Genesis 12:1-9
June 7
David A. Davis
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It is mid-season when it comes to commencement addresses. On this campus and on every campus, at colleges and high schools everywhere, speaker after speaker after speaker stands before the graduating class and the audience full of friends and loved ones. It is a well-studied or at least a well-worn genre. The commencement address. When I was in high school, the four years included two long labour disputes. Two teachers’ strikes. In my senior year, we did not begin classes until after Thanksgiving. In order to get in the state required number of days, classes were held on some holidays, including New Year’s Day. At graduation in very late June of 1980, I was one of the speakers. I began with a quote from Hall of Fame baseball player Rod Carew that I read in his biography. “I am a better hitter with two strikes”.

This spring commencement addresses include college graduates now looking for jobs, booing commencement speakers singing the praises of AI despite the projections of the impact on the human workforce. Commencement addresses have context. And commencement addresses, in general, are rather formulaic. Congratulations! Remember! A few bits of wisdom for the journey. And now, please go. Go and do. Go and be. Go and live. Go and learn more. Go and make a difference. But, by all means, it is time to go. The genre of the commencement address, when it functions well, when it meets the occasion, it serves to signify that the gathering is not an end but a beginning. Go.

“Now the Lord said to Abram, ‘Go…’” And it is the beginning. God’s call of Abraham. Here in Genesis, after the stories of creation and the Garden of Eden and Cain and Abel and Noah and the ark, after the Tower of Babel. The Lord says to Abram, “Go”. It’s not the very beginning in terms of scripture. But it is the beginning of the promise, the covenant, God’s covenant with God’s people. It is the beginning of the pilgrimage, the journey of faith for the people of God. For Abram and Sarai and their family, the beginning of their lives as immigrants. The beginning of their life of following God and discerning their life in God. It begins when the Lord says, “Go.”

In typical commencement addresses, the graduates as the intended audience, tend to be the subjects of most of the sentences. You go, and you do. You go, and you work. You go, and you come back. You go, and you earn. You go, and you give back to the annual fund. You go and make this blasted world a better place. But notice that God’s speech to Abram differs when it comes to the most used pronouns. Go, and I will show you. Go, and I will bless you. Go, and I will make you a great nation. Go, and I will make your name great. Go and I, God said.

Here in Genesis 12, the promise begins with God’s speech. God’s word. With such an abundance of “I’s”, the notion that it all begins with God is pretty clear. Abram’s response only underscores the intended focus on God. After the Lord’s speech act, Abram is noticeably silent. God said, “Go,” so Abram went. No speech from him. No words. No chat with an angel. No “Here I am Lord”. No song. No canticle. Abram went. Abram goes. He went. He departed. And Abram took. And Abram set forth. And Abram passed through. And Abram built. And Abram moved on. And Abram pitched. And Abram built. And Abram invoked. And Abram journeyed on. The Lord said, “Go,” and Abram went. Abram’s silence is drowned out by his action.

Actually, the first time Abram speaks in this Hebrew bible narrative, the first time he speaks in the bible period, he gets himself in trouble. It’s such a guy thing. As the story is told in the second half of Genesis 12, Abram and his family flee to Egypt because there was a famine in the land. According to scripture, Abram “went down to Egypt to reside there as an alien.” To protect himself from Pharaoh’s hand, he hatches a plan to pass Sarai off as his sister, handing her over to Pharaoh’s house. Abram figures that if they knew she was his wife, they would just kill him and take her away. So the first words Abram speaks are to Sarai: “I know how beautiful you are, can’t you just tell them you are my sister?” And humankind should have learned forever more that when you “go”, it’s not that easy to get out of your own way, the way is never cut and dried, and humans are always going to be human. That even when you go as the Lord has commanded you, your own self-centred sinfulness is never far away. Even for Father Abraham, the first steps of his journey were mixed with obedient sacrifice and self-preserving, misogynistic deceit.

When Abram went, he brought it all with him, including the depth of his humanity. Yes, the scripture tells of him bringing family and possessions. That includes the jarring verse that tells that he also brought “the persons whom they had acquired in Haran”. A more recent contemporary translation tries to soften that a bit. It reads “those who became members of their household in Haran.” The choice of words doesn’t change the likely ancient history that enslaved people were part of what Abram brought along on the journey to Canaan. A journey to a land already occupied by the Canaanites, of course. The indigenous people of the land of Canaan. Yes, when God told Abram to “go” and Abram “went”, when Abram passed through the land of Shechem, to the oak of Moreh, he brought it all with him. When Abram built an altar to the Lord, he had it all with him. When he moved on to the hill country east of Bethel, he had it all with him. When Abram journeyed by stages toward the Negeb, he brought absolutely everything of what it meant to be human; the songs of praise and the fleshiness of life, a worshipping heart yet one dripping with sinfulness, a daring obedience and everything that defines what John Calvin called our total depravity. Yes, Abram brought it all.

But…Abram went. The Lord said to Abram, “God and Abram’s response was wordless. Abram went. Abram goes. He went. He departed. And Abram took. And Abram set forth. And Abram passed through. And Abram built. And Abram moved on. And Abram pitched. And Abram built. And Abram invoked. And Abram journeyed on. The Lord said, “Go,” and Abram went. It’s hard for a preacher to admit, one who makes a living with words, but according to scripture, Abram never said a word. Going means going. Going means living. Going means action. Going implies sacrifice. Responding to the very promise of God with the fullness of life. Responding to the very promise of God has to be more than just words. This going thing….when it comes to God and God’s promise in and to and through our lives, it has to have some “oomph” to it!

A memorial service was held yesterday for Barb Flythe, a long-time member of the Witherspoon Street Church. The reception afterwards was held here in the sanctuary. The service felt like a gathering of three congregations: Witherspoon Street, Westminster in Trenton, and Nassau. It was as if Barb Flythe were a member of all three. There were times not all that long ago when Barb was the sole link between the three churches. She was one of the founding members of the “Bending the Moral Arc” group of members of Witherspoon Street and Nassau, having difficult and vulnerable congregations about racial reconciliation. She was a force behind the documentary made a few years ago about the fraught history and hopeful future of the relationship between our two congregations. And, of course, behind it all was Barb Flythe’s faith-filled commitment to justice and equity for all proclaimed by the Hebrew prophets and the kind of world painted by the gospel teaching of Jesus. Barb Flythe was a “goer”. Her journey of faith had some…oomph.

Last Sunday morning, before worship back in the narthex, both Allen Olsen and Scot Harmon were coming into the sanctuary. I asked them how “Loaves and Fishes” had gone on Friday night and Saturday. Twice a year, members and friends of Nassau prepare a hot meal to be served at St Mary’s Cathedral in Trenton. The report was over the top. Lots of veteran volunteers. A really good batch of new folks. Lots of folks served and were then given lunches and leftovers to go. One of them even said, “We almost had too many volunteers!” When have you ever heard that said about the congregation’s turnout? Nassau Church, that is some…oomph.

If you have a chance, you should check out the Great Wall, the bulletin board outside the Assembly Room directly behind me. It is a snapshot of life at Nassau Church in May, June, July, and August, both here and out in the world. The two “Loaves and Fishes”, a visit to the Faminary and a joint choir concert, both celebrating God’s gift of creation. A winter coat drive for international students at Princeton Seminary. A trip with Appalachia Service Project. School supplies together with Westminster Church. In large letters, it says “START WHERE YOU ARE”. And every opportunity has a QR code. The Great Wall could also say, “GO NASSAU GO, GO NASSAU GO”.

Over the last several weeks, we have had several visits from candidates running for various offices in last Tuesday’s election. As I spoke to them afterwards, I apologised for not introducing them in worship. That, while some traditions might do that in election season, Presbyterians do not. All of them were very gracious and were able to mingle on the front plaza or in coffee hour between services. Every one of them thanks me for all that this congregation does in the wider community. What you do in this community and beyond. Speaking Nassau theologically, that’s going with some… oomph. Thanks be to God.

In Matthew’s gospel, Jesus says, “Come to me all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens and I give you rest.” You will remember from last week, in Matthew’s gospel, Jesus also says,  “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptising them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” The Lord Jesus “come and go”. It is Christ, our Savior, who invites us to come to this table, the feast he has prepared. And he invites us here to be nourished by his grace and to bask in his real presence, so that, in order that, we might… go.

Matthew 28:16-20
May 31
David A. Davis
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The three kids are called to the dinner table. It will be yet another quick dinner between baseball practice, piano lessons, and the spring concert at school. Mom is running late and will head right to the school, so it’s Dad’s turn to get the food on the table and moderate what has become an important family table ritual of sharing the day’s highs and lows. After the two girls, 2^nd grade and 6^th grade, offer their take on the day, it’s Ryan’s turn. He’s in 4^th grade and getting him to say anything about the day is a challenge, especially when compared to his sisters. On this night, however, he seems strangely prepared. The two lists sort of blend into one, as if Ryan assumes everyone knows the difference between a high and a low. “We played football before school. It was pizza day for lunch. The teacher liked my idea for the science project. I had to go to art class. I pitched in practice. And, oh, I failed my spelling test.” Ryan is developing the art of the understated, afterthought.

Or how about the daughter who calls her 80-year-old parents who live four states away. They talk probably three times a week or more. Her mother usually goes overboard when it comes to detail: what they had for breakfast, who sat next to them in church, activities of grandchildren, cousins, and distant relatives. This particular conversation was no different. At least that’s how it sounded as mother rehearsed the activities of the last three days. Grocery shopping. Stuffing bulletins at church. Programs on television. “Oh, and your father had a cataract removed yesterday.” Information shared, slipped in, as if he had gone to lunch with the retired men’s group from work.

Important news slipped in as if it were nothing. We do it with good news and bad news. The most important of details tucked in among the matter-of-fact events of the day, as if we were reading a grocery list. A practice so common, so downright routine, that we can all relate to it. Afterthoughts. Understatements. Accents on wrong syllables. Ledes buried.  Examples abound.

Our oh so familiar text for this morning here at the end of Matthew’s Gospel, “the great commission” as the tradition calls it, has a few examples. “Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. When they saw him, they worshiped him, but they doubted. And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

The eleven disciples went to Galilee. That’s the original twelve minus the one, Judas, the betrayer. They went to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. You remember that mountain visits in the biblical tradition ought not to be taken for granted. Important things happen at such places. The call of Moses with that burning bush at Mt. Horeb. The Ten Commandments. Elijah and the still small voice. Here in this gospel of Matthew alone, there is the Sermon on the Mount and the Mount of Transfiguration, and the feeding of the thousands up on a mountain, and Jesus heading up the mountain for solitary prayer. Here at the end of the gospel, just the other side of Easter morning, soon after the Marys went to the tomb and the angel appeared and the stone rolled back, the eleven disciples went to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. As another preacher describes it, this was an Easter mountain. Along this well-traveled faith journey of ours, there are mountaintops, and then there are Easter mountaintops. The taste of God’s presence and God’s hope and God’s future, a taste that comes with an exclamation point.

Just a few years ago, I preached this text from Matthew and was stunned in my office when I read the translation of the New Revised Standard Updated Version before us this morning. “When they saw him, they worshiped him, but they doubted.” The eleven all worshiped. The eleven all doubted. The same disciples worshiped and doubted. Not doubting Thomas and a few others. All of them. No inner circle of the more faithful disciples. All of them. Worship and doubt all within the same disciples. That’s provocative. That’s compelling. That’s really comforting. “When they saw him, they worshiped him, but they doubted.” The doubt isn’t an afterthought.

I had never come upon a translation that dropped the “some”. As in “When they saw him, they worshipped him; but some doubted.” Some of the 11 doubted. I checked again this week. 58 English translations, not counting paraphrases. Only one version drops the “some. “They worshiped him, but they doubted.” I know better than to opine on the Greek text from this pulpit, but I couldn’t find any word for ‘some” The eleven disciples are back in Galilee. Back to the region of their ordinary lives. Back to fishing, back to their families. Back to where they listened to Jesus teach, and watched him heal, and saw him touch the outcast and welcome the stranger. They are back to life as it once was. You remember in Matthew’s empty tomb, it is only the women who see the Risen Jesus, and then here we are at the “Great Commission.” No other resurrection appearances except here up the mountain. “When they saw him, they worshipped him, but they doubted.” Worship and doubt mushed up in all of them after the resurrection. That pretty much sounds like you and me!

There is another example of a possible afterthought that should not be missed in the text. Part of Christ’s promise that should not be lost as an understatement, a lede not buried. “Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. When they saw him, they worshiped him, but they doubted. And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

Always. It’s always. “I am with you always”. Again, in almost every English translation, “I am with you always”. One recent translation has Jesus telling the disciples, “Look, I will be with you every day until the end of the present age.” Every day doesn’t seem the same as always. Every day isn’t the same as always because every day doesn’t include a long, long night. Every day isn’t the same as always because every day doesn’t include the times in life when darkness wins the day. Every day isn’t the same as always because every day doesn’t include what St John of the Cross called “The Dark Night of the Soul”. Every day isn’t the same as always because every day doesn’t quite cover the shadows of doubt cast over our desire to worship the Risen One. Jesus said, “I am with you always”.

“Practicing the Presence of Prayer” is an ancient book by a member of a monastery whose name was Brother Lawrence. The work is best known for Brother Lawrence confessing that he felt closer to God in his daily duties in the kitchen of the monastery, preparing meals and serving his fellow monks, than when participating in the daily offices of prayer in the chapel. “Completely immersed in my understanding of God’s majesty,” he writes, “I used to shut myself up in the kitchen… At the beginning of my duties, I would say to the Lord with confidence, ‘My God, since you are with me, and since, by your will, I must occupy myself with eternal things, please grant me the grace to remain with you, in Your presence. Work with me so that my work might be the very best. Receive as an offering of love both my work and all my affections”. Brother Lawrence on the Risen Christ’s promise. “I am with you always.”  Not just in the chapel, but in the kitchen,

Sue is the sister of my sister-in-law Helen. She is my age and lives with Helen and my brother Tom. Sue is differently abled and has always enjoyed being with our son Ben. Years ago, Ben was playing a college soccer game in Pittsburgh. The extended family gathered for the game. Ben didn’t get into the game until the last few minutes when they happened to score and win the game. After the game, Sue teased Ben, asking him why he was tired since he didn’t play all that much. But in celebrating the win, Sue said, “Jesus take the wheel”. That is Sue’s take on “Always”. The promise of the Risen Christ, “I am with you always”.

Always. You and I are back in Galilee. The daily grind. The work. The school. The family. The chores. The bills. The mundane. The car pool. The routine. Always. The spring morning when creation sings. The long winter when creation’s finger wags. The hottest of summer days when creation’s parched earth chokes. Always. A first day on campus. A last day of graduation. At the bus stop for first grade, and tossing a cap 12 years later. Always. When caring for the children. When caring for the parents. During the chemo, the infusion, and the CAT scan. At the break of dawn. At the dark of midnight. Surrounded by those you love. As alone as one could be. Always. Celebrating a big win for the 12-year-olds. Comforting a broken-hearted 18-year-old whose admission portal didn’t say the right thing. Convincing your father he shouldn’t drive anymore. Raising a glass to your parents’ 50^th. Sitting with a grieving friend and having nothing to say. Holding a grandchild for the first time. Always. When the news of the day eats at your soul. When the voices of young people give you hope. When the wisdom from a generation ahead drips down. When the generation to come dares to speak of serving the common good. When leaders in the nation and the world continue to disappoint. When an unexpected act of kindness is observed on the sidewalk, in the Wawa, in the waiting room, at the office, or in the school cafeteria. Always.

You and I are back in Galilee, where worship and doubt are all mushed together. In the aftermath of a spiritual mountaintop like a mission trip or an arid spell of belief, where even the coattails of the great cloud of witnesses doesn’t help. When Jesus feels so real you can touch him, or you give a hoot, or you couldn’t care less about all this belief nonsense. Always. Always. When you worry about a family member who just doesn’t care, claims no faith or worse. When you remember and celebrate the life of a parent now gone to glory, rightfully taking their place among the communion of saints. Always.

“Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. When they saw him, they worshiped him, but they doubted. And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

Not I will be with you. No, I am with you. Always. Always. Always.

Numbers 11:24-30
May 24
David A. Davis
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I wonder who among us this morning hasn’t made this mistake at home. Someone in your house has made dinner. Maybe they didn’t work at it for hours, but they did think about what to have, and they took the time to cook it, and they are about to serve it. It’s dinner time in your house. And you have just arrived: in from practice, or from work, you have just come from the train, or from a piano lesson, or from a math tutor, dinner is on the table, and as you come in the door and look at the table, you make the mistake. You can’t help yourself. You should have stopped yourself: “Are we having meat loaf again? Fill in the blank: chicken, pasta, salmon, taco salad, burgers, whatever. It was a mistake. The complaining part. It was a mistake.

The scripture lesson for this morning is a story of complaint; complaint against food, complaint against God, and it is a story of biblical proportion. Moses was leading the people of Israel through the wilderness. The people were complaining because all they had to eat was that manna from heaven. According to the Hebrew bible, the manna “was like coriander seed, and its color was like the color of gum resin.” God provided the manna for their journey through the wilderness, and now they were getting tired of it. They had had enough manna. “We remember the fish we used to eat in Egypt for nothing, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic, “ they wined nostalgically. According to the scripture, some of the complainers “had a craving”. “If only we had meat to eat,”  They complained to God and to Moses and to anyone who would listen. “Give us meat. Give us meat. Give us meat!” Moses complained to God, “Where am I going to get meat to feed all these people?…. Why did you lay the burden of these complainers on me?… I can’t carry these people alone, all by myself, they’re too heavy for me?….. If I have found any favor in your sight, do not let my misery continue!”

The Lord’s response to Moses about meat, the Lord’s response concerning the people’s complaint about what’s for dinner; that is the beginning of our text for this morning.

Numbers 11:16-30

So the Lord said to Moses, “Gather for me seventy of the elders of Israel, whom you know to be the elders of the people and officers over them; bring them to the tent of meeting and have them take their place there with you. I will come down and speak with you there, and I will take some of the spirit that is on you and put it on them, and they shall bear the burden of the people along with you so that you will not bear it all by yourself. And say to the people, ‘Consecrate yourselves for tomorrow, and you shall eat meat, for you have wailed in the hearing of the Lord, saying, “If only we had meat to eat! Surely it was better for us in Egypt.” Therefore, the Lord will give you meat, and you shall eat. You shall eat not only one day, or two days, or five days, or ten days, or twenty days, but for a whole month, until it comes out of your nostrils and becomes loathsome to you—because you have rejected the Lord who is among you and have wailed before him, saying, “Why did we ever leave Egypt?” ’ ” But Moses said, “The people I am with number six hundred thousand on foot, and you say, ‘I will give them meat, that they may eat for a whole month’! Are there enough flocks and herds to slaughter for them? Are there enough fish in the sea to catch for them?” The Lord said to Moses, “Is the Lord’s power limited? Now you shall see whether my word will come true for you or not.”

So Moses went out and told the people the words of the Lord, and he gathered seventy of the elders of the people and placed them all around the tent. Then the Lord came down in the cloud and spoke to him and took some of the spirit that was on him and put it on the seventy elders, and when the spirit rested upon them, they prophesied. But they did not do so again.

Two men remained in the camp, one named Eldad and the other named Medad, and the spirit rested on them; they were among those registered, but they had not gone out to the tent, so they prophesied in the camp. And a young man ran and told Moses, “Eldad and Medad are prophesying in the camp.” And Joshua, son of Nun, the assistant of Moses, one of his chosen men, said, “My lord Moses, stop them!” But Moses said to him, “Are you jealous for my sake? Would that all the Lord’s people were prophets and that the Lord would put his spirit on them!” And Moses and the elders of Israel returned to the camp.

Chapter 11 goes on to describe an abundance of quail brought in by the wind from the sea. So many quail fell from the sky that they were piling up knee high on the ground. It took the people two or three days just to gather them in. You have to eat a whole lot of quail to make it come out your nose. The story ends with a plague from God being sent against those who “had the craving.” They died while the meat was still stuck between their teeth. So be careful the next time you make that mistake of complaining about what’s for dinner.

There is another common, if not universal, response described here in the story, one that we all can recognize. It’s when Joshua comes on the scene. Joshua, the Son of Nun; Joshua, who brought the walls of Jericho tumbling down; Joshua, the right-hand man to Moses and the future leader of God’s people. Joshua heard the report that Eldad and Medad were prophesying back in the camp. They weren’t where they were supposed to be out at the tent, which by the way is where Joshua was always in charge. He was the attendant, the keeper of the tent of meeting. The two men didn’t join the 70, so maybe actually 68 elders were at the tent. Two weren’t playing by the rules. They weren’t with the in-crowd. Eldad and Medad weren’t doing it right when it came to prophecy and spirit, and marching to the same drumbeat as the other elders. A young man ran and tattled on Medad and Eldad. Or maybe he was just shocked that they were prophesying no wear near the tent. So Joshua runs up to Moses. “My lord, Moses, stop them!” We can’t do that. We can’t have that! That’s not how it works. They’re not with us. That’s not how it is supposed to be! Moses, stop them. I bet he stomped his feet, too! Stop… them.

Eldad and Medad. Those are some names worth remembering. Not because they sound like characters from The Hobbit or Harry Potter or The Lord of the Rings. No, the names are worth remembering every time you think you can predict where the Spirit of God is going to blow, every time you think you can define what the Spirit of God is going to do, every time you think you can control the Spirit of God and where the Spirit rests.

Eldad and Medad; for whatever reason, the two of them remained in the camp when all the others went out to the tent. They separated themselves from the group, or they were on the fringe, or they were just late, or they didn’t get the memo, or they forgot their homework, or they skipped class. Who knows? But the prophesy, the religious experience, their own encounter with God, it happened right there in the camp, away from all the others, away from the tent, away from Moses, away from Joshua.

The Spirit rested on them when no one would have expected it. Rested. Not anointed. Not inspired. The Spirit didn’t fall upon them or overwhelm them or transform them. The Spirit rested on them. The Hebrew verb is nuah, to rest. To the ear it in the Hebrew, it sounds a lot like the word for Spirit, wind, and breath….ruah. The word “to rest” isn’t all that common when it comes to describing the action of the Spirit of God. In II Kings, when the mantle of the prophet Elijah was passed to Elisha, the whole company of prophets saw Elisha at a distance and they said, “The Spirit of Elijah rests on Elisha.” Nuah.  In Isaiah, the 11^th chapter, familiar words about the Messiah: “A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. The Spirit of the Lord shall rest on him, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord.” The Spirit of the Lord shall rest on him. Nuah.

As we read and heard in the text, the prophets stood by the tent of meeting, the spirit did indeed rest on them, and they prophesied. But they did not do so again”, scripture records. But nothing is said about whether or not Medad and Bildad would prophesy again. Makes me wonder if the unexpected Spirit rested on them….forever.

I was confirmed the summer after my ninth-grade year. That ninth-grade year, a few of the youth leaders back then were dabbling in the charismatic movement. Talking a lot about the Holy Spirit, and yearning for the miraculous in our midst, and sparking emotions. There was some Pentecostalism sneaking into the Presbyterian youth group. One Sunday night after fellowship, I was invited to stay for prayer with a couple of the youth leaders (not the youth pastor) and some of the upperclass members in the youth group. We went into the sanctuary and came up the chancel. The room was dark, but the chancel lights were on. We sang, and we prayed. Then they told me that they were going to lay hands on me and pray for me to receive the gift of speaking in tongues. Speaking in tongues is one of the gifts mentioned in scripture. In the Pentecostal movement, speaking in tongues is a kind of prayer language that is beyond words and understanding. I stood in the middle of a circle as they prayed for me for what seemed like an hour. Some were whispering. Others were shouting. They kept praying and praying for me. And nothing ever happened to me in terms of tongues or a particular gift of the Spirit. I failed them, I guess. Finally, they gave up. We sang some more and went home. Not surprisingly, I can’t remember what those youth leaders said to me when they found out they couldn’t control the Spirit. They weren’t looking for the Spirit to rest on me, they were trying to throw it at me. Over the years, as I have thought about that weird experience back in the fall of 1976, fifty years ago, a few things come to mind. It was pretty spiritually traumatic, to be honest. That might be an understatement. And then I think about forty years of being a preacher. Maybe their prayer worked, just not how they wanted it to. Tongues of a different kind.

Eldad and Medad. Maybe it wasn’t Pentecost with the rush of a mighty wind, and with tongues of fire and many languages and all hearing like their own, and 3,000 people being baptized. Eldad and Medad. A Pentecost moment nonetheless. Remember those names when you find yourself in a conversation where some folks think they know where the spirit is at work and where it isn’t. Or they can just decide who is in, who is out, who is cool, who is not, who belongs, who doesn’t, who fits in, who stands out, who can sit at this table at lunch, who lives in the right neighborhood, who comes from the right country, who deserves a place, who can stay and who can’t. The two unexpected prophets were on the outside, not even looking in. Eldad and Medad. You ought to remember those names. The Spirit rested even and especially on…them.

If you listen closely this morning, I think you still hear the echo here in the room from Confirmation Sunday last week. “Defend, O Lord, your servants with your heavenly grace, that they may continue yours forever, and daily increase in your Spirit more and more, until they come into your everlasting kingdom.” Daily increase your Spirit more and more. That’s a prayer for the spirit to rest. Nuah. We prayed that the Spirit would rest on our confirmands. We prayed one by one. The only thing you could hear in the room was that prayer. The prayer for the Spirit to rest… forever.

You ought to remember those names. Eldad and Medad and Phoebe and Joelle and Samuel and Zachary and Bree and Hank and Logan and Chloe and Isabel and Anna and Vinny and Emily and Ford. A prayer for the Spirit to rest on them and you and me….forever.

Rest on us, Lord. Rest on us.

John 17:1-11
May 17
Mark Edwards
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Over these past four weeks, Pastor Dave has been preaching a series on conversations with Jesus, as found in the Gospel of John. We have heard of Nicodemus’ encounter with Jesus and the question about being born again. We have heard of the man born blind upon being healed and the confusion that caused surrounding the obvious. We have heard of the woman at the well, and of Mary and Martha upon the death of their brother Lazarus.

I am extending this series one more week with a conversation that comes in the form of a long prayer, also from the Gospel of John. It is the final element in John’s narrative surrounding the Lord’s Supper.

This prayer, a conversation of its own kind, is with the disciples present, yet they are silent. The conversation is between Jesus and his Father. In some sense, it is a conversation between God and God.

Hear the Word of the Lord:

After Jesus had spoken these words, he looked up to heaven and said, “Father, the hour has come; glorify your Son so that the Son may glorify you, since you have given him authority over all people, to give eternal life to all whom you have given him. And this is eternal life, that they may know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent. I glorified you on earth by finishing the work that you gave me to do. So now, Father, glorify me in your own presence with the glory that I had in your presence before the world existed.

“I have made your name known to those whom you gave me from the world. They were yours, and you gave them to me, and they have kept your word. Now they know that everything you have given me is from you, for the words that you gave to me I have given to them, and they have received them and know in truth that I came from you, and they have believed that you sent me. I am asking on their behalf; I am not asking on behalf of the world, but on behalf of those whom you gave me, because they are yours. All mine are yours, and yours are mine, and I have been glorified in them.

“And now I am no longer in the world, but they are in the world, and I am coming to you. Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one.”

This is the Word of the Lord.

Let us pray.

Dear Lord, may the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be enlightened and pleasing by you and for you. Amen.

“Holy Father, protect them in your name, so that they may be one.”

This is what we have come here to do today: to welcome, to pray, to commit these ones who have been given to us. From whom they have come, we send them back.

The hour has come.

This is what we did last year at this same time, and the year before, and the year before that. The hour has come again.

This is what Jesus did on the night he was betrayed. That hour came.

It has been happening over and over again for the past two thousand years. Indeed, there are hints in this passage that it was happening long before — even before the world existed. The hour was and was to come even before there were hours.

What is this hour about?

It is about welcoming these confirmands, these youth, these children of God, these sons and daughters of our Lord. It is about welcoming them more and more among all the children of God into the church, which is God’s family.

You might wonder why teenagers would join a church.

What does a church do?

Over the course of this past year, we have been asking the students that very question: What did you grow up with? What has the church done for you? What do you believe about the church?

They have written a thirty-five-page booklet on those questions. It is a lovely document.

I want to share some of their responses.

Why would teenagers join a church?

Hear for yourself.

From Isabel:

“I have to say, out of all the church memories I’ve ever had, church fellowship and choir, starting in middle school, have held some of the most meaningful memories for me. From the wisdom of the talks, to the conversations I had with all the youth leaders over the years, to the runs to Wawa, the nights of random goofing off with dodgeballs and Frisbees on the university campus, where I just stopped worrying altogether — a thing that happens rarely now.

“As time progresses, the moments in choir when the beauty of a song made me long for more because it felt like a taste of heaven — all the moments that we had and will still have until the end of high school are memories that remind me that no matter how lonely I get, or how stressed out, in pain, or in despair I feel, I still have that beauty every week.”

Why would teenagers join the church?

In church, God has offered the waters of life, and some have found them.

Phoebe writes:

“I used to count the minutes until the sermon ended.”

You are not the only one. No offense. I am also a preacher.

“But when my world fell apart, I started counting on the church community to hold me together. When I was experiencing a personal crisis, the most reliable place I could turn was the church. I may have hid it well, but for a long time I was completely terrified and lost in life until the day I finally listened in Sunday school.”

Phoebe, you are not the only one.

Why would teenagers join the church?

It offers us a beloved community of strangers.

As Vinnie says:

“When I moved to Germany as a six-year-old, I really missed Nassau. It was always given that a certain group of people would be seen every week, and suddenly that certainty was stripped away completely, starting over in a foreign and unknown place.

“We found a church in Freiburg, and I loved their tea and that they spoke English, but it wasn’t the same. When I returned to Princeton one year later, Nassau was there, just as I remembered it, to welcome me back as usual.”

Many of those faces are here today, Vinnie.

Why would teenagers join the church?

God uses the church to mend broken spirits.

As Chloe says:

“We didn’t go to church for a while, probably because we were grieving the death of my grandma, so neither my mom nor I went to church until last year when I got back into the church choir. I felt like I was growing deeper in my connection with God.

“Ever since then, I’ve been going to church more willingly, and I enjoy church. Part of the reason is now I have a choice, but the other part was because I wanted to grow in my relationship with God. I believe that God has made me a better person and helped my grief throughout the years.”

Why would teenagers join the church?

God uses the church to meet us and offer us direction.

As Hank says:

“I kept going to church, and as I did, I noticed that I really enjoyed going to church because I knew that God was always by my side, and he is my Lord and Savior.

“One of my favorite parts of church is probably praying because I know that God always listens to my prayers and is always there for me when I’m in need of guidance and comfort. I believe that God leads the way for me in life.”

Why would teenagers join the church?

God uses it to serve everyone inside and out.

As Bree says:

“Appalachia Service Project especially opened my eyes to see that no one has a picture-perfect life. So the experience of going and having the opportunity to help people with their own homes and make a difference felt really good.

“At ASP, usually a group of kids would talk with leaders like Byron about faith and all these other things and questions that would keep you up all night because you couldn’t figure out the answers. So I feel like all those late-night conversations really sent me — and I imagine all the kids who were involved — into a spiral, but at the same time we also learned so much in such a short amount of time.”

Why would teenagers join the church?

God uses the church to share.

Anna writes:

“I believe that God needs people to work for his goals. Through the works of Jesus, God has shown that his goals are peace, love, and inclusiveness. Jesus showed by example and words how we should live.

“Nassau Church has shown me by its leaders’ and community’s commitments to God’s goals, both by example and through our words. Our church community spreads God’s word to those outside the church.”

Why would a teenager join the church?

God uses the church to give us protection. As we just read from Jesus’ prayer.

Emily says:

“Last September, I wanted to hang out with a friend at Clark Commons. My mom wanted me to hang out with Maria instead. Of course, my mom gave in and said, ‘Okay, you can hang out at the Commons.’ But that’s when Maria and Isabel were in a car accident. I believe God protected me that day.

“So the scripture that I picked is the armor of God, Ephesians 6. I picked it because it’s protection.”

Why would teenagers join the church?

God uses the church as a place to wrestle with the hardest questions.

Zach writes:

“One question I continue to reflect on is death. While I believe in eternal life and I trust in God’s protection, I don’t fully understand why some people die unexpectedly. If God watches over us, I wonder why he allows certain things to happen, and why life sometimes ends sooner than expected.

“This is something I’m still learning about as I grow in my faith and as I seek a deeper understanding of his plan.”

Why would a teenager come to church on Sunday?

God uses the church to overcome the darkness of the world.

As Logan says:

“I’ve been going to church since I was little. I didn’t really get it at first, but over time I started to see what it was about. It’s a place where people come together to worship God.

“Church taught me that when life gets hard, you keep going. Psalm 139:12 says, ‘Even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you.’ Darkness is just like life. The dark can sometimes feel confusing, scary, and tricky to see what’s coming next. But God can guide us through, for the hard times are not hard for him, and he can see our future.”

Why would teenagers join the church?

God uses the church to overcome not just the darkness without, but the darkness within.

Joelle writes:

“Savior of the world, who came down from heaven to deliver us from the power of sin and death, the one who makes a way out of no way — God, rich in mercy, surrounds us with his unfailing love and frees us.

“I believe that God knows each one of us better than we know ourselves, and that we belong in life and in death to our Savior Jesus Christ.”

Joelle, that is beautiful.

Why would a teenager join the church?

God uses the church to show that there is life even after we say goodbye to friends.

Sam was sitting in fellowship dinner the other night, reflecting on how much time he has spent at Nassau. Quite a bit, really.

He writes:

“I realize that in my time here, I’ve been watching so many interns who’ve been so supportive and some of the best people I’ve ever met — people like Byron and Felipe and Sydney — whom I’ve grown up spending Sundays with. They’re all going to be gone next year, and that struck me like lightning.”

Why would teenagers join the church?

Ford, I think you are paying attention. I think you know you are next.

Why would teenagers pay attention to a sermon? Well, they are in it.

Finally, God uses the church to make sense of our lives — to clarify this confusing thing that we are living in, this thing called time.

God uses the church to give us meaning, to show us the meaning of life, the universe, and everything in it.

Ford writes:

“My church journey started a long time before I was born.”

Now there is a Presbyterian: elected before the foundations of the world, and proud to confess it.

“In life and in death we belong to God.”

You conclude:

“We trust in him, the Holy One of Israel, whom alone we serve and worship. For God so loved the world — the whole world — that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”

Thirteen confirmands. A baker’s dozen. A lucky number.

Why are they here?

Memories of beauty.

The waters of life.

“It welcomes me back.”

“It helped my grief.”

“God leads the way.”

“Learned so much.”

“Spread God’s word.”

“God protected me.”

“A deeper understanding.”

“Guides us through.”

“In life and in death.”

“Struck me like lightning.”

“Before I was born.”

Church, what does all this mean?

That these kids would come forward, think these things, hope in these things, believe in these things?

Well, it means that Jesus’ prayer — the prayer that he prayed for his disciples on the night that he was betrayed — was answered.

It means that the prayer is still being prayed again.

It means that Jesus and the Holy Spirit and God the Father — that mysterious Trinity — are still praying and answering that very prayer, wrapping more and more in, welcoming more and more back, bringing all and all in.

“I have made your name known to them. They were yours, and you gave them to me. They have kept your word. The words that you gave to me I have given to them. They have received it, and they know in truth that I came from you. They believed that you sent me. I am asking on their behalf because they are yours. All mine are yours, and all yours are mine. I have been glorified in them.

“They are in the world.”

“Holy Father, protect them in your name, so that they may be one as we are one.”

Church, this is Christ’s prayer for his disciples.

Church, this is Christ’s prayer for the world.

Church, this world has been given to Christ.

Church, this is also our prayer for these confirmands.

The hour has come.

This hour.

Now.

This is eternal.

Amen.

John 11:1-53
May 10
David A. Davis
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You will note the length of today’s lesson from the Gospel of John. We are finishing up a four-week series in our preaching life that has looked at long conversations with Jesus in the Gospel of John. Nicodemus. The Samaritan woman at the well. The man born blind. And this morning, Mary and Martha and the death of their brother Lazarus. The reason to read this lengthy encounter is that the power of the long conversation comes with the gospel writer’s slow, deliberate description of grief. More than the words spoken, it is the emotions named and actions described, and the questions that never get answered. Love. Heartbreak. Anger. Weeping. Spreading the word about one who is dying. Surrounding those who grieve to console them. Following them here and there to make sure they’re okay. Questioning. Blaming. Weeping. Someone is saying the wrong thing. Others are trying to make sense of it all. A whole lot that will never be understood. And weeping. The passage begins with Jesus being told of Lazarus’ death and ends with the authorities hatching the plans to put Jesus to death.

Jesus is remembered in this encounter with Mary and Martha not for what he said, but for what he did. Jesus wept. Even more than his raising Lazarus from the dead, Jesus is remembered here for his tears. Jesus wept. But the infamous brevity of the verse (the shortest verse in the bible, right), the brevity cannot take away from the way John describes the Lord’s profound encounter with death. John works hard to let the reader know how greatly and deeply Jesus was disturbed. His tears alone can’t sum up the emotion.

Mary came and fell at the feet of Jesus, repeating Martha’s claim, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Mary was weeping. The friends surrounding her were weeping. When Jesus saw it, John tells us “he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved.”  Greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. It is a redundant expression clearly intended to express magnitude. A magnitude of emotion, like multiplying to the “nth degree, that’s what frames his tears. Some suggest that Jesus is crying because he was mad at himself for his delay. Others argue that he was really upset with Mary and the crowds; that somehow their tears conveyed a lack of belief in what he was about to do. Some even conclude his pre-tear irritation was akin to being annoyed that he had to do another miracle. None of that is very compelling.

After “Jesus wept” and before he heads to the tomb, John again reports that Jesus was “greatly disturbed.”  The piling on of descriptors implies that there is more going on here than Jesus’ own grief over the death of one whom he loved. St. John of Chrysostom argues that this depth of emotion that surrounds Jesus’ tears is the same emotion Jesus displayed in the Garden of Gethsemane as he was “deeply grieved, even to death.” This profound, raw emotion that leaves him shouting there outside the tomb of Lazarus, “greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved, it rises up in Jesus as he faces off with the power of death and darkness. It is another round in a cosmic battle. This soul-wrenching reaction of Jesus, it comes in response to death’s constant and cold reality that tears again and again at the human heart. Jesus’ confrontation with death; it took him to the cross, to his own tomb, to the depths of hell. Yes, he was “greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved.”

Weeping wasn’t even the strongest response that came from Jesus. It was that shout. When he stood outside the tomb and cried with a loud voice. When he looked up to heaven, he prayed to the God of life and then let loose with a shout. When all that deep-seated existential staring down death emotion came bursting from within him, “he cried out with a loud voice.”  He shouted. It was a whole lot more than a shout to Lazarus, a whole lot more than a one dead man rising shout. This was a resurrection shout for the ages. Just like Christ is Risen!

This story of Jesus, Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, it doesn’t just drip with his tears; it drips with our humanity. It’s that deliberate, slow description of life when confronted by the constant and cold reality of death. The only thing John misses is a description of Mary and Martha’s friends bringing food to the house. Tears. Questions. Everything is sort of slowing down. And even that shout.

Jesus said to Martha, “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.” I think I have repeated that verse at every funeral or memorial service that I have led since the first one in July of 1986. I haven’t kept count, but there were six in my first two months of ministry right out of seminary. So I have repeated it a lot. And no one, no one in all these years, has ever said to me, “What on earth does that mean?” No one ever asks because it’s not something you explain. It’s not a verse you parse. It’s not a sentence you diagram. No, you just sort of let it wash over you. The verse, it doesn’t stay in the ear or land in the brain; it resonates somewhere deep within where words don’t work so well. You can read biblical commentaries that try to unpack it, but frankly, they don’t do it very well. Because what you and I have come to know about this resurrection promise of Jesus is that it is all about when and where you hear it.

When death calls Easter people together, when we gather together here or at the cemetery or in a funeral home, when we fall on our knees hoping the resurrection promise of Jesus will once again wash over us, there is always an echo of Jesus’ shout. With each and every death, with each and every grieving heart, comes the tears of Christ himself and a cosmic, death-shattering shout.  I can’t explain it, and I cannot really describe it. But I have seen it. Again and again and again. The people of God are taking that slow journey so full of grief, emotion, questions, routines, and seeking a comfort that can’t be parsed. The followers of Jesus dared to stare down the reality of death and then live every day in the power of the resurrection promise of God. Here in the body of Christ, living into the psalmist’s affirmation that “weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning”. God’s Beloved, gathered in and sent out, testifying and living into a resurrection shout so much bigger than one dead man rising. A resurrection shout that shall rise above all that the darkness brings, until that day when all the blind will see, and all who are thirsty will be satisfied, and we shall see the kingdom of God. A kingdom where swords are plowshares, and dividing walls are shattered, and the hungry are fed, and hatred is squashed, and love forever reigns and the beauty and artistry of God is unadulterated and radiantly on display; where no one shall hurt or destroy on all of God’s holy mountain, and justice and righteousness flow like and everlasting stream, and where death shall be no more. And God will wipe away every tear.

“Lazarus, Come Out!” Jesus and his resurrection shout. It is not a secret that here at Nassau Church, we have had more than our share of memorial services this spring. As I said to my peer group of pastors at our gathering earlier this week, I am really tired of death. But I have also received the holy gift of hearing these resurrection shouts. “I’m not afraid to die, I’m just not sure about getting there,” one person said to me. That’s a resurrection shout. From another, “Long ago I accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior, and my relationship with him is safe and secure.” A resurrection shout. “I told my family it is time”. Resurrection shout. “I am eager to see my Creator and my Savior”. A resurrection shout. I told someone in my office weeks ago about the person years ago who said to me, “I just want to have some awareness of my grandchildren growing up when I am gone.” “That sounds like heaven to me”, I responded. The person in my office smiled and said softly, “Me too!” It was said in a whisper, but it was a resurrection shout.

Our granddaughter Frances Aubrey is named after her two maternal great-grandmothers, and they both were a piece of work. I have told you before that my mother, Jane Aubrey Davis, was the greatest theologian in my life. That mostly has to do with living with her all the years after my brother’s death at the age of 21 in a car accident when I was in second or third grade in 1973. Observing her grief and her faith amid a death she never got over. When my father was dying in 1998, and the cardiologist kept trying and trying and trying various procedures, I stood next to my mother when she told the doctor it was time to stop, “I know for you death is failure,” my mother said, “ But we are a family of faith. For us, death is not a failure.”  She wasn’t preaching. She wasn’t wearing her faith on her sleeve. She wasn’t being rude to the doctor. But there in a hospital hallway of Mercy Hospital, there in PGH, it was a resurrection shout like so many others I have heard these forty years of ministry.

“Jesus said to Martha, ‘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.’”

“Lazarus, come out!”

John 9:1-41
May 3
David A. Davis
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The man blind from birth whom Jesus sees as he walks along. The one whom Jesus heals with spit and dirt. The healed man is perhaps most remembered for saying this: “One thing I do know, that I was blind, now I see.” But what he says at the end of the chapter is much more important and is the title of the sermon. “Lord, I believe.” “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” Jesus asks all the way at the end of chapter 9. “Who is he? Tell me so that I might believe in him.” Jesus tells the man that he is the one, or in Bible-speak, “the one speaking with you is he”. “Lord, I believe” is the formerly blind man’s strong affirmation of faith. And according to John, he worshiped Jesus.

The man said, “Lord, I believe,” and John tells us, “The man worshipped Jesus.”  The man’s more famous line, “one thing I do know…I was blind, now I see.” Notice he doesn’t say it to Jesus. He says it to the Pharisees.  Actually, the man doesn’t say much to Jesus. Another one of these chapter-long encounters, but this time, Jesus and the main character don’t say much to each other. The man doesn’t cry out to Jesus, asking to be healed. He doesn’t acknowledge Jesus right up front with a title that would imply a faith that precedes healing. In fact, the only thing here in the beginning of the story that Jesus says to the blind man is “Go and wash in the pool of Siloam”. Jesus gives that instruction and then disappears from the page until “Do you believe in the Son of Man?”

As became clear in our presentation of the biblical text before you this morning, when it comes to John 9, all of John chapter 9, Jesus says very little. And much of what he does say (“he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him…..I am the light of the world… I came into this world for judgment so that those who do NOT see may see, and those who do see may become blind”), much of what Jesus says leaves the disciples, the Pharisees, the church, you, and me, scratching our collective heads.

Clearly, when it comes to the man born blind and the bulk of his story, Jesus has little role to play. Well, he healed him, and that’s sort of a big deal. But John spends SO much time writing about the man born blind and the neighbors and his parents and the Pharisees. The miracle, one presumes, the spit, the mud, the washing, the miracle happened in the blink of an eye! But John just goes on and on. John goes on and on telling of the man’s growing confession and understanding of Jesus. First, he knows nothing. Then, with his sight restored, he makes reference to a man named Jesus and tells the neighbors he had no idea where Jesus was. Then the man tells the Pharisees about the mud, the washing, and the seeing. “He is a prophet,” the man tells them as they demand to know what he says about the one who healed him. Then, when the Pharisees call the man now healed a second time, and as things must have started to sink in during their interrogation of him, he says, “If this man were not from God, he could do nothing.” Finally, after he had been driven out, Jesus goes after him and finds him, in that last exchange between the man and Jesus, he confesses faith in the Son of Man.

John goes on and on to show the man born blind’s evolving view of Jesus. Just as his brain must have had to catch up to his newfound ability to see, his heart was gradually catching on to this Jesus. The Pharisees’ reaction to Jesus healing the blind man moves in the opposite direction. First, they are divided; worried less about the healing and worried more that Jesus was working on the sabbath. Then, “we know that this man is a sinner!” And by the end, their exasperation wins out, claiming to have no idea where this man Jesus even comes from. They see less while the man born blind sees more. With his growing sight comes his expanding response to the Pharisees. With each interrogatory, his answers come with more of an attitude. “Do you also want to become one of his disciples?” Until, as John tells, they reviled him. That’s a harsh word. “They reviled him,” and “they drove him out.”

When you go over to visit the new Princeton University Art Museum, there are some paintings that are best viewed from a bit of distance. Obviously, that’s not unique to the galleries on campus. In any museum, anywhere, some art is best viewed from a distance. One New Testament scholar describes the 9^th chapter of the gospel as John’s “ultimate artistry”. Preachers for more than fifty years have been taught at the seminary down the street to stand close to the biblical text. To use all the tools of biblical historical criticism to examine the text closely. To try to determine authorial intent and dig into the Greek text to find the true meaning. Pastors who identify as biblical, textual preachers were taught to invite their listeners into close reading of the text. In the case of John 9, to zero in on Jesus’ words, trying to figure out Jesus’ intended meaning at the beginning of the chapter and at the end. To dig in and try to get into the heads of the man’s parents, who were worried about those in power and those who make rules, religious power and religious rules, so worried that they would deny their own son. To stand so close to the text that you find yourself distracted by that first question about sin and blindness and the challenge of translating Jesus’ answer, so distracted that this infamous encounter with Jesus and the blind man may just become less meaningful and relevant to anyone who seeks to live the faith. So focused on a close reading of the text that one may, in fact, take away from the ultimate artistry of John.

John invites the reader to take 20, 30, 40 steps back from the artwork and look again. Take a step back, not just for an overview or a summary, like somebody in the office saying “let’s keep it at 30,000 feet”. No, take a step back for a whole other meaning. The man born blind was seeing more and more. The Pharisees were seeing less and less. And with Jesus playing the overture and the reprise, Jesus at the beginning and the end, what comes to the fore is the man born blind’s interrogation by neighbors, parents, and Pharisees; by pretty much everyone! What comes into view is the bombarding cynicism, the barrage of mistrust and questions, and the flat-out trial of the man born blind. The interrogation came not because of the miracle that gave the man sight, but because of his increasing faith in the Messiah and his growing ability to see the reign of God that Jesus brings and the world Jesus intends.

The world is interrogating faith and threatening one’s ability to see the reign of God that Jesus brings and the world Jesus intends. I had coffee this week with Kevin Sack. He is a visiting professor of journalism at Princeton University this semester and the author of the highly acclaimed book Mother Immanuel: Two Centuries of Race, Resistance, and Forgiveness in One Charleston Church. As he told me of his ten years of research, being part of the congregation, and living in Charleston, SC., he described a bit of what the church is like today. Kevin told me that for centuries, the church was a neighborhood church where everyone walked to worship on Sunday morning.  He said there was only one couple who walked to church now. A retired white couple who live in an expensive condo and became members of the congregation after the tragedy. He then lamented the gentrification and the cost of living in the historic southern city. “You know we are sitting in Princeton, right?” According to the Wall Street Journal, 10% of our country’s wealthiest people account for 50% of the spending. According to Sports Illustrated, the five top college quarterbacks are making from $3 million up to $5.5 million. Few things interrogate our faith and threaten our ability to see Jesus more than what the world thinks about money.

NYTimes opinion writer David French is a Presbyterian who writes about faith often. He is more conservative theologically, a former member of the Presbyterian Church of America. A month or two ago, he wrote that the biggest divide when it comes to faith and politics no longer breaks along the traditional lines of right and left. The primary divide for those who identify as Christian in the public square is between decent and indecent. French goes on to quote the Apostle Paul on the fruits of the Spirit: “love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.”  The powers and principalities and leaders of the world bombarding and interrogating faith and an ability to see Jesus with an unrecognizable gospel.

Years ago, I was serving at a wine tasting in Joy Saville’s backyard. It was a fundraiser for Housing Initiatives of Princeton. The rector at Trinity and I enjoy participating as pourers at the spring event. Sometime after all the whites and early into the reds, one of the guests at a table called me over, not for a fresh pour but for a comment. “30 years I have lived in Princeton,” he announced in a loud voice, “and I have yet to find anyone who believed in the resurrection of the body!” Now there is actually a long and rich debate in theological circles, and I have had many conversations over the years about what on earth “resurrection of the body” means. But I can tell you his tone didn’t reflect a question. And with me standing there with two bottles of wine in hand and a napkin over my arm, I think the belittling intent was clear. Few things interrogate our faith more than the world’s demeaning sneer.

Saying “Lord, I believe” and yearning to see Jesus more and more isn’t easy amid the world’s relentless interrogation. So come to the Table this morning to be refreshed and nourished by Christ himself, who invites you here. Because you and I know that nourishment isn’t just for today. It is so we can rise tomorrow facing a Monday morning, saying “Lord, I believe”. And then get up on Tuesday and choose again to live by God’s grace, saying “Lord, I believe”. And on Wednesday, saying “Lord, I believe” and then heading out to witness to God’s love and mercy. On Thursday, praying that you will be able to see just a bit more of the world Jesus intends, saying “Lord, I believe”.  Rising on Friday, allowing the Spirit to remind you that you are a child of God and nothing will separate you from God’s love, saying “Lord, I believe”. Come Saturday, finding a voice to speak for God’s justice, and a craving to see Jesus just a bit more, saying “Lord, I believe”.

Because when it comes to the life of faith, and our witness to the gospel, and our service to the kingdom, the world’s interrogation never stops. The world is seeing less and less, and you are seeing more and more. “Lord, I believe!”

John 4:1-42
April 26
David A. Davis
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This water. Give me this water. Give me this water so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming back here to draw water. This water. Living water was what Jesus called it. Living water. It could also be translated as flowing water. As in the water that flows into a deep well. Water is not stagnant but flowing. Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep. Where do you get that flowing water? Flowing water. Living water. Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life. “Give me this water,” she said. And those who thereafter overhear the conversation between Jesus and the Samaritan Woman try to grasp the weight of the phrase “living water”. For Jesus clearly intends it to drip with meaning. Living water. Is it the teaching of Jesus recorded in the gospels? Yes. Living water. Is it the promised presence and the anointing of the Holy Spirit? Yes. Living water. Is it the grace and forgiveness that define the gospel and rest at the center of God’s plan of salvation? Yes. Living water. Is it life in Christ in all of its fullness, abundant, eternal? Yes. Give me this water, she said.

You and I could tackle this conversation between Jesus and the Samaritan woman for a month of Sundays and still be left with plenty to ponder and lots to remember. In the chapter just before here in John, Nicodemus came to Jesus by night. The meeting at the well took place at noon, and Jesus was the one who spoke first. Nicodemus pretty quickly fades away as the teaching of  Jesus soars into John 3:16. Here in chapter 4, the woman at the well stays stage center pretty much the whole time. She goes back and tells others of the man who told her everything that she had done. “He cannot be the Messiah, can he?” Because of her testimony, even her hesitant, question-formed testimony, because of her,  many Samaritans believed in him. It is only as Jesus stayed with them for a few days, as people heard his word for themselves, only as they came to know him as Savior of the world, only then does the woman take a step back in the narrative’s drama.

She hardly fades away. The Samaritan Woman. Not like Nicodemus, who fades into the night while Jesus keeps teaching. Jesus’ encounter with the Samaritan woman is the longest recorded conversation that Jesus had with anybody; the Samaritan woman and Jesus were there at Jacob’s well. Length is only part of what makes it remarkable. The gospel narrator’s comment about Jews and Samaritans not sharing things in common; that’s hard to miss. And the disciples were shocked that Jesus was speaking with a woman? It’s probably more than gender being questioned there. The disciples would have known those old stories of finding a spouse at the well: Abraham and Rebekah, Jacob and Rachel, Moses and Zipporah. Of course, they were astonished that Jesus was talking to her there at the well. The well in town was like an Old Testament version of a dating app! So, the reader doesn’t have to work very hard to understand how remarkable this conversation really was; this is the longest and most remarkable conversation.

Do a little online reading about the Samaritan Woman, and you will be amazed at how quickly interpreters, preachers, devotional writers, and bloggers make her out to be a prostitute. Yes, it is a reaction to the part of the dialogue where Jesus asks her about her husband and then comments about the person she is with now. But it’s mostly an overreaction that serves to make the gospel more juicy, not unlike how Mary Magdalene has been forever portrayed. Nowhere in the text does Jesus offer forgiveness or condemn behavior or talk about repentance or say to her, “go and sin no more”. That’s a different conversation in John’s gospel (the woman caught in adultery). Here in this long, drawn-out encounter, Jesus had plenty of time to “go there” if he wanted to.

I figured I could blame men for portraying her as one with questionable character and a shady past, but the attempt to turn this encounter into little more than a morality play doesn’t break along gender lines. It is an unfortunate, slippery slope: portray her as a sinner, assume her question about worship and mountains is intended to change the subject away from her past, belittle that confession that comes as a question (rather than understand it as a gradual and persistent awakening to who Jesus is), and then ignore the affirmation of her bringing others to Jesus. Push the Samaritan Woman to the steamy side and then forget that even before women were the first Easter morning preachers, here in John’s Gospel, the Samaritan woman was the first to offer a testimony to her encounter with the Messiah, the Savior of the World. It’s the safer read, isn’t it? Reducing the gospel to some archetypal account of a loose woman rescued, preached over and over again by evangelists preparing for their own fall from grace, and thus kept far enough away from most of us whose lives lack such sinful flair. The church’s slippery slope that, over and over again, chooses to objectify women rather than listen to their testimony and empower them to preach.

I am convinced by those who suggest a more nuanced reading of ancient marriage laws and writers who wonder if maybe she was unable to have children and therefore cast off again and again. All we know from the story is that she was either widowed or abandoned five times. As one colleague puts it, “one might imagine the woman’s story is tragic rather than scandalous.”  For goodness sake, if the disciples hadn’t come and interrupted the well-side conversation, expressing their shock that Jesus would be talking to a woman, causing her to drop her bucket and rush off, if the disciples hadn’t come back, Jesus and the Samaritan Woman might still be talking there about worshipping God in spirit and truth. Jesus telling her that he is the one called Christ; invoking every part of God’s conversation with Moses back at the burning bush; I am… the one who is speaking to you. That dropped bucket on the ground; a symbol for all to see that she will never thirst again and that with her testimony, she has now been moved, empowered, and ordained to schlep living water. The scandal of the gospel was never about her; it’s what the world did to him. God’s love poured out. Give me this water…

Did you hear? Did you notice how this long conversation started? John tells the reader that Jesus left Judea and started back to Galilee. Before John records that Jesus came to a city, sat by a well because he was tired, before John tells us that it was about noon, John writes, But he had to go through Samaria. It is an odd comment. He had to go through Samaria. It’s odd because it’s not a geographic necessity. One could get from Judea to Jerusalem without going through Samaria. It’s like telling someone to drive to Boston, but you have to use the George Washington Bridge and the Cross Bronx Expressway. There are other ways to get there. He had to go through Samaria. It’s a gospel way of underlining the importance of what is about to come. He had to go. It is a nod, a theological margin note that circles this whole boundary-shattering, inclusive, grace-filled conversation. It had to happen. Almost like Jesus didn’t want to go that way; he had to! So that even there, in the most unexpected of places, even in the most difficult of places, by his grace and with her persistence, in that longest of encounters, living water starts to flow.

Experiencing grace in a place you did not want to go. Two weeks ago, I was in the Dallas-Fort Worth airport Hyatt for three days. I didn’t want to go. But I am serving on a denominational search committee, and it was time for in-person interviews. Other than a dinner out for Texas BBQ, we never left the hotel. The meeting room barely had a window. The view out my window was airport construction. Seven members on the search committee. A few denominational staff members and some folks from a search firm. I only knew one person in the group, and almost all of our work up until then had been online. And the committee had some pretty divergent opinions throughout the process.

I figure at some point there would be a decision. What I didn’t expect in hanging out with Presbyterians I didn’t know for a few days in a hotel was a depth of relationship and friendship to develop. A shared task. A commitment to the work. A mutual love of the church. Meals together. Laughter. Honest sharing. Lots of prayer. I didn’t want to go, and among my new friends, there was an unexpected gift of grace. Some days, some weeks, some seasons, you have to take God’s grace anyway, anytime, you can get it!

I have told you before about our family trip to NYC many Christmases ago. We went to see the musical Godspell. I am dating myself, but I know every word of every song. The night we traveled up there, it was absolutely pouring rain; just teeming, coming down in buckets. As folks rushed into the theater out of the weather, the whole lobby area looked like a changing area at a pool. People are toweling off, taking off wet coats, and checking umbrellas. As we found our seats and had some time to look around the rather small, theater-in-the-round, I noticed a drip coming from the ceiling. Given the amount of rain, a leak wasn’t a surprise. It was a slow, steady drip, falling right on the stage there in the middle of the theater.  Instead of putting a bucket onstage, I noticed they had opened one of those trap doors that would lead into places unknown in the bowels of a theater under the stage. How convenient, I thought to myself. The leak was perfectly located. Drip. Drip. Drip. Of course, the joke was on me (and the rest of us in the audience). Very early on, that drip-catching trap door was opened and became a baptismal fount as the characters splashed in grace, baptized by John. The fount filled not by a rush, or a mighty pour, but by a drip, drip, drip.

The Samaritan woman and her experience of the Living Water: it wasn’t like a fire hose opening up. It came in the drips and drabs of the longest of encounters. It was her yearning, her persistence, her elongated inquiry, and the bold grace of the Savior that took him to the most unexpected of places, courting the most unexpected of people. Some in this life of faith have been blessed by a transformation that comes like a teeming, drenching rain. (One thing I know, I was blind but now I see). Most of us, I imagine, trudge along for the long haul, experiencing the grace of Christ in the drips along the way. And here’s the promise that comes from Jesus and his encounter with the Samaritan woman: that you and I would find grace in the places we have to go, not just where we want to go. That grace will find us in the most unexpected places and through the most unexpected people.

Droplets of the teaching of Jesus recorded in the gospels; like welcoming children and loving your enemy and turning the other cheek and you can’t serve God and mammon; just a sprinkle of the Holy Spirit; the wordless presence that brings peace and comfort not at all like what the world has to give; even a trickle of the grace and forgiveness that everyday helps you to find your place in God’s plan of salvation; the sips of the life Christ offers in all of its fullness; abundant, eternal, sips that bring joy when the morning comes, sips that help broken hearts to sing again, sips that allow our lips to yet again praise God.

A fire hose of grace; maybe, every now and then….but most days, when the living water just drips….

Give me this water. Give us that water, O God….

John 3:1-17
April 19
David A. Davis
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For the next four Sundays, we are going to be in the Gospel of John, reading about, preaching about, and pondering several conversations with Jesus. Nicodemus. The Woman at the Well. The man born blind. Mary and Martha. As to gospel comparisons, all of them are rather robust in terms of dialogue and number of verses. Because we are in John, each of the conversations comes with a phrase, a metaphor, an image that lingers: born again, living water, light of the world, resurrection and life. But when you string these four conversations together and ponder how the gospel writer seems to use the dialogue to slow the narrative, the drama, it is as if the reader is being invited to linger for a while, to sit with the characters for a while. Instead of rushing to figure out what it means to be born again, or trying to pin down a definition of Living Water, or falling in with the disciples who want to know who sinned, the blind man or his parents, or arguing about whether Lazarus was really dead or just sleeping, what if we just allow ourselves to listen in on the conversations, to sit a while with Nicodemus and the woman at the well and the man born blind and Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. This morning, it’s the conversation between Jesus and Nicodemus.

When the reader of John’s gospel comes to chapter 3, it is hard not to rush to John 3:16. It is so easy for the preacher, the listener, to be influenced by the interpretive landscape which has been so dominated by what it means to be “born again”, “born from above”. When Jesus says to Nicodemus, “no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above”, all eyes and ears focus on “born from above.” But the term “kingdom of God”, “see the kingdom of God, it is the only time the phrase is used in all of John’s gospel.  In Mark, right off the bat Jesus is preaching: “the time is fulfilled and the kingdom of God has come near.” In Luke Jesus comes right out and affirms “the kingdom of God is among you.” In Matthew, Jesus tells those parables about the coming kingdom of God: the wise and foolish maidens, the talents, the sheep and the goats. But not John; as for the kingdom of God in John, only here: “no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above”.

Nicodemus: a Pharisee, a leader of the Jews. Nicodemus acknowledges Jesus as a teacher, as one who comes from God, and as one who has done these signs. “Signs” are key throughout John’s gospel. Here so early, one sign would be the water turned to wine at the Wedding in Cana. Nicodemus, though he comes to Jesus in the cover of darkness, begins with an acknowledgement, an openness, some kind of recognition. “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.”  Jesus answered Nicodemus, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” The phrase could be “born from above” or “born again,” and Nicodemus, like the readers of John and the church pretty much ever since, immediately tries to figure out what on earth Jesus meant. “How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?”

Jesus takes the opportunity provided by the ambiguous metaphor and the watery language and moves in a spiritual/theological direction. A fairly common move for Jesus; using the ordinary to then leap to the extraordinary: a mustard seed, a fig tree, a man who had two sons. This time, the ordinary comes from his use of words; a term like “born from above”. “Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born from the Spirit is spirit. Do not be astonished that I said to you, ‘You must be born from above’. The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” Jesus’ reference to the wind and the Spirit here is not to be missed. It is not just “born from above” that is perplexing. For “wind” and “spirit” is the same word in the Greek text. The wind, the spirit blows where it chooses. If it wasn’t at night, if it wasn’t just Jesus and Nicodemus in conversation alone, one can imagine someone listening in saying, “I see what you did there, Jesus.” Wind and spirit.

Now, with his head spinning, Nicodemus loses the title of Rabbi or teacher in responding. He settles for something more like “huh” or “what”; “how can these things be?” One can imagine Nicodemus taking a step or two back from Jesus. Jesus tosses the teacher label right back at Nicodemus. Just as Nicodemus addressed Jesus as teacher when the conversation started, Jesus effectively shuts down the encounter with Nicodemus by questioning the Pharisee’s educator status: “Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things?” And it all started with “no one can see the kingdom of God without…”   the Spirit blowing where it chooses.

I say Jesus ends the conversation with Nicodemus because at this point, Nicodemus appears to leave the stage. He has no more lines. John’s Jesus continues the teaching about earthly things and heavenly things, but the dialogue with Nicodemus is over at v. 10. Not only does Nicodemus come to Jesus by night here in John’s gospel, but his character also fades to black much quicker than you think. By the time John’s Jesus gets to “For God so loved the world….”, by the time someone stands up at a sporting event with John 3:16 on a sign, by the time the church gets to talking about being born again and “whosoever believes in him may not perish but have eternal life”, by the time all of that happens, Nicodemus has long since disappeared.

A careful reading of John’s gospel reveals that Nicodemus didn’t go away completely or forever. Later in John chapter 7, the temple police and the Pharisees were in a bit of a tizzy about whether to arrest Jesus. It is Nicodemus who offers a bit of a defence of Jesus, reminding the others that the law does not judge people without giving them a hearing. It’s hardly a major appearance and far from a strident defence, but in John’s gospel, Nicodemus is still around. Then, when Jesus was crucified (John 19), it is Nicodemus who went with Joseph of Arimathea to remove the body of Jesus and prepare his body for burial. According to John, Nicodemus was carrying a mixture of myrrh and aloes that weighed a hundred pounds. That’s a lot.

Nicodemus, the one who had first come to Jesus by night, the one who so quickly faded into the night when he couldn’t understand, the one whose questions and hesitations set the table for John 3:16, the one so easily defined as the prototypical intellectual cynic and doubter and religious leader who tries but doesn’t get it,  Nicodemus is the one who shows up the cross with an extraordinary and extravagant amount of ointment to care for the crucified, dead, Teacher who came from God. Maybe it’s not a big old exclamation point when it comes to the role of Nicodemus, but he’s still there. There is no Thomas like affirmation, “my Lord and my God”, but he’s still there. There is no indication in the gospel that Nicodemus was ever able to fully understand what it meant to be born from above, but there he was, taking down the body of Jesus and bearing the weight of absolutely all that was needed to give Jesus the burial fit for a king. He was still there. Even there in the margins of John’s gospel, on the edges of the ministry of Jesus, Nicodemus saw something. Nicodemus saw something of the kingdom of God. He was there. Right there until the end.  Serving the Son of God, the Saviour of the world.

In a season when politicians and pundits and elected officials are questioning, criticizing, and belittling how the Pope of the Roman Catholic Church reads and interprets scripture, how he reads the bible, one might be tempted to see the conversation between Jesus and Nicodemus as a debate or even an argument. As Nicodemus moves to the background of scripture’s page, he somehow was the loser in an encounter with the Lord, who put him in his place. But then there he is, at the end. Along with Joseph of Arimathea, doing what seems an ordinary task. Burying the dead. Because he saw something.

Hanna Reichel was here at Nassau Church a few weeks ago talking about their book For Such A Time as This: An Emergency Devotional. In the introduction to the work that is worth reading way more than once, Professor Reichel writes this: “I have increasingly come to appreciate the less dramatic and more mundane, less corporate and more individual, less exceptional and simply ongoing task of faithful living as the world around is rapidly transforming; the task of doing all our life and work as confession- as a response to God that, even so responds with a different kind of resolve to the world around us….Only some of us have the necessary time and platform to proclaim the faith of the church, or even the bandwidth to write the kind of forceful manifestos that might, or in some future, become something like a confession of the church. But all of us must keep living despite what feels like the end of the world, and this task requires just as much discernment, just as much attention, just as much resourcing.” Less dramatic and more mundane. Less exceptional and a simple task of living in the face of what feels like the end of the world. That sounds like Nicodemus to me, from the margins. Not understanding everything. There at the end. Burying the dead. “The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.”

“No one can see the kingdom of God without…”  It’s not a prescription, it’s a promise. It’s not a test, it’s an affirmation of God’s Spirit. That for those who follow Jesus, it’s less about right answers and more about glimpsing the kingdom; less about being able to figure it all out and more about finding ways to further serve him and his kingdom. It’s less about having a doubt-free life and much more about caring, anointing and working for those who suffer, knowing that in the broken-hearted you will see the very face of Christ. “No one can see the kingdom of God without…”  Jesus wasn’t seeking a following of people who thought they were right all the time. He was searching for any and all who would bear the weight of servanthood, even from the margins. Bearing the weight of serving him and his kingdom, and still being there until the end. Because when you are born of the Spirit, when the Spirit of God is at work, when the wind blows, you will see the kingdom of God.

John 21:15-19
April 12
Andrew Scales
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John 20:1-18
April 5
David A. Davis
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I am standing before you to preach my 40^th Easter sermon. To be honest with you, I’m sort of tired of listening to my own voice on resurrection hope. So I thought I would begin with a few other voices. “Too often”, one preacher begins, “Easter comes across very sentimentally, like a dessert wafer—airy and sweet. But there’s nothing sentimental about Easter. Easter represents a demand as well as a promise, a demand not that we sympathize with the crucified Christ, but that we pledge our loyalty to the Risen One….I don’t see how you can proclaim allegiance to the risen Lord and then allow a life once again to lull you to sleep, to smother you in convention, to choke you with success.

Another preacher finishes the Easter sermon like this: “The gospel accounts of the resurrection tell us not to be afraid—because new life is frightening. It is unnatural. To expect a sealed tomb, and find one filled with angels, to hunt the past and discover the future, to seek a corpse and find the risen Lord—none of this is natural. Death is natural. Loss is natural. Grief is natural. But those stones have been rolled away to reveal the highly unnatural truth. By the light of this [Easter] day, God has planted a seed of life in us that cannot be killed; and if we remember that, then there is nothing we cannot do: move mountains, banish fear, love our enemies, change the world!”

A preacher on Easter morning in Mark’s gospel, where the Risen Christ never appears in what scholars call “the shorter ending”; “If we could get our hands on Jesus, we would surely throttle the life out of him as did his contemporaries. But we can’t. Jesus is free, out of the tomb, beyond our control, and beyond death. That’s why the story is good news. He’s free so that he can make his way into our lives and actually liberate as God has planned since before the foundation of the world…. if God’s entire resurrection promise is little more than believing in a Jesus who has saved everyone in principle but never gets close enough to unsettle anyone in particular”, well, you may as well leave him in the tomb.”

These Easter morning preachers are attempting to shatter the domesticated gospel. They are challenging the “Hallmark-ification” of both the reality and relentlessness of death and the earthshaking power of resurrection hope. A domesticated gospel shaped to make you feel better, to help you achieve more, to justify all your opinions, and excuse your actions. A domesticated gospel is one where any hard edges are safely sanded down; edges that call for sacrifice, edges of discipleship that require investments of time and effort, edges formed by God’s call for justice and righteousness, edges of discomfort when one actually listens to the voices of those the culture has so long silenced. A domesticated gospel never challenges the rich, or speaks truth to power, or questions humanity’s lust for violence, or calls out the blasphemy of claiming to wage a war “in Jesus’ name”.   Easter morning with the domesticated gospel clings to the sentimentality, and the finery, and a nice brunch, or a dessert wafer, airy, and sweet.

Mary stood weeping. She had been the first to see the stone rolled away. Convinced that someone had taken the body of Jesus, Mary ran to tell the others. She remained unconvinced by the disciples’ empty tomb conversion; they saw the empty tomb and believed. Mary was unmoved by linen clothes wadded up in a ball. After the two disciples ran back to their homes, Mary stayed. Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. Every now and then, she must have bent over to look in, trying to see if the body was there, and she just missed it, to see if this ongoing spectacle of the empire’s law enforcement murdering her teacher would end. Not even the angels could comfort her. “I don’t know where they have laid him!” Even her first sight of Jesus, her encounter with the one now raised from the dead, even that didn’t convince her. “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him.” Mary’s first brush with the mystery of resurrection didn’t seem to spare her from her grief and broken heart.

That’s when Jesus called her by name. Then Mary knew it was him.  “Teacher”. Mary says in response. Jesus says to Mary, “Do not hold on to me”. Do not grab hold here. Don’t cling to me here. Do not hold on to me here in the place of death.“I have not yet ascended to the Father.” There is no indication that Mary was going in for a hug. Matthew tells of the women falling to worship the Risen Christ and grabbing his feet. But here in John, Mary just says “Rabbouni”. One writer wonders if maybe the use of the title is why Jesus tells Mary not to cling. “Teacher” is his Friday name, but it’s now Sunday, the Day of Resurrection.

Jesus must have known that in some fashion Mary simply wanted to hold on to the way things were; hold on to her relationship with the Teacher who healed the sick and touched the outcasts and modeled for her and the others what a faith-filled life here on earth could be; caring for the poor, feasting with tax collectors, feeding the hungry, rattling the pious, and proclaiming the good news. Mary wanted to stop the weeping and hang on to her world. But resurrection power comes from the hand of God. The victory over the forces of death and darkness comes with Jesus seated at the right hand of God in all power and honor and glory. When the heavenly chorus gathers around the throne and starts to sing “Hallelujah…For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth”. As Barbara Brown Taylor puts it, Mary is not to hold on because Jesus is on his way back to God, and he is taking the whole blasted, broken world with him.

Mary wants to cling, but Mary’s world will never be the same. More than shaking off the grief that ripped at her heart and getting back to normal following in the Teachers footsteps and yearning to be faithful, more than that, this resurrection life is about ushering in the very reign of God; it’s about toppling the powers and the principalities that prefer darkness and unleash evil in the world, it’s about life conquering death, forgiveness stomping on hatred, generosity squelching greed, love overcoming bitterness and division, the first being last, swords being smashed into plowshares, the hungry pushing away from the table now full, the poor being lifted up while the rich stoop down to help with the lifting. Mary’s world will never be the same because Christ is Risen! He is Risen Indeed!

Years ago, a member of the faculty at Princeton Theological Seminary died after a long illness. Professor Don Juel taught New Testament. He was the preacher I quoted earlier who said, “If God’s entire resurrection promise is little more than believing in a Jesus who has saved everyone in principle but never gets close enough to unsettle anyone in particular”, well, you may as well leave him in the tomb.”  We had the funeral here in the sanctuary with the casket present. Dr. Juel’s roots were Lutheran. I led the service along with the Lutheran pastor from Abiding Presence Lutheran Church in Ewing. It still is the only funeral where I have celebrated the Lord’s Supper. After the service, the entire congregation went over to Princeton Cemetery. It was early spring, and the cemetery was rather a mess of melting snow and a bit of rain. At the reception afterward, everyone was warming up, continuing to celebrate and remember Dr. Juel with some light refreshments and plenty of wine. I remember thinking the gathering was sort of an extension of the fellowship with the communion of saints at the Lord’s Supper. A foretaste of glory divine. At one point, I looked down at my shoes and saw how they were still muddy from the cemetery. Then I looked around, and pretty much everyone’s shoes had mud on them from the cemetery. I was struck by all of Professor Juel’s faculty colleagues who taught bible and theology and church history and preaching and pastoral care and Christian education, all those colleagues who taught preachers like me about resurrection hope were celebrating life, abundant and eternal, with the mud from the grave on their shoes.

Standing in a Good Friday world and daring to live into an Easter one. That’s the call of the Risen Christ. “Do not hold on to me…here”.  Yearn deep down to cling to that which you know and yet in the power of the Holy Spirit, be willing to point to that which God knows is yet to come. For Christ is Risen! Facing the onslaught of death over and over again and still, by God’s grace, reaching to the very depth of your soul to announce “I have seen the Lord”.  For Christ is risen! Surrounded, indeed overwhelmed, by the grief and suffering and heartbreak that so mercilessly defines what it means to be human, and yet daring to live as Easter people who, clinging to the very promise of God, find the strength even at the grave to proclaim “Thanks be to God who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”  For Christ is Risen! To stand up in a Good Friday world, daring to live into an Easter one inspired by the gospel we read, we hear from the lips of Jesus, and then begging, pleading, praying, working, even demanding “a more excellent way”.  For Christ is Risen. To tread each and every day through the muck and mud of the world’s slush of darkness and death, and by nothing other than the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit, still believing, still living, still serving because in Jesus Christ, our best days are always yet to come! For Christ is Risen.