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Sermon: No Room For Anything But Compassion

Grace Presbyterian Church

July 14, 2019, Pentecost 5C

Leviticus 19:17-18, 33-34; Luke 10:25-37

No Room For Anything But Compassion

It is good to be back.

I will confess, though, that being out of action over these past weeks has been challenging in many ways, but the way in which it might have been most difficult has been the number of headlines splashing across the news on a regular basis that are frankly offensive to any sense of the gospel that can be obtained by even mildly careful reading. You can only distract yourself with so much World Cup before those things crash in on you. We don’t live in God’s good world right now, that much is obvious.

Given that frustration, it’s quite amazing that the Revised Common Lectionary managed to offer up for today a gospel lesson that could not be more responsive to the things going on in this country. Yet at the same time this lesson, one of the most familiar and oft-repeated of Jesus’s parables, is almost impossible to hear fresh, so to speak. I’m willing to bet that across the country (and in here as well, possibly), many, many folks in pews heard the familiar beginnings of the parable, thought “oh, it’s the Good Samaritan, I know that one” and immediately checked out, minds wandering off to lunch plans or afternoon ballgames or anything else but the scripture and sermon to follow.

So how do we hear the desperately needed message in such a parable, familiar to the point of numbness? I will suggest three different corrections, so to speak – corrections not to the parable itself, but to our tendency to hear the parable as if we’ve heard it a thousand times before, as though we already know everything there is to know about the story. Perhaps those corrections will allow the story to open up to us, maybe in an unexpected way, and illuminate the times in which we live.

The first correction to our perception of the story is this: there is no excuse for the priest and the Levite to pass by the man in the ditch.

Pastors and Sunday school teachers over the decades have tended to offer up an excuse for the priest and the Levite, one that is not indicated in the scripture itself. Trying to apply some other part of the code presumed to apply to such figures in Temple practice, such teachers have suggested that to offer aid to the man in the ditch would have rendered them ritually impure and caused them to be unable to fulfill their ritual duties. I know I was taught that a few times along the way as a child or youth. To be clear, it was still not considered “good” or acceptable for the priest and Levite to pass by without offering aid, but there was at least a justification for their choice to pass by.

The trouble with this interpretive trick is that in supposedly preserving this ritual purity, the priest and Levite would have been in direct violation of the Torah. The verses we have heard from Leviticus earlier would have been only scratching the surface of that the books of the Law had to say about one’s comportment to those in need, be they the poor, the “widows and orphans” so often named in the Law and the prophets, or (as verses 17-18 note) the stranger in the land, which the unknown man in the ditch would also represent. The Torah, or the Law, was at the very center of the practice of both priest and Levite, and that Law spoke profusely about such behavior. This is what you do, no exceptions – you help those in need. Jesus’s listeners, who knew and had been taught this about the Law themselves, would have been thoroughly shocked at the behavior of the priest and Levite in Jesus’s parable, well before any Samaritan came along to upset their expectations in the story. The behavior of the two Temple representatives in this parable was plenty scandalous itself, and the scholar of law questioning Jesus would have recognized that.

The second correction is this: Jesus never answers the lawyer’s question: in fact Jesus rejects the very premise of the question.

We tend to read and hear the parable as Jesus’s answer to the lawyer’s question, “Who is my neighbor?”Indeed, Jesus does reply to the law scholar’s question with the parable. A reply, however, is not always the same thing as an answer, and in this case Jesus’s reply to the question is not an answer to the question at all.

Robert Williamson, Jr. Associate Professor of Religious Studies at Hendrix College in Arkansas, points out that, once the parable is done, Jesus in turns challenges the lawyer to identify who was the neighbor in the parable, and once the lawyer has given his I-can’t-say-the-word-“Samaritan” answer, Jesus responds with the imperative “Go and do likewise.”[1] In this case to “do likewise” means to show mercy to those in need, as the Law repeatedly instructs.

But “go and do likewise,” or “go and show mercy,” is not an answer to the question “Who is my neighbor?” The two don’t really make sense together outside of their connection via Jesus’s parable.

In telling this parable and not answering the question Jesus is also cutting to the unspoken question behind the spoken question. Ultimately the lawyer, like so many folks in this country today, is less interested in knowing who his neighbor was and more interested in knowing who his neighbor was not.

Who can I exclude? Who am I allowed to hate? Who can I dismiss? Who can I not care about? Who can I reduce to something less than my neighbor, something less than human, something that isn’t my problem, something I can blame? Who can I get away with not treating according to the Law?

For all of that, Jesus doesn’t really answer this question, either. Instead, in his “go and do likewise” reply, Jesus frames a completely different question: “to whom are you a neighbor?” Reading the parable narrowly might lead to the answer “the one who is in need”; reading it fully, knowing the human condition, leads to the inevitable but deeply challenging answer “anyone and everyone.”

There is no such thing as “not my neighbor.” There is no one we can hate or exclude or dismiss or reduce. No one. Ever.

The third correction we need to take into account for this parable follows closely after this realization, and provides clinching support for it.

The third correction is this: don’t read the parable of the Good Samaritan separately from the dialogue that precedes and provokes it.

Even taking into account the “who is my neighbor?” question from the scholar of law doesn’t quite do justice to the parable and its defining context. Jesus doesn’t just coax “love your neighbor as yourself”’ from the law scholar; instead, the answer comes in two parts.

You heard the source for part two in the reading from Leviticus. The first part comes from Deuteronomy 6, continuing from the famous words of verse 4: “Hear, O Israel: the Lord is our God, the Lord alone,” known in scholarship and liturgy as the Shema. Here in Luke something seems to have been added; beyond heart, soul, and might (or strength), the scholar also cites the commandment to love God “with all your mind.” This isn’t the first time this addition appears in the New Testament; in Mark 12 these words (with “mind” included) come from Jesus himself, in answer to another scribe’s question of “which commandment is first of all?” Jesus throws in “love your neighbor as yourself” as a bonus, and then notes that “there is no other commandment greater than these.” A similar passage in Matthew’s gospel (which curiously includes “mind” but not “might” or “strength”) adds the further reinforcement that “on these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets” (Mt 22:40), suggesting that everything taught in Jewish tradition that Jesus and his listeners inherited – Torah and prophetic literature – in some way comes from these two commandments.

The connection of “love your neighbor as yourself” to the parable is obvious enough, but the command to love the Lord your God with essentially the totality of your being also matters to the parable. It isn’t a “therefore, you must” kind of connection, though; it’s a result, a cause-and-effect. If you truly “love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind,” you can’t help but show mercy to the one in need of mercy. In the life of the one who truly loves God with everything, there is no room for anything but compassion. You can’t not show mercy to the one in need – not because of command, but because of compulsion. You can’t stop yourself from it.

Taken as a whole, this story becomes much more radically demanding even than the simple mandate to show mercy to your neighbor; it, when fully lived, produces no less than a whole life ethic that regards all of humanity – all of creation, even – as neighbor. It ends up being so much more than “being nice.” It’s a little risky and not always easy to point to examples of such a full-fledged neighborliness, but you could do worse than that individual who, in twentieth-century popular culture, did more to promote the whole idea of “neighbor” than most anyone, the only children’s television host I know of who was also an ordained Presbyterian minister: none other than Fred Rogers.

Even if his song ended with the question “won’t you be my neighbor?”, Mr. Rogers’s ministry (and that’s what it was) was devoted to the practice of being a neighbor and demonstrating how to be a neighbor to others, particularly to children. From very early episodes of Mister Rogers’s Neighborhood calling out the foolishness of war through the foolishness of puppets (at the height of the Vietnam War), to sharing a feet-cooling kiddie pool with a black man (in the difficult days of the Civil Rights Movement), Mister Rogers was a neighbor, in the truest sense of the word, to children and adults he never knew, no matter what they thought of him or who they worshiped or anything about them other than their need for a neighbor.*

It won’t necessarily take the form of a television show for children, but loving the Lord our God with all our heart and soul and mind and strength, and loving our neighbors as ourselves, will look something like this.

Those last words of Jesus in today’s scripture – “go and do likewise” – are loaded with challenge. They challenge our presumed right to decide whom we do and do not acknowledge as our neighbor, or even as anyone worthy of our attention. They challenge our notion of what it means to follow Christ fully and without reservation, as opposed to merely “being a Christian” with no particular evidence to show for it. It’s a bit frightening and a bit offensive and very overwhelming, but to live up to Jesus’s instruction here is nothing less than answering the call of following Christ. It is, in short, what we do if we love the Lord our God.

For the call to be neighbor to all, Thanks be to God. Amen.


Hymns (from Glory to God: The Presbyterian Hymnal unless otherwise noted): #757, Today We All Are Called to Be Disciples; #—-, Receive the Stranger; #—-, O Love Your God; #707, Take Thou Our Minds, Dear Lord


[1]Robert Williamson, Jr., “There Is No ‘Not My Neighbor’,”, accessed July 13, 2019.

*Suggested further reading: Michael G. Long, Peaceful Neighbor: Discovering the Countercultural Mister Rogers (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2015).

Sermon: What Mary Magdalene Saw

Grace Presbyterian Church

April 21, 2019, Easter C

John 20:1-18

What Mary Magdalene Saw

At first, all she saw was a stone, displaced.

When Mary Magdalene arrived at the tomb, before sunrise, she saw nothing more. There’s no indication that she approached any closer to the tomb at all, much less looked in to see if there was in fact any body there. She saw the stone displaced and immediately leapt to a conclusion, the one she shared with Peter and the “beloved disciple”: “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” We don’t know who “we” is, either; as far as this gospel tells us Mary Magdalene went to the tomb alone. But the main point to notice here is: whatever she said, and however much sense that conclusion might have made, all Mary Magdalene saw was a stone, displaced.

Peter and the “disciple whom Jesus loved” run to the tomb. (Let’s clear this up now; in this gospel the “beloved disciple” is, because of a note in 21:24, associated with the author of this gospel, and as you can see this gospel is historically attributed to “John,” typically the one by that name among the twelve disciples. Without jumping into that history lesson, for the rest of this sermon the “beloved disciple” or “disciple whom Jesus loved” is going to be called John, because that’s a lot shorter.)

So Peter and John arrive at the tomb, John first; he stops at the door and peers in, while Peter – ever the impulsive one – blusters right on in. They both see the linen wrappings, which argued against Mary Magdalene’s assumption; grave robbers, or any speculative “they” of the time, were not likely to bother unwrapping the body before moving it – quite the opposite in fact. And then, they … go home.

Even as John (the “beloved disciple,” remember) is given credit for seeing and believing (although what he believed isn’t clear), whatever happened in their heads wasn’t enough to get them to stick around and investigate any further. They went in the tomb and looked, and then they left.

Mary Magdalene didn’t leave, and that will make all the difference.

She was weeping, but she was still there. So far as we know she has not yet looked into the tomb before verse 11 indicates that she does so, and when she does she sees something new: two angels, in white, at the head and foot of where Jesus had been placed in the tomb. This is, you’ll observe, the second thing she saw.

The angels have the nerve to ask why she is weeping, and her answer is very close to the report she first gave Peter and John. Probably getting much more frustrated by now, she turns away from the tomb and sees the third thing she has seen since arriving at the scene: a gardener.

Of course, we know what she doesn’t yet know; this is not the gardener. Whether it is some sort of odd unexpected thing about Jesus’s appearance throwing her off or simply the overwhelming distracting emotion and confusion of the moment, Magdalene can’t see Jesus for who he is. Again jumping to a conclusion, she assumes him to be the one charged with tending the garden that sits outside the tomb. For the person who ends up being called “the first evangelist” or “the apostle to the apostles” for the witness she will bear a few verses from now, she sure is off the mark a few times here.

“The gardener” speaks to her, asking who she is looking for, and this time she at least asks for the body. All of this only ends when Jesus calls her by name.

She finally sees Jesus when he calls her by name.

For all of this confusion and error, Mary Magdalene at long last does see Jesus, and receives a call of sorts from him, to go to his other disciples and tell them what she has seen, and that “I am ascending to my father and your Father, to my God and your God.” She does this, finally getting to announce what she has truly seen at long last: “I have seen the Lord.” It takes her a while, to be sure. But in the end she really does become that “first evangelist,” the “apostle to the apostles.” To that fearful bunch hidden away in a secret room, she gives the good news indeed – “I have seen the Lord.”

In the end there is only one thing that sets her apart from the other disciples, both Peter and John and those others who never do go to the tomb. Those disciples, so far as we know, would be completely clueless were it not for Mary Magdalene. Peter and John could have seen, but they left. They didn’t stay and keep looking.

Mary Magdalene kept looking. No matter how confused or emotional or distracted, she kept looking. And her continued looking was rewarded.

We certainly don’t live in a resurrection world. You only need to look at the news coming from Sri Lanka this morning to be reminded of that. It can be challenging, difficult, even seemingly hopeless to look for signs of the risen Christ in the death-fascinated world in which we live, and so hard to see any evidence of that risen Christ in the people around us. But if there is any Easter message in Mary Magdalene’s story, it is simply and emphatically this:

Keep looking. Don’t stop looking. Don’t ever stop looking.

For a risen Christ who shows up, Thanks be to God. Amen.


Hymns (from Glory to God: The Presbyterian Hymnal): #232, Jesus Christ Is Risen Today; #254, That Easter Day With Joy Was Bright; #248, Christ Is Risen! Shout Hosanna!; #238, Thine Is the Glory



Holy Saturday Meditation: The In-Between

Grace Presbyterian Church

April 20, 2019, Holy Saturday C

John 19:38-42

The In-Between

So this is the in-between day.

For Jesus’s earliest followers, the horror and terror of the crucifixion was past, but the confusion giving way to celebration of the risen Lord was not yet. Even the gospels give us nothing, really; the reading from John we just heard happened “last night,” in the disciples’ world. It’s a curious enough story, how two of Jesus’s followers who even Jesus’s followers didn’t know were Jesus’s followers coming to claim Jesus’s body and give it a king-like burial? An overwhelming amount of burial spice and a never-used tomb? But again, that was all last night. Today? All of the gospels fall silent.

The medieval church couldn’t stand this, apparently, and offered forth all manner of explanations of “what really happened,” often having to do with Jesus’s “harrowing of Hell” or other such spiritualized speculations (if you’ve ever wondered about that “he descended into Hell” line from the Apostles’ Creed, well, there you go). But if you’re Peter or John or Mary Magdalene or anyone else in this gospel account, you’re probably at home taking pains not to violate the Sabbath in your grief, and that’s about it.

Jesus was in the tomb. Dead.

It’s not as if he hadn’t told his disciples this was going to happen, or even that this had to happen, but nobody listens to bad news until it cannot be avoided, and on this day it cannot be avoided. Amazing things will be happening twenty-four hours from now, no matter what gospel you read, but for now, it is a day of in-between.

This isn’t the worst way of understanding our lives on this earth as Christians.

Good Friday is done, but in a way it’s not really Easter yet. We know it’s coming. We know Jesus isn’t in that tomb anymore. We know the good news. We have that hope.


We really don’t live in a resurrection world, do we? Just read a headline or make the mistake of turning on the news and you’ll know that most people, especially those who “lead” us – even those who bleat on about God the most – do not live in a resurrection world. We know it’s coming, but we are still doing something we are so bad at: waiting.

And yet waiting is so much our human condition. Waiting for test results. Waiting for the storm to pass. Waiting for the loved one to finally pass on. So much of life is waiting, whether we want to or not.

But the waiting is oh, so important, for it is when we truly learn to be with God. To listen for what God says rather than clamor for our wants; to learn the sacredness of every moment, for as Frederick Buechner writes, “all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.”

In the conclusion of his poem “For the Interim Time,” John O’Donoghue writes:

What is being transfigured here is your mind,

And it is difficult and slow to become new.

The more faithfully you can endure here,

The more refined your heart will become

For your arrival in the new dawn.

So, for the “renewing of your minds” as the Apostle Paul says, for the waiting and listening for the rustling of the Holy Spirit, for these we pray, and for these we yearn, and for these, unable to see what is to come and yet knowing it is coming…we wait.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Meditation: Remember Me

Grace Presbyterian Church

April 18, 2019, Maundy Thursday C

1 Corinthians 11:23-26

Remember Me

I’m curious how many of you remember the Lord’s Supper in church, maybe as far back as your childhood, looking very different.

Admittedly I grew up in another denomination, but I have these very distinct memories of the Lord’s Supper, whenever it was observed, looking for all the world like a funeral service. Table (and all the elements on it) covered in a shroud, the church’s deacons (no elders in that denomination) dressed in black and looking exactly like pallbearers at a funeral…the only reason I didn’t immediately think of it this way was because, at that young an age, I hadn’t been to enough funerals to know. When I finally did see a couple of funerals, and then saw the Lord’s Supper in church on a Sunday looking pretty much the same, I honestly think I was scarred just a little bit. It might have been worse if we’d had the Supper more than four times a year.

Since then I have studied enough history to know that such presentation of the Lord’s Supper was not only common, it even came with official backing in at least one of the antecedent Presbyterian denominations to the PC(USA); its Book of Orderdescribed and prescribed exactly that kind of setup for the table, even to the point of how the shroud was to be folded when removed, and how it was to be replaced over the elements when the Supper was done. This was as far back, if I remember correctly, as 1796. There is a long history of treating the Lord’s Supper primarily as a memorial. By no means do I mean to offend those who came before us in the faith, but at this point in my life and ministry I can no longer believe that’s precisely what Jesus was going for here, as recounted by Paul in what we now know as the Words of Institution.

As Paul describes the scene (in what is our earliest written account of it), Jesus performs the acts we know – breaking the bread, filling the cup – and marks each one with the appropriate theological significance – “my body that is for you,” “the new covenant in my blood.” But then what does he say? “Do this in remembrance of my sacrifice”? “Do this in remembrance of my death”? “Do this in remembrance of what’s going to happen tomorrow?

No. “Do this in remembrance of me.

Do this in remembrance of me.” Remember me. Remember the one who journeyed with you all around Galilee and Judea. Remember the one who taught you, who sent you out to preach and teach and heal. Remember me, the one with whom you shared so many meals at so many tables. The one who lived with you all these years.

Later in this same letter Paul will take issue with some in the Corinthian church who somehow doubt that Christ was ever raised from the dead.  It is one of the most impassioned parts of this epistle, and in the end Paul finally goes so far as to declare that “if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile and you are still in your sins” (15:17), and even further, “if for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied” (15:19). But then the good news: “But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have died” (15:20).

Even back in our words of institution, Jesus instructs his disciples that in the sharing of this bread and cup, we do “proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes” (11:26). If all we have to show here is Jesus’s funeral, if what happened in this meal and then in the garden and finally on Golgotha is all there is to the story, then we really are kinda hopeless, aren’t we?

Do this in remembrance of me. Remember me.

The animated film Coco understands what power memory has. The young boy at the center of the story, who accidentally journeys into the Land of the Dead of Mexican folklore, is in the end rushing back from that land to be at the side of his grandmother; as she is slowly fading, her body aged and infirm and her memories slipping away, the boy sings to hear a song that her own father had sung to her as a young child, before leaving the family to try to provide for them as a musician – a journey on which he ends up being murdered, unbeknownst to his family. It is a song that had been made famous by the man who murdered her father and stole the song, presenting it as his own and becoming famous. But in these final moments, as the boy sings her father’s song haltingly to his Mama Coco, the first sparks of life come to her face. Her fingers begin to move, almost imperceptibly; her eyes open, ever so slowly; in the end, her own halting voice joins with the boy’s to finish the song, as she smiles for possibly the first time in years:

Remember me, though I have to travel far
Remember me, each time you hear a sad guitar
Know that I’m with you the only way that I can be
Until you’re in my arms again
Remember me

In this supper, in this bread and this cup passed among us, broken however imperfectly and maybe spilled a little bit, we remember Jesus, the whole life, the whole word, and in that remembering we are brought to new life, given a song to sing, a smile amid the tears of the everyday; we live in this testimony of the Christ who is coming again, and in whose life is our life.

Do this and remember.

Thanks be to God. Amen.


Hymns (from Glory to God: The Presbyterian Hymnal): #525, Let Us Break Bread Together; #527, Eat This Bread; #227, Jesus, Remember Me

Palm/Passion Sunday

No sermon in the traditional sense today. Plenty of Word, however, was proclaimed:


When the hour came, he took his place at the table, and the apostles with him. He said to them, ‘I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer; for I tell you, I will not eat it until it is fulfilled in the kingdom of God.’ Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks he said, ‘Take this and divide it among yourselves; for I tell you that from now on I will not drink of the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God comes.’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.’ And he did the same with the cup after supper, saying, ‘This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood. But see, the one who betrays me is with me, and his hand is on the table. For the Son of Man is going as it has been determined, but woe to that one by whom he is betrayed!’ Then they began to ask one another which one of them it could be who would do this.                       (Luke 22:14-23)


He came out and went, as was his custom, to the Mount of Olives; and the disciples followed him. When he reached the place, he said to them, ‘Pray that you may not come into the time of trial.’ Then he withdrew from them about a stone’s throw, knelt down, and prayed, ‘Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will but yours be done.’ [[ Then an angel from heaven appeared to him and gave him strength. In his anguish he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down on the ground.]] When he got up from prayer, he came to the disciples and found them sleeping because of grief, and he said to them, ‘Why are you sleeping? Get up and pray that you may not come into the time of trial.’

 While he was still speaking, suddenly a crowd came, and the one called Judas, one of the twelve, was leading them. He approached Jesus to kiss him; but Jesus said to him, ‘Judas, is it with a kiss that you are betraying the Son of Man?’ When those who were around him saw what was coming, they asked, ‘Lord, should we strike with the sword?’ Then one of them struck the slave of the high priest and cut off his right ear. But Jesus said, ‘No more of this!’ And he touched his ear and healed him.Then Jesus said to the chief priests, the officers of the temple police, and the elders who had come for him, ‘Have you come out with swords and clubs as if I were a bandit? When I was with you day after day in the temple, you did not lay hands on me. But this is your hour, and the power of darkness!’

Then they seized him and led him away, bringing him into the high priest’s house. But Peter was following at a distance. When they had kindled a fire in the middle of the courtyard and sat down together, Peter sat among them. Then a servant-girl, seeing him in the firelight, stared at him and said, ‘This man also was with him.’ But he denied it, saying, ‘Woman, I do not know him.’ A little later someone else, on seeing him, said, ‘You also are one of them.’ But Peter said, ‘Man, I am not!’ Then about an hour later yet another kept insisting, ‘Surely this man also was with him; for he is a Galilean.’ But Peter said, ‘Man, I do not know what you are talking about!’ At that moment, while he was still speaking, the cock crowed. The Lord turned and looked at Peter. Then Peter remembered the word of the Lord, how he had said to him, ‘Before the cock crows today, you will deny me three times.’ And he went out and wept bitterly.       (Luke 22:39-62)


Then the assembly rose as a body and brought Jesus before Pilate. They began to accuse him, saying, ‘We found this man perverting our nation, forbidding us to pay taxes to the emperor, and saying that he himself is the Messiah, a king.’ Then Pilate asked him, ‘Are you the king of the Jews?’ He answered, ‘You say so.’ Then Pilate said to the chief priests and the crowds, ‘I find no basis for an accusation against this man.’ But they were insistent and said, ‘He stirs up the people by teaching throughout all Judea, from Galilee where he began even to this place.’

When Pilate heard this, he asked whether the man was a Galilean. And when he learned that he was under Herod’s jurisdiction, he sent him off to Herod, who was himself in Jerusalem at that time. When Herod saw Jesus, he was very glad, for he had been wanting to see him for a long time, because he had heard about him and was hoping to see him perform some sign. He questioned him at some length, but Jesus gave him no answer. The chief priests and the scribes stood by, vehemently accusing him. Even Herod with his soldiers treated him with contempt and mocked him; then he put an elegant robe on him, and sent him back to Pilate. That same day Herod and Pilate became friends with each other; before this they had been enemies.

 Pilate then called together the chief priests, the leaders, and the people,and said to them, ‘You brought me this man as one who was perverting the people; and here I have examined him in your presence and have not found this man guilty of any of your charges against him. Neither has Herod, for he sent him back to us. Indeed, he has done nothing to deserve death. I will therefore have him flogged and release him.’

Then they all shouted out together, ‘Away with this fellow! Release Barabbas for us!’ (This was a man who had been put in prison for an insurrection that had taken place in the city, and for murder.) Pilate, wanting to release Jesus, addressed them again; but they kept shouting, ‘Crucify, crucify him!’ A third time he said to them, ‘Why, what evil has he done? I have found in him no ground for the sentence of death; I will therefore have him flogged and then release him.’ But they kept urgently demanding with loud shouts that he should be crucified; and their voices prevailed. So Pilate gave his verdict that their demand should be granted.He released the man they asked for, the one who had been put in prison for insurrection and murder, and he handed Jesus over as they wished.

As they led him away, they seized a man, Simon of Cyrene, who was coming from the country, and they laid the cross on him, and made him carry it behind Jesus.              (Luke 23:1-26)


Two others also, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him. When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. [[ Then Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.’]] And they cast lots to divide his clothing. And the people stood by, watching; but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, ‘He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!’The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine, and saying, ‘If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!’ There was also an inscription over him, ‘This is the King of the Jews.’

One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, ‘Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!’ But the other rebuked him, saying, ‘Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.’ Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come intoyour kingdom.’ He replied, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.’              (Luke 23:32-43)

(hymn: “O Sacred Head, Now Wounded”)

(hymn: “Jesus, Remember Me”)

It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon, while the sun’s light failed; and the curtain of the temple was torn in two. Then Jesus, crying with a loud voice, said, ‘Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.’ Having said this, he breathed his last. When the centurion saw what had taken place, he praised God and said, ‘Certainly this man was innocent.’ And when all the crowds who had gathered there for this spectacle saw what had taken place, they returned home, beating their breasts. But all his acquaintances, including the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching these things.

Now there was a good and righteous man named Joseph, who, though a member of the council, had not agreed to their plan and action. He came from the Jewish town of Arimathea, and he was waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God. This man went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus. Then he took it down, wrapped it in a linen cloth, and laid it in a rock-hewn tomb where no one had ever been laid. It was the day of Preparation, and the sabbath was beginning. The women who had come with him from Galilee followed, and they saw the tomb and how his body was laid. Then they returned, and prepared spices and ointments.

On the sabbath they rested according to the commandment.            (Luke 23:44-56)




The sanctuary is stripped.

The Christ candle is extinguished.

Sermon: New Things

Grace Presbyterian Church

April 7, 2019, Lent 5C

Isaiah 43:16-21; John 12:1-8

New Things

“I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”

This challenge to the people of Judah, as delivered by God through the prophet Isaiah, came during their period of exile in Babylon. In particular, it came at a point when that exile was starting to seem permanent; there was no sign of movement that their conquered home kingdom would ever be able to do anything about it, and their Babylonian rulers showed no signs of ever letting up and releasing exiles to go home. But lo and behold, Babylon was conquered by Persia, and the ruler of that kingdom ultimately decided, for whatever reason, to repatriate those exiles out of Babylon and back to Judah and to Jerusalem.

This wasn’t a normal decision on the part of the Persian king. Whether it was some kind of bizarre impulse of kind-heartedness on his part or a more pragmatic decision that keeping these exiles under control while also pacifying the native Babylonian population wasn’t worth it, the exiled people were able to return, finally perceiving the “new thing” of which Isaiah spoke.

Isaiah’s oracle was pretty striking in its almost extreme level of insistence – telling the people of the Torah “do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old” was a seeming radical way of getting the people’s attention. The “things of old” were nothing less than the very identity of that people of the Promised Land, now divided into Israel and Judah – the story of Abraham, called to strike out for a home he had never seen; the captivity in Egypt and the exodus back to that Promised Land; those “former things” were no less that the story of their people; Isaiah couldn’t possibly mean to forget those, could he?

But God really was doing a new thing, without which the people might have remained in exile…who knows how long? Getting caught up too deeply in the old things and missing the new thing would have been a tragic result.

Anyway, it sounds great, right? Going home after all these years?


The first of three stages of deportation out of Judah had occurred in around the year 597 BCE; a second stage happened around 587 or 586, and the third around 582 or 581. The repatriation to Judah began after the Persian conquest in 539. That’s as many as fifty-eight years for those deported first. That’s time for one or even two generations to be born, generations who had no experience of Judah or Jerusalem. That’s plenty of time for many of the original deportees to have died and been buried in Babylon. That’s plenty of time to have, as we might say today, “made a life” in Babylon. The prophet Jeremiah had delivered an oracle from God to those exiles telling them pretty much to do that, after all:

Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce.Take wives and have sons and daughters; take wives for your sons, and give your daughters in marriage, that they may bear sons and daughters; multiply there, and do not decrease.But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare. (Jeremiah 28:5-7)

So if you’ve been doing that, and all this “I am doing a new thing” talk suddenly starts coming from another prophet, maaaaaybe you’re not completely convinced after all. After all, what condition is Jerusalem in after all this time? (Hint: the answer is “ruins.”) Where will we live? How will we eat? What about those who were left behind in Judah – will they be hostile to us? Or have new peoples moved in and taken over? These aren’t necessarily easily answered questions, especially to those of the Judean population who had been born in exile. What’s the point of giving up the life you know, rough as it may be, for one full of questions and uncertainties?

Now jump forward to the reading from John’s gospel. In considering this account it is vitally important to remember what is recounted in chapter 11: the death and raising of Lazarus, possibly the most expansive story in John’s gospel outside of the Passion narrative, and indeed a pivotal one – the religious authorities were now determined to get rid of not only Jesus but also Lazarus, because many were following Jesus because of Lazarus and his unprecedented not-dead-anymore condition. Now here Lazarus is, reclining at table in the home he shared with sisters Martha and Mary, hosting the man who had brought him back to life for dinner. Lazarus is living a new thing, and is a living “new thing,” and his life – his newly-restarted life – is under threat for it.

The story of this dinner unfolds in two acts: Mary enters with a highly fragrant perfume and anoints Jesus’s feet, and dries them with her hair; Judas then responds with indignant scolding for the waste of such an expensive perfume when the proceeds from it could have done a lot for the poor, only to be rebuked by Jesus, who commends Mary for her act, also observing that she had gotten it for “the day of my (Jesus’s) burial.”

It’s easy to jump on Judas here, and John strongly encourages you to with the added note about his unethical actions with the community treasury. His basic statement, though, is correct, even if he is saying it in something less than earnest; the sale of that perfume could have provided a lot of dinners at St. Francis House or Family Promise, to be sure. Still, Judas is totally missing what’s going on, or perhaps he actually is seeing it and is not happy about it. Perhaps he is the type novelist Upton Sinclair spoke of in his observation that “it is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends upon his not understanding it.” If Jesus is going to die, where does that leave Judas (whether he’s dipping his hand in the till or not)? What position does he have? Such status as he has, meager as it might be, is gone if Jesus is gone.

It’s easier to praise Mary. Here she is again, off doing her own thing while sister Martha is diligently serving away. (Unlike the other such encounter of this type, over in Luke, Martha seems content to keep quiet in this case.) At any rate, she performs the act of anointing, and the whole letting-her-hair-down thing is enough to make the event scandalous in that culture, but that seems to pass unremarked.

As Jesus notes, such an act was part of the burial ritual of the time; Mary and Martha had probably performed that act on the body of Lazarus only a short time ago. It was familiar. It was known, and as such it might even have been a comfort. And it was on some level in this case correct, if premature; Jesus’s burial would not be far off at this point.

And yet…

Lazarus, the dead man no longer dead, is right there at the table. Did this not register? Mary may have prepared Jesus’s body for burial, but was she any better prepared for Jesus not to stay buried than Judas was, or anybody else in the room?

When God does a new thing, it is so, so difficult to grasp it, to know it, to trust it. How do we know this isn’t just wishful thinking? Well, if the “new thing” seems in fact rather comfortable and easy to accept, then it probably is wishful thinking. If it’s discomfiting and upsets the seeming order of things, on the other hand, maybe we’d better pay attention.

Still, the “new thing” God does is almost always going to be uncomfortable, maybe even threatening. It may not include the stuff we like. It may not even include this church, or any of the other things about our Christian life we know and love. But God moves when God moves, and God never moves for anything other than our good (even if we don’t get it), and we either keep up or get left behind.

Those “rivers in the desert” back in Isaiah sound so inviting. When even the otherwise left out things – like those jackals and ostriches, among the more reclusive animals in the wild – begin to come forward and sing the praise of God, it sounds so wonderful. Still, though, jackals are kind of scary animals – not comfortable. The “new thing” God does may lead us to places where we never thought we’d go, or never wanted to go, but it is God who leads, and we who better figure out how to follow.

“I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”

Thanks be to God. Amen.


Hymns (from Glory to God: The Presbyterian Hymnal): #509, All Who Hunger, Gather Gladly; #74, When God Restored Our Common Life; #223, When I Survey the Wondrous Cross; #166, Lord, Who Throughout These Forty Days

Sermon: Found and Lost

Grace Presbyterian Church

March 31, 2019, Lent 4C

Luke 15:1-32

Found and Lost

The trouble with these extremely familiar stories from the Bible is that, after we’ve heard or read them a few times, we quit listening. For example, today in churches across this country, there are (I am quite sure) thousands upon thousands of people sitting in pews whose minds all completely checked out when they read or heard the words of verse 11 of this reading: “Then Jesus said, ‘There was a man who had two sons.’”I also expect that some number of such checked-out listeners are in this very sanctuary here. Oh, yeah, this one. We know this one. So what shall we do for lunch?

In truth, no preacher can truly hope to thwart that checking-out save for the intervention of the Holy Spirit in the hearts and minds of those listening. Nonetheless, we will go forth, supplying a fuller background for this familiar story, and hope that we’re all still around at the end just in case the Spirit shakes something loose in us that perhaps we haven’t heard or understood before.

We need to take note, for example, that this oh-so-familiar story is provoked (and that is the word) by those Pharisees again (probably not the same Pharisees who warned Jesus about Herod in the lesson a few weeks ago), this time joined by members of another group of religious leaders known simply as scribes. They witness a sight that was nothing less than offensive to them: tax collectors, and that vaguely defined class known only as “sinners” in their eyes. Truly this grumbling of theirs needs tone of voice to appreciate it fully, something that words printed on a page can’t quite supply: “This fellow welcomes sinners and…and…and EATS with them!!!”, so rich is their disgust.

This is what provokes the telling of this very familiar parable. Keep this in your head here, no matter what.

In fact it provokes three parables, all with some connection to the theme of things (or people) lost and found. Besides the losing and the finding, each parable is also characterized by what might be called outsized joy, joy at the finding of what was lost that spills out onto friends and neighbors who might not have even had any idea what was going on. The one who lost the sheep: did his neighbors even know, and frankly, did they even care? What’s the difference between ninety-nine and one hundred sheep when you live next door to the smell? And yet this man, leaving behind the “ninety-nine in the wilderness” (which really sounds a little bit irresponsible) and searching all over to find the lost one, then turns and goes to his friends and neighbors (did shepherds even have “friends and neighbors”? Their fellow shepherds, maybe?). His cry is “rejoice with me!” And then, here as in the next parable, we get this “moral of the story” that so great is the rejoicing in heaven over just one sinner who repents. Just one.

The parable of the woman and the lost coin unfolds similarly. It is lost; she searches all over the house; the coin is found; she calls the friends and neighbors to rejoice. Such coins (sometimes identified as “dowry coins”) might have been, for a woman in this time period, the last line of defense against utter poverty and destitution should her husband have decided to dispose of her with the speaking of a word, which was all a man had to do to divorce a woman at this time (the woman, naturally, had no such option). So yes, it was very important to her, but the rejoicing seems outsized still. But we get that same tag line idea again: “I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” What we find suitable for indifference, or maybe even outright disdain, is cause for massive celebration among the heavenly host.

And finally comes the story we all know. There are so many details that could be unpacked. The utter humiliation that the younger son visits upon his father by making this brash and disrespectful request could almost be its own sermon. Remember what kind of land these dwellers dwelled in; it was, from ancient time, the Promised Land, the land that God had delivered to their ancestors Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and all that ancient story that told of how they even came to live on that land. This son is throwing away no less than a sacred birthright, and does so in what the King James Version so memorably calls “riotous” living. That might make it sound like too much fun, though; maybe the NRSV’s “dissolute” living captures the futility of it all better.

Also, look at the son’s moment of realization, when he “came to himself.” We might have built it up into this grand tableaux of repentance in our overwhelming familiarity with the story, but let’s be real here: as “repentance” goes this is pretty weak sauce. Where is the contrition in realizing that he’d be better off living as one of his father’s hired hands, which really is about all the son manages to think and say? He’s been reduced to tending pigs (something no self-respecting Jew would have done) and being jealous of their slop, and this is the best “repentance” he can come up with? The best he can do is memorize a line to sell to his gullible old dad?

And yet…there’s this outsized rejoicing again. The father runs to meet his son (completely undignified), orders up a new robe for him and a great feast with the fatted calf (utterly humiliating, given what this son had done to him), and generally makes a fool of himself with rejoicing over this one lost son.

Oh, yeah, that other son shows up, and calls out his father for making a fool of himself, vilifies his brother (notice that there’s something in older brother’s accusations that we are never told the younger brother does?) and also complains about how dad never threw such a party for him. But don’t miss the father’s reply: “Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours.” (emphasis mine) This has always been there for you, my child; did you ever accept it? (And yes, for the most part, this is the character in the story that most captures us “good church folk,” if we can stand to admit it.)

But don’t miss how the first two parables inform this one. The rejoicing over the one lost son is extravagant, over-the-top, maybe even wasteful. It provokes scorn from his own son and maybe even bafflement from those neighbors who got called to the feast over that one ungrateful son. It is joy that seems to us inexplicable, maybe even if (maybe especially if) we’re the son who had abandoned the father instead of the one who stayed home. And it’s done over bare-minimum repentance from the younger son at that.

This is the rejoicing over us, when we at last come home; this is the rejoicing to which we are called over one who at last comes home. It defies summary, really; God loves us, pursues us, and rejoices over us, and so much more.

If we can’t manage to say it for this, maybe we should never say it: Thanks be to God. Amen.


Hymns (from Glory to God: The Presbyterian Hymnal): #415, Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy; #771, What Is the World Like; #418, Softly and Tenderly Jesus Is Calling; #803, My Shepherd Will Supply My Need