Our reading today is from Exodus 32.

Exodus 32:1-20 & 30-35

When the people saw that Moses delayed to come down from the mountain, the people gathered around Aaron and said to him, “Come, make gods for us, who shall go before us; as for this Moses, the man who brought us up out of the land of Egypt, we do not know what has become of him.” Aaron said to them, “Take off the gold rings that are on the ears of your wives, your sons, and your daughters and bring them to me.” So all the people took off the gold rings from their ears and brought them to Aaron. He took these from them, formed them in a mold, and cast an image of a calf, and they said, “These are your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt!” When Aaron saw this, he built an altar before it, and Aaron made a proclamation and said, “Tomorrow shall be a festival to the Lord.” They rose early the next day and offered burnt offerings and brought sacrifices of well-being, and the people sat down to eat and drink and rose up to revel.

The Lord said to Moses, “Go down at once! Your people, whom you brought up out of the land of Egypt, have acted perversely; they have been quick to turn aside from the way that I commanded them; they have cast for themselves an image of a calf and have worshiped it and sacrificed to it and said, ‘These are your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt!’ ” The Lord said to Moses, “I have seen this people, how stiff-necked they are. Now let me alone so that my wrath may burn hot against them and I may consume them, and of you I will make a great nation.”

But Moses implored the Lord his God and said, “O Lord, why does your wrath burn hot against your people, whom you brought out of the land of Egypt with great power and with a mighty hand? Why should the Egyptians say, ‘It was with evil intent that he brought them out to kill them in the mountains and to consume them from the face of the earth’? Turn from your fierce wrath; change your mind and do not bring disaster on your people. Remember Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, your servants, how you swore to them by your own self, saying to them, ‘I will multiply your descendants like the stars of heaven, and all this land that I have promised I will give to your descendants, and they shall inherit it forever.’ ” And the Lord changed his mind about the disaster that he planned to bring on his people.

Then Moses turned and went down from the mountain, carrying the two tablets of the covenant in his hands, tablets that were written on both sides, written on the front and on the back. The tablets were the work of God, and the writing was the writing of God, engraved upon the tablets. When Joshua heard the noise of the people as they shouted, he said to Moses, “There is a noise of war in the camp.” But he said,

“It is not the sound made by victors
or the sound made by losers;
it is the sound of singing that I hear.”

As soon as he came near the camp and saw the calf and the dancing, Moses’s anger burned hot, and he threw the tablets from his hands and broke them at the foot of the mountain. He took the calf that they had made, burned it with fire, ground it to powder, scattered it on the water, and made the Israelites drink it.

On the next day Moses said to the people, “You have sinned a great sin. But now I will go up to the Lord; perhaps I can make atonement for your sin.” So Moses returned to the Lord and said, “Alas, this people has sinned a great sin; they have made for themselves gods of gold. But now, if you will only forgive their sin—but if not, please blot me out of the book that you have written.” But the Lord said to Moses, “Whoever has sinned against me I will blot out of my book. But now go, lead the people to the place about which I have spoken to you; see, my angel shall go in front of you. Nevertheless, when the day for punishment comes, I will punish them for their sin.”

Then the Lord sent a plague on the people, because they made the calf—the one that Aaron had made.

For the Word of God in scripture,
For the Word of God among us,
For the Word of God within us,
Thanks be to God.

***

There is an old Jewish teaching, which is almost like a koan. You all know what a koan is right? In Zen Buddhism, a koan is a thought or question which has no real answer, but which helps your mind concentrate and focus. The classic example is What is the sound of one hand clapping? Though koans are usually more profound than corny.  So the ancient rabbis, their koan, they wondered if God prays? And if so, what is it that God prays for?

But instead of leaving this koan unanswered, the rabbis attempt to fill in the blank. Their answer? God prays that God’s own mercy will outweigh and outlast God’s anger.

We see the struggle between divine mercy and divine anger in today’s passage. Moses, who at God’s sending, helped free the people from captivity in Egypt, led them out into the wilderness, has gone off on some sort of silent retreat. But really, we know that he is up the mountain receiving the Torah, the ten commandments from God. The rabbis say that the Torah is a gift of love from God to God’s people, but like an impatient child at Christmas or their birthday, the people can’t wait to open their gift. Actually, it is really Moses that they are missing. After all, it is Moses who has led them all this way.

Well, again, it is God through Moses, but practically speaking Moses is their connection to God. To them, no Moses, no God. And Moses has left them on their own for 40 days. One ancient commentator postulated, “How late was Moses after 40 days?” Six hours! Just six hours!

They have only been waiting six hours before they lose their ever-loving minds. But that just shows their level of anticipation, their level of dependence on Moses. And so fearing that Moses, and by proxy God, has permanently abandoned them after only six hours, they seek comfort in the next best thing, Moses’ brother Aaron. They go to Aaron and say, “Come, make god’s for us.”

Now if we were to pause here and speculate about Aaron’s response, I am guessing most of us would say that Aaron would refuse their request, remind them that the God of Moses, of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the one true God, and that God alone, led them out of Egypt.

Instead, Aaron says, collect all your gold rings, all your gold jewelry and melt it down so we can build a golden statue. What? I mean, I get the impatience of the people. They only seem to have a tenuous grip on what is going on, but Aaron? Aaron is Moses’ brother; he is part of the inner circle. Surely, he should know better!

But before we throw Aaron under the bus too hard, let me point out one redeeming factor: the people ask Aaron to produce for them gods, the generic Elohim in Hebrew. Aaron responds with the name Adonai, which is a direct reference to the God of Moses. So essentially, Aaron consents to the overwhelming need of the people to connect with something greater, but he does not help them build a statue to replace God, rather he does so as a substitute for Moses.

You see, what Aaron fails to recognize is that God acts through people, not inanimate objects like statues, even statues made of gold. God has used Moses, but God can use Aaron too. God can use any of us.

One of the fundamental claims of our faith is that God chooses not to be God without us. Presumably God could have. God didn’t have to create all that is, but God chose to. God could have just created beings which would do God’s will, no questions asked, but God chose to create beings that are free to make their own choices, free to experience joy and pain, love and loss.

Too often life makes us question, what kind of God would allow innocent people to suffer, children to die, disease, war, violence? What kind of God? The only answer I know to that question, and I admit it is not the one we are looking for, one that brings great comfort, is that it is a God who doesn’t want robots as children, but is willing to risk giving us freedom, which means the freedom to experience all the ups and downs. Because love is not love if it is forced or coerced.

So really, in this story, what we have is the sting and pain of rejection that God feels when the people God has chosen, so quickly abandon them and seek comfort elsewhere. The text tells us that God speaks to Moses saying, “I have seen this people, how stiff-necked they are. Now let me alone so that my wrath may burn hot against them and I may consume them, and of you I will make a great nation.”

There is a lot going on in this short passage. God is clearly upset. We get that. But then God tells Moses to leave God alone so that God’s wrath may burn hot. In other words, God knows that Moses will try to talk God out of it. But not only does God tell Moses to leave them along, God makes Moses an offer. If Moses lets him wipe out the people again, like we are told happened in the great flood, God will appoint Moses as the new Noah, the new Abraham. He will raise up a new people, a new nation, through Moses. It is a temptation not unlike that which Jesus faces in the desert.

But Moses is the hero of this story. He refuses to give in to temptation. He refuses to leave God alone to stew in his anger. Moses argues with God and reminds God of God’s own compassion and mercy. And then we get this gold nugget: “And the Lord changed his mind about the disaster that he planned to bring on his people.”

Moses won the argument. God is persuaded. Mercy wins. Love wins. Anger subsides. God’s own prayer is answered and God acts out of compassion, not judgment.

The picture that emerges from this text is that the relationship between God and humanity, between God and creation is much more of a two-way street than we may have been at first led to believe. If God chooses not to be God without us, if God wants a genuine, not forced or coerced relationship with us, if God gives us the freedom to choose, then God also chooses not to remain far off and distant. The god we first met, the god who is in charge of everything, and makes everything happen, who has us like puppets on a string, well it turns out, according to the biblical witness that this god may be as false as the golden calf the people built at the foot of Sinai. This god may be one we invented to absolve ourselves from responsibility. We say, God is in charge. God will fix it. If it happened, it must be God’s will. As pious as these sound, they are golden calves of our own making.

The true God, Adonai, the God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, the God of Moses, the God of Jesus Christ, is not a bully or a tyrant, but a partner. And arguing with God, disputing with God, is not blasphemy, but the living out of that relationship. Notice who in the text argues with God. It is not, as we often suppose, those who are against God, those who are far off. It is Moses, God’s own right-hand man in this scene. The one closest to God, who trusts God. Disputing with God is a sign of faith!

What does God pray for? I might answer that question a little different than those ancient rabbis. I think God prays for us to love God and to love one another, the way that God loves us. And that, I believe, is beyond dispute. Amen.

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Our reading today comes from Paul’s letter to the Philippians, chapter one.

A few weeks ago, we read from the book of Acts about when Paul and Silas visited Philippi in northern Greece, where they ran into some trouble, but ultimately ended up kind of winning some folks over. It is believed that the church in Philippi is among the first that Paul founded in Europe, and it was thought that that’s around the year 50.

Then scholars debate over whether it was a couple years later or a full decade later that Paul writes — as is his practice once he’s founded a church — he writes a letter, or multiple letters, to a particular church.

So this is the beginning of his letter to the church in Philippi:

Philippians 1: 1-18

Paul and Timothy, servants of Christ Jesus,

To all God’s holy people in Christ Jesus at Philippi, together with the overseers and deacons:
Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. 

I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.

It is right for me to feel this way about all of you, since I have you in my heart and, whether I am in chains or defending and confirming the gospel, all of you share in God’s grace with me. God can testify how I long for all of you with the affection of Christ Jesus.

And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless for the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ—to the glory and praise of God.

Now I want you to know, brothers and sisters, that what has happened to me has actually served to advance the gospel. As a result, it has become clear throughout the whole palace guard and to everyone else that I am in chains for Christ. And because of my chains, most of the brothers and sisters have become confident in the Lord and dare all the more to proclaim the gospel without fear.

It is true that some preach Christ out of envy and rivalry, but others out of goodwill. The latter do so out of love, knowing that I am put here for the defense of the gospel. The former preach Christ out of selfish ambition, not sincerely, supposing that they can stir up trouble for me while I am in chains. But what does it matter? The important thing is that in every way, whether from false motives or true, Christ is preached. And because of this I rejoice.

For the Word of God in scripture,
For the Word of God among us,
For the Word of God within us,
Thanks be to God.

***

You’d think that Paul wouldn’t remember Philippi so fondly. Last time he was there, a possessed woman would not leave him alone, and he was arrested and flogged in the public square, jailed overnight, and experienced an earthquake.

Paul could have spent his time complaining about his treatment during his stay there. But instead, he writes, “I thank God every time I remember you.”

Timothy Atkins Jones writes, “The exuberance of Paul’s gratitude flows from their history. He prays with joy because their relationship has endured many years of struggle.” Strangers have become friends. Even former opponents, such as his jailer, have become friends — and not just friends, but partners in the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Atkins points out “the community has demonstrated their commitment to Paul by providing the resources necessary for his work. They’ve invested materially in Paul’s ministry. Beyond merely encouraging him in the good work, they underwrote it.”

And here, even as he writes, Paul is once again imprisoned. But as we have witnessed before, this does not slow him down or deter him.

When he was in Philippi and in prison with Silas, they prayed and sang hymns. They preached to their fellow prisoners. Now again in prison, Paul uses the time to write to the Christian community in Philippi, even as he preaches to his current captors.

Paul is singularly focused. Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard famously wrote that purity of heart is to will one thing.

Buddhist practitioner and teacher Bodhi Pascua writes, “To will one thing means to have a mind that is unifying around an organizing principle that gives our lives meaning.”

He writes, “I believe that we all attempt to find such an organizing principle. We choose one thing that is for us the most important thing in our lives.”

For Paul, it is preaching and spreading of the gospel. But he could not have done all of it on his own. Even the letter itself is not just from Paul, but from Paul and Timothy. Partnership in the gospel, as Paul calls it, is critical to his success.

Brené Brown writes, “To love someone fiercely, to believe in something with your whole heart, to celebrate a fleeting moment in time, to fully engage in a life that doesn’t come with guarantees — these are risks that involve vulnerability and often pain.”

She says, “But I’m learning that recognizing and leaning into discomfort of vulnerability teaches us how to live with joy and gratitude and grace.”

This vulnerability, rooted in relationship, is how the Christian faith spread early on. Mennonite historian Alan Kreider wrote in his book The Patient Ferment of the Early Church that “the early Christians didn’t grow in number because they won arguments. Instead, they grew because their habitual behavior, rooted in patience, was distinctive and intriguing. Their “habitus,” as he calls it, enabled them to address intractable problems that ordinary people face in ways that offered hope.”

Here at RPPC, our affection for one another is not based on our like-mindedness or our similar socioeconomic standing. It is rooted in the gospel.

Recently, I was reflecting with a church member about our practice of passing the peace during service, and they confessed to me that they were unsure about this practice when it was first introduced. “That’s what fellowship time is for after service,” was a common objection.

And now, my goodness, I think if we allowed it, you all would go on for the rest of the service. Seeing that makes this pastor’s heart glad.

It has become, as Alan Kreider would say, part of our habit.

However, there is a danger to our mutual affection as well. We need always to stay mindful of guests and visitors, as well as the more introverted among us, who may not be as keen on the practice as the rest of us, because that’s part of what it means to be open and welcoming as well.

Marcus Borg points out that when we read Paul in Christian scripture, we are reading somebody else’s mail. We are eavesdropping on someone’s conversation.

Paul writes to the people in Philippi, “I thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you, and how I long for all of you with the compassion of Christ Jesus. And this is my prayer: that your love may overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight to help you determine what is best.”

These words of Paul expose his deep love and caring for the people of Philippi.

Today is Mother’s Day, a day to celebrate and acknowledge maternal love and sacrifice.

Now, you may have noticed that today’s service is much like that of any other Sunday, and some may be disappointed in this fact. I will admit this is something that I wrestle with. How much do we acknowledge secular holidays like Mother’s Day and Father’s Day and the Fourth of July, Memorial Day?

To completely ignore them seems kind of tone deaf. But on the other hand, to center our worship around them is extremely problematic.

I know people who purposely choose not to come to church on Mother’s Day because it’s complicated. Or the Fourth, because the mixing of faith and patriotism makes their stomach turn.

And I get that.

But let me tell you, this sensitivity is not what some might call political correctness run amok. It is also a part of our love for one another. It is also part of our mutual affection. We make room for those whose experiences and thinking are different than our own.

And here’s the key point: this does not impoverish us. It enriches us.

Frederick Collins writes, “There are two types of people: those who come in a room and say, ‘Here I am,’ and those who come in the room and say, ‘Ah, there you are.’”

Making room for the other is not a membership strategy. It is the call of the gospel.

Paul began as an outsider. He reminds us often that he used to persecute Christians until he had an experience of the love of God in Christ Jesus that transformed him. But he never lost that perspective of what it means to be an outsider, and neither should we.

Last Sunday we began celebrating our 125th anniversary as a congregation. At times like this, it’s customary to look back on our history and give thanks to the saints of the past, and we will certainly do that. But along with that, we need to be mindful of the saints of the present, as well as those of the future.

We also need not gloss over the parts of our history which we would rather leave in the past. Our faith calls us to be honest with ourselves and with God. That’s why we practice confession, because without confession, forgiveness and repair cannot occur.

Friends, to love one another as Christ loves us is not easy. It was not easy in Paul’s time, and it’s not easy in ours. There are many forces that want to divide us. It takes time, energy, and commitment to create the beloved community.

But as Brené Brown points out, recognizing and leaning into the discomfort of vulnerability teaches us how to live with joy and gratitude and grace.

So friends, my prayer is that we too may grow in love and mutual affection together, but also that we may never lose the perspective of what it means to be an outsider or newcomer to the community.

In other words, may we be the type of community that doesn’t say, “Here I am,” but proclaims, “Aw, there you are.”

Amen.

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Just two quick words of orientation to our passage today. One is the reminder that here at Roland Park Presbyterian Church, we follow a set of prescribed readings called the Narrative Lectionary, which helps explain why we’re reading about the crucifixion even though we are still in Lent—and Palm Sunday is next Sunday, right? Yes, Palm Sunday is next Sunday. But John’s Gospel is a little bit different than the others.

Matthew, Mark, and Luke dedicate a few chapters to the last week of Jesus’ life and its events. But the entire second half of John’s Gospel is just the last week of Jesus’ life. And so it creates this interesting pace, because the first eleven chapters cover a span of two-plus years, and then the last ten-plus chapters—just one week. And so John really slows down the pace of the narrative here. And as a result, we are slowing down the pace of the narrative and drawing out the story in such a way that we’re telling it over the course of all of Lent, rather than just Holy Week.

The other thing is—and I know this is repetitive for some of you, but it’s so important—John’s Gospel is the source of so much antisemitism. And there’s truth: there’s animosity in John’s Gospel between the burgeoning Christian community and the Jewish community. But that’s not prescriptive for all times and places. That is that particular time and place, as a new community was forming and coming out of another and separating—much like a teenager does from a parent—and there is sometimes animosity that grows in that relationship. But it is still a relationship of love and of closer ties and connections than being apart.

And so I take great care in reading the Gospel because John uses this term very loosely—“the Jews.” And most of the time he refers to the religious authorities, but sometimes he’s just referring to the crowds. But because that can be problematic, I will retranslate that for us when it’s appropriate.

John 19: 1-16a

Then Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged. And the soldiers wove a crown of thorns and put it on his head, and they dressed him in a purple robe. They kept coming up to him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews!” and striking him on the face. Pilate went out again and said to them, “Look, I am bringing him out to you to let you know that I find no case against him.” So Jesus came out wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe. Pilate said to them, “Behold the man!” When the chief priests and the police saw him, they shouted, “Crucify him! Crucify him!” Pilate said to them, “Take him yourselves and crucify him; I find no case against him.” The Jews answered him, “We have a law, and according to that law he ought to die because he has claimed to be the Son of God.” 

Now when Pilate heard this, he was more afraid than ever. He entered his headquarters again and asked Jesus, “Where are you from?” But Jesus gave him no answer. Pilate therefore said to him, “Do you refuse to speak to me? Do you not know that I have power to release you and power to crucify you?” Jesus answered him, “You would have no power over me unless it had been given you from above; therefore the one who handed me over to you is guilty of a greater sin.” From then on Pilate tried to release him, but the Jews cried out, “If you release this man, you are no friend of Caesar. Everyone who claims to be a king sets himself against Caesar.”

When Pilate heard these words, he brought Jesus outside and sat on the judge’s bench at a place called The Stone Pavement, or in Hebrew Gabbatha. Now it was the day of Preparation for the Passover, and it was about noon. He said to the Jews, “Here is your King!” They cried out, “Away with him! Away with him! Crucify him!” Pilate asked them, “Shall I crucify your King?” The chief priests answered, “We have no king but Caesar.” Then he handed him over to them to be crucified.

For the Word of God in scripture,
For the Word of God among us,
For the Word of God within us,
Thanks be to God.

***

I wouldn’t blame you if you felt like we’ve been spinning our wheels here for the last few weeks.

John really does draw out this trial scene, and we’ve taken his cue and slowed down so that we can pay attention. But it almost feels like we’re not getting much of anywhere. At the beginning of last week’s passage, the religious authorities bring Jesus before Pilate. And at the beginning of this morning’s lesson, the religious authorities again bring Jesus before Pilate. This game of back and forth between religious and civil authorities is like a ping-pong match…except the religious and civil authorities are trying to play on the same team.

They just can’t decide who should swing the paddle.

I actually used to be a pretty good ping-pong player. Not great, just good. But as we were preparing for a match, I would tell my opponent that I was the state champion in high school. I wasn’t. I don’t even think there was such a thing. It was a complete lie, and soon the truth would become very evident. And we’d laugh, and it was just a silly little joke I used to do all the time. But every once in a while I noticed that my opponent—ever so slightly—maybe their eyes would widen when I would say it. They would be just a little bit intimidated.

It would only last a few minutes.

Now Pilate is me in this weird ping-pong Holy Week analogy that’s getting away from me. Pilate’s the one who’s faking bravado here. Although, unlike me, he’s doing it to intimidate, not as just a silly prank. Because Pilate is the one who sits on the judgment seat, right? That’s why the religious authorities are going to him.

They’ve become equal parts afraid and annoyed with Jesus and his shenanigans, but they do not have the will or political clout—or both—to do what they think needs doing. So the religious authorities bring Jesus to Pilate and tell him he’s claiming to be king of the Jews, which is interesting because that title doesn’t exist. There is no such thing.

And anyway, when Pilate questions him, Jesus responds that his kingdom is not from here. Remember from last week, he told Pilate, “If my kingdom were from here, my followers would be fighting back but they are not.” And so that’s really all Pilate needs to hear. He’s not a threat.

So Pilate tells the crowds, “Look, I find no fault in Jesus,” and he tries to release him. But the crowds refuse and ask for him to release Barabbas instead. That’s the ending of last week’s passage, right?

So beginning in our reading today, Jesus is back in front of Pilate, and Pilate seems to have no clue what to do with him.

So, you know…might as well flog him, I guess. That’s what empires do, right?

But let’s pause here for a second and ask ourselves: who truly holds the cards? Because John is doing something really subtle and very clever here that we might miss.

But we’ve been in John long enough now to know that he likes reversals, especially when it comes to power dynamics.

Remember just a few weeks ago, we read about Jesus washing his disciples’ feet, and Peter protested: “No! You are the teacher, you are the rabbi, you are the one in the position of authority. We should be washing your feet, not you washing ours.” But Jesus says no.

Well, John’s up to his old tricks again.

Because Pilate is supposed to be the one in charge here, right? But everybody is telling him what to do and he’s doing it. He wants to release Jesus; the crowds won’t let him. He tells them he finds no fault in Jesus; they tell him to look again, harder this time.

But it’s not just the crowds, too. Look at Jesus. He’s the one on trial. His life is on the line. Is he cowering at Pilate’s feet? Is he begging for his life?

He is cool as a cucumber…acting as if he’s completely in control of the outcome, and not Pilate.

Finally, the crowd wears Pilate down, and he agrees to charge and crucify Jesus. But he only does it under threat. The line that finally gets him: “If you release this man, you are no friend of Caesar.” It’s kind of the ancient version of, “Can I speak to your manager?”

But then John does something else.

And it’s very subtle, and we don’t get it in our translation because they make the choice for us. But he says that he sat on the judgment seat, which is presumably some sort of fancy chair that symbolizes Pilate’s power and authority given to him by Rome.

But the catch is that the language that John uses here is intentionally ambiguous. He could have made it very clear that Pilate is sitting on the throne—or on the seat—and indeed that is what our translation presents to us. But if we go back to the Greek, we see that it is actually ambiguous.

It could mean Pilate. It could also mean Jesus.

Why would John do that?

Because he wants us to ask the question: who is really sitting on the judgment seat here? Pilate? Or Jesus?

John wants us to be confronted with that question in this narrative.

Another way to put it is to notice that there are two very different types of power on display in this passage: power over and power with.

Pilate and Rome know only dominant power. Might makes right. If you can take it, it’s yours. The one who dies with the most toys wins.

This kind of power relies on fear and violence, punishment and retribution to get its way. It divides people into winners and losers, insiders and outsiders, us and them.

But this is not the only kind of power that’s on display here. Jesus is exercising power too. By refusing to dominate people, Jesus lifts up service to others. By refusing to fight and be pulled into violence, Jesus lifts up nonviolence as a way of life. By refusing to give in to vengeance, Jesus lifts up forgiveness.

And John wants to put us at that crossroads. John wants us to choose.

And he points out the danger of religion mixing with dominant power.

The religious authorities and crowds make their choice. They’re seduced by the power of the empire. They exploit Pilate and get him to bring the full force of Rome down on Jesus.

But what happens to them in the process?

They give up the farm. They sell out all their values and principles that drew them to faith in the first place. And by the end, they proudly proclaim the empire’s motto: “We have no king but Caesar.”

Lest we think this is something that just happened 2,000 years ago, last Sunday, self-proclaimed Christian Nationalist William Wolf told his congregation, “We should not blink. We should not hesitate to tell people, this is how we should order our lives together.” Wolf said, “And frankly, yes, we are going to impose it upon you. If you don’t like it, I’m sorry, but this is good and right,” he said, “and I’m going to enforce my morality on you in so much as my morality is God’s morality.”

My goodness, how can he tell the difference?

The temptation of dominant power is great. It can seem like a great way to get things done. Anything else can seem naïve in comparison.

We think to ourselves, sometimes we say it out loud, “Look,” we say, “I’m a good person, and the things I want are good. So what if I take some shortcuts to get there?”

The problem is dominant power does not bow to our good intentions. It corrupts them, pushing the line of what is acceptable further and further out. And suddenly we find ourselves pledging allegiance to Caesar and not God.

By the way, John does something else that’s very clever and worth noting here.

I mentioned a few weeks ago how we like to play the blame game. And again, it’s important to know that this passage is a source of much antisemitism, because it seems like it is the Jewish authorities and the Jewish crowds who are calling for Jesus to be crucified—but that misses the point completely.

John makes it very clear when he says, “the one who hands me over has a greater sin.”

Yes. Who hands him over?

Well, in the immediate context, we would say it’s the religious authorities and the crowds. They were persistent in their efforts, in fact. But how did they get a hold of him? One of his own disciples, Judas, had to first hand him over, right?

But that’s not it.

Then notice what John says when Pilate finally makes his decision: “Then he handed him over to be crucified.”

There is no “they” who handed Jesus over to die. It wasn’t just Judas, or the religious authorities, or the riled-up crowd, or the empire.

It was all of them together.

It was us.

When we choose dominant power over service and nonviolence.

Now if that were all that John gave us, this would be a tragic passage…the type of which we see every day on the news.

But John suddenly asks this question: who is really sitting on the judgment seat?

And even by asking the question, John is suggesting the kind of power Jesus shows us is a viable option for us to adopt—maybe even the right and faithful one.

But that can be hard for us to see, because from all the outward signs, Jesus looks weak and defeated. There he stands on his own. His own friends have abandoned him. His life is on the line.

What a loser.

But does he flinch? Does he waver from his belief in nonviolence and the worth of everyone as an image-bearer of God? Does he stop believing in the power of serving others and empowering others?

He does not—even when it leads to his death.

And in the end, God vindicates his death and this “power with” when Jesus is raised from the dead. Death does not have the final word.

The power of dominance might win in the short term. It often does. But ultimately love, justice, and power that is shared are the ultimate winners.

Look, friends, it’s hard to keep believing in the power of love in a world where bombs are being dropped and missiles are flying daily. And when our leaders call their opponents schoolyard names and bully people who look different or vote different or think different.

Our politics is dominant power on steroids.

And in this kind of environment, kindness and respect and decency… well, they just seem weak and naïve.

But the gospel invites us to believe that they are not.

Indeed, the gospel invites us to believe that they are what true, God-like power looks like.

We have to realize that the real standoff is not between religious and secular, not between Republicans and Democrats, not between any “us” and “them.”

It is between “power over” and “power with.”

And instead of imposing our faith or morality on others through force, it is better in the end, as Madeleine L’Engle writes, “that we draw people to Christ not by loudly discrediting what they believe, by telling them how wrong they are and how right we are, but by showing them a light that is so lovely that they want with all their heart to know the source of it.”

Friends, at the end of our passage, the crowd of faithful people are so turned around, they say, “We have no king but Caesar.”

They betray their faith for a chance at dominant power.

Many Christians today are being seduced in exactly the same way.

And the truth of the matter is that it is not enough for us to be against them and that kind of power.

We have to be for something.

We have to find our own lovely light that God has put in each one of us—a light that shines when we claim we have no king, no king but Jesus.

Amen.

The post Were You There? No Kings (But Jesus) appeared first on Roland Park Presbyterian Church.

John 11: 1-41

Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair; her brother Lazarus was ill. So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” But when Jesus heard it, he said, “This illness does not lead to death; rather, it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.” Accordingly, though Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was.

Then after this he said to the disciples, “Let us go to Judea again.” The disciples said to him, “Rabbi, the Jews were just now trying to stone you, and are you going there again?” Jesus answered, “Are there not twelve hours of daylight? Those who walk during the day do not stumble because they see the light of this world. But those who walk at night stumble because the light is not in them.” After saying this, he told them, “Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I am going there to awaken him.” The disciples said to him, “Lord, if he has fallen asleep, he will be all right.” Jesus, however, had been speaking about his death, but they thought that he was referring merely to sleep. Then Jesus told them plainly, “Lazarus is dead. For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him.” Thomas, who was called the Twin, said to his fellow disciples, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.”

When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb four days. Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said to him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?” She said to him, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.” 

When she had said this, she went back and called her sister Mary and told her privately, “The Teacher is here and is calling for you.” And when she heard it, she got up quickly and went to him. Now Jesus had not yet come to the village but was still at the place where Martha had met him. The Jews who were with her in the house consoling her saw Mary get up quickly and go out. They followed her because they thought that she was going to the tomb to weep there. When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”

Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed you would see the glory of God?” So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me.

For the Word of God in scripture,
For the Word of God among us,
For the Word of God within us,
Thanks be to God.

***

Well, this past Wednesday, many of us marked ourselves with ashes as we began the season of Lent. Lent may be just about the most important season on the calendar for us Christians. A significant part of our faith is often overlooked. But I also understand the desire to pay Lent only passing mind. It seems like such a downer. Let’s talk about our mortality, our frailty, and our brokenness, and our proclivity to wander from God.

That sounds like fun, right?

I don’t know anyone who enjoys Lent or counts down the days toward Lent like we do Christmas. And it doesn’t help that it comes when it does during the year, weather-wise. During the darkest days, cold temps, many already feel down and isolated at this time of year. And then there’s the state of affairs in our country and around the world: war, greed, hunger for power, exploitation, climate disaster.

We get the point. I don’t need to remind us how depressing things can be right now. But the point is this: we need Lent not to remind us how bad things can get. What we need is for Lent to show us what can be redemptive in our mortality, in our frailty, in our brokenness. Lent, you see, is asking us to face these realities, though not through the lens of fear and judgment, but through trust in God’s love and providence.

We need to know that God is with us, not just on the mountaintop, but in the valley as well. Charles Ringma writes, “If we hold to the idea that God gives but does not take away, then in the midst of loss our faith may suffer a severe crisis. Loss invites us to the strange journey of surrender and faith. It pulls us into the abyss. It sends us into the dark tunnel where we expect to find nothing and no one.

“But someone can be found. And this may not be the God who rescues. It may simply be the God of the dark day on Golgotha’s lonely hill. The God who experienced the greatest loss and who promises us companionship on this difficult journey with no end or solution in sight, except the promise that this God is also the God of resurrection. And this God may be found when all else is taken away.”

Our passage today is the turning point of John’s Gospel.

It represents the last of the signs that John has been so fond of, as well as the last of the “I am” statements, although I think a few of them are repeated.

The other thing about this transition is that time is about to change.

You see, the first half of John’s Gospel, the first ten chapters, covers a period of years.

The second half, from here on out, is merely one week—the last week of Jesus’ life. You see, John thinks it’s important for us to slow down, to take in every detail and reflect on this beautiful life that is about to be extinguished before us.

To do this, John does what John always does. He introduces us to a character. Like Nicodemus, or the woman at the well, or the man born blind from birth, John insists that the gospel is transmitted not simply through words and actions, but relationships.

And we are told that Jesus loves Lazarus, the character that we meet today. He’s not just some acquaintance, but seemingly a dear, dear old friend.

And so it’s odd that when Jesus first gets word that Lazarus is ill, that he stays put.

I guess it makes sense. Jesus is surrounded by folks who are ill and in need of attention. But he says, “This illness does not lead to death.”

But it turns out that he was wrong, right? Because the next thing we know, Jesus is telling the disciples that Lazarus has died. And so they set off to the site of the tragedy, where they find Mary and Martha, the two sisters, who are grieving and asking Jesus why he didn’t show up earlier.

Now one thing becomes very clear when you read John’s Gospel, is that Jesus never appears flustered or out of control. He’s always in the driver’s seat. What happens is always what he intends to happen. If we were to do some sort of graphic or pie chart of how each of the Gospels views Jesus in terms of his humanity and his divinity, John would be the highest on the divinity. While Matthew and Mark and Luke portray Jesus as mostly human with divine connections, John’s Gospel—notably the last one to be written—has Jesus as mostly divine, with just a touch of human showing through.

You following me?

And we see that glimpse of humanity in our reading today, which makes it all the more potent, I think. Because Jesus says all is going according to plan, yet when he arrives, he finds the reality that his friend Lazarus is dead. And we get the shortest and perhaps most powerful verse in all of scripture. In some translations: “Jesus wept.”

John wants us to know this is not a show. It’s not an illusion. It’s not a prank. It’s not a magic trick. Lazarus really died. Jesus wept.

The sisters are grieving. The disciples are dumbfounded.

Now we know, because we’ve read the Gospel before, the raising of Lazarus is obviously a precursor to Jesus’ own resurrection. It is John’s way of saying, as the quote on our bulletin cover by Frederick Buechner states, “The resurrection of Jesus means that the worst thing is never the last thing.”

John’s way of saying we are about to go through some stuff as we encounter the last week of Jesus’ life. We’re about to face our mortality, our frailty, our brokenness head-on. But do not fear, for the divine is with you to comfort you, even in life’s deepest, darkest valleys, even in death.

In his book The Promise of Despair, Andrew Root writes, “Love is only able to conquer death if it goes through death. Love is only able to conquer death by dying.” Or to say it another way, love is only love if it is found next to death, if it is found next to darkness, yearning, and brokenness.

Friends, God has chosen us. God will not be God without us.

God will not rescue us from all pain and suffering, nor the consequences of our own actions, but God has shown us nowhere we can go that God will not go with us.

This Lent, may we begin to learn to embrace our frailty, our brokenness, and yes, even our mortality, as opportunities to experience the loving embrace of our Creator. Let us not be afraid to be known. Let us not be afraid to admit our mistakes and our failings.

And most of all, let us not be afraid to walk through the valley with each other and with our God, knowing that the worst thing is never the last, and that the only way to heal is first to admit our brokenness.

And then we can watch as love pours in the cracks.

Amen.

The post Were You There? The Resurrection and the Life appeared first on Roland Park Presbyterian Church.

Genesis 21:1–3, 22:1–14

The Lord dealt with Sarah as he had said, and the Lord did for Sarah as he had promised. Sarah conceived and bore Abraham a son in his old age, at the time of which God had spoken to him. Abraham gave the name Isaac to his son whom Sarah bore him.

After these things God tested Abraham. He said to him, “Abraham!” And he said, “Here I am.” He said, “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains that I shall show you.” So Abraham rose early in the morning, saddled his donkey, and took two of his young men with him and his son Isaac; he cut the wood for the burnt offering and set out and went to the place in the distance that God had shown him. On the third day Abraham looked up and saw the place far away. Then Abraham said to his young men, “Stay here with the donkey; the boy and I will go over there; we will worship, and then we will come back to you.” Abraham took the wood of the burnt offering and laid it on his son Isaac, and he himself carried the fire and the knife. And the two of them walked on together. Isaac said to his father Abraham, “Father!” And he said, “Here I am, my son.” He said, “The fire and the wood are here, but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?” Abraham said, “God himself will provide the lamb for a burnt offering, my son.” And the two of them walked on together.

When they came to the place that God had shown him, Abraham built an altar there and laid the wood in order. He bound his son Isaac and laid him on the altar on top of the wood. Then Abraham reached out his hand and took the knife to kill his son. But the angel of the Lord called to him from heaven and said, “Abraham, Abraham!” And he said, “Here I am.” He said, “Do not lay your hand on the boy or do anything to him, for now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me.” And Abraham looked up and saw a ram, caught in a thicket by its horns. Abraham went and took the ram and offered it up as a burnt offering instead of his son. So Abraham called that place “The Lord will provide,” as it is said to this day, “On the mount of the Lord it shall be provided.”

For the Word of God in scripture,
For the Word of God among us,
For the Word of God within us,
Thanks be to God.

***

A man goes to the dentist because he has a bad toothache The dentist conducts an exam and takes some x-rays. After looking everything over he says, “I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

The man says, “Let’s get the bad news over with first.” The dentist says, “You need a root canal and several fillings.” The man is taken aback. “What is the good news?”

The dentist replies, “Well, after this I will finally have enough for a downpayment on a boat.”

The Christian faith is about good news. That’s what Gospel means. It means good news. But what if the good news doesn’t always appear to be good from our vantage point? What if we don’t even really know what is good to begin with?

You and I tend to define good in relative terms: what benefits me; what is good news to me. But what about the good that comes from the bad? Or the good that confronts us with the uncomfortable truth about ourselves? Or the good news that is good for others, but not so good for you and me?

Barbara Brown Taylor says sometimes good news is a matter of where we hit the pause button. You win the lottery. That’s good. The IRS takes their chunk. That’s bad. You are able to afford all you need and more. That’s good. Suddenly people you haven’t talked to in years come out of the woodwork asking you to invest in their project or idea and you can’t or don’t want to say yes to them all. That’s bad.

We can see this truth in our story today. Abraham and Sarah finally have a child to call their own. That is good. But Abraham, who had grown impatient waiting and had a child with Sarah’s handmaid Hagar, now must send Hagar and their son Ishmael away. That is bad. God tells Abaraham to take his son Isaac up the mountain and offer him as a sacrifice. That is bad. But at the last-minute God provides a ram and Isaac is spared. That is good. Abraham earns God’s trust. That is good. Poor Isaac is scarred for life. That is bad.

Where do we hit the pause button? From which perspective or vantage point are we judging whether the news to be good or not?

Of the binding of Isaac, Ellen Davis writes, “This story appears front and center in Genesis, where no reader of the Bible can miss it, because the hard truth is that the world turns upside down for the faithful more often than we like to admit.”

She continues, “I remember the words of my young friend, a devout Roman Catholic, just a few hours after his first child had died in birth… “I could say, ‘Why me?’ But why not me? I knew this happens to people, and it never made me doubt God before. So why should I doubt God now? But still, I do not understand.”

Life presents us with many challenges and opportunities. We can’t always see how things will turn out. There is much we do not understand, and we do well NOT to rationalize or explain every tragedy, but simply let it be what it is. There is no guarantee in life that we will live free of pain and tragedy. Most of us will have more than our fair share of grief.

Where do we find God when things are turned upside down? What good is our faith? Where is the good news? Where do we go?

Davis writes, “The 22nd chapter of Genesis is the place you go when you do not understand at all what God allows us to suffer and, it seems, asks us to bear — and the last thing you want is a reasonable explanation, because any reasonable explanation would be a mockery of your anguish. This story of Abraham and God and Isaac is the place you go when you are out beyond anything you thought could or would happen, beyond anything you imagined God would ever ask of you, when the most sensible thing to do might be to deny that God exists at all, or to deny that God cares at all, or to deny that God has any power at all.”

There is an old theological formula that says if God is good and all powerful, then evil should not exist. Therefore, if evil exists then God either must not be good or not all powerful. But who says that our definition of good or power is correct? Do we really know what is good or only what is good for me? And who says power is about controlling every little thing? What about the power of letting go, the power of letting others find their own way and make their own mistakes?

Last week I told the story of parents taking their firstborn to college which concluded by stating, the best gift love can give is the gift of freedom. What if that is what the story of the binding of Isaac is really about?

What if it is not a divinely scripted experiment for God to demonstrate some barbaric lesson? What if instead it is a story about human freedom? A reminder that this gift is not without risk or challenges?

What if it is a story about how God loves us so much, that God allows us the freedom to choose and think for ourselves? What if it is about the risk God is willing to take on, to allow us the room to become our own unique selves, to make mistakes, to experience loss, to cause harm? Not because those things are good, but because the alternative means we are not really self-autonomous beings but mere characters in some divine play in which every line and movement is predetermined. What if out of love, God refuses to rescue us from every harm or danger, but nevertheless God promises to never leave us no matter what?

This past Thursday on Sept 11^th, my friend Alex wrote this on his social media account: The news today is of violence. An assassination in Utah. Russian military drones in Poland. Missile attacks against peace negotiators in Qatar. The relentless, indescribable hell of conditions in Gaza. Today is also our son’s birthday. He’s 15. When he was born, I remember being so grateful to have this gift of great joy to overwhelm the sadness of September 11th and what it did to [our] country. Because of him, today is for me not primarily a day to bemoan the brokenness of the world. It is a day to rejoice in the beauty of one wonderful human.

Friends, we live in a world where terrible and beautiful things happen every day. We do not always know what is good. We do not always exercise the power we possess in the most loving way toward others. We too often misspeak God’s name, confusing our own categories with divine commands or categories that were never given in the first place.

Simply put, the Good News is bigger than our categories of good and bad. God is not bound by our attempts to define God, to hem God in, to control God. Stories like the binding of Isaac push us deep into the mystery of God in ways that are uncomfortable and disturbing. And yet, in the end, it proclaims God is trustworthy, even in the most dire and unthinkable of circumstances. Things may not always turn out the way we hope or want, but all that means is that the universe is not designed for our benefit alone. Good news that is JUST for you or me, is not worthy of the name Gospel. God’s good news is bigger than that. It is for ALL of us. For God so loved the whole world. That is the Gospel. Amen.

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