July 29, 2012
The feeding of the five thousand. It is one of the very few miracle stories that appears in all four gospels. As is almost always the case with John, the way the story is told here helps us understand better and more deeply that gospel writer’s unique perspective on Jesus and what he wants us, his readers to understand and experience. Continue reading
This week’s readings are here.
“What a friend we have in Jesus
All our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry
Everything to God in prayer.”
This familiar hymn from my child (text by Joseph Scriven) always comes to mind when I think of Jesus as “friend.” The promise of friendship here is that of protector and shield, someone to turn to when times get tough and when you’re rejected by those around you. It’s full of the piety of nineteenth century Evangelicalism and I remember how total my reaction against it was as I was growing up. The hymn emphasizes human frailty, sin, and weakness, and depicts Jesus as someone who
Jesus as friend evokes all of those images of someone like oneself but stronger; someone whose love persists in spite of whatever I might do. I also find it somewhat problematic to think of God in terms such as friend–after all, the intimacy implied in the term seems to bring God down to an all-too-human level.
So I find thinking of Jesus as friend deeply problematic. This week’s gospel reading challenges us to rethink that imagery, what it means and how we use. It’s not that John 15 provides biblical warrant for “What a friend we have in Jesus;” rather, it articulates a much deeper understanding of that relationship.
In a culture where “friending” and “unfriending” can be as casual as it is on facebook, recapturing the appropriate meaning of friendship can be a powerful theological, and ecclesial obligation. What greater contrast to facebook is there than:
“No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”
The gospel of John sees a developing relationship between Jesus and his followers, from master and servant, teacher and disciple, to friend. The intimacy of the relationship implied in that simple, common term, is much more than a facebook friendship or even the relationship of two people who have grown up together or gone to school together. It is the intimacy of love; again, of abiding in one another. It is the intimacy of the Trinity–the inter-relationship of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
It is also the intimacy of the Last Supper, when the Beloved Disciple reclined next to Jesus, when Jesus took up towel and basin, and washed his disciples’ feet, when he told them, “A new commandment I give to you, that you love each other as I have loved you.” It is the intimacy of John’s gospel, the intimacy of John 13:1 “Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.”
The friendship of Jesus is not the easy breezy relationship with someone who you like to have a beer with. Jesus’ friendship, his love, culminated in the cross. Our friendship, our love for Jesus, calls us to lay down our lives as well, for him and for the love of the world.
April 29, 2012
I hate preaching on the Fourth Sunday of Easter, It’s Good Shepherd Sunday and each year we hear texts from John 10. Each year, we say or hear read, or sing, Psalm 23. I dislike the saccharine piety of the good shepherd; you know that painting your parents or grandparents had hanging in the living room, with a blond-haired, blue-eyed Jesus, in a long flowing robe, holding a cute little lamb in his arms. Or if not a painting on a living room wall, perhaps an image from Sunday School or a Bible story book. Then there are the hymns, and of course, Psalm 23. Continue reading
April 15, 2012
If you would like to read my sermon on Thomas from last year, go here.
I sometimes joke with people as I’m bringing them upstairs to my office at Grace that getting into our offices is like entering a prison. There are at least three sets of locked doors; two of those sets have no glass to allow a visitor to see what’s inside. We are well protected from the outside world and whatever dangers might lurk there. The church too is locked up tightly during the week. It’s only on Sundays that we open our doors and invite people in. Continue reading
This Sunday’s readings are here. My sermon on this gospel text from last year is here.
One of the things that intrigues me about this reading, especially given what I had to say about Mary Magdalene on Sunday, is the contrast between Mary and Thomas. As I’ve mentioned before, very often characters in John’s gospel symbolize or stand for whole groups of people–Nicodemus is the Jew attracted to Jesus but unwilling to make a public commitment; the Samaritan woman perhaps representing the response to the Gospel among the Samaritan community, the beloved disciple perhaps the community in which the gospel is written. So, what about Thomas?
There’s long been speculation in the scholarly community about links between the Gospel of John and gnosticism. Given the key role of Thomas in two places in John, and the existence of a “gnostic” Gospel of Thomas, the theory that Thomas somehow stands for gnostic Christians is almost irresistible. He desires knowledge, asking Jesus, “How can we know the way?” (Jn 14:5) and here he doubts the bodily resurrection, demanding not only to see, but to touch Jesus.
Both Mary Magdalene and Thomas see the Risen Christ. Thomas had asked to see and touch him. Jesus shows him his wounds, and invites him to touch them, but Thomas does not. By contrast, Jesus warned Mary not to touch him; it might more literally mean, “Don’t hold on to me.” But the two made a similar confession: Mary says “I have seen the Lord.” Thomas says, “My Lord and my God!”
In these encounters sight is inadequate. Mary at first doesn’t recognize Jesus. The disciples rejoice after they see his wounds; they were fearful before. And Jesus himself warns them and us, that sight is inadequate, “You have seen and believed. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.” True, deep, lasting faith in the Gospel of John, comes not from seeing the Risen Christ, still less from seeing a miracle or sign. It comes from a relationship with the Risen Christ, an encounter, in which he knows and names us, and we know him (“My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.” Jn 10:27).
April 8, 2012
Peter and the beloved disciple ran to the tomb. They couldn’t believe the news? Who would take Jesus’ body? They ran. The beloved disciple got there first, but he waited, allowing Peter to enter. Only then did he go in and saw what Peter saw. An empty tomb. Mary Magdalene was right. But there was more. There were the linens. On one side, a pile, and off in a corner, by itself, neatly wrapped the piece of cloth that had covered Jesus’ face. The beloved disciple, it is said, saw and believed.
What did he believe? That Jesus was risen from the dead? But, no that can’t be it, because the very next sentence says they didn’t know the scriptures that he would be raised from the dead? So what did he see and believe? That Jesus’ body was gone? Certainly. That it had been taken by someone? Perhaps.
Throughout John’s gospel, there is something of a progression of faith. Come and see, Jesus said. He performs miracles, called signs, and many believe in his name. But it’s not clear they understand who he is or have true faith in him. They know he can work miracles, but is he the Son of God?
Here in the tomb is a wrapped up ball of linen. It signifies something, but what? Earlier, Jesus had raised Lazarus from the dead. When he came out of the tomb, he was still bound in the burial garments, and Jesus told the bystanders to loose him. What does it all mean?
Peter and the Beloved Disciple had heard the news from Mary Magdalene who had come to the tomb by herself when it was still night. They were excited enough to run with her to the tomb to see if she was right. But there the investigations ended. An empty tomb, a rolled up ball of linen, and they went back home, their curiosity satisfied.
But not Mary Magdalene. When the other two went back, she stayed behind. She lingered in the garden, and someone she thought to be the gardener asked her, “Who are you looking for?” It is a question that comes up repeatedly in John’s gospel, beginning in the first chapter. When he sees two men following him, Philip and Andrew, he asks them, “What are you looking for.” When they answer that they want to know where he was staying, he says, “Come and see.”
Nicodemus came to Jesus. (Don’t worry, I’m not going to go chapter by chapter through the Gospel of John, however much I would like to). Like Mary Magdalene, he came in the darkness. He came to ask questions, and left, his questions unanswered. The Samaritan woman comes to the well to fetch water. How many times had she come before? Every day, for years? She had come for water to do her daily chores of washing and cleaning. Instead of water, she encountered Christ, She left the well to tell everyone about who she had met, and she left her empty water jar behind. The Greeks come to Philip and tell him, “we want to see Jesus;” but we don’t know if they actually did. The Gospel doesn’t tell us.
Like those others in the gospel before her, Mary Magdalene has come. She has come to the tomb, in search of what? Solace, hope? And when Peter and the Beloved Disciple, came, saw, and went back home, she stayed behind, not satisfied, still waiting. For what? Did she know? Could she say? She stayed in the garden and she met someone who she thought was the gardener. Perhaps he could answer her questions. Perhaps he could tell her who had taken Jesus’ body, and where they had taken it.
But she was asking the wrong questions, looking for the wrong thing, seeing something she couldn’t understand. The angels told her she was looking in the wrong place, looking for the wrong thing, but their words didn’t make sense. She looked around saw a gardener, and asked him.
And then, the unimaginable, the unthinkable happened. He knew her. He called her by name, and her world, her sight, her understanding were transformed.
“Mary,” he said; and she replied, “Teacher.”
After that joyous encounter, she returned to the other disciples and told them the really good news, “I have seen the Lord!”
What are you looking for? What, who, do you hope to see? There is so much that clouds our visions—our worries for the future and for ourselves; concerns about jobs, the economy, our health, our families. But many of those are things over which we have little control. What about our hopes and fears—and all that we do to hide our deep needs from ourselves: our addictions, and not just to unhealthy habits, but our participation in a consumer lifestyle that deludes us into thinking if we only had a nicer house, or car, or an ipad 3, then things would be great, we would be satisfied. We would be happy.
What are we looking for? What, who do we hope to see? We come to church in something of the same mindset, hoping that the right word, the right experience will set everything right, make it all OK, satisfy the spiritual longings we have, longings that we often can’t articulate and express, longings for meaning and connection that we try to quench in all sorts of ways, except the way that will finally satisfy.
What are we looking for, whom do we seek? We have come to hear again the good and joyous news of resurrection, to celebrate the new life in Christ. We have come, some of us, to get a spiritual high, and some of us, in hope that what we get here today will suffice for another year.
We come, and see a rolled up ball of linen, or someone we think is a gardener, and we wonder and hope. We see what’s in front of our faces, and don’t understand the meaning, or misinterpret it. A rolled up ball of linen. What could it signify? A gardener—might he tell me what I want to know?
“Mary,” Jesus said and in that instant, her world changed. He knew her, and in that instant, she knew him. We come to this place, we come to God, with all sorts of expectations, requests, demands. We come wanting answers and help and solace. We come on our own terms. We want to encounter God on our terms, not God’s.
Mary was like us. We are Mary. She came to the tomb. She encountered a gardener. When Jesus called her by name, she replied, “Teacher.” But Jesus was much more than a teacher, and in the brief exchange that follows, Mary comes to realize what it all means, what everything means. She comes to know and believe what Jesus has been telling her, his other disciples, and us, throughout the gospel. She comes to know and understand who he is, what the crucifixion and this experience, resurrection mean. When she returns to the other disciples to tell them what happened, she makes it all clear, “I have seen the Lord.”
Here we are, all of us. We have come with our hopes and desires, with our cynicism and doubts, with our faith and with our uncertainty. We have come to this place to hear again the good news of Jesus Christ’s resurrection. We have come to experience the joy of that good news. We want it tied up in a neat package, like a rolled up ball of linen. We want it on our terms, in our categories, we want it to fill our needs.
But Jesus Christ comes to us in unexpected ways. Jesus Christ comes to us in ways we can’t imagine, in encounters we can’t control. The risen Christ comes to us in bread and wine, in the community of the faithful, and in ways we can’t express. The risen Christ comes to us, to shatter our expectations, break down the barriers that prevent us from seeing and experiencing him. The risen Christ comes to us, to remake us, to fashion us in his image and likeness. The risen Christ comes to us. Dare we say, with Mary, “We have seen the Lord?”
I didn’t write a sermon this week, but I did celebrate the 5:00 St. Francis House Eucharist this evening, so I had to come up with something to say. As I thought about today’s gospel, I was intrigued by the question of encountering Jesus in the text. Greeks come to Philip and say, “We wish to see Jesus.” Philip goes to Andrew, and together, the two of them go to Jesus. There’s no word whether the Greeks accompanied them, and if Jesus’ words offer any clue, it would seem that they are not among those whom Jesus addresses. They leave the scene, or the drama leaves them behind. They do not “see Jesus.”
A little later, a voice comes from heaven and says, “I have glorified you and I will glorify you again.” It’s not clear who understands these words. For some in the crowd, it sounds like thunder. Others think an angel is speaking to Jesus. Presumably Jesus (and the gospel writer?) hear and understand the voice.
Think about it. The Greeks don’t see Jesus; onlookers don’t hear or comprehend the voice from heaven. Efforts to make sense of Jesus fail. Efforts to see, hear, even know Jesus, fail.
The passage concludes on a different note. It’s the verse I quoted in my sermon last week: “And when I am lifted up, I will draw all people to myself.” Even if our efforts fail, Jesus beckons us, pulls us toward him, draws us to him. Whatever our efforts, it’s Jesus’ power, drawing us, drawing all of humanity to him, that makes the difference.
I doubt that’s anything close to what the gospel writer had in mind with this passage, but the contrast is quite dramatic.
I suspect there’s a pretty powerful sermon in here. Too bad it will have to wait until 2015.
This week’s gospel is John 12:20-33. It is fascinating both for the role it plays in John’s overall gospel and for its relationship to the synoptic (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) tradition. 12:25 “Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life” is one of the very few times in the Gospel of John where Jesus says something that is almost identical to a saying recorded in the synoptics (Mark 8:34).
Curiously, a few verses later, Jesus seems to contradict directly the synoptic tradition. In v. 27, he says, “Now my soul is troubled. And what should I say—’Father, save me from this hour?’ No, it is for this reason that I have come to this hour.” In Gethsemane, Jesus prays that God will spare him what is coming (“Remove this cup from me” Mk 14:36). There is no scene set in Gethsemane in the Gospel of John. In John’s understanding of Jesus, he knows exactly what is happening to him, why it is happening, and has no fears or uncertainties about that. John’s Jesus is in charge of events, not a victim; Mark’s Jesus is very human, as we will see in the next week.
We often want to choose between one or the other portrayal. Some of us prefer a very human Jesus with whom we can connect, whose human suffering is not so different from our own pain and struggles. Others of us prefer the notion of a Jesus who stands above it all, powerful, divine. In fact, we needn’t choose. Our faith proclaims that Jesus Christ is fully human and fully divine.
John’s portrayal of Jesus offers us a great deal to ponder. I quoted 12: 32 in my sermon yesterday, and a portion of it appears in the title of this post. This idea, that Jesus welcomes and embraces all humanity on the cross is an evocative image of inclusive salvation. In a time when Christianity seems to be a profoundly divisive force in society and culture, the idea that Jesus Christ appeals to all, welcomes all, whatever their race, ethnicity (this is said in the presence of Greeks), and religion, is very appealing.
In year B of the RCL, the gospel readings are taken from Mark, but because Mark is rather short, from time to time, the Gospel of John is also used. Often, the use of John extends over several weeks, as in the reading of much of John 6, or the Lenten and Easter gospels. Other times, we seem to jump back and forth, with no apparent logic, nor any warning.
We’ve already read portions of John 1(1:6-8, 19-28 on the Third Sunday of Advent; John 1:1-14 on Christmas Day); but it’s unfortunate that we’ve not had the opportunity to read the whole of chapter 1 because v. 19-42 provide the first scenes in a drama that help to explain what is going on in the text for next Sunday. John 1:29-42 is the gospel reading for the Second Sunday after Epiphany in Year A; go figure (Here’s my sermon from last year on that text).
The drama begins with questions about who John the Baptizer is. He denies he is the Messiah, Elias, or one of the prophets. The next day, he and two disciples encounter Jesus. He points to Jesus, and says to his disciples, “Behold, the Lamb of God.” They follow Jesus, and when he asks them what they want, they reply, “Where are you staying?” Jesus responds, “Come and see.” And they stayed with him that day. One of those disciples is Andrew, who goes to tell his brother Simon that they have found the Messiah. Simon comes and sees.
Then comes the reading for this week. Jesus encounters Philip and says, “Follow me.” Like Andrew, Philip goes to find someone else; this time it’s Nathaniel, who gives a cheeky response. But Philip, too, says, “Come and see.”
One of the recurrent images in these verses is “to see.” While different Greek words are used from time to time, and Jesus’ “come and see” is phrased differently from Philip’s, the same word is used for John’s “Behold” and Philip’s “see.” In our culture, seeing is believing, except when we don’t believe our eyes. We are so attuned to special effects, computer graphics, and the like, that I suspect over time the idea that “seeing is believing” will lose its appeal. And indeed, in the gospel, it’s not just about “seeing.” It’s about seeing in a particular way, often guided or informed by faith, or by God’s miraculous power.
In Jesus’ encounter with Nathaniel, this seeing is also knowing. Jesus identifies Nathaniel, saying something crucial about who he is. Nathaniel asks Jesus how he knew him, and Jesus replies, “I saw you under the fig tree.” When Nathaniel comes to know Jesus, naming him as the Son of God, Jesus replies, “You will see greater things than these.”
Seeing, knowing, believing. These three are all wrapped up together in John’s gospel, offering a complex sequence of how one comes to true faith in the one who is Jesus Christ. But it all begins with, “Come and see.” And our eyes are opened when we “stay” with Jesus as Andrew and the other disciple did.
This week’s lectionary readings.
The contrast between the presentation of John the Baptizer in Mark and the Gospel of John’s portrayal of him is striking. For one thing, in the fourth gospel, John doesn’t actually baptize Jesus. In addition, Jesus begins his public ministry before John’s arrest. There are other differences, too.
In this week’s gospel reading, we learn about who John is not. He is a witness, or testifier to Jesus Christ, but when asked who he is, whether he is the Messiah, or a prophet, or Elijah, he replies, “I am not.” Later in chapter 1, when John sees Jesus, he points to him and says twice, “Behold the Lamb of God.”
The gospel writer is concerned to heighten the difference between John the Baptizer and Jesus, to make clear that John is less important, but by writing in this way, he presents us with questions that, in a sense, we struggle with as Christians. Who is Jesus Christ? For all of the doctrinal formulations that attempted to fix and define Jesus Christ’s identity for all time, the question of who he is, for us as individuals and for our congregations presses itself on us.
How do we experience Jesus Christ? How does he come to us? How do we encounter him in our lives and in our world? We are often tempted, just like those who defined the doctrines of Jesus Christ’s nature, to fit him into a certain philosophical or theological framework. We are tempted, like those who asked John who he was, to try to fit our experience of Jesus Christ into certain pre-defined categories or terms. That’s the case all of the time, but it may be particularly true in this season, when we look for Jesus Christ’s coming in a manger in Bethlehem, and ignore other ways in which Jesus Christ comes to us.
The Gospel of John consistently asks, “Who is Jesus Christ?” As often as not, those who ask Jesus the question, “who are you?” have questions asked back of them, or experience Jesus shattering the categories they use to ask him.
Who is Jesus Christ? To ask that question in Advent is to invite two very different, and in some ways contradictory responses. He is the babe who is born in Bethlehem, but he is also to one who will come to usher in a new age. Those two answers force us to open ourselves up to contradictory and unsettling ways in which Jesus Christ comes to us. To be open to his coming, however it is he chooses to come, is one of the disciplines of Advent.
Preaching Grace on the Square 