Sermon: What God's kingdom on earth look like (November 24, 2024)

Christ the King Sunday (B)
November 25, 2018
John 18:33-37 

INTRODUCTION

On this Sunday of the church year, the week before Advent, we celebrate Christ the King Sunday – remembering with thanksgiving that Christ is the ruler of the universe and of our lives, more powerful than any earthly power. The texts for Christ the King present us with some strange, end-times imagery, looking forward to the time when Christ will return to sit on the throne and visibly rule over heaven and earth, even as they recall that Christ has always done this. It’s a day of tension, being both ominous, and thrilling. Really, it’s the perfect way to end the church year, and prepare ourselves to start thinking about Advent, and the first coming of God into our midst as a babe in a manger.  

I also want to say a quick word about our Gospel reading, because today we jump from Mark back into the Gospel of John. This short reading places us in the midst of Jesus’ passion story, in the middle of his trial before Pilate. Pontius Pilate, you may remember, was an incredibly violent and brutal ruler, known for his extreme punishments, which makes it all the stranger that in this text he seems to be trying to find a way to let Jesus off the hook! But Jesus is resolute, as he is throughout John’s Gospel, that he is exactly where he needs to be, doing what he needs to do. Their argument today is, appropriately, about whether or not Jesus is, in fact, a king, and what that kingship looks like. As many things with Jesus, it is not what the world might have thought or expected! Let’s listen and learn about what it means for Christ to be our King.

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Photo: Icon written by Alexey Akindinov: "Jesus Christ, the Savior of the World," 2018-2019.
Released into the public domain by Alexey Akindinov, via Wikimedia Commons under CCA-SA 4.0 International. 

Grace to you and peace from the one who is, and who was, and who is to come. Amen. 

Christ the King Sunday is an overtly political festival. We are calling Jesus by a political title, after all, a king – implying that he, and not any of our earthly rulers, is the most sovereign, the most powerful, the most lasting of all rulers. In fact, that was the whole point of the festival. Christ the King Sunday is a fairly new festival on the church calendar, started in 1925, 99 years ago. After World War I, Europe was in a state of economic uncertainty. Facism was rising in Italy and Spain (harbingers of the Nazi movement that soon took over Germany), and communism in Russia, and secularism in the west. In the face of such uncertainty, people were putting their trust in anything they could find that promised to rescue them. More and more, this was not religion, but politicians and political parties. In response, Pope Pius the 11th instigated an annual Sunday feast to celebrate and assert the “Kingship of our Savior” – a claim that opposed the totalitarian claims of the ideologies that were rising to power. This would be a day when knees would bend and homage would be paid to Christ, in order to witness to the day when every knee in heaven and on earth and under the earth would bow to Christ and confess him as Lord.

Nearly 100 years later, it is still a day when we reflect upon what that means, to have Christ as our ruler, and what that reign looks like, especially compared to the reigns and rulers of the world today. Jesus tells Pilate in today’s text that, “My kingdom is not from this world,” and really, that’s pretty good news! I would hope that God’s kingdom is something entirely different than this world, with all its tears, loss, pain, and sadness. But what exactly does that mean, for his kingdom not to be from this world? If not that, then what? 

Well, I’ll tell you what I don’t think it is. I don’t think the kingdom Jesus is referring to is an afterlife, or what we often call “heaven,” and here’s why: because from the very beginning, Jesus was the one who brought God’s light and life into the darkness of this world. God’s world and this world were not separate – God’s light was brought into this world. Throughout John, Jesus has been the light of the world, dwelling in and overcoming darkness – that’s what we celebrate each year at Christmas. By being that light in the darkness, Jesus brings God’s kingdom to earth, even as God’s kingdom remains something distinct from the ways of this world. And so, I think when he refers to his “kingdom,” he is referring not to some different, far-off location, but to a way of life – right now – that is of God. A way of life that is a light shining in darkness. 

I also don’t think Jesus’ “not from this world” kingdom looks like Christian Nationalism, like forcing Christianity and what those in power believe are Christian values upon the entire populace. I’ll tell you, my friends, this has never worked before, and generally leads to violence. It is contrary to our constitution, on the political side, and on the religious side, it treads dangerously into idolatry –  idolizing power, fear and violence. Jesus is specifically against all of these idols. So no, while I want people to worship Jesus, I don’t think using power to force entire populations to do so is the right path, nor does it look anything like God’s kingdom as described in John’s Gospel. 

But the question still remains: what does Jesus’ kingdom, in which Jesus is king, look like? I’m going to venture three suggestions as to what God’s kingdom on earth looks like. 

First, God’s kingdom looks like an abiding relationship with God. Through John’s Gospel, Jesus has made clear that living as a part of God’s kingdom means being in a relationship with God. That means, first of all, trusting that God does abide in us, and second, living by God’s commandment. It means regularly checking in with God through prayer and scripture study and faithful conversation with other Christians. We are so prone, aren’t we, to listen to the ways of the world, and let them be our guide. We want to fit in, or we want to let the world’s ways of fear and scarcity convince us to make choices or take stands that we know, in our hearts, are not what Jesus would have us do. Abiding with God is not always the easiest road, because it means letting go of some control, and sometimes even some good sense, and instead listening to where and how the Spirit might be blowing in our lives. When Christ truly reigns, we let him guide and be present in all that we do, even when it is not something our human, worldly inclinations would have chosen. 

Second, living in God’s kingdom means seeking peace. I am so intrigued by Jesus’ comment to Pilate that, “If my kingdom were of this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over.” And yet just moments before this, Peter did exactly that, when Jesus was arrested. He pulled a sword, willing to fight the legion of soldiers who came for Jesus – and Jesus told him to put the sword away. So what Jesus must be saying here is not that his followers should have been fighting for him, but rather, that a true follower would not resort to such violence, but rather, seek a more peaceful resistance to evil. 

Ah, but it can be so much easier and more immediately satisfying just to fight, can’t it?? Especially in our divided society, where judgment of the other abounds. When someone says something awful or misguided, doesn’t it feel so good to come back with something snappy to put them in their place? Isn’t it good to fight for what we believe in, at whatever cost? And yet, Jesus’ kingdom demands a different way: not simply to avoid one another, nor to “agree to disagree,” but rather, to actively seek peace with the other. God’s kingdom requires that we seek to know and understand one another, to have compassion for one another, to be in relationship with one another, to love one another. 

And that’s the real kicker for those who are citizens of God’s kingdom: we love one another. In John’s telling of Jesus’ story, right before this scene, Jesus washes his disciples’ feet, and he gives them a new commandment: to love one another, just as God has loved us. 

So simple to say; so difficult to live out! Not always, of course. Some people are very loveable. But it can be awfully hard to love people who have hurt us personally, or people who scare us, or whose ideologies are a threat to us, or whose mere presence threatens our way of life, or even just people in whom we simply aren’t that invested. 

At this time of year, we often hear the catchy slogan, “Keep Christ in Christmas.” I appreciate the meme I often see in response, that says, “Want to keep Christ in Christmas? Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, forgive the guilty, welcome the stranger and the immigrant, care for the ill, love your enemies.” Because those are the things Christ is about! And those are the things that citizens of Christ’s kingdom are called to be about, too. Those are the ways we love one another. Love one another – those you do like and those you don’t, those who are kind to you and those who scare you, those who look and act like you, and those who bring with them a host of unknowns. 

It sure isn’t easy. And when it isn’t, that is when we can lean on God’s own, perfect love – both to show us the way and to catch us when we fail. For God so loved the dark and sinful world, Jesus tells us, that he sent his only Son, so that we would not perish, so that we would not fall into the abyss that is all that world can promise us, but would instead have the promise of eternal life – eternal life living in the light and life of Christ. Eternal life living in Christ’s kingdom. 

Let us pray... Christ our King, in this ever-changing world, you and your love and your reign remain our constant. Even as we continue living in this earthly kingdom, keep us focused on living into your kingdom, trusting that your love will guide and support us all along. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. 

Sermon: Grasping for a savior (November 17, 2024)

Pentecost 26B
November 17, 2024
Mark 13:1-8

INTRODCUTION

Each fall, as our church year moves toward the end of the lectionary cycle and into Advent, we have a couple weeks of hearing what we call apocalyptic texts. We often associate that word, “apocalypse,” with the book of Revelation, with its strange creatures and death and destruction and the end of the world as we know it – and finally, Jesus’ reign. Revelation is indeed one of the apocalyptic books in the Bible, but it is not the only one! Daniel, which we will hear from in a moment, is quite apocalyptic as well. And so is our gospel reading today from Mark 13 – the chapter known to all students of the Bible as “Mark’s little apocalypse.” Jesus is not making up a new genre here. He is following the model of apocalyptic prophets, like Daniel, who have gone before him.

So, as we gear up for these texts, let me offer some insight on what that word, apocalypse, actually means. It comes from a Greek word that means “revelation,” something being revealed, “an unveiling or unfolding of things not previously known and which could not be known apart from the unveiling.” While that word “apocalypse” is kind of terrifying, I actually find this definition much more helpful, because it brings with it the sense of greater understanding. It is a revealing of things that were there all along, but we either couldn’t or wouldn’t see or acknowledge them. Once they are made visible, it can be terrifying at first, but then, once they are in the light, these previously hidden evils and threats can be dealt with. 

So, hang onto your hats, folks, as we enter a few weeks of unveiling and seeing things for what they are. While these texts were written for a very particular historical context, you will find plenty, I think, that is relatable to whatever uncovering, unveiling, or revealing is happening in your own life and the world around us. Let’s listen.  [READ]

Model of the 2nd Jerusalem Temple

Grace to you and peace from the one who is and who was and who is to come. Amen.

A couple weeks ago, I had the chance to go to a two-day event with one of my favorite preaching and Bible scholars. In one of the sessions, she asked us to share what sermons are the hardest ones for us to preach. I said, “The Sundays in November with all the apocalyptic texts.” Someone else said, “The ones that feel too close to home.” Well today, friends, I offer you: both!

Truth is, part of the reason I don’t like preaching on these Sundays in November with apocalyptic texts is precisely because they feel so close to home! Being in November, they often fall after an election, so at least half the country is mad or worried about something. There is always some major conflict or natural disaster happening somewhere in the world. There is always bad news circulating, making us wonder, “Is this the end? Are these the wars and famines and earthquakes that Jesus talked about? Is this, in fact, the end of the world?”

I’m not sure if this is a comfort or not, but the reality is that this is always how it has been. Mark’s context was certainly a time of great fear and violence. Mark’s Gospel was written either right during or right after the disastrous Jewish revolt against Roman imperial occupation in Palestine, which took place in the years 66 through 70, with the Temple finally falling to the Romans in 70. Mark’s audience was shaken to its core – the Temple, with its impressively large stones, was, for Jews, the sacred heart of the world, a wonder to behold, and the center of their faith and connection to God. Josephus, a 1st century historian, estimated that one million Jews were killed during this revolt – a genocide! It certainly felt to them like the end of the world. How could this be happening? Where was God? Where could hope possibly be found?

It is not a far reach for us to read this apocalyptic passage in Mark with a similar sense of doom, and a desperate need for hope. We have all had such questions about something, and many if not all of us have them about something right now. But terrifying as Jesus’ words today might be on first reading, I also think that they can provide us some of the hope that we long for.

There are three lines in particular that stand out to me as guidance not only for Mark’s community, but for our current moment in time. 

The first is the disciples’ awe at the sheer size of the Temple. “Look what large stones, and what large buildings!” They are impressed by this human marvel – as they should be! The stones they refer to were 35 feet long, 18 feet deep, and 12 feet tall! And yet their awe speaks to something deeper: our human inclination to put our trust in temporal things, those physical and earthly things that are right before us. We imagine that these temporal things are permanent and trustworthy. Yet Jesus’ swift reply is, “This isn’t going to last. Not one stone will be left upon another. All will be torn down.” 

It is shocking! Just look how big this Temple is, after all. But it is the first layer Jesus’ peels away in this great revealing, this apocalypse: the people, places, and systems in which we have put your trust are not forever. No ruler can rule forever, no government can keep control, no building is safe from destruction. All of it will be torn down. And the hopeful bit between the lines there says, “So don’t bother putting your trust in these temporal things. They won’t deliver. But God will. God alone provides us with eternal hope that cannot be destroyed.”

The next line that can speak to us is Jesus’ warning: “Beware that no one leads you astray. Many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and they will lead many astray.” How striking that Jesus begins this, his apocalyptic discourse, with warnings about deception. In this post-truth era in which we live, this feels very relevant and important! Our current era is characterized by not only misinformation, but disinformation, defined as “false information that is intended to mislead,” a.k.a., lead us astray. Jesus’ warning shows us that he knew our susceptibility to such things. That’s not to say humans are stupid or easily duped. Rather, that when we are desperate, or afraid, we are more ready to believe anything that promises to make our lives better. We long for a savior – just like Mark’s audience, who is experiencing daily death and violence and the destruction of their cities and the Temple. When disaster strikes (whether that is in the form of natural calamity, or political strife, or economic downfall), when disaster strikes, people will wonder where God is, and grasp at whatever promises to fix their problems. And so, Jesus warns his audience here, and us as well, to ask the questions, “Is this really the truth? Is this really Jesus? Is this who we are, as Jesus-followers?” 

Now, unfortunately, Jesus is not in the quick-fix business, which makes us all the more susceptible to falling for a false claim. If that guy over there is saying, “I can fix it immediately!” while Jesus is saying, “Come, walk the hard path of discipleship, and find your hope in eternal life,” well it seems obvious which way is more appealing! And so, Jesus offers a warning against that quick-fix offer (because spoiler: quick-fixes to complex problems don’t usually work). 

But he also offers this enigmatic line: “This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.” I admit that at first this comes off as pretty ominous. It speaks to a long journey of pain that lies ahead. I remember birth pangs, how they started off pretty manageable, but as time went on they grew more and more severe until I got to the point of crying out that I simply couldn’t do it anymore! Some women die in childbirth. I have friends who nearly did. This is not the easy process promised by those who would come “in Jesus’ name” and try to deceive us. 

Yet, I appreciate Jesus’ frankness about this. Apocalypse isn’t easy. It reveals things that have been kept hidden all this time for a reason – we don’t want to have to deal with them! We don’t want to have to deal with what these threats bring up in us. And when they are finally brought out into the open, and we can see what we are really dealing with, the work to heal is indeed difficult work. There are no quick-fixes for it. But that difficult labor, and the at times excruciating pain that comes with it, is all for a godly purpose: to bring about a new life. 

And that is the real hope we find in these apocalyptic texts. It is first the hope that though he may be difficult to see, Christ is with us in the pain, and we know that because only Christ could turn a struggle, a death, a tomb… into a womb, a new life, into hope. Getting there is a messy process, to be sure. And throughout it we must hold each other up, and proclaim God’s promise to one another: that God will never let us go, and that new life will be on the other side. 

The work of the Church is to remind one another of these things. And so, my friends, in the words of Hebrews, “Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who has promised is faithful. And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching.”

Let us pray… Revealing God, the world can be a fearful place, and we are prone to grasp at whatever savior promises us quick relief. Encourage us to put our trust in you and your promises, not the false promises trying to lead us astray, so that we would be drawn into the new life that only you can bring. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sermon: Empathy is Love (All Saint's, Nov. 3, 2024)

All Saints (B)
November 3, 2024
John 11:32-44
Revelation 21:1-6a

INTRODUCTION

            I love All Saints’ Day. I love the hymns, I love the texts, I love the memories. Every pastor I know says they’d rather preach a funeral than a wedding, because we get to preach the hope of resurrection – and All Saints Day is sort of a big, annual funeral, because it is all about the life and comfort we find in the resurrection promise, especially in the midst of the various losses we experience.

            Just look at these texts. Each is written to and for a community experiencing a difficult time, and each of them holds in tension the extremes of human emotion: the deep sadness, grief, and fear we feel when we’ve lost, or are losing, someone or something important to us, and the hope we find in a God who keeps promises. As you listen to each one, listen for those emotions. As these texts mention death, think not only about the ultimate sort of death, but also about the mundane deaths that we experience every day – people moving away, job change or loss, losing your faculties and abilities, realizing you can’t be as active anymore as you once were, any sort of meaningful change to what you have come to understand as “normal,” whether the change is good or bad. Recall the feelings you have in those experiences of death and change, and listen in these texts to God’s words of hope and new life for you. Let’s listen.

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Grace to you and peace from the one who is and who was and who is to come. Amen.

            As I read through the texts for today, I noticed a common image across all three: tears. Both Isaiah and Revelation talk about God wiping away tears from the eyes of people who are surrounded by death, grief and fear. And the Gospel text, this famous story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead, is full of mourning and sadness, even expressed by Jesus himself, whom John tells us is “greatly disturbed in spirit,” “deeply moved,” and openly weeping. So much pain. So much grief. So many tears.

I’ll tell you, I really needed these emotive texts this week. Anxiety and fear, mixed with cautious hope, are everywhere in our country right now, this week, as we look toward the election in just two days. What makes you anxious, and what you hope for, may differ from the person next to you, or it may be the same, but man alive, are emotions big these days for every American who has been paying attention to this election cycle. 

And so yes, I really needed to see a set of scripture texts this week that acknowledge that these big emotions are a part of being human, and always have been. Humans have always, always, felt things: we have felt fear, and anxiety; we have felt rage and discouragement, like Mary confronting Jesus; we have felt hope, even against all odds; and yes, like Jesus in this story about the raising of Lazarus, we have felt grief, grief that is sometimes so deep that we feel it in our very guts, crawling up and down our skin, and in every fiber of our being. When we can see all that play out in scripture, it feels to me like permission, from a loving God who cares enough about human emotions to become one of us and feel them himself. These texts give permission to acknowledge those feelings, to feel them, and to give ourselves space for lament.

            Lament. It is a central but all-too-often overlooked piece of the biblical narrative, but one I find so helpful. Lament is the expression of deep sorrow or grief about something or someone, like the loss of a person or ideal. It is the Psalmist’s cry in Psalm 22, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” It is the Israelites who sat down and wept by the waters of Babylon, because they could not find it in themselves to sing their song of faith while they were forced to live in a strange land. Lament is the “sighs too deep for words,” that Paul refers to in Romans. It is the deep sadness of Mary weeping inside the empty tomb on Easter morning, believing as she did that they had taken away her lord’s body. Lament.

            I have lamented. Recently, I have lamented for our country, and also for the loss of some of the people for whom we lit candles this morning, and also at many other times over the course of my life. I resonate with those in the Bible who have also lamented. And so that is why I am so drawn to the tears in our passages today, and in particular, to Jesus’ tears. I find it remarkable that he cries. After all, he knows how the story ends. He knows that he will raise Lazarus. He knows that he himself will die soon, and that he will be raised. He knows that death itself will no longer have the final word, and that he, and Lazarus, and all of us will inherit eternal life with God. He knows the end of the story – but still, he weeps, gut-wrenching sobs and real tears, along with his friends.

            Why does Jesus cry? Of course, we can’t make assumptions about Jesus’ psychological state or inner emotional workings. But I can observe why it is important to me that he cries, and that is that in this moment of expressed, shared emotion, Jesus makes known his capacity for empathy, and he validates the very real grief people are feeling. In his willingness to cry for the death of Lazarus, Jesus in essence says to Lazarus’ grieving sisters, “Your brother is worth grieving for. You are worth grieving for.” He doesn’t jump to paint a silver lining around it, or say, “Who are you talking to here? I can fix this for you!” Though he does eventually say, “Didn’t I say you would see the glory of God?” he doesn’t go there first. The first thing he does, is lament with them. He weeps. He lets himself feel their pain, and he cries with them.

            That can be incredibly healing in times of lament! I can think of times in my life when I have been having a really rough time, and I keep trying to tell myself, “It’s not so bad, Johanna. Get over it. Things could be so much worse.” And then when I complain to someone else, and they say, “Boy, that’s really rough,” I feel relieved! “Yes! Yes, it is rough! Thank you for saying that, and making it okay for me to feel cruddy about it!” In times when this has happened, that mere acknowledgement of my pain always feels like a step toward healing.

            I have found this in my interactions with other people, too. In my early life and early adulthood, when someone would express a concern to me, I would jump to saying, “Let me break this down with you and show you why this is not something to be concerned about. I think if you just understand, you’ll feel better.” Anyone ever try that on you? Turns out, that approach seldom works to diffuse conflict or heal hearts. Maybe eventually it’s needed, yes, but not at first. Because what people want most of all when they’re in pain is to be heard, to know that their feelings are valid, to feel like they are not alone. Once we have taken the time to lament together, to empathize, to sit together in the pain for a little while – only then can healing begin. Only then are we in a place where we can see and hear the good news of the resurrection.

When Jesus cries, the bystanders say, “See how he loved him!” I think it would be more accurate to say, “See how he loves us!” Because empathy is an act of love. Lamenting together is an act of love. It puts aside pretense and judgment and policy and even our own fears and baggage, and dwells for a moment in the heart and needs and longings of another. To do that, is to love.

This ability to lament together is the first step toward hope and healing, and ultimately, transformation. Right after Jesus weeps with his friends, they get their first glimpse of resurrection and new life, as Lazarus is raised. And right after that, the last of Jesus’ miracles, he walks his own agonizing path to the cross, and then, into resurrected glory.

That is the pattern of faith: from pain and sorrow and lament, to hope and healing and transformation. Over and over again we see this cycle – lament to hope to new life, lament to hope to new life. And every time, we can see that the God who came to dwell among us, also cries with us, and laments with us in our pain… and then, God wipes away our tears and his own, takes our hand, and assures us of what comes next: we see the glory of God. We see new life come about. Indeed, like the people standing there to whom Jesus said, “Unbind him and let him go,” we are invited into the work of bringing about that new life – unbinding the dead, releasing the world from the trappings of death. We are invited into the work of the resurrection. We don’t forget about the pain we felt, and neither does God, but we are assured that with Christ, that pain and death is never the last thing. Because God is always the last thing, the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. God always wins.

Let us pray… Abiding God, when we are lost, rejected, suffering and afflicted, we thank you for being with us, crying empathetic tears. Make us aware of your presence, and bring us into the everlasting hope made possible by your Son Jesus Christ our Lord. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.