6th Sunday of Easter (Year C) - John 13:23-29

6th Sunday of Easter
Year C
May 26, 2019
John 13:23-29

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”

The Roman Empire promised peace for its citizens. It was a peace given to them by Caesar, the

emperor, thought to be Son of God. There’s an episode of West Wing, Proportional Response, in which President Bartlett laments that the United States is not like the Roman Empire and that the US Presidency is not like a Roman Empire. He says, “Did you know that two thousand years ago a Roman citizen could walk across the face of the known world free of the fear of molestation? He could walk across the earth unharmed, cloaked only in the words 'Civis Romanis' I am a Roman citizen. So great was the retribution of Rome, universally understood as certain, should any harm befall even one of its citizens.” While TV tends to exaggerate history for dramatic effect, President Bartlett, historically speaking gets it right.

The peace of Rome promises that there will be peace when they’ve found dominance. The peace of Rome promises that there will be peace when the troublemakers are eradicated. The peace of Rome promises that there will be peace as long as everyone behaves - as long as everyone fits into the same box.

While this sounds good (and probably is good for those in places of power and privilege), this kind of peace comes at a cost. It comes at the end of the sword. It comes at the threat of violence. It comes at the cost of those on the margins - who are often used and abused to prop up the wealthy. While for those in power, the Peace promised by Rome, seems to be a reality, for those on whom that peace is built, this “peace” is anything but that. And this is something that Jews and Early Christians alike knew all too well. During a Jewish revolt, Rome, to keep their peace, waged war in Judea from 66-73, culminating with the destruction of Jerusalem and the Second Temple and the massacre at Masada. Further, Jesus’ crucifixion itself was an attempt to keep the Roman peace; to keep the masses in their place. If you revolt, this is what will happen to you too. They knew the consequences of “Roman Peace” all too well.

And, if we’re honest with ourselves, our world has similar promises to us. We’ll find peace when we build enough wealth and have material security. We’ll find peace when we close our borders. We’ll find peace when we incarcerate all the troublemakers. We’ll find peace through the defeat of our enemies here and abroad. We’ll find peace when we all fit into the same box - when we’re all “American” enough or “Christian” enough. And - to an extent - this is part of the reality of living in this world as it is.

Yet at the same time, if I’m honest with you, this world promises a peace that I have yet to see. I don’t know what the peace that the world brings is supposed to look like. I was nine when my first sense of security fell - with a machete attack at one of our elementary schools. I was nine on 9/11. I was eleven when there was a shooting at our junior high school. We’ve been at war for two-thirds of my life. While we were just kids on 9/11, friends and classmates went on to fight in Iraq and Afghanistan (and I’m deeply grateful for their service and the service of all our military members. War is part of this world as it is). I’ve had friends attacked and pushed aside for who they are - because they don’t fit into the “right” boxes due to their faith, their gender identity, their sexual orientation. I’ve yet to see this peace that the world promises us - with enough wealth, power, and might, we’re supposed to find peace. Yet, we’re one of the wealthiest countries of the world with the best and most renown military force in the world, and yet I don’t see the peace. (Again, not a critique on the military; I have profound respect for all who serve and all who have given their lives in service. But this is an honest look at this world as it is. If wealth and might don’t bring about peace, what does?)

This myth of peace that the world brings comes at a cost as well. We see the death-dealing effects of the world as it is all around us. Violence against women, against LGBTQIA+ people, violence against our Muslim and Jewish siblings. Wealth disparities between rich and poor are only growing. Incarceration disproportionately affects people of color, especially men of color (while people of other demographics get shorter sentences for similar or “worse” crimes). The powers at work in the world serve to keep those on the margins on the margins, and lifts up those who already have power and privilege. What the world promises will never lead to peace - at least the kind of peace that Jesus promises to us, the kind of peace that only the Kingdom of God can bring. Here’s the thing: no one can bring the kind of peace that Jesus does - not our politicians, not our celebrities, not our activists, not our religious leaders - myself included. Only Jesus can bring about this kind of peace. 

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.”

Peace - for Jesus - isn’t about physical or financial security. Jesus does not give as the world gives. Jesus gives peace - yet he is about to face the cross. Jesus gives peace, yet his closest friends and students face their own martyrdoms. In the Gospel of John, peace is about knowing Jesus, knowing God. It is about being in relationship with Jesus and the one who sent him. Peace is about being enveloped in the love of God that we’ve found in Jesus - that love we’ve found in Jesus is what binds us into an intimate and unconditional relationship with God. Peace is about being invited into a community defined by that love. Peace is the assurance that the worst thing is never the last thing; Neither the grave nor the powers of this world have the last word. Instead God’s word of life will always have the last word. Peace is God’s ability to bring about new life and resurrection where we’d least expect to find it.

One commentary puts it this way, “Anxiety, fear, and troubled hearts are much on Jesus’ mind. The antidote to such fear is the peace given by Jesus, and not peace as the world gives. Many people yearn for peace in the world’s terms: cessation of conflict, whether psychological tension or warfare… The peace that Jesus promises as he takes leave might include such things, but the peace that Jesus gives is nothing less than the consequence of the presence of God. When God is present, peace is made manifest.” “When God is present, peace is made manifest.” (Hoare, Feasting on the Word, Year C. Vol. 2, 495). God’s presence is made known to us through Jesus, his incarnation, death, and resurrection, and that presence continues through the gift of the Holy Spirit - as the spirit dwells with us now. That peace is something that the world can not give. And as hard as it might try, the world cannot take away the presence of God either. The empty tomb assures us of that. It is still Easter, after all. Not even death - a death at human hands - could tamp down and restrict the presence of God among us. Christ is still risen!

It is a peace that is not “of this world” but has tremendous effects on this world. While Jesus is the only one who can bring about this peace, we get to live out this peace that we’ve found. This kind of peace has the power to transform us into builders of the Kingdom of God. Because we are recipients of that peace, we get to share it with the world. With the gift of the Holy Spirit, we get to bring the presence of God to others. It is a response to the gifts that we have been given.

Where the world fosters hate and violence, we sow love - that love that we’ve found in Christ. Where the world pushes our neighbors to the margins, we welcome them into the center. Where our world tries to degrade and dehumanize the stranger, we see and proclaim the image of God and the face of Christ in them. Where the world puts up barriers, we tear them down. This is how we keep Jesus’ words; we live out the love of God that we’ve found in Jesus - EVEN when it goes against the powers of this world, EVEN if we risk getting pushed to the margins, EVEN when it means risking even death (like the disciples did with their own martyrdoms). And we can do that because we are given this peace and we know that the worst thing is never the last thing; God’s answer to us is always life - life in relationship with our divine parent and creator. Because of Jesus and Jesus’ loving embrace, we can face the world without fear and we can participate in the coming kingdom of God here and now.

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” Amen

5th Sunday of Easter (Year C) - May 19, 2019

5th Sunday of Easter
Year C
May 19, 2019
John 13:31-35

In this season of Easter, we’ve been jumping a bit around the Gospel of John. Today, we find ourselves just after John’s telling of Jesus washing his disciples feet. It marks the beginning of what we call the “Farewell Discourse” - the discourse in which Jesus prepares his disciples for his absence. “Little children, I am with you only a little longer.”

My Dad’s likely not going to be thrilled that I use this story. But I’m going to go with it anyway. When I was a kid, I had a tendency to take a really long time to get ready. Even at like 4 or 5, I took really long showers and baths. Like the kinds of showers where you use all the hot water from the hot water tank. I had an active imagination. I was the kind of kid that could make anything into a toy or a game. In elementary school, I used to play with the crayons in my desk as if the crayons were characters in a story; so my desk had this whole imaginary world contained in it (I still don’t know how I never got caught). But bath time (or shower time) was another time where I got lost in my own world and had zero concept of time, until the water turned cold, shaking me out of it and back into reality. Once I got out, I often again got distracted by my barbies and stuffed animals while I was getting ready.

One day, my grandparents were visiting, so we were going to go get ice cream from my favorite little ice cream parlor in Red Lion that served Hershey’s ice cream. It was hard to beat Hershey’s Cotton Candy Ice Cream; and it is still hard to beat the Cotton Candy ice cream of my memory. But it was my night for a shower, so I needed that before we could go. Well, as usual, I got lost in my own world and took my own sweet time, and my Dad got, well, got frustrated with my lack of timeliness. So he thought he’d teach me a lesson (as parents do). He turned all the lights out, opened and shut the front door, and they sat in the living room. The idea was to make it *look* and *sound* like they had left without me (as they sat in the dark). To be clear, the idea was not to scare me (by making me think I was alone), but to make me think for a brief moment that they were enjoying ice cream without me (because I took too long). The “lesson” was supposed to be that by taking too long, I was going to miss out on the fun things.

Dad got more of a reaction than he was expecting. I remember hearing the front door close, walking downstairs, seeing the dark, not hearing any voices. 5 year old me was absolutely terrified. I was left alone. And I burst into tears. The reaction wasn’t disappointment at not eating ice cream (like everyone else) but it was utter terror at being left alone. In the dark. For a child, being left alone meant, not only not having the people around us to care for me, but being left alone meant that no one was there to protect me from the monsters that invaded my world - or to quote a song from the new P!nk album - “the monsters in my closet that want to come out and play” (and as a child with an active imagination, I certainly knew those monsters in the closet and under the bed quite well). I somehow knew that being left alone meant being vulnerable. Now, before saying “well, that was really mean!,” or “what a terrible thing to do!” it wasn’t intended to be so. Every once in awhile, Dad or Gram reminiscing about watching my brother and I grow up will mention it (and they still feel bad about it like 20 some years later). Oh, the things we remember from childhood.

I tell this story, of course, not to make my Dad look bad, but because it strikes me that Jesus calls his disciples “little children.” Fred Craddock imagines this scene from today’s Gospel like children playing on the floor, seeing their parents put on their jackets, picking up their car keys. There are three questions - “where are you going?” “Can we go?” “then, who’s going to stay with us?” Those of us who have kids or who have worked with kids know these questions. But I think Jesus’ language in today’s Gospel points to something even deeper than that. There’s a fear attached when there’s a possibility of being left alone. There’s something in that address, “little children.” It seems that Jesus recognizes that this fear of being left alone is a fear that is so intense for little children - in their vulnerability.

Jesus knows that he’s going away from them, and that leaving these little children that he had grown to love so deeply, was going to be terrifying for them. He didn’t want to surprise them. He was leaving them alone - or at least leaving them without his physical presence -  to face the world (the dark and the monsters of that world) on their own - many of them to face their own martyrdoms later. He knows that his absence will bring about fear. And the terror of feeling alone. As someone who has lived alone for a long time, I sometimes forget the intensity of that fear brought by “being left alone” - an intensity that children know well - including 5 year old me - the one who still believed that there were monsters in the closet, kept at bay by a loving parent. And it is a fear that the disciples will know well. So Jesus has to address the questions and the fears of his disciples, the little children, before he departs from them. And that’s what he does in the farewell discourse.

To combat that fear, Jesus unites them as a community. Not just any community - a community defined by love. And it is not just any kind of love. It is the kind love that drives out fear. It is the kind of love that provides security in vulnerability, as a parent comforting their children. It is the kind love that turns the monsters in our closets and in our world to something that can be conquered. It is the kind of love that assures us - that whatever happens - we will not be left alone. It is the kind of love that Jesus showed to his disciples throughout their time together.

In her new book, Love Big: The Power of Revolutionary Relationships to Heal the World, Rozella Haydee White writes about God as lover. She says, “when I think about God, I think about God as lover. The faith that I profess is rooted in a belief in a God that loves us deeply, desperately, and with a passion that cannot be contained. This God is always seeking us out, wanting to be with us and wanting us to experience the very best that life has to offer… This God lovingly crafted us in God’s own image, so that we too reflect God’s desires. This God created us to be lovers too” (White, 14-15).  This is the love of God that is made ultimately known in Jesus, the Word Made Flesh, the Son of God. This Word Made flesh is the one, who facing the monsters of the world, goes to the cross for the sake of the world that God so loves. And that love is made known as Jesus lays his life down for his friends. Because God is love. And that love envelopes the disciples - and us - for whatever is to come - so that, no matter what happens, we are never alone. It is a love that empowers us to take risks for the sake of our neighbor and for the sake of the Gospel.

This love is now to be embodied by the disciples as they prepare for Jesus’ physical absence from them. That love will sustain them as a community, will dispel (or allow them to face) their fears united as one body. That love is what makes them willing to face the monsters that they will face in their darkness, and to continue the message of the gospel.

Bishop Yvette Flunder, at the Festival of Homiletics this past week, puts it this way “God never intended that the Gospel would have a closed end. God intends it to be alive.” In today’s Gospel from John, we see that the Gospel comes alive as we embody the love of God in our community and in the wider world.  We get to make the Gospel come alive through our hands, our hearts, and our voices - as we bring the love of God to those around us. We get to be part of the love that breaks down barriers and brings about wholeness and healing. We get to be part of the love that dispels the darkness and the monsters of the world - sexism, racism, homopobia, transphobia, poverty, anti-Semitism and Islamophobia, violence, xenophobia - to name a few. We get to be part of the love that creates a new community - united by the love that we’ve already found in Christ - so that we know that we are never left alone. The story does not end as Jesus departs. But it continues and it is as vibrant as ever. Thanks be to God for that.
Amen.

4th Sunday after Easter (Year C) - May 12, 2019

4th Sunday of Easter
Year C
May 12, 2019
John 10:22-30

I grew up as one of the kids from “in town.” Our school district was this mix of kids from the suburban-like neighborhoods, kids from “in town,” and kids from “the country.” Much of the land within the boundaries of the school district was farmland. Major crops were (and are) corn and soy. They had various kinds of livestock. In Jr. High, I took vocal lessons. My vocal teacher lived in the far reaches of the district and married a farmer. They had horses, goats, and yes, even sheep. Farming was a big deal -  to the point that the local 4-H held a “drive your tractor to school day” every year.  The town I grew up in wasn’t very big; it was a one stoplight town. But I was very much “in town.” If I’m honest with you, while I had friends that knew the ins and outs of the business, I still don’t know much about farming - or herding cattle, goats, or sheep - at least beyond what I read in commentaries and other sources.

And yet, here I am, preaching as Jesus uses sheep imagery to talk about his followers on what’s commonly known as “Good Shepherd Sunday.” I know, even in my own study, because my knowledge of sheep is so insufficient, I tend to focus more on learning about the sheep - what sheep are like, how they think, how they behave. I tend to focus on digging into the role of shepherd. So the focus of my study is grounded on my own lack of knowledge rather than on the Gospel that Jesus proclaims in today. To be clear, it is well and good to better understand sheep and shepherds in order to better understand the metaphors that Jesus uses this morning. But I wonder if, in that process, I sometimes focus so much on that that I get distracted. And then, in focusing so much on sheep and shepherds (an image so common in the world in which Jesus lived), I end up missing some of the Gospel of today.

In the Gospel of John, Jesus is on a mission. “For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, that whoever believes in him may not perish but have eternal life. Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved - or made whole - through him.” Whenever we’re reading from the Gospel of John, we read it through that lens. There is acknowledgement of the reality that not all believe (so not all hear the sound of Jesus’ voice), but the end goal of God, according to this Gospel, is to bring all to Godself through the saving work of Jesus. Jesus is the one who can proclaim “the Father and I are one.” So they share the same mission, the same goal, the same view of the world and of God’s beloved creation. The world that God so loves cannot be saved - or made whole - through him unless all are brought to God through Jesus - and all means all.

Some of you know that earlier this week, I was invited to be a guest scholar with St. Mark in Yorktown at their Greek Retreat. I was honored to be invited, and I was thrilled to be able to spend some time feeding that part of me. During the retreat, we spent a lot of time talking about something so central to Lutheran theology - how we are made right with God. Are we saved by faith in Christ? Or are we saved by the faith of Christ? In other words, what is the role of faith and belief in our salvation? In each place Paul talks about this in his letters, without getting into detail, I’ll just say that the Greek isn’t clear; it can be translated either way. In Lutheran circles, we tend to focus on our individual faith in Christ. “Saved by grace through faith apart from works for the sake of Christ.” Faith is assumed to be our faith.

That sounds all well and good. But the reality is that we, as human beings, have far from “perfect” faith. We all have had struggles with doubt - your pastor included. We all fall short of what God intends for us - even in our relationship with and in our faith in God. And usually, this lack of faith is less about my “believing” or “not believing” in God or in Jesus, and more about putting my faith in other things a bit more. That belief that I can do it on my own, or that reliance on anything other than God (money is a prime example in our world - if we hang onto our money, if we have enough of it, I can solve my problems and experience the “good life”). If it is my faith that “saves” me, that scares me. When is my faith “good” enough or not “good enough” for my salvation? Faith, then, becomes a work; yet works, according to Luther, can never give me salvation. And soon I start to understand, on a different level, Luther’s own struggles with his worthiness before God. As Luther noted, we often fail at the very first commandment: you shall have no other gods before me. Our other gods - money, self-reliance, etc - all have voices that pull us away from the Good Shepherd that calls to us.

What if Scripture points not as much to my individual faith but to the faithfulness of Jesus? The faithfulness of Jesus to the mission to which he was called. His faithfulness to make whole the world that has been broken, to restore the relationship between God and humanity. If Jesus promises that, according to the Gospel of John, that as he is lifted on the cross, Jesus will draw all to himself, I trust that Jesus is faithful to that promise. If Jesus promises that he came not to condemn the world, but to save it, I trust that Jesus is faithful to that promise - and that Jesus’ will not quit until that mission is complete. It is Jesus’ faithfulness to his mission - even to the point of death on a cross - that saves. It is Jesus’ faithfulness that promises eternal life that cannot be snatched away. We proclaim that we have a God, in Jesus, that shows that God remains true to God’s promises - that God’s answer to God’s beloved creation will always be life. Jesus’ faithfulness is what makes Jesus the Good Shepherd. To borrow imagery from Luke, Jesus’ faithfulness to Jesus’ promises is what leads the shepherd to look for the one sheep that was lost - bringing it back into the fold with the 99 others. Jesus’ faithfulness is there - even when my faith isn’t. Thanks be to God for that.

My faith, then, is still important - just in a different way. It allows me to be assured of that promise. It gives me the knowledge - that despite my waverings - that Jesus gives Jesus’ sheep the gift of eternal life. And it allows me to live into that eternal life, not just in some future afterlife - but in this life, now. It allows me to hear Jesus’ voice and say “yes, that’s for me.” Our faith, our reliance on Jesus as the shepherd allows us to turn toward Jesus and to follow him. Our faith isn’t what gives us salvation - a restored relationship with God -, but our faith is what allows us to live as saved people - with the knowledge that we are redeemed and we are restored to God. It gives us assurance that no one - not even ourselves with our doubts and our failings - can take away that gift which has been given to each one of us. In other words, our faith turns us toward the one who gives us - and all people - the gift of life in relationship with God. This is indeed good news. Good news that doesn’t depend on me understanding a thing about sheep. It is good news that we can we can trust - not because we are faithful - but because we know that Jesus is faithful.

I almost wish that the lessons for last week and this week were switched. Last week, we heard the story of Jesus and Peter having breakfast at the charcoal fire. At breakfast, three times, Jesus asked Peter if he loved him. Peter responds, “yes, Lord, you know that I love you.” To which Jesus responds, “Feed my sheep.” In the light of the resurrection, we - the sheep that follow Jesus and hear the Good Shepherd’s voice - turn out to feed and to tend our neighbors - our fellow sheep in the pasture. We become sheep that feed sheep. In no understanding of sheep does that make any sense. At least as far as I know, sheep don’t typically feed their fellow sheep (and maybe I don’t give sheep enough credit there). But that’s the radical thing about the Gospel. It breaks us out of how this world as it is works. Tables are turned. We learn to expect the unexpected with the Gospel. Like with Peter, Jesus doesn’t require us to be anything we’re not - we’re called to follow as the imperfect disciples we are. And because of Jesus’ faithfulness, we are empowered to become sheep that feed sheep.

Amen