren’t necessarily even the battles we should be fighting.  I can only imagine what older ministers must feel.  Those who have been in the ministry much longer than I have probably just accept it as an endless cycle of conflict after conflict.  That seems disheartening to me if that’s true.  But I’m not there, yet.  I’m still young enough and naive enough to hope and believe that we are capable of much better.

It may seem absurd to say that, especially considering that the picture of the early church that we get in scripture is oftentimes darkened by conflict and disharmony.  Read Paul’s letters to the churches he started in Rome, and Galatia, and Thessalonica, and – this morning – Corinth, and then look around at what’s going on in the church today.  It doesn’t seem like things have changed very much in two-thousand years, have they?  You would think that after two-thousand years we would have learned how this thing works, right?

If you read through 1 and 2 Corinthians in your Bible, you’ll see that the church in Corinth was doing some of the same things that we are doing today.  You’ll also see that quite frankly, that church was frustrating Paul to no end.  He had started that church just a few years earlier, calling all kinds of people from vastly different backgrounds to gather together and do incredible things like worship together, and pray together, and eat together.  He had assembled a rag-tag bunch of former Jews, former Pagans, and everything in between.  He had organized something completely different: a church, built on the idea that vastly different people are called together to be a family according to God’s love, and their purpose and mission in the world was to show that love, which was so clear in the life and death of Jesus, to each other and to their neighbors.  In just a few short years, it seemed that they had forgotten everything that Paul had taught them.  They divided into factions, and pretty soon they were saying very nasty things to each other.  Things like, “You’re not a real Christian at all!  You may think you are, but you’re not!  We are!  What Bible are you reading, anyway?”  Each group was claiming exclusivity over the other – that “they” had the truth – and the others did not. That they were right on a particular matter, and the others were wrong. That they were the “true believers” – and the others were “not real Christians.”  Those early Christians began what is perhaps our most enduring tradition: fighting with each other.  So, Paul decided to write them a letter.  The letter he wrote began encouragingly enough, but after the greetings and salutations, he gets down to business:

I appeal to you that there be no divisions among you.
It has been reported to me that there are quarrels among you.
Some of you are saying “I belong to Paul,” or “I’m with Peter”
and some are sure that they alone are on the side of Christ.
Is Christ divided?

Now if you fast forward about two thousand years you’ll see that we’re still at it.  Those on the left claim allegiance to the Covenant Network or More Light Presbyterians.  Those on the right claim allegiance to the Presbyterian Coalition or the Presbyterian Layman.  Plenty of people on both sides of any issue claim to solely be on the side of Christ, and anyone who holds different opinions are opponents of Jesus Christ the Lord himself.  And above the fray, Paul’s own rhetorical question hangs like a forgotten sign: Is Christ divided? And nothing drove Paul into a frenzy like hearing of a divided church.

In C.S. Lewis’ The Screwtape Letters there’s a devious senior devil named Screwtape, who at one point tries to console his nephew, a devil named Wormwood.  Wormwood is grieving because a human he was desperately hoping to torment has recently converted to Christianity.  Screwtape’s advice to his nephew is simple: “I think I warned you before that if your patient can’t keep out of the Church, he ought at least to be violently attached to some party within it.”  Screwtape knew the truth about human beings, and he knew the things that could most easily get in the way of the gospel for Christians.  It turns out that division, discord, arguing over things…  these are the things that hinder the work of Christ.  These are the things that tear down the church.

Paul, of course, didn’t want to see the churches he started torn down.  So he reminds them that they are called to be different!  When all the world jumps at the chance to argue over something and divide, and separate, and form opposing factions, the church is supposed to be something completely different.  Now I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you should be in agreement and that there should be no divisions among you, but that you should be united in the same mind and the same purpose. Paul knew better than to expect people of such differing backgrounds and viewpoints to agree on everything.  He isn’t telling them to have it out until everyone is forced to share the same opinion.  Frequently in his letters, he will tell Christians to “be of one mind”, and by that he means to live together not according to our own opinions and agendas, but according to the One who calls Christians together in the first place!  That’s not to say that we will be able to join hands around the campfire and sing Kum Ba Yah. But it is to say that the way we are to relate to each other is primarily out of love.  It is to say that there is no excuse for dismissing the views of other faithful Christians simply because they differ from our own.  It is to say that we are to be something completely different from what we see in the world.  The Christian Church was created to be a family of people from varied backgrounds, called together by the gracious love of Christ, to love the Lord our God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength, and to love our neighbors as we love ourselves.  As long as we call ourselves a “church” we are proclaiming to be that kind of family.  Sometimes we get it right.  Sometimes it is resoundingly clear that the love which draws us together and binds us to each other as brothers and sisters in Christ is abundantly stronger than any of our disagreements or divisions.  Sometimes we fall flat on our faces, and in the midst of our dissension we miss an opportunity to glorify Christ.

Recently, even as I was hearing questions like, “What Bible are they reading?” I’ve seen us get it right.  After our most recent meeting of the Presbytery of Charlotte, the one in which we debated Amendment 10-A, the debate was civil.  It was for the most part respectful.  And it was faithful – on both sides.  One of the elders who represented his church at the meeting also happens to be a columnist for the Charlotte Observer.  In his editorial following our meeting, he called the meeting “different”.  He wrote: “It was a passionate and polite debate – perhaps because of something [we] want [our] community to know: that good, smart, faithful people on both sides are struggling and sorting through the debate…  It was a different conversation. It’s not that hard to have, if [the people on both sides] are humble enough to understand that they might not be right.”  One of the pastors at the meeting was quoted at the end of the article, saying, “I think everybody is trying to be faithful.  I think the trick is to be loving.”

The trick is also to set aside our differences, and put our hearts, and our minds, and our hands together to do the work that Christ has called us to do:

To feed the hungry, to nurture the children, to honor and respect the elderly, to welcome the outcast and the stranger, to visit the sick, to comfort the dying, and to get together with people who have little in common and may not even know one another or like one another, for that matter, to sit with them, and confess our flaws together, to bread bread and share the cup together, to proclaim our faith and our hope together—for the world and for each other.

There are many in the world today who would call that strange or different.  But those of us who follow Christ – we just call that “church”.

And we thank God for it.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

This sermon was written by Rev. Lee A. Koontz, and delivered on May 29th, 2011.

When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.”  After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord.  Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”  When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit.  If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”  But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came.  So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.”  Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!”  Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”  Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book.  But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.

“Peace be with you.”

What comes into your mind when you hear that phrase?  Are the words a greeting?  Or a farewell?

“Peace be with you.”  Is it a wish for the chaos and the turmoil in your life to become settled?  Or is it a declaration of certainty and assurance for the future?  In other words, is it a prayer for things to get better?  Or a promise that they will?

“Peace be with you.”

These were the words that Jesus used to greet his disciples in the upper room that night.  It may have even been the same room in which they had all gathered for the last supper.  There they were, together, just like they had been many times before.  However, it would be a mistake to think that this was a typical gathering.  Jesus, their master, was no more.  The man whom they had followed, whom they had learned from, whom they had joined without question when he called to them, was dead.  Not only that – he had been crucified.  He had been called a criminal and been convicted and put to death by the state.  It was no hero’s death that fell upon him.  It was not the death of royalty.  It was the death of an outlaw.

These disciples, these followers of Jesus, now gathered together after the arrest, after the trial, after the gruesome crucifixion, in fear.  We are told that the doors where they were are shut, and you can bet that they were locked and bolted as well.  If any of you have seen any horror movies lately, you may be able to identify with the frightened disciples somewhat.  I can still remember the first time I saw the movie “Jaws”.  I was young and on vacation with my family – at the beach!  I don’t think I went near the water the whole week.  I felt much more secure behind the closed doors of our hotel room.  Scary movies can stick with you for a long time, too.  Lasting fear from a traumatic incident can alter your behavior, give you nightmares.  We can only imagine the level of fear in the minds of the disciples that night.  This was no movie they had just seen.  It was no mechanical shark that caused them to lock the doors.  It was death…  horrific, terrible, and unforgettable.  The disciples now lived in chaos in the shadow of the cross.  The dream that they had followed for so long without question was now dead.  They sought security behind locked doors, refuge from the tide of violence and unrest that had claimed the life of their master.

It would be interesting to know what the disciples were talking about that evening.  Were they discussing what to do next?  Were they making plans to get the heck out of town as soon as possible?  Were they just huddled together in fearful silence?  We don’t know – but whatever the mood was in that room at that time, it was all certainly about to change.  Very suddenly, Jesus comes and stands among them, speaking those familiar words, “Peace be with you.”

Now if the disciples were in shock after Jesus death, if they were huddled together in fear in that upper room, then they were certainly shocked, amazed, and spellbound at his appearance to them.  Was it some kind of a trick?  Had the stress and fear of the moment caused them to hallucinate?  Did they dare believe that their master was no longer dead?  Did they dare believe that he was alive, and he was standing right in front of them?  Would you?

Our response would likely be similar to that of Thomas when the disciples told him what had happened.  “Unless I see in his hands the print of the nails, and place my finger in the mark of the nails, and place my hand in his side, I will not believe.”  Maybe Thomas was expressing something felt by all of the disciples.  Maybe they didn’t want to believe that Jesus was alive.  After all, these disciples had failed him, all of them!  They had abandoned him when he was arrested, denied him when he was crucified, and run away from him when he died.  The dream had died, they thought, and now the only future that awaited them was a life of despair and disillusionment, behind locked doors, in the shadow of that terrible cross.

But it is Jesus who breaks in upon their fear and their despair.  In that moment, Jesus reclaims them.  Despite the fact that they had abandoned him, he trusts them.  Despite the fact that they denied him, he calls them.  Despite the fact that they had run away from him, he draws them near, and breathes upon them.  That breath is a sign of life.  The language of the text recalls the creation narrative in which God breathes upon the waters and gives them life.  Jesus’ appearance to the disciples is a sign of new life. Those who nailed him to the cross and tried to snuff out that breath could not do it.  Christ has risen.  His breath continues.  The dream is alive.

Jesus is calling his disciples out of the shadow of the cross and into the light of a new life.  “Just as my Father sent me,” he says, “so I now send you.”  Not only is the dream still alive, but it is alive within you, his followers.  I think we have to forgive the disciples for not seeming a little more active and overjoyed at Jesus’ words, but the move from death to resurrection is not an easy one to make.  The shadow of the cross is not easy to leave behind.

Maybe that’s the message that Thomas speaks to us.  After being told by the disciples that Jesus is alive and the dream has been passed to them, he basically says, “That’s a good message, but I’m going to need some proof.  I need to see it with my own eyes.”  And so Thomas ends up being a lot like us.  In those dark times, those times of despair, disillusionment, and fear in our lives it’s like we can’t see the light of hope.  Maybe we spend too much time focusing on our failures and all the ways that we’ve let Christ down, the ways that we’ve failed to keep the dream of Christ’s love alive.  Maybe we spend more time behind locked doors in fear of death than we spend out in the world, embracing the life that Christ has breathed into us.  That move from death to resurrection is not an easy move to make for us, either.

It does seem that we all play the role of Thomas.  It is often times easier to let fear and uncertainty direct our lives than it is to embrace Jesus’ presence with us.  It is easier to dwell in the shadow of the cross, the shadow of death, than it is to believe the dream and be a part of it.  In fear and doubt, we can close the doors and lock them; we can find nothing that compels us to take the chance of walking out our doors and doing the work that Christ calls us to do.  Doubt is much easier than faith.

Carl Rogers, the famous American psychologist, was 22 years old when he entered Union Theological Seminary in New York in 1924. While there, he participated in a seminar organized to explore religious doubts. Rogers later said of the group, “The majority of members…in thinking their way through questions they had raised, thought themselves right out of religious work. I was one.”

Doubt is easier than faith.  A few years ago one of my friends remarked to me, “I am getting to the point that I won’t be able to say the Apostles’ Creed.  I do alright until I get to the ‘rose again from the dead’ part.  When we get to that part of the creed, it’s easier for me just to stay silent.”  Moving from death to resurrection is incredibly difficult.  Sometimes it is very hard to believe without a doubt that Jesus lives on, even today, even after he was put to death on the cross.

But the truth is that when we find ourselves doubting, when we find ourselves afraid of death, when we find ourselves unable to move from Jesus’ death on the cross to his real presence in our lives even today, Jesus treats us just as he treated his disciples, locked away in that room of fear and uncertainty.  “Just as my Father sent me,” he says, “I now send you.”

As it turns out, Jesus does not care that we have abandoned him in the past.  Jesus cares not that we deny him in the moments of truth.  Jesus chooses us for what we are…  children of God – fears, doubts, and all.  Jesus looks to us with confidence, and sends us just as the Father sent him.  “Do not spend your time behind the locked doors of fear and doubt,” he says.  “Go into the world bearing the good news.  There you will find the signs of hope, the signs of life that you seek.”  The story of Jesus has not ended in crucifixion and death, nor does our own story ended in doubt and fear.  The dream is alive in us.  Christ is alive in us.

And so we are called to rise above our past, to rise above the times we have failed Christ as fear and doubt assailed us.  Christ has looked to us all with confidence, because he lives.  Our times of doubt and fear are no match for Christ working within us and through us.  In those times, when we feel like just locking the doors and hiding under the table until this entire world passes away, Jesus suddenly appears in our midst and offers words which are both a prayer for our present doubts and fears, and a promise for our future faith…  “Peace be with you.”

* * * * *

First Look is a weekly commentary on the upcoming lectionary gospel text written by Rev. Lee Koontz.  It is usually published on Mondays.

Text: John 20:19-31

Note: My commentary on this reading can be found here.

They had locked themselves in a room, behind closed doors.  Nothing was getting in.  Nothing was getting out.  This is how the disciples responded to Jesus’ death, which was probably the most frightening experience of their lives.  Their leader, who was supposed to be the Messiah, had been arrested, beaten, and crucified among criminals until he died upon the cross for all to see.  Crucifixion was a shrewd way to put someone to death, and the point to hanging someone on the cross wasn’t just to kill the person, but to do so in a way that would intimidate the masses.  It was meant to send a signal, loud and clear: threaten the state, and this is what you get.  The primary purpose of crucifixion wasn’t to put someone to death.  It was to engender fear in the hearts of the public.  Without a doubt, the disciples got the message.

The moment Jesus was arrested, they fled.  They once were disciples of Jesus, bound together by a common leader and a common mission, and though they never completely understood what that mission was, it didn’t really matter.  It was Jesus who called them together, Jesus who bound them together, Jesus who taught them, ate with them, walked mile after mile with them, together.  But now that Jesus was gone, the only common thing among them was fear.  They were afraid that the ones who did that to Jesus could do it to them as well.

Needless to say, this was not a great way for the church to get started, and indeed it was antithetical to what Jesus taught, preached, and practiced.  A wise and learned prophet once taught his followers, “Fear is the path to the Dark Side.  Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.”  That the prophet was Yoda from Star Wars makes no real difference.  He was right, and the disciples were on their way down the path from fear to anger, anger to hate, and hate to suffering just in the confines of their sealed and locked room.  In that room, they were no community.  They were no fellowship.  They were no family or brotherhood.  They had lost every dimension of community except their shared sense of fear, which is no basis for community, especially a community of faith.

It is at that moment, the height of fear and terror that Jesus intrudes into their lives once more.  Once more he calls them together, binds them together with a common purpose, and sends them out beyond the locked doors into a world of need.  The birthday of the church wasn’t Pentecost according to John’s gospel.  It was this moment, when Jesus breathed on them, saying, “Receive the Holy Spirit”.  This is the moment that his followers are turned from disciples (ones who are taught) into apostles (ones who are sent).  And as we imagine Jesus standing there in front of them, countering their fear with words of peace and showing them the wounds in his hands and feet, we can also imagine that the disciples themselves were transformed.  They were empowered by the Holy Spirit and commissioned to go out into the world bearing the good news of peace and forgiveness to all people.  At first, behind their locked doors, they were a bit like the unhatched chick in a Shel Silverstein poem who declares:

The hens they all cackle, the roosters all beg,
But I will not hatch, I will not hatch.
For I hear all the talk of pollution and war
As the people all shout and the airplane roar,
So I’m staying in here where it’s safe and it’s warm,
And I WILL NOT HATCH! (Where the Sidewalk Ends, p. 127)

But hatch they had to.  Jesus made sure of that.  No more closed and locked doors.  People had to come in.  Good news had to get out.  A church had to be born.

Last week I was having a discussion with a pastor friend of mine about the “Mainstream Protestant Decline”, the yearly loss of denominational membership not only in the Presbyterian Church (USA), but in all Protestant denominations (and some non-Protestant as well).  As most pastors tend to do, we were self-diagnosing the problems of our denomination and thinking aloud about the potential causes for the membership decline.  He said something that stuck with me, and I think there’s truth in it.  “We’re not losing members because of moral values, controversial theological statements, or disagreements over controversial issues,” he said.  “We’re losing members because we’ve got the greatest news the world will ever hear, and we’re afraid to tell it.”  I think he was right.  The truth of the world in which we live is that there are plenty of things to be afraid of.  Consider that in the last week alone we’ve heard news stories about pirates off the coast of Somalia, violence spilling over the Mexican border into our country, a North Korean test-launch of a long-range missile, the abduction and murder of children, more lost jobs, on and on and on.  In our denomination, the Presbyterian Church (USA) there are concerns over changes to the Book of Order, there are concerns over not changing the Book of Order, there is fear and regret over budget cuts and layoffs in the PCUSA’s national office, and so on.  In our own church we each have our own list of fears and anxieties and concerns related to employment, and health, or the loss of a loved one.  There is much to be afraid of.

The temptation for the church during fearful times such as these is to stay behind closed doors.  The tendency for any organization, when threatened, is to focus only inward, on self-preservation and self-security.  Our primary purpose changes.  It is not longer sharing the good news of God’s peace, forgiveness, and love, but rather survival on our own terms.  When that happens, we may as well shut and lock the doors.  Nothing gets in.  Nothing gets out.  The church dies.

About ten years ago, Auburn Theological Seminary published a study entitled, “Missing Connections: Public Perceptions of Religious Leadership.”  It’s main discovery was that in the four American cities studied the public community – that is, the community surrounding the church – had little to no awareness of any contribution or engagement by the city’s churches.  Let me say that again.  In each of the four cities studied, the community had little to no awareness of any contribution or engagement by the churches. The survey data showed that no one in these communities had the churches or church leaders on their “must-call” list concerning matters of importance in the civic domain.  The clear implication of this study is that many churches are still living on the other side of Easter, staying safely and securely behind closed doors.

Our scripture reading from the gospel of John this morning fires an arrow straight into the heart of our fear-driven, inward focusing tendencies.  The Greek word describing the doors of the room where the disciples were is translated “shut” or “locked” in most English translations, but the word itself has a dual meaning.  It can also mean “to close off” or “to withhold compassion from others”.  It can also mean “to obstruct the entrance into the kingdom of heaven”.  I wonder which meaning John had when he wrote his gospel.  I’d bet that he chose that word deliberately, and had all three meanings in mind.  Closed doors equals closed hearts equals closed kingdom.  It is into the closed-ness of the disciples’ house that Jesus came, seemingly right through the closed and locked doors.  He immediately addressed their fear, saying “Peace be with you.”  He immediately addressed their inward focus, saying, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”  And then he, with a little help from Thomas, offered an antidote for fear-centered, inward-focused living.  He shows his wounds and says, “Do not doubt, but believe.”  When Jesus says “believe” he isn’t talking about a list of theological tenets.  He’s talking about trusting God, and following him, even when we’re struggling in the midst of a fearful world.  Faith is the antidote for fear, and faith is not a list of all the things that you believe.  Faith is trust in God.

Do we really have faith?  Do we trust that God forgives our fearful world?  Do we trust God enough to open the doors and let the rabble in?  Do we trust God enough to open the doors and tell the world the best news it’s ever heard?  Most importantly, do we trust that our Lord and our God is Lord of the church budget, the book of order, the session meeting, and the worship service, and no presbytery vote or General Assembly or decision we make (whether faithful or misguided) can change that?  Do we trust that God alone is Lord of life, and death, and nothing in all creation can separate us from the love of God?  Do we trust that God alone is Lord of the battlefield and the homeland?  God alone is Lord of Iraq and Afghanistan, Somalia’s Coast and Mexico’s borders, Wall Street and Main Street, Washington, D.C. and Little Washington, N.C., and nothing – no election or president or congress or senate or special interest group is going to change that?  Do we trust that God is a God of peace, and forgiveness, and love, and He is stronger than our fear, and terror, and insecurity?  It’s the best news the world will ever hear.  Will we be afraid to tell it?  Will we be content with shutting and locking the doors?  Or will we trust God enough to follow Jesus out into the world as his apostles, his “sent ones”?

Pastor and Theologian N.T. Wright said, “What Easter does is open windows of the mind and heart to see what really, after all, might be possible in God’s world”.  (Surprised by Hope, p. 69)  What is possible in God’s world?  What is possible in God’s Presbyterian Church (USA)?  What is possible for us here in this place?  Today on this April Sunday in the echo of Easter good news, we gather and live in the hope that even after a congregational history as long as ours, God is bringing us to life even now.  It is Jesus who has called us together.  It is Jesus who gives us our common purpose.  It is Jesus who teaches us, walks with us, invites us to sit at one table, and sends us out into the world.  No more shut and locked doors.  People have to come in.  Good news has to get out.  A church has to be born.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

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This sermon was written by Rev. Lee A. Koontz and delivered on April 19, 2009.

Tonight we will observe Ash Wednesday with the imposition of Ashes.  Ashes have always been a sign of repentance, and examples of this can be found frequently in scripture.  You may remember from our Sunday morning worship a few weeks ago that the sinful Ninevites responded to Jonah’s call to repent by putting on sackcloth and sitting in ashes.  And some people become self-conscious about a little mark on their forehead!  Can you imagine what you would look like after sitting in ashes?

Scripture also tells us that Job, after having endured his trials and tribulations, repents before God with dust and ashes.  And that’s nothing compared to Jeremiah, who calls for Israel’s repentance by putting on sackcloth and rolling in ashes.  Finally, Jesus reproaches certain cities for their lack of repentance, and their unwillingness to put on ashes and turn to God.  Since the days of the early church, Christians have adopted this practice as a mark of penitence.

Ashes are burned.  They are spent.  They are black and grey, charred and useless.  Ashes are universal – all things, when put into a fire with enough heat, will turn to ashes.  Ashes remind us that all things are temporary in our world, including us.  Next to taxes, it’s said that the only other certainty in life is that we will all, one day, become ashes…  dust…  our lives will be spent.

In the book of Genesis, God tells Adam, “Dust you are, and to dust you will return.”  There’s no mixed message there.  All human beings are given life, but in the same moment that we take our first breath, we get closer and closer to our last.  “Remember… you are dust.  And to dust you will return.”  That’s humbling news, isn’t it?

There’s an episode of The Simpsons in which Homer is told by his doctor that he has only a few days to live.  He is understandably frightened, but very soon after this dire pronouncement, he shows remarkable fortitude.  Homer makes a list of all the things that he would like to do before he dies, and the list is full of things like ride in a blimp and tell off his boss.  But the list also contains items like making amends with the neighbor who he’s always borrowing things from but never returning.  Homer also realizes that not only has he not been a model neighbor, but also not the best father to his children.  So, he spends quality time with his son, and listens to his daughter play the saxophone one last time instead of telling her to stop with all that racket.  This all might seem very trivial, especially since The Simpsons is nothing more than a cartoon.  But I think there’s truth to the notion that when we come face to face with the temporary nature of life and the certainty of death, we immediately wonder if we’ve used this gift of life as God intended.  We think of our sinfulness, and we know immediately that we have work to do before we die.

So, how would you live if you knew that your days were numbered?  Would you be more kind?  More loving?  Would you treat your friends differently?  Your enemies?  Would you make more time for family?  Would you say, “I’m sorry” to the people that you’ve hurt?  Would you be more mindful of suffering in the world?  Would you want to share a little bit more of what you have with those who have nothing?  What would you do?  How would you live?  What kinds of things would be on your list?

Death, sinfulness, repentance… these are the things that these ashes symbolize for us.  Ash Wednesday reminds us first that we are dust, and to dust we will return.  Life is fleeting.  Time is short.

And the ashes remind us that we are fallen, and we can’t get up on our own.  We need God’s help.  We need God’s forgiveness and God’s grace.  We need God’s love.

And that, brothers and sisters, is the hope that is smeared in ash on our foreheads, that God’s love has reached through our sinfulness, through the grim shadow of death, to the dust and the ashes of human life.  We may be dust, but dust that we are, we are loved.  As Paul writes, we are accounted dead…  and yet terrifically alive.  We have nothing, and yet by God’s love we have it all.  Nothing in this world, even death, can separate you from God’s love in Jesus Christ.  That is the secret scratched in ashes and imposed upon our foreheads.  Nothing can separate you from God’s love.

* * * * *

This Sermon was written by Lee A. Koontz and preached on March 1, 2006.

Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness has been portrayed in a variety of formats, among them a few videos which aren’t hard to find online.

First, the well-known scene of Jesus’ temptation from Martin Scorcese’s The Last Temptation of Christ:

Scorcese’s version is interesting, to say the least.  Perhaps a bit closer to the text from Matthew’s gospel is the simply-named Jesus, a television miniseries from 1999:

And finally, we would be remiss if we didn’t see at least one lego version:

As you can see, portrayals of Jesus’ temptation vary considerably.  The staggering differences from one version to the next beg the question:  What is the meaning of this story?  Evidently for movie directors a fair amount of artistic license is conjoined to the text, but for Christians seeking to glean some element applicable to everyday life the embellishments do more harm than good.  So, in looking at this text we must set aside the Scorceses, the miniseries, and the legos, and forget we knew them in the first place.  This text speaks for itself.

What the text says is something about who Jesus is.  It must be understood that at this point in Matthew’s gospel, Jesus’ public ministry has not yet begun.  He has been introduced, yes, in his baptism, where he is identified as the Son of God.  As of the fourth chapter of Matthew, however, we still don’t really know what this means.  We are very much waiting to see who and what Jesus actually is.  Jews living in the first century largely expected the Messiah to be some sort of great military figure, capable of breaking the bonds of Roman rule and delivering the people to a new life.  Readers living in those days would have wondered whether Jesus would be that sort of figure.

Matthew at first makes a statement that Jesus is “led by the Spirit”.  The purpose of this statement is clear: what Jesus does in the wilderness is not simply aimless wandering.  Rather, his path is directed by the Spirit.  His wilderness time has a divine purpose, and even an encounter with the personification of evil itself should not cause us to wonder whether Jesus has somehow strayed beyond his chosen path.  Everything that happens during those 40 days (and afterwards) is to be seen as a divine ordinance of sorts, a series of events through which God’s purpose is unfolding.

Jesus is essentially tempted by the devil three times, the first of which occurring at the height of Jesus’ hunger.  He is tempted to reprise the role of prophet here, providing bread by some manifestation of God’s power.  The devil’s request to turn stones into bread recalls incidents during the Israelites’ wilderness wandering in which God through Moses provided sustenance for a hungry people.  Though much of Jesus’ ministry is prophetic in nature, it is clear that he is not simply re-treading the paths of the prophets of old.  He has come to do a new thing.  He denies the devil’s request simply by saying, “One does not live by bread alone,” a suggestion that Jesus’ ultimate purpose is not mere physical sustenance, but a spiritual one.  John picks up on this theme as well in his gospel, especially in John 6:35-58, in which Jesus describes himself as “the bread of life.”

Secondly, Jesus is tempted to fulfill something found in scripture itself.   He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’ What could possibly be so detrimental about fulfilling the words of scripture?  It is worth considering here that none of the things that Jesus is tempted to do is inherently evil.  In fact, they seem at face value to be good things!  Perhaps this raises questions about the things by which we ourselves are tempted, the notion of course being that the temptations against which we fail are ultimately the ones that seem at face value to be good or beneficial.  It’s easier, for instance, to resist the temptation to steal than it is to resist the temptation to horde money and possessions for the supposed good of providing for the desires of one’s family.  From Jesus’ point of view, it may very well be a good thing to perform some miracle by which people will come to believe.  However, the point here is that rather than perform some miraculous public relations stunt by which God’s power would be on display for all to see and believe, Jesus will come to exhibit God’s power in an entirely different way: through weakness, suffering, and death.  Psalm 91:11-12 suggests that the truly righteous will be protected by God’s power, it’s true, but Jesus did not come to simply put on displays of public righteousness as would a showman priest.  No, Jesus came in order to exhibit a different kind of power.

The final temptation comes in the form of an offer to receive power over all the nations of the earth.  It might be said that Jesus is being tempted to fulfill the traditional role of a king here, assuming authority over all the people of the world.  This offer of rulership carries with it connotations of possession, however, as the devil tells Jesus that “it will all be yours”.  Jesus, however, will make it clear in the events of his ministry that his authority is not one of possession or rulership, per se.  For this Son of God, authority rests in his self-giving service and sacrifice rather than in the assumption of political power.

If we connect the three temptations (requests), it’s clear that the Devil is attempting to coax Jesus into taking on the three seemingly well-known roles of prophet, priest, and king.  While we know it to be true that Jesus is all of those things, the encounter with the devil in the wilderness clearly shows that Jesus isn’t simply a reintroduction of old expectations.  He is the beginning of a new thing in which all of the old assumptions about how God relates to humanity are shattered.  This, of course, brings us to a striking parallel.

The entire notion of a face-to-face encounter should remind us of something we read much, much earlier in the Bible.  Genesis 3:1-7 reads:

Now the serpent was more crafty than any other wild animal that the Lord God had made.  He said to the woman, ‘Did God say, “You shall not eat from any tree in the garden”?’  The woman said to the serpent, ‘We may eat of the fruit of the trees in the garden; but God said, “You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the garden, nor shall you touch it, or you shall die.” ’  But the serpent said to the woman, ‘You will not die; for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.’  So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate; and she also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate.  Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together and made loincloths for themselves.

Here we have at the outset of the story of God’s relationship with humanity a story of temptation in which tempted humanity fails.  It is a moment in which the relationship between the Creator and the creature is damaged and altered by the sinfulness of the human being.  ‘The Fall’ is a tragic story of fractured relationship, and the potential for the sinful human condition to stand between God and humanity.  After the Fall, God and humankind are no longer in right relationship with each other.

Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness is to be seen as a ‘reset’ button of sorts.  In Jesus Christ, the human condition will be rescued from its fallen condition, and right relationship with the Creator will be restored.  Jesus, the ‘second Adam’, repeats a face-to-face encounter with the devil, but this time humanity resists.  That which has been fractured now has the promise of restoration.  Matthew means us to understand that this Jesus represents not only the fullness of reconciled humanity, but the fullness God’s relationship with a fallen world as well.  Who is Jesus?  He is the spirit-filled and spirit-led new prophet, new king, new priest, and the one through whom the world will be reconciled to God.  It is in the context of this identification that the events of Jesus’ public ministry are to be understood.

Another common element of both the Genesis creation narrative and the temptation of Jesus in the wilderness is, of course, the figure of “the Devil”, which cannot be ignored.  Together, these passages are the two best-known stories of the Devil in all of scripture.  When we approach texts featuring “the Devil” or “Satan”, we must be aware that Christians attach various meanings and theologies to those simple terms.  I have often found Shirley Guthrie’s discussion on the matter in his extremely useful book, Christian Doctrine, to be immensely helpful.  To paraphrase, Guthrie prefers an interpretation of scripture which mythologizes any mention of a “devil”.  In this interpretation the Devil is a mere personification of evil, a metaphor which works to impress upon us the reality and gravity of the evil at work in the world.  I must admit that this is an interpretation that I myself favor, but like Guthrie, I accept the fact that there are Christians for whom the literal existence of a personal devil is a reality.  For Christians who choose to believe the literal existence of the Devil, Guthrie lays out some important guidelines:

1) Christians do not “believe in” the Devil.  We confess our faith in Christ, and our faith is not in but against the evil of the world.

2) Our awareness of the existence of the Devil must not become a more central reality to us than our awareness of God’s existence and Christ’s presence with us.  In other words, if we are paying more attention to what the Devil is doing than what God is doing, our priorities are skewed.

3) We must admit that evil is not something that we find only “out there”, but also within our own actions and behaviors, and indeed within the church itself.  Localizing the existence of evil within a personified other does not allow us to view ourselves or the church as if they are devoid of evil.

To read more of Guthrie’s treatment of the subject of evil, see chapter 9 of Christian Doctrine.

Finally, part of the dialogue between Jesus and the Devil in Matthew’s gospel raises significant questions for Christians today.  In the second exchange, the Devil tempts Jesus by quoting scripture.  What does this say about the relationship between the Word of God and the believer?  Undoubtedly, it should shock us into the realization that simply being able to quote scripture does not guarantee a correct position, nor does it guarantee that we are quoting it faithfully.  The question here for us is not whether we are able to quote scripture to support a particular position or doctrine, but rather whether or not we approach scripture as Jesus entered the wilderness: led by the Spirit. During the season of Lent, when many of us promise to spend more time reading scripture, it’s something worth considering.  As we are called to deepen our commitment to discipleship and study, do we study the Word of God that we might use it, or that it might use us?

* * * * *

First Look is a commentary on the upcoming gospel lectionary texts, and is usually published on Mondays.  Be sure to come back next week!

Some amazing things can happen at the top of a mountain.  I can recall standing at the top of Longs Peak in Colorado, looking out over the beauty and splendor of the Rockies from 14,259 feet in the air.  My friends and I began hiking at two in the morning, and reached the summit a little over seven hours later.  During our seven hours of hiking and climbing, we witnessed breathtaking views, such as the blanket of stars that covered the night sky, and the crest of the sun rising over the Rocky Mountains.  From the summit we beheld mountains and plains, rivers and fields.  It’s said that on a clear day you can see Kansas from the top of Longs Peak.  The whole experience for me was vivid and memorable, and as a twenty year-old college student I was completely captivated by the sheer wonder of seeing God’s creation from the top of a mountain.

The sense of wonder lasted only until we started our way back down.  A few minutes after beginning the descent I threw up from the exertion.  I suddenly realized my knees hurt, and I had painful scrapes on my hands and bruises on my arms.  By the time we got back to the trail head, my feet were killing me and I was absolutely exhausted.  I took one last wistful look back in the direction of the peak, remembering what I had seen there, and then simply drove home to go to bed.  I had to work the next day, and as you might imagine, the transition between mountaintop and day job was a difficult one.

Many Christians have compared the Christian life to mountain climbing, and I think it’s a pretty good analogy.  In our lives of faith, we have peaks and valleys, moments of intense challenge and invigorating triumph along with moments of pain and exhaustion.  There are moments of overwhelming beauty, but also times when we just want to throw up.  The moments that affect us the most, I think, are those mountaintop experiences, those vivid and memorable times when the beauty, splendor, and mystery of God break into our everyday lives and for a brief moment take our breath away.  Sometimes this happens in an encounter with nature, but we also find ourselves deeply affected by moments of compassion, moments of sacrifice, moments of love.  Sometime in your life, I would bet that you’ve had a mountaintop experience, a moment in which you felt close to God, one of those genuinely formative experiences that shapes who you are and what you believe for years to come.

With that in mind, I’m going to ask you to do something a bit out of the ordinary.  Take a minute to think about your mountaintop experiences.  Close your eyes and recall a moment when you felt closest to God, a moment when you were awestruck by God’s presence.  Remember how you felt at that moment, and try to recall every single detail about where you were, who was with you, and how you felt as the event unfolded.  In the next few moments of silence, try to relive that experience as best you can.

[Moment of silence]

Now open your eyes.  Like all things, our mountaintop experiences must come to an end, and the transition back into the real world can be a difficult one.  Don’t you wonder what Peter, James, and John were thinking as they walked down the mountain with Jesus?  They had just witnessed the single most amazing thing they had ever seen.  He was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white, and suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah talking with him. Needless to say, this was not the kind of thing that you simply walk away from as if nothing had happened!  Peter, in an attempt to postpone their descent from the mountain, suggests that they stay up there a while longer.  Let’s build some buildings! he says, One for Jesus, and one for Moses, and one for Elijah.  Let’s stay here a while!  Let’s build our lives around this moment! It was for Peter, both literally and figuratively, one of those mountaintop experiences.  It’s no wonder he didn’t want to come down.

Recently I saw a report on CNN describing the emotional letdown (and in some cases a deeper depression) that a number of moviegoers experience after seeing the movie Avatar. It seems that many of them, especially those who saw the movie in 3D, were taken with the sheer beauty of the world James Cameron has created and found themselves wishing that the Avatar world of fantasy were real.  Thought the movie is some three hours long, I can imagine moviegoers remaining in their seats as the closing credits rolled, not quite ready to make the transition from the beauty and brilliance of Avatar to the chaotic and cluttered world in which we all live.  Yet, if you’ve been to a movie theatre before, you know that it always happens: the screen goes black and the house lights come on, jarring us back into the real world.  We notice disgustedly that our shoes are sticking to the floor and someone has spilled popcorn in the seats.  With one last wistful glance at a dark movie screen we put on our jackets and head for the exits.  Is it so strange for us to want to linger in a more beautiful world for just a little bit longer?  Can we blame Peter, James, and John for wanting the same thing?  The transition from one world to another is a rude awakening to be sure, and it’s something akin to the disappointment the three disciples felt after their mountaintop experience was over.  It is good for us to be here.  Let’s just bask in the glory of this place.  Let’s build our lives around this moment.

The Christian life is full of mountaintop experiences.  They are the times when we find healing, or an energizing worship service.  It’s tempting to want our religious journey to be made only of mountaintop experiences.  Then we might bypass the chaos, the challenge, and the struggle.  In our mountaintop moments, something inside us cries out, It is good for us to be here.  Let’s just bask in the glory of this place.  Let’s build our lives around this moment.  There’s a well-known Hallmark-style proverb that tells us, “life is not measured by the number of breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.”  This may be true to some degree, but it’s also true that life – especially the Christian one – continually calls us down from those breath-taking moments, down from the mountaintop, and out into the world.  We are called to descend from our moments of profound glory, celebration, and joy, into the valleys of this world where life is messy, and challenging, and inhospitable.

I don’t think it’s by accident that Matthew, Mark, and Luke, the three gospel-writers who mention the Transfiguration infuse the story with foreshadowing of Jesus’ death.  In Luke’s gospel, for instance, we are told that Moses and Elijah are speaking to Jesus about “his departure, which he was about to accomplish in Jerusalem.”  “Departure” here is another word for “death”.  In this reading from Matthew, Jesus orders the disciples not to say anything “until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.”  We’re meant to understand that the distance between the mountaintop and the cross is not so great that Jesus’ disciples should lose sight of either one.  In our mountaintop moments we are to recognize the sacrifices that we are called to make, just as Jesus did.  In our moments of despair we are to remember God’s sovereignty and reign over all things.  The mountaintop cannot be separated from the cross.

Matthew, Mark, and Luke also follow the Transfiguration immediately with the story of a boy who is desperately ill.  Here in Luke’s gospel we find a distraught father begging Jesus to look at my son, which reminds us of God’s own words on the mountaintop: This is my son!  Listen to Him! Taken together, these two exhortations call us to direct our attention both upward and outward – upward in praise, outward in service.  Here the mountaintop experience of God’s glory is indelibly connected with the chaos and clamor of a shrieking, convulsing demon.  It’s a reminder that while the Christian life is full of moments of mountaintop splendor, we are ultimately called to enter the valleys of illness, sorrow, despair, and oppression, that we might minister to those who live there, and set them free.  It is significant here that in one of the few instances in which God speaks aloud in the gospels, God directs the followers of Jesus to listen. This not only entails silencing our own desires and intentions, but additionally striving to do and be as God intends, not as we ourselves intend.  Listening is a necessary prelude to following and doing.

So, along with Peter, James, and John, we follow Jesus, and we listen.  We listen as he encounters shrieking demons, worthless outcasts, and unclean sinners.  We hear him say things like, “Whoever welcomes this child welcomes me.”  We listen as he tells the stories of an outcast who stops by the roadside to help a stranger, and a father who runs down the road and throws open his arms to welcome his insolent son home.  We listen as he tells us to love our enemies and neighbors alike, just as we love ourselves.  And we listen as he asks God to forgive those who nailed him to the cross.

On any given Sunday, many of us are surrounded by visions of God’s glory.  We worship in resplendent sanctuaries adorned with breathtaking stained glass windows and shining brass candlesticks.  We glorify God in the highest, singing hymns of resounding triumph and praise.  These aren’t necessarily bad things, but they could potentially result in a separation between the visually pleasing world of glory and the extremely challenging and chaotic world of service.  The danger is that we might get lost on the mountaintop, and forget our way down.

We do tend to get lost up there, I think.  There are times when the distance between Sunday and Monday seems to be about a million miles, and the path from the mountaintop to the dark valley is very difficult to find.  Yet, we follow a Savior who leads us down and out: down from the mountaintop, out of the clouds, and into the valley to meet those who are in need.

Thomas Merton once described a moment in which he realized that the ordinary people milling around in the streets around his home weren’t just ordinary people – they were beautiful and unique.  He wrote: “I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all these people, that they were mine and I theirs—it was like waking from a dream of separateness to take my place as a member of the human race.  I had the immense joy of being a member of the race in which God himself became incarnate.  If only everybody could realize this. But it cannot be explained—there is no way of telling these people that they are all walking round shining like the sun.” (Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander)

That, I think, is the real moment of transfiguration.  It’s the moment in which all those people around us, wherever we may be, become beautiful, and precious, and lovely in our sight.  If we follow Jesus long enough through the valleys of this world, those around us will become transfigured.  Peter, James, and John, though they just wanted to stay at the top of the mountain, would one day be the ones touching the demon-possessed child and welcoming the outcasts and forgiving the sinners.  The real transfiguration happens not on the top of a mountain, but down in the valleys, out in the painful places of the world.  Let us pray this morning that as Jesus goes on ahead of us, we would have the vision, the courage, and the faith to follow him wherever he leads us.  Then we might see the glory – and the greatness – of God.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? Therefore do not worry, saying, “What will we eat?” or “What will we drink?” or “What will we wear?” For it is the Gentiles who strive for all these things; and indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.

So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.

Let me start this morning with the gospel according to Veggie Tales.

We know Veggie Tales, don’t we?  It’s the children’s television show featuring a host of anthropomorphic fruits and vegetables.  It also features a variety of Christian themes and ideas, so perhaps it’s not so surprising that I found the gospel there.

The episode I have in mind begins with Madame Blueberry, who is quite upset and extremely anxious because everyone around her has better stuff than she does.  She embarks on a quest of sorts to find happiness, which eventually leads her to a gigantic megastore called Stuff-Mart. Salesmen from Stuff-Mart greet her with a peppy jingle that says, “Happiness waits at the Stuff-Mart!  All you need is lots… more… stuff!”  Following the wisdom of the advertising jingle, Madame Blueberry goes on a shopping spree of epic proportions, loading cart after cart with more and more stuff.  As she’s piling yet more stuff onto her mountains of merchandise a helpful salesman meets her and says, “Madame, I think you’re going to like our next aisle…  Toaster ovens!”  Upon hearing this something is jarred loose in Madame Blueberry’s mind and she seems to wake up a little bit, and return to her senses.  “But…  I don’t… need…  a toaster oven,” she replies.  The salesman says, “Well, technically speaking, no one actually needs a toaster oven.  But… you know you want one.”  I think about Madame Blueberry when I read this morning’s text from Matthew’s gospel.

I think about infomercials, too.  They are full of stuff, and it’s usually stuff that you’d never even dream that you need or want.  But then they show that lady on the sofa, and she’s struggling with that tiny blanket, and she’s twisting it and pulling it and wrestling with it to try to cover her whole self with it but it’s not working, and she looks so profoundly upset and angry – she’s suffering, and then…  lo and behold she’s wearing a Snuggie.  You know, it’s the blanket with sleeves.  And she looks so warm and comfortable and happy, and…  wouldn’t you like to be that way, too?  Now technically speaking, nobody actually needs a Snuggie.  But don’t you want one?  And if you keep watching your television you’ll see more and more stuff: frying pans, and giant cupcakes, and food choppers, and stuff upon stuff upon stuff… and where does it end?  We are fundamentally a culture of consumers.

Now we believe that Jesus says something about this.  We believe that Jesus’ sermon on the mount is no less relevant today than the day he preached it.  When Jesus preaches about “stuff” like food and drink and clothing, he is speaking to us.  However, Jesus clearly wasn’t thinking of toaster ovens and sleeved blankets while he was preaching, and he was speaking to a crowd of people who lived their lives very, very differently than we do today.  The people to whom Jesus originally preached his sermon on the mount were predominantly poor.  We know this because he begins the sermon with words of comfort such as, “Blessed are the poor, or the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  Blessed are the meek, those who have nothing, for they will inherit the earth.  Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.”

Jesus was speaking to people who were poor, and meek, and hungry.  The “stuff” he mentions is comprised of the necessities of life: food, drink, clothing.  Those were the things that were first and foremost in the minds of those who listened to him preach.  And so at first glance, it seems as though the text we read this morning is saying something like, “Don’t worry; be happy!”  There’s a bit of that in this text, and I’ve heard a sermon or two on this text that takes that message and runs with it.  “Therefore I tell you not to worry about everyday life – whether you have enough food or drink, or enough clothing to wear.  Isn’t life more than food?  And your body more than clothing?”  Those are incredibly comforting words to someone living in poverty.  Jesus is saying that God values you and will take care of you, just as God cares for and provides for the birds of the air and the lilies of the field.  God will take care of you.  It’s a comforting message.

But as I was reading this text and preparing to preach on it, it occurred to me that Jesus’ words might mean something a bit different for us twenty-first century Christians living in our culture of stuff.  You see, we generally have plenty of stuff.  We have food, and drink, and clothing, and much, much more.  For us, stuff is not comprised of the essentials, the things we need.  Our stuff is made up of things we want.  Generally speaking, we live in the midst of abundance, and so for us this comforting text has some teeth.  And it’s those first couple of verses that seem to bite.

“No one can serve two masters,” Jesus said.  “for you will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to the one and despise the other.  You cannot serve God and wealth.”  That word that is translated “wealth” in our reading is an Aramaic word, mammon. Some English versions of the Bible don’t even bother to translate it.  They read, “You cannot serve God and mammon.  Mammon does mean “wealth”, but it’s wealth in the sense of accumulated property.  In other words, stuff.

Now the interesting thing about the word mammon is that it comes from the same root as the word amen. The two even sound similar as a result.  Inherent in that word is a tension between wealth and worship. On one side is the mammon, the stuff of life, the wealth, and the property, and the things that we want and accumulate.  And on the other side is the amen, the worship of God the Creator and Redeemer in Jesus Christ, a worship that is defined not by what we accumulate, but by what we give away.  It’s tempting to try to live right there in the middle, seeing if we can hold onto our stuff while at the same time reaching over toward worship.  God knows I’ve tried to do that.  I ask a fellow minister this week, “How am I supposed to preach on a text in which Jesus says, ‘You can’t serve God and wealth’ when it seems like I’ve spent the better part of my life trying to prove him wrong?”  I’m owning up to my toaster oven moments and my Snuggie moments here.  And I think that place in the middle between wealth and worship is where we all live.  We are called as Christians to put our complete faith and trust in God so that we can freely give, but at the same time our insecurities, and our fears, and our anxieties drive us to accumulate more stuff.      

In his book The Forgotten Ways, missionary and sociologist Alan Hirsch says:

“I have come to believe that the major threat to the viability of our faith is that of consumerism. This is a far more heinous and insidious threat to the gospel [than anything else], because in so many ways it infects each and every one of us…  If the role of religion is to offer a sense of identity, purpose, meaning, and community, then it can be said that consumerism fills all these criteria… An advertising executive recently confessed to me that… much of what goes by the name advertising is an explicit offer of a sense of identity, meaning, purpose and community.” (p. 107)

That is to say, that in our day and age there’s the very real possibility that all of our stuff will get in the way of our relationship to God.  Our mammon becomes a poor substitute for our amen. That is really what Jesus is saying to us today.

It’s not that Jesus is against stuff.  He’s not.  It’s okay if you’ve purchased a toaster oven or ordered a Snuggie.  That’s not the point.  The point is that our stuff becomes dangerous to our faith, when we look to our stuff for identity, and meaning, and purpose instead of looking to God.  The truth is that only God can give us those things.  Jesus would have those of us living in our twenty-first century culture of consumerism let go of all the stuff that we hold onto, and instead reach a little more faithfully over to a life of worship.  If we, like the birds of the air and the lilies of the field, come to see life as a gift from God, a bountiful outpouring of God’s providence, then we will be free to loosen our grip on our wealth, our stuff, and be more generous to others.

Somewhat surprisingly, this is where we connect with that crowd of people who originally heard Jesus’ sermon on the mount.  I read an article in the news this week that said 72% of the world’s poor do not live in what we would call poor countries.  Three quarters of the world’s poor live in middle-income countries, or wealthy countries like ours.  What this means is that for the overwhelming majority of those living in poverty, the answer to their prayers is not far away.  Jesus said to poor people just like them, “You are blessed, and you will be comforted,” and at the same time, with the same words,  Jesus says to us, “Bless them.  Comfort them.  Let go.”  Part of what we are doing by participating in “Love Week” this week is learning to let go.  We’ve been challenged to “let go” of at least one hour, and spend it in service to others.  The hope is that “Love Week” will be the beginning of regular habits through which we give away our time, our efforts, and our resources more freely.  But in order to do that, we have to let go.  And letting go can be quite a struggle.

Marjories Holmes, author of a book called Two from Galilee, wrote a prayer that I think sums up our struggle to let go.  It reads:

Help me not to put too much stock in possessions, Lord. I want things, sure. But life seems to be a continual round of wanting things — from the first toys we fight over as children to our thrilled unwrapping of wedding presents to those we buy in our old age. Our concern is not primarily love and friends and pride in what we can do, but things.

Sometimes I’m ashamed of how much I want mere possessions — things for my husband and the house and the children. Yes, and things for myself, too. And this hunger is enhanced every time I turn on the television or walk through a shopping mall. My senses are tormented by the dazzling world of things.

Lord, cool these fires of wanting. Help me to realize how futile is this passion for possessions. Because — and this is what strips my values to the bone — one of my best friends died today in the very midst of her possessions. She was in the beautiful home she and her husband worked so hard to achieve, the home that was finally furnished the way she wanted it with the best of everything. She was surrounded by the Oriental rugs she was so proud of, the formal French sofas, the painting, the china and glass, the handsome silver service…She had been snatched away while silently, almost cruelly, THEY remain. Lord, I grieve for my friend. My heart hurts that she had so little time to enjoy the things that she had earned and that meant so much to her. But let me learn something from this loss; that possessions are meant to enhance life, not to become the main focus of living. Help me remember that we come into the world with nothing and we leave with nothing.

Don’t let me put too much stock in mere possessions.

I think that’s well said.  I might add a prayer that we not put too much stock in our time and the schedules that we keep, or in our financial resources and bank accounts.  I pray that prayer for myself.  I pray it for all of you as well.  Let us learn to let go of the mammon, so that we and others might hold fast to the amen.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, or what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, or what you will wear.  Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.  Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? And why do you worry about clothing?  Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? Therefore do not worry, saying, “What will we eat?” or “What will we drink?” or “What will we wear?” For it is the Gentiles who strive for all these things; and indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.

So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.

The first time I read this text today I was comforted.  Do not worry.  God values you and loves you.  Do not fear for tomorrow.  God’s gifts will come.  Those are rather assuring words, aren’t they?

The second time I read this text today, I was cut right to the heart.

I was cut because I am a selfish person.  I want ease of life.  I want stability.  I want comfort.  It’s not just that I want food, and clothing, and shelter – it’s that I want good food, and nice clothing, and spacious shelter.  Were I to count up the time, money, and effort I spend on getting those things, I would be ashamed.  ”No one can serve two masters,” Jesus says.  I’ve spent the better part of my life doing the best I can to prove him wrong.

I was cut because I live in and contribute to an anxiety-based culture.  Countless commercials, advertisements, and political slogans seek to stir us by appealing to our anxieties.  Why do so many advertisers pitch their product as the answer to our insecurities?  Because it works! We are fundamentally insecure and anxious people, and there is money to be made off of our fears.

I was cut because I do fear, and I do worry, but I fear and worry about the wrong things.  I’m afraid of losing the homogenized comforts that I’ve built around myself.  I’m anxious about doing something different that might displace me from my comfort zone.  In other words, I’m anxious about the very things that Jesus tells us not to be anxious about.  This text cautions us about being anxious over the wrong things, but it does not tell us to be completely free of fear or anxiety.  There are plenty of mood-altering drugs that could help me be completely worry-free.  The gospel of Jesus Christ is not one of them.  Karl Marx famously said that religion is the opiate of the masses.  Christianity certainly could serve as a feel-good prescription for all of my insecurities, and I could prove Marx right by using the gospel to suit my own comforts.  However, if I honestly and faithfully encounter God’s cage-rattling word to us in Holy Scripture I’ll see that the primary function of God’s relationship with his people is not that they should be worry-free.  On the contrary, God himself is overwhelmingly the most frequent object of fear in the Bible.  In his Church Dogmatics, Karl Barth wrote that in the New Testament, the object of fear is primarily Jesus himself. (Church Dogmatics, II/2, p. 598).

Now it seems I’ve gotten myself into a fine interpretive predicament.  I’ve been vocally critical of authority figures who use fear in order to control others.  I bristle at any moment in the church’s history in which those who led the church exercised their power through fear.  I do not fear God in the sense that I perceive God to be some divine bogeyman who hovers over my head like the sword of Damocles, waiting to shower me with divine wrath should I take a misguided step.  I don’t believe that’s the God we meet in Holy Scripture.  However, it’s clear that if we are to be servants of one master, the master should be God-in-Jesus-Christ.  Christians live in the reality that we serve a master whom we did not choose – but who instead chose us!  And being the chosen-ones of this master, our lives are to be lived first and foremost with a sense of gratitude, not fear.

That being said a Christian’s ultimate concern (or worry, if you prefer), should be serving the master.  Jesus has called us to feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, receive the poor, release the prisoner, visit the sick, and welcome the stranger.  Jesus has called us to focus our time, money, and energy not on maintaining our own comforts, but on participating in his ministry and advancing his kingdom.  In other words, we are to tune out all the other voices in our culture vying for control over our lives, and instead give our attention to the voice of the only master who really matters.  If we are to be worried, if we are to be concerned with anything, it should be following the call of Jesus.  It also must be said that this sense of worry and concern inevitably leads us back toward the grace of God.  I Karl Barth is right, and the predominant object of fear in the New Testament is Jesus himself, then it follows that the object of fear is also its antidote.  Christ never simply allows his disciples to founder in fear.  To the contrary, he addresses fear with words of peace, and then redirects his disciples out into the world where they can meet the world’s fears with the master’s love.

Yes, I am cut by Jesus’ words.  We all are.  But in a strange way we are also healed.  The act of pruning is frequently used as a metaphor for how God works in our lives, and so often God’s unsettling word to us serves to cut away that which grows toward the darkness instead of toward the light.  Then by the grace of God may we strive for God’s kingdom and God’s righteousness.  And countless other things will be given to us as well.

* * * * *

First Look is a weekly commentary on the upcoming lectionary gospel text written by Rev. Lee A. Koontz.  It is usually published on Mondays.

‘You have heard that it was said, “You shall love your neighbour and hate your enemy.” But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax-collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers and sisters what more are you doing than others?  Do not even the Gentiles do the same? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.

This scripture reading is troubling because in it, Jesus addresses a sin of which we are all guilty.  He continues the pattern of mentioning a well-known law from the Hebrew Scriptures (our Old Testament) and then surpassing the meaning of the law with his own teaching in order to show how human beings really ought to try to live.  The law that serves as his foundation here in this morning’s reading is traditionally known as “the law of the tooth”.

The law of the tooth was meant to serve as a restraint to keep retaliation and violence from escalating.  If someone takes your eye, then you take one of theirs – no more.  If someone knocks out your tooth, then you’re entitled to knock out one of theirs.  In other words the punishment should fit the crime, “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”  Jesus’ own teaching, however, surpasses the law of the tooth.  “I say to you, do not resist an evildoer.”  He gives three “real life” examples of what this would look like.

First, if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also.  In the world of Jesus, to be struck on the right cheek would mean either being hit with the backside of someone’s right hand (which was an insult and would suggest that you are inferior), or being hit with the palm of someone’s left hand (which according to Jewish custom is the ‘unclean’ hand).  Either one of these would have been an incredibly humiliating insult, not to mention an act of violence.  Still, Jesus teaches to turn the other cheek.  Invite your attacker to do it again.

Second, if someone is taking you to court for everything you’re worth, wanting even the shirt off your back, give them your cloak as well.  In Jesus’ day most people only wore those two garments, so giving your shirt and your cloak would mean that you are left naked and possibly ashamed.

Finally, if someone comes along and forces you to go one mile, go ahead and go a second mile.  Roman soldiers at the time were allowed to force civilians to carry their military gear for up to one mile according to Roman law.  Needless to say, many civilians who were made to do this were not very happy about it, and afterwards sought revenge against the soldier who made them carry their gear.  Instead of getting angry about it and plotting revenge, Jesus says to go even another mile.

These are really very astonishing things that Jesus is suggesting.  To those people who lived in that world and were listening to Jesus, particularly his disciples, it would have been a difficult and even confusing thing to hear.  You see, when they spoke of their long-expected Messiah, they claimed that he would be a great military leader, maybe a mighty war general who would not only liberate and deliver them, but also punish the enemies who oppressed them and held them captive.  This is what they expected of their Messiah.  Incidentally, you can see a glimpse of this expectation in some of the Psalms.  Psalm 139, for instance, reads:

O that you would kill the wicked, O God,
and that the bloodthirsty would depart from me—
those who speak of you maliciously,
and lift themselves up against you for evil!
Do I not hate those who hate you, O Lord?
And do I not loathe those who rise up against you?
I hate them with perfect hatred;
I count them my enemies.

God was to come along and punish the enemies and deliver the faithful to freedom.  To people around Jesus who expected this, his teachings of non-retaliation and non-violence would have sounded all wrong.  This was not the type of Messiah that they were expecting!  However, it may have been that their expectations were built on a fundamental misunderstanding of who God is.

Tom Wright tells the story of a father who had to go away from his young family for a few days on business.  He was anxious about how things would go in his absence, so he had a word with his oldest son, who was nine at the time.  “When I’m away,” he said, “I want you to think what I would normally do around the house, and you do it for me.”  The father had in mind, of course, things like keeping the house clean, washing the dishes, taking out the trash, and helping the mother out with anything she needed done.  When the father returned from his trip, he asked his wife what the son had done.  “Well,” she said, “it was very strange.  Right after breakfast he made himself another cup of coffee, went into the living room, turned the music up, and read the newspaper for half an hour.  After that he scolded his sister for not picking up her toys.”  It seems the son fundamentally misunderstood who his father was.

There are undoubtedly times when we misunderstand who our Father is, and we misunderstand what God has asked us to do.  We make the mistake of thinking that God relates to the world the way that we relate to each other, punishing evildoers and hating those who do wrong things.  This is a very easy mistake to make, as we live in a world culture dominated by the exercise of power.  The events of the last week alone should be enough to illustrate this.  Strength and power in our world are shown by launching missiles, by announcing threats, by firing rockets across the border, by dropping bombs on enemy targets.  Strength is often shown through the exercise of force, just as it was in the days of Jesus.

“You have heard it said that you shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.” Yes, Jesus…  We’ve heard it.  We see it almost every day.  What would you have us do?  “I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous.”

I wonder what it would be like if the world suddenly started following Jesus’ teachings.  Personally, I long and pray for the day when all forms of violence would cease, and yet at the same time I recognize that we live in a world in which retaliation seems at times to be necessary.  I pray for the time when Jesus’ teachings can be the world’s rule rather than the exception.  Who knows when or if that day will come?

In the meantime we as honest and faithful followers of Christ are called to do what we can to live our lives according to a different set of rules.  We can proclaim that God alone is sovereign, Lord of all creation, and all that goes on here on earth.  We can remember that God’s justice is tempered by God’s love for all people.  We can live our lives based on who God is, announcing the good news:  For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him may not perish, but may have eternal life. We can pray for the strength to love others because God loves them, even if they are called our enemies and mean to hurt or kill us.

I once read a parable about a holy man who was practicing his morning meditation under a tree whose roots stretched out over the riverbank.  During his meditation he noticed that the river was rising, and a scorpion caught in the roots was about to drown. He crawled out on the roots and reached down to free the scorpion, but every time he did so, the scorpion struck back at him, trying to sting him.  A man passing by stopped and said to the holy man, “Don’t you know that’s a scorpion, and it’s in the nature of a scorpion to want to sting?”  The holy man replied, “That may well be, but it is my nature to save, and I will not let the scorpion’s desire to hurt change my desire to help.”  Remember, brothers and sisters, that it is in our Lord’s nature to save.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

This sermon was written by Rev. Lee A. Koontz