Trinity Presbyterian Church of Bethesda
04.27.08; Rev. David Williams
Scripture Lesson: Acts 17:22-31
We really, really, wanted there to be life on Mars. It’s our next door neighbor here in the solar system, and the hope in the heady early days of astronomy was that it would prove to be the home to intelligent life. From the observations of early skywatchers, and through the lenses of the first telescopes, those first scientists saw...or thought they saw...evidence that Mars was not all that different from our own home planet.
One hundred years ago, in fact, a book was published by famed early American astronomer Percival Lowell. In 1908 he published a book compiled from a series of lectures, which was entitled “Mars as the Abode of Life.” From observations using the at that point in time, Lowell was convinced that Mars was crisscrossed with a series of canals, which were being used by the sentient beings who lived on Mars to water their increasingly dry desert world. The possibility of a whole new world, a new fantastic point of view from a strange and wonderful new set of non-human friends, well, it sparked the imaginations of a generation.
Of course, all of our hopes of making friends with our little green neighbors were quickly dashed. We soon learned that Mars had an incredibly thin atmosphere with essentially no oxygen. Early probes to Mars found a desolate place, just dust and bone-numbing cold and intense and human-cooking radiation. The only things moving under their own power on the Martian surface are our own amazingly resilient Mars Rovers, who continue to pluckily noodle around as part of their now multi-year mission.
Next month, NASA’s Phoenix robotic lander will arrive on Mars after a long cruise through interplanetary space. When that craft settles down and begins digging deep into the permafrost near the Martian poles, there’s still the hope we might find something, some evidence of there having been life on that harsh little world. If we find it, it’s likely to be bacterial or viral, some hardy little single-celled bug that you couldn’t kill with a stick.
But the odds are against it. It seems to be a dead world.
And maybe, maybe, that’s for the best. How would we even communicate with an alien species? For all of the many ways that we human beings have learned to talk and share with one another, we’re unbelievably bad at making ourselves understood, and at understanding others. Human history is chock full of the wreckage of society after society that simply couldn’t bring themselves to see other human beings as human beings. Mostly, our first reaction when we encounter someone who is unlike us is to try to figure out if we can kill ‘em before they kill us.
Even in the same country, speaking more or less the same language and sharing many of the same experiences, we human beings often have trouble really understanding one another. We’re not willing to see another point of view, or to have enough empathy or imagination to figure out what another person thinks or believes. Given our track record dealing with one another, it’s probably a good thing that Mars proved not to be brimming over with intelligent life. Communicating with other cultures...other species...other peoples...well, that’s just not our specialty.
Which brings us, strangely enough, to the Apostle Paul. This morning, we find Paul in Athens, a strange and distant land for a Jew from Tarsus. Athens was the philosophical and cultural center of the Greek-speaking world, a place seemingly far, far distant from the backwaters of Judea. In that city, Paul found himself in a largely alien culture, filled with the gods of a hundred cultures and ancient philosophies. Those who heard about what he’d been saying in the synagogue came and challenged him to speak about this Christ he was proclaiming. These weren’t the Jews in Athens, but the philosophers, the Stoics and the Epicureans, the ones who would have debated and discussed the meaning and life and existence. They want to hear more, to talk, to exchange ideas, and to try to understand and debate what Paul was telling them.
They brought him to the place where all strange and new things were discussed and debated, up to a great rock promontory in Athens, a hill known as the Areopagus. “Pagus” just means “hill,” and according the ancient storytelling of the Greek people, this was the hill on which the war god Ares was born. Ares, of course, is the same god the Romans called Mars.
So atop Mars Hill, Paul stood and defended his message about Jesus.
But how? How is Paul going to tell these people about Christ, who he believed was the Messiah? Even the word Messiah meant nothing to them. Could he quote to them from the Bible? Well, that would have been hard, for two reasons. First, the New Testament didn’t exist yet. Second, the Bible didn’t mean anything to these philosophers. You can’t just say, “Well, it’s in the Bible” to someone who doesn’t believe that the Bible is the Word of God.
So what did Paul do? Among the many gifts that Paul had been given was the gift of communication, of telling people who Jesus was in ways that they could understand. What Paul did was to explain Jesus using language that Stoic and Epicurean philosophers would have understood. Epicureans rejected the idea that temples or statues were magic or places of power, and Paul pointed out to them that the Christ he proclaimed didn’t have anything to do with temples or idols made of gold. Stoics believed in the creative power of the universe, which made all things but could not be easily understood by human beings, and so Paul told them about God as creator. In verse 28, Paul quotes two philosopher poets. We’re not sure where the first one comes from. But the second quote, “for we too are his offspring,” is a quote from the Stoic philosopher Aratus, who wrote three hundred years before Christ.
Paul connects with them, on their terms. He understands them, on their terms. He speaks to them, on their terms. What he doesn’t do is beat them over the head and shoulders with language that they can’t understand, like an American tourist who thinks that the best way to get you to understand English is just to speak louder. He has a sense for who they are, and how they need to hear the good news. Not all of his listeners agree. But some are willing to listen and hear more.
It’s a pity that the church often doesn’t approach people in the way that Paul did. Too often, churches expect everyone who is not part of church to think the same way and act the same way as they do. They go out into the world, out beyond the life and language of their community, and they expect it to be just like church. So they go out, and speaking the language of church and describing Jesus in churchy ways, and are amazed when people who live in a culture that is, increasingly, like another world, doesn’t respond.
A well meaning person who read about me on the web sent me a packet of tracts the other week, little pamphlets to hand out to share about Jesus. Every one of those tracts went like this: “The Bible says this.” “The Bible says that.” And there wasn’t a word there that I personally disagreed with. But if you’re handing that to a person who doesn’t yet personally know the grace and love and justice of Christ, you might as well be giving them a tract written in Martian.
Each of us is called to witness, called to proclaim the Gospel, and like Paul on Mars Hill, we’ve got to be sure to do so in a way that others can understand. That means we have to listen, to be aware, to have both compassion and understanding for those who may at first seem alien and different to us.
It’s important, because we’re still hoping that there might be life...real life in Christ...on this spiritually desolate and God-starved world.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Standing Beside Him
Trinity Presbyterian Church of Bethesda
04.20.08; Rev. David Williams
Scripture Lessons: Psalm 31; Acts 7:55-60
It’s not just flowers and motorcycles that come out this time of year. Now that the chill of winter has left the air...well...mostly left the air...and the yards across suburban America are filled with the sounds of mowers being cranked up, it’s time again for another of the great rituals of spring: teaching your kids how to ride a bike. Back in the fall, they were noodling around with training wheels, as those little hard plastic outrigger wheels spun and rattled along the ground. Then it got cold.
But now, they’re training-wheel free, and sitting nervously next to you on their little bike, pointing straight down a long open patch of sidewalk. You can feel their tentativeness and their lack of balance as they wobble next to you. You can’t let go for a moment, because they don’t have a clue how to keep themselves upright. The moment you step away from them...they’re goin’ down.
And so you tell them what to do. Just keep your balance. Look where you’re going. Keep pedaling. You tell them all the things that you know, all the things that you can think of about riding. But how can you share that feeling...now deep wired in you...of how to ride? You teach, you share, and then...well, then you start pushing them forward, telling them to pedal! pedal! pedal! while slowly increasing the pace until you’re at a modest run beside them, and then...you release.
And they wobble forwards, for an instant unaware that you aren’t with them, the centrifugal force of their wheels and their own movement providing the balance that you had provided. For a second or two or three they continue on, pedaling madly. And then they realize you’re not there, and they begin to tilt and teeter and drift off into hopefully grass and come crunching down in a pile of cycle and child.
After a few moments of trying to convince them that bruises and cuts build character, you’ve got them back up to try it again. Again, it’s your sense of balance that holds them up, your legs that help drive them forward, your voice that calls out from behind them, pedal! pedal! pedal! Look out for that bush! Oh....no...that’s gotta hurt...
This goes on for a while, but then there comes that moment when they suddenly, magically get it. Suddenly, they grasp what it is they’re supposed to be doing, usually without even thinking about it. Somewhere deep down inside, it’s clicked. You slow down, and fall behind, watching that small person takes off on their own, little legs pumping like mad, wobbly but moving off and away. They’ve got it.
It was like that when you learned yourself. It’s like that whenever you try to pass something on. You teach, you share...you witness..and then you hope that somehow, someway, the people you’re teaching will get it.
We get a hard story of witnessing today, a difficult moment, coming to us in the story of the death of Stephen.
Stephen is the first of the Christian martyrs. Being a martyr doesn’t necessarily mean dying, by the way. The word “martyr” just means “to witness,” so that was what he was doing. He was telling people about Jesus, about who he was and why he was so very important. Let’s just say that the conversation didn’t go so well. It ends with him being stoned to death, which generally isn’t a sign that people are receptive to your message.
But what is vitally important in looking at this brutal little story is not just the things that Stephen says to the increasingly hostile mob. It’s the way that he acts, and particularly, the way that the Book of Acts records his final moments. With a raging crowd surrounding him and casting stones, we read that Stephen does two things.
First, he asks Jesus to receive his Spirit. Why does this seem familiar? Well, it should seem familiar for two reasons. Together this morning, as this service began, we read from Psalm 31, and said “Into your hand, I commit my spirit.” But more significantly, what Stephen says in verse 59 should call something else to mind. Remembering that the Gospel of Luke and the Acts of the Apostles are all one book, when we look back to Luke 23:46, Jesus says the same thing to God just as he dies, calling upon that ancient song of praise...that very same verse in that very same Psalm...to invoke God’s eternal care.
Stephen does a second thing, making a statement that is recorded as his last words, and that thing is what sets his death aside as utterly and completely different from that of those so-called religious “martyrs” who kill themselves and others. As he falls to his knees, as life itself is being bludgeoned out of him, he doesn’t shout out curses or proclaim that God’ wrath will fall upon the infidels who are slaying him. He does precisely the opposite thing. He cries out, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”
That, too, should seem familiar. In calling for the forgiveness of those who are in the process of taking his life, he is doing precisely the same thing that we find, again, back in Luke’s Gospel. Luke 23:34 tells us that Jesus called out for God to forgive those who had crucified him. Again, in Stephen’s last words and last actions, we have a mirror of Christ’s own nature. Stephen...even in those last, horrible moments...shows us that he gets it. Somewhere deep inside him, something has clicked, and his witness and the manner of his life tell us that he’s really and truly grasped what Jesus lived and taught.
So...how are you doing? Few of us, God willing, will have to endure anything like what Stephen endured. But all of us live. All of us breathe. All of us understand...in principle...what a Christian life means. But being Christian goes beyond just agreeing to abide by a set of rules, or reading your Bible daily, or showing up here at 10:35 sharp every Sunday, or being in charge of this or that committee. It has much more to do with the degree to which the trajectory of your life has been changed by Christ.
Something important has been given to you, something that your life bears witness to. Your ability to forgive shows the world a sign of how you’ve learned, and how deeply you get it. Most of us don’t have to endure nails and stones...but how do we do with what we do endure? Your ability to show grace, grace to those who shout you down, grace to those who undercut or belittle you...this shows how deeply we get it. Yeah, maybe we’re a little wobbly. Maybe we’re a little unsure.
But it’s the whole reason He taught us in the first place, the whole reason he ran by our side, and the reason he smiles as he watches us get it.
04.20.08; Rev. David Williams
Scripture Lessons: Psalm 31; Acts 7:55-60
It’s not just flowers and motorcycles that come out this time of year. Now that the chill of winter has left the air...well...mostly left the air...and the yards across suburban America are filled with the sounds of mowers being cranked up, it’s time again for another of the great rituals of spring: teaching your kids how to ride a bike. Back in the fall, they were noodling around with training wheels, as those little hard plastic outrigger wheels spun and rattled along the ground. Then it got cold.
But now, they’re training-wheel free, and sitting nervously next to you on their little bike, pointing straight down a long open patch of sidewalk. You can feel their tentativeness and their lack of balance as they wobble next to you. You can’t let go for a moment, because they don’t have a clue how to keep themselves upright. The moment you step away from them...they’re goin’ down.
And so you tell them what to do. Just keep your balance. Look where you’re going. Keep pedaling. You tell them all the things that you know, all the things that you can think of about riding. But how can you share that feeling...now deep wired in you...of how to ride? You teach, you share, and then...well, then you start pushing them forward, telling them to pedal! pedal! pedal! while slowly increasing the pace until you’re at a modest run beside them, and then...you release.
And they wobble forwards, for an instant unaware that you aren’t with them, the centrifugal force of their wheels and their own movement providing the balance that you had provided. For a second or two or three they continue on, pedaling madly. And then they realize you’re not there, and they begin to tilt and teeter and drift off into hopefully grass and come crunching down in a pile of cycle and child.
After a few moments of trying to convince them that bruises and cuts build character, you’ve got them back up to try it again. Again, it’s your sense of balance that holds them up, your legs that help drive them forward, your voice that calls out from behind them, pedal! pedal! pedal! Look out for that bush! Oh....no...that’s gotta hurt...
This goes on for a while, but then there comes that moment when they suddenly, magically get it. Suddenly, they grasp what it is they’re supposed to be doing, usually without even thinking about it. Somewhere deep down inside, it’s clicked. You slow down, and fall behind, watching that small person takes off on their own, little legs pumping like mad, wobbly but moving off and away. They’ve got it.
It was like that when you learned yourself. It’s like that whenever you try to pass something on. You teach, you share...you witness..and then you hope that somehow, someway, the people you’re teaching will get it.
We get a hard story of witnessing today, a difficult moment, coming to us in the story of the death of Stephen.
Stephen is the first of the Christian martyrs. Being a martyr doesn’t necessarily mean dying, by the way. The word “martyr” just means “to witness,” so that was what he was doing. He was telling people about Jesus, about who he was and why he was so very important. Let’s just say that the conversation didn’t go so well. It ends with him being stoned to death, which generally isn’t a sign that people are receptive to your message.
But what is vitally important in looking at this brutal little story is not just the things that Stephen says to the increasingly hostile mob. It’s the way that he acts, and particularly, the way that the Book of Acts records his final moments. With a raging crowd surrounding him and casting stones, we read that Stephen does two things.
First, he asks Jesus to receive his Spirit. Why does this seem familiar? Well, it should seem familiar for two reasons. Together this morning, as this service began, we read from Psalm 31, and said “Into your hand, I commit my spirit.” But more significantly, what Stephen says in verse 59 should call something else to mind. Remembering that the Gospel of Luke and the Acts of the Apostles are all one book, when we look back to Luke 23:46, Jesus says the same thing to God just as he dies, calling upon that ancient song of praise...that very same verse in that very same Psalm...to invoke God’s eternal care.
Stephen does a second thing, making a statement that is recorded as his last words, and that thing is what sets his death aside as utterly and completely different from that of those so-called religious “martyrs” who kill themselves and others. As he falls to his knees, as life itself is being bludgeoned out of him, he doesn’t shout out curses or proclaim that God’ wrath will fall upon the infidels who are slaying him. He does precisely the opposite thing. He cries out, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.”
That, too, should seem familiar. In calling for the forgiveness of those who are in the process of taking his life, he is doing precisely the same thing that we find, again, back in Luke’s Gospel. Luke 23:34 tells us that Jesus called out for God to forgive those who had crucified him. Again, in Stephen’s last words and last actions, we have a mirror of Christ’s own nature. Stephen...even in those last, horrible moments...shows us that he gets it. Somewhere deep inside him, something has clicked, and his witness and the manner of his life tell us that he’s really and truly grasped what Jesus lived and taught.
So...how are you doing? Few of us, God willing, will have to endure anything like what Stephen endured. But all of us live. All of us breathe. All of us understand...in principle...what a Christian life means. But being Christian goes beyond just agreeing to abide by a set of rules, or reading your Bible daily, or showing up here at 10:35 sharp every Sunday, or being in charge of this or that committee. It has much more to do with the degree to which the trajectory of your life has been changed by Christ.
Something important has been given to you, something that your life bears witness to. Your ability to forgive shows the world a sign of how you’ve learned, and how deeply you get it. Most of us don’t have to endure nails and stones...but how do we do with what we do endure? Your ability to show grace, grace to those who shout you down, grace to those who undercut or belittle you...this shows how deeply we get it. Yeah, maybe we’re a little wobbly. Maybe we’re a little unsure.
But it’s the whole reason He taught us in the first place, the whole reason he ran by our side, and the reason he smiles as he watches us get it.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
I Didn’t See Him
Trinity Presbyterian Church of Bethesda
04.06.08; Rev. David Williams
Scripture Lesson: Luke 24:13-35
Though we hardly had any Winter to speak of, it’s finally over. Spring is coming, budding up green and fresh out of the damp earth. A few short weeks ago, the trees were just dark bony fingers scratching across the sky, and the grass was dull and faded. But now, those seemingly lifeless branches bear the swelling fuzz of new life, and the grass courses with green chlorophyll blood. It’s a wonderful time of year, and the signs of it are everywhere.
There’s another sign of the season, though, one that always fills my heart with rejoicing. Suddenly, for the first time in what always seems like forever, I’m not the only person out there on a motorcycle. Starting in late September, all the other bikes out there just wilt away, falling off the roads like frost-browned leaves. By November, they’re pretty much all tucked away for their winter hibernation...but in April they spring forth like a great riot of sun-bright daffodils, that is, if daffodils weighed 400 pounds, were made of steel and alloy, and could run the quarter mile in under 11 seconds.
That’d be wonderful, but that sign of the season always comes with another sign, one that’s always hard to see. Here and there, scattered throughout the local news sections and briefly mentioned during the traffic reports, come the stories of motorcycle accidents. Sometimes, it’s because of an error made by the inexperienced guy who let the dangerous cocktail of ego, testosterone and a 150 horsepower crotch-rocket get ahead of his sense of self-preservation. Sometimes, it’s because of the error made by the guy whose midlife crisis drove him to buy himself a $25,000 Harley laden down with 700 extra pounds of chrome, but who hadn’t thrown a leg over a bike in 20 years. But mostly, it’s because the roads are filled with people piloting cars and SUVs who aren’t aware. They just don’t see the motorcycle. They aren’t paying attention. These four words are the most feared in all of motorcycling:
“I Didn’t See Him.”
So right now, as a public service only partly motivated by my selfish desire to not be squashed flat by any members of my congregation, I’m going to administer a short driver awareness test, one prepared by the the British government to test the perceptual skills of anyone planning on being behind the wheel. You’re going to see a video of two teams, one dressed in white, one dressed in black. To simulate the chaos of an urban road environment, they’re going to move in and out, each team passing a ball around. Here’s the test question: How many completed passes does the white team make? This isn’t easy, any more than driving in the city is easy. Watch the white team’s ball closely, stop the video as soon as they stop passing, and remember, your pastor’s life might be at stake:
Alright. Let’s see how you did. How many of you saw the white team make 11 passes? OK. How many of you saw the white team make 12 passes? OK. How many of you saw them make 13 passes? OK. The white team did make 13 passes. Good job!
But here’s another question. How many of you saw the guy dressed in a bear suit breakdancing through the crowd? Yes. Yes there was. I’m not kidding. Let’s take another look, why don’t we?
Why didn’t you see this before? If you didn’t, the reason is simple. It isn’t that you weren’t concentrating. You were. But you were concentrating on other things. You weren’t looking for the unexpected. Neither was I, the first time I watched it. You and I were both so blinded by our expectations that we didn’t see him.
In that, you and I share the same blindness of the two disciples who walked along that road to Emmaus. They knew that Jesus had been a great and holy man. They’d heard stories that his body no longer lay in the tomb,...but the people who’d reported that were just women. And they actually said they saw angels who proclaimed he’d risen again! What sort of self-respecting man pays any attention to hysterical women and their crazy stories?
As they walked along, they’re met by a stranger, who seems strangely ignorant of the death of the one they had hoped was their messiah. They talked, and the stranger seemed oddly irritated, and proceeded to talk to them about their Jesus in a way that showed them that he knew everything about Christ. When they’d reached Emmaus, he seemed ready to go elsewhere, but they beg him to stay with them through the evening.
Then it was dinner, and the stranger broke bread, and suddenly, suddenly, the minds of the disciples skimmed back to that moment, that memory, captured by Luke’s Gospel in Luke 22:19: “Then he took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying: ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’” At that moment, they suddenly saw things differently. Their expectations changed. Their perceptions changed, their worries and their anxieties lifted, and they suddenly realized who was there with them.
We are no different. Our expectations are often not driven a real awareness of what God is doing in our lives. They’re driven instead by our busyness and the things we’ve come to expect. We’re not able to see past that, not able to open our eyes to something totally, radically, completely new.
That is true in our lives, but it is doubly, deeply, and painfully true in our churches. Right here, right in this place, where Jesus should be completely evident, we manage to get ourselves distracted by countless expectations. We become focused on church as a place to socialize. We become focused on church as an institution with a building. We become focused on our programs and ministries and all of the busyness and spiritual clutter that can fill our every waking moment with bustling and frantic activity. Church can become our road to Emmaus, a long path we walk down with a stranger at our side. It can happen, if we allow the distractions to consume us. As we reach the end of that path, will we find we’ve been so concentrating on other things? Will we be so consumed by what is that at journey’s end, we’ll say...what? He was with us? The whole time?
That’s so weird. I didn’t see him.
04.06.08; Rev. David Williams
Scripture Lesson: Luke 24:13-35
Though we hardly had any Winter to speak of, it’s finally over. Spring is coming, budding up green and fresh out of the damp earth. A few short weeks ago, the trees were just dark bony fingers scratching across the sky, and the grass was dull and faded. But now, those seemingly lifeless branches bear the swelling fuzz of new life, and the grass courses with green chlorophyll blood. It’s a wonderful time of year, and the signs of it are everywhere.
There’s another sign of the season, though, one that always fills my heart with rejoicing. Suddenly, for the first time in what always seems like forever, I’m not the only person out there on a motorcycle. Starting in late September, all the other bikes out there just wilt away, falling off the roads like frost-browned leaves. By November, they’re pretty much all tucked away for their winter hibernation...but in April they spring forth like a great riot of sun-bright daffodils, that is, if daffodils weighed 400 pounds, were made of steel and alloy, and could run the quarter mile in under 11 seconds.
That’d be wonderful, but that sign of the season always comes with another sign, one that’s always hard to see. Here and there, scattered throughout the local news sections and briefly mentioned during the traffic reports, come the stories of motorcycle accidents. Sometimes, it’s because of an error made by the inexperienced guy who let the dangerous cocktail of ego, testosterone and a 150 horsepower crotch-rocket get ahead of his sense of self-preservation. Sometimes, it’s because of the error made by the guy whose midlife crisis drove him to buy himself a $25,000 Harley laden down with 700 extra pounds of chrome, but who hadn’t thrown a leg over a bike in 20 years. But mostly, it’s because the roads are filled with people piloting cars and SUVs who aren’t aware. They just don’t see the motorcycle. They aren’t paying attention. These four words are the most feared in all of motorcycling:
“I Didn’t See Him.”
So right now, as a public service only partly motivated by my selfish desire to not be squashed flat by any members of my congregation, I’m going to administer a short driver awareness test, one prepared by the the British government to test the perceptual skills of anyone planning on being behind the wheel. You’re going to see a video of two teams, one dressed in white, one dressed in black. To simulate the chaos of an urban road environment, they’re going to move in and out, each team passing a ball around. Here’s the test question: How many completed passes does the white team make? This isn’t easy, any more than driving in the city is easy. Watch the white team’s ball closely, stop the video as soon as they stop passing, and remember, your pastor’s life might be at stake:
Alright. Let’s see how you did. How many of you saw the white team make 11 passes? OK. How many of you saw the white team make 12 passes? OK. How many of you saw them make 13 passes? OK. The white team did make 13 passes. Good job!
But here’s another question. How many of you saw the guy dressed in a bear suit breakdancing through the crowd? Yes. Yes there was. I’m not kidding. Let’s take another look, why don’t we?
Why didn’t you see this before? If you didn’t, the reason is simple. It isn’t that you weren’t concentrating. You were. But you were concentrating on other things. You weren’t looking for the unexpected. Neither was I, the first time I watched it. You and I were both so blinded by our expectations that we didn’t see him.
In that, you and I share the same blindness of the two disciples who walked along that road to Emmaus. They knew that Jesus had been a great and holy man. They’d heard stories that his body no longer lay in the tomb,...but the people who’d reported that were just women. And they actually said they saw angels who proclaimed he’d risen again! What sort of self-respecting man pays any attention to hysterical women and their crazy stories?
As they walked along, they’re met by a stranger, who seems strangely ignorant of the death of the one they had hoped was their messiah. They talked, and the stranger seemed oddly irritated, and proceeded to talk to them about their Jesus in a way that showed them that he knew everything about Christ. When they’d reached Emmaus, he seemed ready to go elsewhere, but they beg him to stay with them through the evening.
Then it was dinner, and the stranger broke bread, and suddenly, suddenly, the minds of the disciples skimmed back to that moment, that memory, captured by Luke’s Gospel in Luke 22:19: “Then he took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying: ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’” At that moment, they suddenly saw things differently. Their expectations changed. Their perceptions changed, their worries and their anxieties lifted, and they suddenly realized who was there with them.
We are no different. Our expectations are often not driven a real awareness of what God is doing in our lives. They’re driven instead by our busyness and the things we’ve come to expect. We’re not able to see past that, not able to open our eyes to something totally, radically, completely new.
That is true in our lives, but it is doubly, deeply, and painfully true in our churches. Right here, right in this place, where Jesus should be completely evident, we manage to get ourselves distracted by countless expectations. We become focused on church as a place to socialize. We become focused on church as an institution with a building. We become focused on our programs and ministries and all of the busyness and spiritual clutter that can fill our every waking moment with bustling and frantic activity. Church can become our road to Emmaus, a long path we walk down with a stranger at our side. It can happen, if we allow the distractions to consume us. As we reach the end of that path, will we find we’ve been so concentrating on other things? Will we be so consumed by what is that at journey’s end, we’ll say...what? He was with us? The whole time?
That’s so weird. I didn’t see him.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Send/Receive
Trinity Presbyterian Church of Bethesda
03.30.08; Rev. David Williams
Scripture Lesson: John 20:19-31
We breathe in, we breathe out. It’s a simple and basic part of our existence, so simple that we don’t really even think about it. The muscles of our diaphragm contract, and pull air deep into our lungs. The muscles of our diaphragm relax, and the air is released. That action happens between 8-15 times a minute, around 17,000 times a day. We do it mostly without thinking, without thought, and we do it alot.
We can control it, sure. You can breathe really really fast...but if you keep that up, you’ll hyperventilate and pass out. You can stop your breathing entirely for a while......but that ends up having the same effect. For breathing to work, we have to take the air in, and give the air out. We receive it, and we send it. We send it, and we receive it. If we don’t, we die.
Our lungs are partnered with our heart, which functions in a similar way. The oxygen taken in by our lungs enters our blood, and needs to get out to the body. Our heart is like the heart of any other mammal, and has four chambers. The left atrium receives oxygen rich blood, and the left ventricle sends that blood to the body. The right atrium receives the oxygen-depleted blood back, and the right ventricle sends it back to the lungs. All this happens without our thinking, 72 times a minute, 2.5 billion times over an average lifetime. Receiving and sending, sending and receiving. It’s absolutely necessary if we are to live.
Breathing and sending and receiving are at the heart of what Jesus was proclaiming in today’s passage from the Gospel of John. This little chunk of John’s Gospel is full of intriguing stories, like, for instance, the description of the doubts that Thomas felt and Christ’s response, as He told us what it meant to believe.
If you read it closely, you might also notice that this was probably the point where some early version of John’s Gospel actually ended. Take a look at the last two verses, at John 20:30-31. Those verses read like the conclusion of a book. They wrap things up, telling us that there were other witnesses to Christ, and telling us why John’s Gospel was written. Of course, after that, we get a whole ‘nutha chapter...but that’s fine. It’s just part of the story..one of the “many other signs”...that was remembered later, and that they absolutely had to include.
But what I want to raise up about this final section of John’s Gospel has everything to do with sending and receiving. The story comes after the resurrection, after Mary had met the risen Jesus in the garden. It’s John’s post-Easter story, but when we encounter the disciples, we don’t find them happy and uplifted and never wanting to see another chocolate bunny again. Instead, they are frightened and isolated, huddled behind locked doors and unwilling to move out into a world that has just taken the life of the rabbi that they loved.
Suddenly, Jesus is among them. He just is, right there, in the flesh. Though they’ve closed ranks, he works his way among them. They are, understandably, overjoyed.
But his arrival isn’t without purpose. First, he offers them his shalom, his peace. Then he tells them that peace will be with them a second time. Having promised them peace, he presents them with a challenge. They’ve received him in. They’ve been filled with rejoicing at his impossible presence.
So he tells them this: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” He has found them holed up, locked away, and he wants them out in the world. This is, as John’s Gospel tells it, the equivalent of the Great Commission. Get out there. Be sent, as I was sent.
And then Jesus breathes on them. It’s not something that we’d usually expect someone to do when they’ve asked us to do something. Giving marching orders? Sure. Giving instructions? Fine. Pointing us to the door and telling us not to let it whap us in the behind on the way out? We’d expect that. But Jesus breathes on them.
In the Greek that John’s Gospel uses to tell the story of Christ, of course, the words for “breath” and the words for “spirit” are the same. So out flows Christ’s breath, and it carries with it the words “Receive the Holy Spirit.” Having given them the breath and the spirit, Jesus then makes a radical statement. He tells them that they have been charged with the ability to forgive or retain sins. That’s an odd mirror of such passages as Luke 7:49, where people can’t believe that Jesus would have the audacity to forgive sins himself. But remember, right here Christ is sending them, just as he was sent, using the same Spirit, the same breath, the same hope, the same Gospel.
Just as He also sends us. That is a difficult thing to grasp here, even if we are sorta right in the middle of a church. I mean, here we are on Sunday, as always. We’re doing the stuff we do, praising and worshiping and eating Cheez Doodles afterwards. We listen to passages like this and we think, great! Good for them. I’m so glad Jesus sent them!
But passages like this aren’t meant to be heard as referring to some long distant time, or as being intended only for the ones gathered there in that room. They are spoken just as directly to us. It is we who need to receive them, we who need to know that we are sent, we who need to feel the warm sweetness of that breath upon our brow.
And if we can allow ourselves to be grasped by that truth, then we have to ask ourselves...having received this Spirit, having been entrusted with this Spirit and this calling...what are we supposed to do?
What we cannot do is hold it in. We can’t just receive and receive and receive and not send it out ourselves, any more than lungs can fill themselves with air and not breathe it out, or a heart can fill with blood and not send it on. Holding it back, keeping it to ourselves, trying to grasp it and keep it...none of these things can lead to our own spiritual life. If we receive only, and do not act and send...we’ve missed the point.
How do we send? Being willing to share our faith, to speak it and breathe it out into the world...these things are important. But we also have to be able to live and act in such a way that those who hear us talk about our faith know that we aren’t holding back.
Take, for simple instance, Christ’s affirmation that we are empowered to forgive. Sure, we can also retain sins, keeping a careful log of all the ways that we have been wronged or slighted or disrespected. We can do that. Problem is, most of us were doing a great job of that before Jesus came along. Human beings have that one down pat.
Do those around you...and *particularly* those you’ve gotten into disagreements with, who are on your bad side...have any idea that you’ve been given the power to forgive? We’ve all received that forgiveness ourselves, from the one whom we crucified...all of us...with the nails of our selfishness and the hammer of our hatred. But do we give that forgiveness out in return...or do we sop it up like a heart that refuses to beat, or a chest that refuses to breathe?
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Receive.
Send.
It’s as simple as living.
03.30.08; Rev. David Williams
Scripture Lesson: John 20:19-31
We breathe in, we breathe out. It’s a simple and basic part of our existence, so simple that we don’t really even think about it. The muscles of our diaphragm contract, and pull air deep into our lungs. The muscles of our diaphragm relax, and the air is released. That action happens between 8-15 times a minute, around 17,000 times a day. We do it mostly without thinking, without thought, and we do it alot.
We can control it, sure. You can breathe really really fast...but if you keep that up, you’ll hyperventilate and pass out. You can stop your breathing entirely for a while......but that ends up having the same effect. For breathing to work, we have to take the air in, and give the air out. We receive it, and we send it. We send it, and we receive it. If we don’t, we die.
Our lungs are partnered with our heart, which functions in a similar way. The oxygen taken in by our lungs enters our blood, and needs to get out to the body. Our heart is like the heart of any other mammal, and has four chambers. The left atrium receives oxygen rich blood, and the left ventricle sends that blood to the body. The right atrium receives the oxygen-depleted blood back, and the right ventricle sends it back to the lungs. All this happens without our thinking, 72 times a minute, 2.5 billion times over an average lifetime. Receiving and sending, sending and receiving. It’s absolutely necessary if we are to live.
Breathing and sending and receiving are at the heart of what Jesus was proclaiming in today’s passage from the Gospel of John. This little chunk of John’s Gospel is full of intriguing stories, like, for instance, the description of the doubts that Thomas felt and Christ’s response, as He told us what it meant to believe.
If you read it closely, you might also notice that this was probably the point where some early version of John’s Gospel actually ended. Take a look at the last two verses, at John 20:30-31. Those verses read like the conclusion of a book. They wrap things up, telling us that there were other witnesses to Christ, and telling us why John’s Gospel was written. Of course, after that, we get a whole ‘nutha chapter...but that’s fine. It’s just part of the story..one of the “many other signs”...that was remembered later, and that they absolutely had to include.
But what I want to raise up about this final section of John’s Gospel has everything to do with sending and receiving. The story comes after the resurrection, after Mary had met the risen Jesus in the garden. It’s John’s post-Easter story, but when we encounter the disciples, we don’t find them happy and uplifted and never wanting to see another chocolate bunny again. Instead, they are frightened and isolated, huddled behind locked doors and unwilling to move out into a world that has just taken the life of the rabbi that they loved.
Suddenly, Jesus is among them. He just is, right there, in the flesh. Though they’ve closed ranks, he works his way among them. They are, understandably, overjoyed.
But his arrival isn’t without purpose. First, he offers them his shalom, his peace. Then he tells them that peace will be with them a second time. Having promised them peace, he presents them with a challenge. They’ve received him in. They’ve been filled with rejoicing at his impossible presence.
So he tells them this: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” He has found them holed up, locked away, and he wants them out in the world. This is, as John’s Gospel tells it, the equivalent of the Great Commission. Get out there. Be sent, as I was sent.
And then Jesus breathes on them. It’s not something that we’d usually expect someone to do when they’ve asked us to do something. Giving marching orders? Sure. Giving instructions? Fine. Pointing us to the door and telling us not to let it whap us in the behind on the way out? We’d expect that. But Jesus breathes on them.
In the Greek that John’s Gospel uses to tell the story of Christ, of course, the words for “breath” and the words for “spirit” are the same. So out flows Christ’s breath, and it carries with it the words “Receive the Holy Spirit.” Having given them the breath and the spirit, Jesus then makes a radical statement. He tells them that they have been charged with the ability to forgive or retain sins. That’s an odd mirror of such passages as Luke 7:49, where people can’t believe that Jesus would have the audacity to forgive sins himself. But remember, right here Christ is sending them, just as he was sent, using the same Spirit, the same breath, the same hope, the same Gospel.
Just as He also sends us. That is a difficult thing to grasp here, even if we are sorta right in the middle of a church. I mean, here we are on Sunday, as always. We’re doing the stuff we do, praising and worshiping and eating Cheez Doodles afterwards. We listen to passages like this and we think, great! Good for them. I’m so glad Jesus sent them!
But passages like this aren’t meant to be heard as referring to some long distant time, or as being intended only for the ones gathered there in that room. They are spoken just as directly to us. It is we who need to receive them, we who need to know that we are sent, we who need to feel the warm sweetness of that breath upon our brow.
And if we can allow ourselves to be grasped by that truth, then we have to ask ourselves...having received this Spirit, having been entrusted with this Spirit and this calling...what are we supposed to do?
What we cannot do is hold it in. We can’t just receive and receive and receive and not send it out ourselves, any more than lungs can fill themselves with air and not breathe it out, or a heart can fill with blood and not send it on. Holding it back, keeping it to ourselves, trying to grasp it and keep it...none of these things can lead to our own spiritual life. If we receive only, and do not act and send...we’ve missed the point.
How do we send? Being willing to share our faith, to speak it and breathe it out into the world...these things are important. But we also have to be able to live and act in such a way that those who hear us talk about our faith know that we aren’t holding back.
Take, for simple instance, Christ’s affirmation that we are empowered to forgive. Sure, we can also retain sins, keeping a careful log of all the ways that we have been wronged or slighted or disrespected. We can do that. Problem is, most of us were doing a great job of that before Jesus came along. Human beings have that one down pat.
Do those around you...and *particularly* those you’ve gotten into disagreements with, who are on your bad side...have any idea that you’ve been given the power to forgive? We’ve all received that forgiveness ourselves, from the one whom we crucified...all of us...with the nails of our selfishness and the hammer of our hatred. But do we give that forgiveness out in return...or do we sop it up like a heart that refuses to beat, or a chest that refuses to breathe?
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Receive.
Send.
It’s as simple as living.
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