I Samuel 15:34-16:13
David A. Davis
June 17, 2018
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On the Family Retreat a few weeks ago we gathered for worship on Sunday morning along the shore of the Chesapeake Bay. We broke up into teams to plan for worship and one of those teams was in charge of the reading of scripture. The lesson chosen for the morning was Jesus calming of the storm that was just offered for your hearing. The team of kids and adults decided they were going to act out the story as it was being read… and it was fun. They borrowed one of the kayaks the camp had there at the beach for a prop. The only other prop was the Chesapeake Bay though they wisely did not get in the water for a full embodiment of the story. One adult served as the reader. The children were all the disciples with one in the front of the of the kayak being Jesus. Two dads knelt at either end of the boat and served as stagehands to “rock the boat.” They were storm simulators. One other adult stood just behind the kayak and in front of the shoreline to serve as the symbolic action for the sun and the wind. Though, when the storm really hit, it looked a tad like an “arms only” hula dance.

So as the story was read and the wind and sea whipped up, let’s just say those stagehands were taking their job very seriously. Jesus and the disciples were tossed around like they were in an over-inflated bounce house at a traveling carnival. The disciples, being played by the serious and properly trained actors they were, displayed all kinds of expressions of fear. They were scared! Jesus, of course was asleep on a cushion. Jesus, though being vigorously tossed to and fro, was asleep. Jesus who at one point was just about tossed right out of the boat, was sleeping. Actually, Jesus, she was sleeping and smiling at the same time. To be more specific, Jesus was sleeping and flat out giggling all at once. Which sort of makes sense if you stop and think about it. Jesus, so confident and peaceful in God’s hands, so sure of God’s presence, that sleeping and smiling and laughing all go together.

I wonder if Samuel was smiling when Jesse’s sons were parading by. I wonder if Samuel was laughing after waiting for David to come in from tending to the sheep. Smiling because the future king of Israel was from a small town barely on the map? Mayvbe. Smiling because David was so young? Yes. Smiling because God told him to rise and anoint this shepherd boy to be the royal shepherd of God’s people? Probably.  How about Samuel, smiling and laughing and confident and sure all mixed in together because he knew God would provide.

That’s the take away from this classic story of David being found, David being selected, David being anointed, David being the one. It’s not about David being handsome and perfect in every way. Just wait a chapter or two. It’s not about David’s heart being forever pure. Just keep reading. It’s not about the right king and at the right time and a reign of peace and life happily ever after. It’s all more complicated, more earthy, more gritty, more life-like than that. It’s a story intended to affirm that the Lord provides.

Any recollection, any retelling of  how the whole epic of King David epic began has to include that stunning, show-stopping, theologically mind-numbing, so easy to miss as a passing comment verse. The verse that says “the Lord was sorry that he made Saul king over Israel.” Samuel was grieved. The Lord was sorry. Samuel was grieved here not just by Saul’s death, not because he never saw Saul again. He had to have been grieved by the whole mess that was Saul’s reign over the people of Israel, grieved that he and God and the people, they all went down this “let’s have a king” road. Samuel was grieved. The Lord was sorry and clearly ready to move on. The Lord was apparently not sorry about the king part, just the Saul part. “I have provided for myself a king”, the Lord told Samuel.

“Come on, quit your hand wringing, no more looking back. I am going to take care of this myself. I know who I want. Now you’re going to go to Bethlehem to the house of Jesse and find him.” Once again a king of Israel comes on the scene and is anointed by Samuel in a story that is, one could say, less than regal. Jesse and his sons were invited to sacrifice and a crowning of a king breaks out. Samuel, probably with a smile on his face, is sure that the first, oldest, good-looking strapping son was the one. Samuel was sure Eliab was the one. “Well, would you look at him!” God said “Nope, we’re not doing this by looks this time.” “Abinidad then! That’s it!” God said no. “Shammah! Shammah gets the rose!” The Lord said no. All the rest pass by and now Samuel is pretty much on board. “None of these are going to work. Is this everyone?”, he asks Jesse? The youngest is out working. Doing the chores. Tending the sheep. And Samuel announces that no one is going to sit down and eat until the youngest son David gets in here.

And here’s where the narrator, the writer of First Samuel, the ancient scribes, here’s where the narrator sort of slips in a kind of lasting literary reminder of human sin. A subtle, biblical, textual archived reminder that humanity will always stick its tongue out at God like a child in a playground spat. John Calvin called it “total depravity.” Sometimes its more like thumbing your nose, or hiding the peas on your plate, or having a little hissy fit.

Bill Scheide’s rare book collection lives on after his death over at the University’s Firestone Library. One of many books he really enjoyed showing people was one called “The Sinner’s Bible.” Of course it was very old. It was printed in the King James. Only a few copies remain and one is there in the Scheide collection. Bill imagined a printer’s apprentice getting back at the boss or just being impish, pulling a prank. Because there on the ancient in the Ten Commandments, the book of Exodus, it says in the print, “Thou shalt commit adultery.”

Here in First Samuel God has just said no to Samuel regarding Eliab. God says “The Lord does not see as mortals see, they look on the outward appearance but the Lord looks on the heart.” I’m not picking a king on good looks this time. And when it is recorded that David arrived from the fields right before dinner, they just couldn’t stop themselves from writing down, from passing on, from announcing he was handsome! Never mind that its not all that clear to me how a young man from Palestine could be “ruddy.” God just told Samuel it was not about outward appearance. They wrote down that part. And when the story tells of David making his his less than grand entrance into Israel’s history, “tradition” can’t help but stick a tongue out at the Lord. He may have just the right heart……but he’s gorgeous too in a  European kind of way.

Not having read the narrative now preserved in the canon, the Lord simply tells Samuel, “Rise and anoint him; for this is the one.” Samuel anointed him with oil right there in front of his brothers and the spirit of the Lord fell mightily upon David from that day forward. For, according to the Lord, he was the One. David was the king God provided. David was the one God provided for Godself and for Samuel and for the people of Israel. He was the one. God’s beloved. The Lord provides.

The Lord provides. That’s the take away from this classic story of David being found, David being selected, David being anointed, David being the one. It’s not a naïve Hollywood ending kind of affirmation. Just wait a chapter or two. It’s not like one of those well-intended but poorly thought out attempts at comfort when someone gives and awkward hug and says “It must have been God’s will.” Just keep reading. It’s not one of those flowery theologically vacuous proof text quote from the Apostle Paul about all things working for good for those who love the Lord, this story of King David and God and God’s people, it’s all more complicated, more earthy, more gritty, more life-like than that. Amid all of life’s complexities, when the feebleness of kings and the failures of leaders and the fecklessness of God’s people are all so evident, when the relationships of nations are fraught with war and rumors of war, when faithfulness to the righteous, just, and compassionate vision of the prophets, a vision that is the reign of God, when such faithfulness is nothing but a flicker of light in a sea of darkness, still the Lord provides.

Back at the beach, after the young Jesus calmed the storm and the two dads stopped rocking the boat and everyone returned to sit in the worship circle and rub our feet in the sand, the preacher asked us to share with one another our thoughts and reflections. What came next, from young and old alike, was the stuff of 5, 6, 10 sermons. All of them you will be hearing from me in the future as I shamelessly pocket those ideas. The one that is apt for this morning, the one that pairs well with the story of David, the one thought that follows from Jesus sleeping and giggling all at once, it came when of the groups suggested that maybe the bigger miracle amid the storm, Jesus’ bigger miracle, was not that he calmed the sea, but that he took away their fear. When it wasn’t just Jesus sleeping and smiling, but Jesus and disciples smiling and laughing and confident and sure because they knew God would provide. He took away their fear.

It is true, that some days, some nights, some moments, some seasons, you have to pray for a miracle. It’s okay to pray for a miracle. Pray that God would take away the fear. Pray that you, that we would remember and know that the Lord provides. That God would take away any fear. For God’s perfect love casts out fear. Pray that you and I, that we and our children and grandchildren might be so confident and peaceful in God’s hands and in the promise that the Lord provides that sleeping and smiling and joy might all go together now and forever.  Even if it is a miracle.

© 2018 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

I Samuel 1 1-20
David A. Davis
June 3, 2018
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This morning and on most of the Sundays to come this summer, we are turning in our preaching life to the Old Testament. On these first three Sundays of June, the sermon text will come from the Book of I Samuel. The reign of King David is the central story line, the focus of I and II Samuel. But before David and all those stories of Jonathan and Goliath and Uzzah and Michal and Abigail and the ark and Jerusalem and dancing and slingshots and a bow and arrow and witches and music and singing, there is Saul, and there is Samuel, and there is Eli the priest and his two priest sons tagged in the words of scripture as “scoundrels.” And there is Hannah. Our biblical text for today is the story of Hannah. Hannah, the mother of Samuel. Hannah and the boy Samuel, who after he was born and weaned, Hannah, as the Bible says, “lent him to the Lord for as long as he lives.”

You will remember the comical story of the call of Samuel, how God kept calling Samuel in the night but Samuel thought it was the old priest Eli. I Samuel tells of how the young boy served in the temple at a time when “the word of the Lord was rare… visions were not widespread.” The book of Judges ends with the troubling conclusion that all the people of Israel “did what was right in their own eyes.”

The Word of the Lord was rare and everyone did what they thought was right in their own eyes. In other words, when it came to God’s people and faithfulness and righteousness and loving the Lord your God, and having no other Gods before me, things were a mess. So when the narrative of I Samuel points out for the reader that “As Samuel grew up, the Lord was with him and let none of his words fall to the ground”? That’s a big deal. Samuel is a big deal. The relationship, the communication, between God and Samuel is a big deal.

When it comes to God’s covenant with God’s people, the salvation history of God’s people, it turns with Samuel. God’s revelation to God’s people; God makes a move with and through Samuel. The monarchy, the king, King David, the house of David, God’s promise to David, it didn’t start with a lineage. It didn’t start with a coronation or a royal wedding. It started with Samuel. Which means it started with Hannah.

Hannah only hangs around the world of the Bible for a chapter and a half. She enters stage right as one of the wives of Elkanah and exits with the narrator’s incredible understatement: “The Lord took note of Hannah… and the boy Samuel grew up in the presence of the Lord.” I for one, as I read and ponder the story of Hannah in June of 2018, I have decided I can’t read it, I can no longer hear it, in the same way. This living Word of God. If you are anything like me, you won’t be able to ever hear it the same way again either.

[I Samuel 1:1-20 is read]

Over the years I have regularly been invited by the professors at Princeton Theological Seminary who are teaching the introduction to the Old Testament course to participate on a panel to discuss “preaching from the Old Testament.” The class happens near the end of the semester. Students are invited to submit questions ahead of time. The panel members receive a copy of those questions organized by theme by the faculty members.

What we panel members have learned is that we really don’t even have to look at the questions. Not because we know all the answers but because the questions never change. The students change. The faces change. The years change. But the questions remain the same: How do you preach the violence and judgment that runs all through the Old Testament? How do you preach all the complex historical-critical material we have been learning? Do you have to mention Jesus in every sermon even if the lesson is from the Old Testament? How do you preach the apparent contrast between the God of Old and the God of the New Testament? What about some of these difficult, gut-wrenching biblical texts of the Old Testament?

At some point in the discussion I usually try to mention that in my pastoral experience, in my years of serving as a pastor and preacher, one of the most difficult aspects of preaching the Old Testament is something never mentioned in all the questions, the years of questions. It is the dominant theological motif of barrenness and fertility. Hannah is far from the only name. Sarah. Rebekah. Rachel. The mother of Samson. In the New Testament, Elizabeth, the mother of John the Baptist.

Over and over again, the reader of scripture is told that God heard their prayer and a child was born. Yet, pastors and preachers and professors and students of the book, all of us know that it doesn’t work that way: when it comes to real life, life in a congregation, having a child, unable to have a child, joy and heartbreak.

I stopped carrying babies at the time of baptism up and down the aisle to introduce them to the congregation way back in the early nineties when I had a child in my arms and looked right into the tear-filled eyes of a woman sitting on the aisle there in the pew who I knew had just suffered a miscarriage. I have rarely felt more helpless as a pastor than the times I have sat with women and men who have poured their hearts out to God just like Hannah and they ask me why God has not heard their prayer, why God has not answered their prayer… and I have no answer to give. For those students in the introduction to Old Testament class, after a year or two of ministry, I bet the questions change.

Such a dominant biblical theological motif in I Samuel. But it’s not the only one, especially if you find yourself hearing an old, old story in a new kind of way. Elkanah had two wives, Hannah and Peninnah. The reader is told right from the get-go that Peninnah had children but… Hannah had none.

Each year, Elkanah would take his family on a pilgrimage to worship and offer a sacrifice at Shiloh. The two priests who served at Shiloh were the scoundrel sons of Eli. It is not until chapter two that the narrator tells of these corrupt priests who “had no regard for the Lord.” They would steal from the food being sacrificed for themselves, sometimes sending their own servant to do the dirty work of getting the better portion. “Give it to me now,” the servant would demand of the worshippers, “or I will take it by force.” The narrator comes right out and announces that “the sin of the young men was very great in the sight of the Lord!”

So the yearly trek for Elkanah, his wives, and kids was hardly a pious, rejuvenating, spiritually-uplifting retreat that included a visit with the family priest and sage and all-around pastor who had sort of become part of the family. Add into that toxic religious environment the notion that Peninnah, labeled in the text as Hannah’s rival, “used to provoke her severely, to irritate her” because she couldn’t have a child. According to I Samuel “it went on year by year, as often as they went up to the house of the Lord. Peninnah used to provoke Hannah.” This was more than teasing. It was more than whatever we could fathom as competition among spouses in a polygamous situation. This was bullying. This was abusive. This was Hannah over and over again, year after year, repeatedly being reduced to tears and not being able to eat.

On a first read, it is as if we are to give Elkanah a bit of a pass for his part any way in the family system. After all, according to the translation, he gave Hannah a double portion of what had been sacrificed. He gave her a double portion of what was left after the rotten, sinful sons of Eli took the best and, no doubt, larger part. He gave her a double portion, which in her distress, she wasn’t eating anyway.

A footnote to the reading in the New Revised Standard Version indicates that the meaning of the Hebrew in the verse about Hannah’s portion is uncertain. Another translation indicates Elkanah only gave her one portion and for that portion she should have been grateful because she had no children. As one Hebrew Bible professor told me years ago, the Hebrew in a few parts of I Samuel is a mess. What the professor, what he didn’t say back then, was that the translators and scribes must have been trying to give Elkanah the benefit of the doubt. A pat on the back. There, there, old Ekanah. “He gave Hannah a double portion.” Of course any benefit of the doubt is lost when Elkanah makes the mistake that us men have made pretty much forever, thinking it was, at the end of the day, all about him. “Am I not more to you than ten sons?”

After everyone else had finished eating and drinking, Hannah rose. Well, that doesn’t quite to it justice, does it? She made the decision to go back up to the temple. She turned from her husband and his other wife, she turned away from all that nastiness and hurt and stepped with both feet into a less than welcoming religious space so that she could present herself before the Lord. “She was deeply distressed and prayed to the Lord and wept bitterly.” It was the kind of prayer that comes with clinched fists, and indescribable groans, and breathless sobs, the kind of prayer that comes with sweat-like drops of blood, the kind of prayer that no one should endure and the kind of prayer that way too many have. She continued to pray silently and her lips were moving. “Please, please, please, O my Lord, O my Lord, O my Lord.”

Eli lifted himself off the front step and went to see what this childless woman was up to inside the temple. He thought she was drunk. “How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself? Put away your wine.”

“No, my Lord, I am a woman deeply troubled; I have drunk neither wine nor strong drink, but I have been pouring my soul before the Lord. Do not regard me as a worthless woman, for I have been speaking out of my great anxiety and vexation all this time.”

Do not regard me as a worthless woman. I have been pouring out my soul before the Lord. That old codger of a priest Eli basically says, “Well, God bless you,” and gets out of there as quickly as he can. I Samuel puts it more formally: “Then Eli answered, ‘Go in peace; the God of Israel grant the petition you have made to him.’” What it doesn’t say is that he was probably already half-way out the door, because Hannah, Hannah, just dropped the mic. Don’t call me a worthless woman when I have been pouring my soul out before the Lord.” Oh, I bet, no kidding, you think, “the Lord took note of Hannah”?

As to that dominant biblical, theological theme of barrenness and fertility, the culmination, the end of the story, of course, is that Hannah conceived and bore a son, Samuel, the child she lent to the Lord for as long as he lived.

But this time, with this read, with this biblical, theological theme, I sort of want to stop right there. Right there with the echo of Hannah’s bold, courageous voice. For a powerless, childless woman dared to speak up and pour out her soul before God and before a world, a religious world that then, and pretty much ever since, would prefer she just keep quiet. One biblical scholar puts it more eloquently. She writes, some of these stories of women in the Bible, “they are not just simple domestic tales with happy endings” but rather, they are stories that tell of how “the initiative of bold women can alter the trajectory of history.”

God’s covenant, God’s covenant with God’s people. The monarchy, the king, King David, the house of David, God’s promise to David, it didn’t start with a lineage. It didn’t start with a coronation or a royal wedding. It started with Samuel. Which means it started with Hannah. A powerless, childless woman who dared to speak up and pour out her soul.

Speaking up and pouring out.

© 2018 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

Ezekiel 37:1-10 and Acts 2:1-18, 21
Mark Edwards
May 20, 2018
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Today is Confirmation Sunday- a day when we welcome eight new high-school-aged members into our church. Having gone through a series of retreats, having memorized a number passages of scripture, having reflected on the church’s role in their lives, having written a statement of faith, having met with Session, they will soon come before us, profess a public confirmation of their faith and be welcomed into the church as new members.

It is also Pentecost Sunday- a day when we adorn the sanctuary in red, when we read the passage from Acts 2 and when we make promises about the Holy Spirit’s presence in the world and in our lives. When combined with the classic and bizarrely biblical story of Ezekiel in a field of dry bones, bones that God shakes, rattles, and rolls into life, it is a day when we expect great things to happen. If the breath of God can do such things, then the pressure is really on. High speed reverse decomposition; divine tongues of fire blow-torching down from the heavens; the voice of God calling out, “Mortal, can these bones live!?”; uneducated day-laborers bursting forth fluently in foreign languages they don’t know; a vast multitude of ‘ready to do thy bidding’ faithful assembled on an apocalyptic field; instantaneous cross-cultural understanding between Medes, Phrygians, Arabs, and Judeans. If the breath of God can do such things, then the pressure is really on. What might we expect today? What will we see today? Will we see anything quite so… supernaturally fantastic?

I’ve got my robe on, and I feel like now is the time that I should Harry Potter up some “speremus meliora” incantation to really make a show happen…

But that is not really how this works. I’m not in control. God isn’t under my command. I can’t conjure up the divine at will. The breath of God is no ritualistic regularity; it is no genie; it is no magic trick in my pocket. It may rush among us a powerful wind, it may breeze upon us as a gentle puff, it may ripple among us a silent whisper. Or it might not come at all and leave us sitting in the emptiness of our own making. The breath of God. Where is it? Will we see it? Will we feel it? Will it come?

Alex, in your “History with the Church” essay you wrote: “Looking back at the past seven years of my life, I see one thing that has remained consistently in my life. Nassau Presbyterian Church.”

And in your statement of faith you wrote:

I affirm my faith of the Holy Spirit, my sustainment and power in life. The Holy Spirit is God’s force which is the breath in my body and the wind in the sky. The Spirit inspires myself and many others and is the force which drives me to be better. I am part of God because the his Spirit resides within me, and all people. The Holy Spirit explains the inexplicable so that we, created in God’s image may better understand our purpose and direction. God’s Spirit creates life where there is death like Jesus in his tomb. The Holy Spirit will always lead me through the deepest of oceans and the tallest of mountains, so that I may fulfill God’s purpose.

You close by saying that God gives you power, Jesus Christ gives you freedom, and the Holy Spirit gives you life.

Wow. You learned that here? A 14-year-old talking about the indwelling of the Holy Spirit? That might be a miracle. A 14-year-old Presbyterian talking about the indwelling of the Holy Spirit? That definitely is.

From Ezekiel 37: “Mortal, can these bones live? I answered, ‘O Lord God, you know.’”

I think I can speak for all of us on staff here at NPC when I say that we’ve all had experiences and histories with the breath of God. We’ve been encouraged, converted, enlivened, forgiven, freed, and have been given hope by the breath of God. And we want others to see it, feel it, hear it, live it too. And so we talk about it. And talk. And talk. And talk.

Grace, you wrote honestly when you said

What I dislike about church is probably that it does feel long sometimes and I don’t always connect with what the pastors are saying. This might be partially due to the fact that I have swim practice beforehand and then have to come to church right after when I am tired. This makes me more likely to zone out, and then once I have zoned for part of the sermon, it is hard to bring myself back in and understand what is going on.

Grace, we’ve all been there, and some are probably there right now. But then you wrote in your Statement of Faith the following:

I believe the Holy Spirit is what calls us together to celebrate what Jesus has done for us, to thank God, and to pray to God. It is what allows us to view what is good in life, what allows us to learn from our mistakes, and what gives us appreciation for what we have and what is around us.

You made it clear that you do understand what is going on here. And when you wrote, “Once we had a guest speaker that spoke about his time in jail and his story. I don’t remember exactly what his message was, but I do remember walking out of that sermon saying to myself that I wanted to do something helping others’ lives who had gone jail,” you show us all that you really understand what is going on.

From Ezekiel 37: “O dry bones hear the word of the Lord… I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live.”

Rory, you wrote:

I have been a part of the church for as long as I can remember. I started by coming to church school every sunday when I was very young. I made friends in sunday school, and I learned about Jesus and God. Although, I don’t think I understood or really believed any of it.

A lot of us have been there too, and that is pretty understandable. I mean, a valley of dead bones? Do we need to get scientific about that for a second? And yet, you wrote:

Appalachia Service Project was the most life changing trip for me. I went into it being more scared of anything else I had ever done in my life, but I loved it. It was a highlight of my summer and something that changed me as a person. In these more recent years at the church, the last one specifically, I feel that I have grown as a christian a lot. I am understanding Jesus and God way more than I did in the past. I am starting to grow my own sense of faith, and I now believe and trust in God and Jesus. I have nothing else but the church, to thank for this.

Rory, let’s be real for a minute. Norm’s house? It was dry bones. Dirty dry bones. That were rotten. And uninsulated. And without plumbing. And cigarette butts. And beer cans. And that really big snake. And yet, you all… You all brought those bones back to life.

From Ezekiel 37: “I will lay sinews on you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live; and you shall know that I am the Lord.”

Alex, you were in that house. Camille, too. Camille, you wrote:

I also believe that prayer is how you talk to God, however I have never heard a direct reply. Instead, I see God in working through people who interact with me. […] My fondest memory so far has to be going on the ASP trip and bonding with the other teens as well as helping Norm and repairing his house.

Camille, rest assured that you were the direct reply to Norm’s prayers. Because, see, this is what the Holy Spirit does. It takes you and uses you to reveal God to other people, even if you don’t know that it is happening at the time. While you were working on his floor and painting his trim, remember how hot it was in there at times? That was the breath of God you were huffing and puffing out. But when we give ourselves in service to others in Christ’s name, God is faithful and the breath of God brings faith to life.

From Ezekiel 37: “Thus says the Lord God: Come from the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain, that they may live.”

James, some more honest words:

I never wanted to go to church on Sunday mornings. I didn’t understand what the point of it was. It was always so boring and long. And I never fully understood who Jesus was. Last year, my cousin approached me with the idea of going to Tennessee for a week to work on homes with the Appalachian Service Project. My initial response was, ‘No way, why would I spend a whole week of my summer doing that?’ After many hours of convincing, I finally agreed to do it with no idea of what I was really getting myself into. During that week of hard work in Tennessee, I had a lot of time to reflect on my life and the reason I was there.

[Christian, are you here? Cause what comes next is your fault. John and Jacq, you too.]

James, you wrote:

I got to know Jesus by giving up my time to help someone else. He gave me the strength to be there to do good work for the homeowner, Bob. While I got to know Jesus that week, I also realized he had always been there for me even though I didn’t recognize him.

From Ezekiel 37: “Thus says the Lord God: I am going to open your graves, and bring you up from your graves.”

James, I think it is safe to say that Bob has been in some graves. A former meth addict. A daughter who’s a meth addict. Time in jail for violent offenses if I remember correctly. Bob had a tattoo of a web on his right forearm, a tattoo of a spider around his left elbow, and a tattoo of spider in a web on his right bicep. He’s seen some graves. And yet now he’s adopting his granddaughter, painting the house, and growing the biggest organic cabbages in the neighborhood. The breath of God gives life.

And the breath of God teaches us the language of God, who is Jesus Christ. We might look at the Pentecost story and think it incredible. But James here learned the language of Christ from a power drill, a pile of Mountain Dew cans, and time in community working on Bob’s roof. The breath of God was blowing in those Tennessee hills. And James’s life is different. And so is Bob’s. And so is Jacq’s and John’s, and mine…

From Ezekiel 37: “Mortal, can these bones live? I answered, ‘O Lord God, you know.’”

The Breath of God. Have we started to see it? Have we started to feel it? Can we, in fact, really live without it? Allison, as you say:

I think this is the question that has really fueled my journey so far. It’s so easy to feel like religion is unnecessary when everything is going well, and it’s so easy to feel like God isn’t there when everything falls apart. But what about when life is just okay? […] That’s where I’ve found God the most because sometimes it’s easy to feel sort of empty.

It is easy to feel empty. And I imagine that is how the disciples felt just before Pentecost. They’ve resorted to throwing dice to try and figure out who their next club member is gong to be. They are, to some degree, compensating for their emptiness by securing a well-rounded social network.

“Two summers ago,” you wrote “my first time going to NorthBay, a speaker there made an analogy that really stuck with me. If you imagine life like a well, social media, friends and material objects only temporarily fill it, and when you try and get more water, you’ll find it empty. But the speaker’s idea was that God could be the thing in your life that will eternally fill it.”

From Ezekiel 37: “Suddenly there was a noise, a rattling, and the bones came together, bone to its bone. I looked, and there were sinews on them, and flesh had come upon them, and skin had covered them; but there was no breath in them.”

Without the breath of God we are simply bodies and minds who are, well, empty. The beauty of the breath of God is that it fills us and guides us away from emptiness.

Hugo, you see this when you say:

The holy spirit guides and raises me to be good and do the right things. Church is my home away from home in that it is my safe haven. Church is my place of freedom. Church is where my sins are forgiven, church is where my prayers are answered, church is what connects me to the holy spirit. […]

Hugo, this is beautiful. But if the church is these things, then it is because the breath of God is here.

Annie, you say, “I am taking this journey of confirmation because I want to discover a God who is:

• Loving
• Forgiving
• Peaceful
• Gender-neutral
• Accepting of all genders, races, ethnicities, sexualities, financial situations, pronouns, religions, beliefs, family structures, mental and physical illnesses, and mental and physical disabilities
• Understanding
• Present when anyone wants Them to be there
• Present when nobody wants Them to be there
• At the marches with all of us
• Fighting for us, with us
• Just so, so good.

Annie, I think we all want to meet that God. And if we have, we all want to see and feel that God again. And we need the breath of God, the spirit of God to do so. So may it blow on us all, may it teach us the language of Christ’s love, and may it prove to us the existence of the loving, redeeming, sacrificing triune God.

I’ve been teaching a philosophy class this past semester, so I have to make a comment here about proofs for the existence of God. Much of medieval theology was deeply concerned with offering proofs for the existence of God. These philosophical, logical, and even mathematical proofs sought to coherently establish the being and existence of an all-powerful, good God.

And while these are fun fodder for a philosophy class, sometimes we need something beyond our own ideas to move us past doubt and uncertainty. Sometimes we need to be drawn out of our own ideas about God and skepticisms toward eternal love, and out of our own hostilities to sanctifying peace. But what such traditional arguments overlook is that God seems interested in proving to us the existence and depth and power of the reconciling triune love.

From Ezekiel 37: “I will cause breath[a] to enter you, and you shall live… and you shall know that I am the Lord” (emphasis added).

Do we really want proof that the breath of God is real? Do we really want evidence what the breath of God can do? Then we will likely be lead to a valley of dry bones. We will likely be brought to a place where death, disintegration, and despair are so heavy that only a miracle of God can bring life. WWII Nazi resister, Corrie ten Boom, and her family were brought to such a place: it was a concentration camp called Ravensbruck. Of her time there, Corrie writes in The Hiding Place, “Life in Ravensbruck took place on two separate levels, mutually impossible. One, the observable, external life, grew every day more horrible. The other, the life we lived with God, grew daily better, truth upon truth, glory upon glory.”^[1]

“So it was,” she was able to say time and time again, “we were not poor, but rich. Rich in this new evidence of the care of Him who was God even of Ravensbruck.” In that camp of death, the breath of God brought life of the spirit. And after the War, Corrie took another death camp, one at Darmstadt, and together with members of the German Lutheran Church, turned it into a group home for reconciliation, rehabilitation, and gardening.^[2] “Perhaps only when human effort had done its best and failed, would God’s power alone be free to work.”^[3]

Or as Ezekiel puts it: “Then you, my people, will know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves and bring you up from them. I will put my Spirit in you and you will live, and I will settle you in your own land. Then you will know that I the Lord have spoken, and I have done it, declares the Lord.’”

There are many graves and valleys with dry bones in our world today. And many places desperately need the breath of God. We think of Sante Fe, Texas, with ten new graves of teens your age, gunned down by a maniacal fellow student obsessed with death and domination. And we ask, “How long, oh Lord.” How long will this insanity go on? How long before it happens here? We pray that it does not. And we pray that God will guide prophets to our wastelands and that the breath of God would give life.

We give thanks today for you eight confirmands, who are proof to all of us that the breath of God is real and active in this place. And we pray together: Come breath of God. Fill us all and give us life eternal. Do this to us, that we may know that you are Lord. Amen.

^[1] Corrie ten Boom, The Hiding Place, 35th Anniversary Edition (Grand Rapids: Chosen Books, 2006), 206.

^[2] ten Boom, 11, 249 and 263.

^[3] ten Boom, 138.

© 2018 Nassau Presbyterian Church
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John 21:1-14
David A. Davis
April 22, 2018
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That night they caught nothing. Nothing. Zilch. Squat. They caught nothing. All night long they were fishing. Nothing. They weren’t fly fishing. They were using those big old nets. These were fishermen. This was not grandparent and grandchild sitting on the dock in the lake in the middle of the day. This wasn’t those guys at the Jersey shore who try to look like they know what they’re doing, surf fishing, casting a line dangerously close to where people are swimming, and catching nothing. This wasn’t a grizzly bear swiping a paw for a salmon. They were fishermen. They would have known if it was too hot or to cold. They knew that Sea of Galilee, that lake, like the back of their hand. This was their livelihood and they were out there all night long and caught nothing.

The Bible doesn’t say how long after that first Easter morning it had been. According to John, Jesus showed his hands and his side to Thomas one week later. All John records here is that it was “after these things.” Sometime after these things. “These things” being a sort of understatement for Jesus rising from the dead. Jesus calling Mary by name. Jesus breathing Holy Spirit on the disciples. Jesus appearing a week later in the same room for Thomas. “These things.”  “After these things.” The next day? Another week? A few weeks later? A handful of the disciples were together when Peter announced he was going fishing and the others decided to join him. All night long. Nothing. It turns out fishing isn’t quite like riding a bike.

Interestingly, in the Gospel of John, this is the first time fishing comes up in reference to the disciples. Tending nets, dropping nets, leaving nets, fishing for people, another miraculous catch, that’s all in the other three gospels. And John doesn’t tell the reader whether Peter was bored or hungry or needed some money. John doesn’t imply that he was waffling on the being sent part, on continuing with proclaiming and living the gospel Christ had taught them. He just said “I’m going fishing.”

But it’s not like fishing was a hobby for them. He wasn’t saying “let’s go play a few holes and take our mind off everything for a while.” The disciples going fishing to relax and blow off steam would be like a bus driver on a day off telling the other drivers he was just going to hop in the bus and drive around a while, or a faculty member in the summer telling some colleagues, “You know, I have missed grading papers, I’m going to go look for some.” No, it wasn’t just looking for something to do. John’s gospel is full of symbols and metaphors and images. Everything means something. If fishing doesn’t come up until now, until after all that resurrection excitement, it has to mean something.

The disciples are no longer in Jerusalem. They are not out on the road. They are back home in Galilee. Fishing on the Sea of Galilee is life. Life, day and night. Everyday life. They’re back at it. Whether that night of fishing was going to be a one-off right from the start or whether a few of them thought about going back to fishing for fish instead of people, they are back at it. Back home. Back to life. Even if just for a moment, back to the everyday, ordinary, run-of-the-mill life. Back to fishing. And… it doesn’t go so well. “That night they caught nothing.”

They were back to the grind. That night they were back to the routine, the back-breaking, sweaty, “cast a net all night long and have nothing to show for it” kind of grind. They didn’t just turn back the clock and go back to their trade, that night was a slice of the hardest, emptiest, soul-draining part of life. Maybe it wasn’t a dark night of the soul kind of thing. But it was a dark night of nothing. A big old cup of nothing. An empty net of life.

And that’s when he showed up. That’s just when the Risen Christ appeared. With the dawn, with the coming of the Light, with the promise of a new day. Christ standing on the shore. “Children, you have no fish, have you?” It would not be very Christ-like for that inquiry to be a bit of a taunt, or some trash talk. “Haha, you didn’t catch any fish!” So how about this, what if it sounded like this: “Hey guys, that really stunk, didn’t it? That was a long night. I’m sorry. Can I help?”

It’s not what first comes to mind when you read that question from the Risen Christ, it’s not what pops into your mind when you hear the tone of his voice in your imagination. “Children, you have no fish, have you?” It’s not your first thought, but that question — his question to the disciples, who rather suddenly found themselves back to the grind, up to their eyeballs in the grind — that question, it’s really a promise. A promise because of his presence. Forget the miraculous catch of fish. Before the miraculous catch of fish, we showed up. Christ showed up. Right then. In the grind. Of course that’s when he showed up. You bet that’s when he showed up. After… these things, and just on the edge of a long dark night of life’s nothing, he showed up.

Years ago I received an email from a Presbyterian ruling elder thousands of miles away from here. Her son was student at the university. He was a junior, a varsity athlete. Things weren’t going well with his playing time, she wrote. He and the coach weren’t getting along. A nagging injury was holding him back. Mom had hunch that maybe class work wasn’t going well either but he wouldn’t talk about it, he wouldn’t talk about anything, really, At least with her. She just knew he was really struggling. “I just want him to know that someone out there cares for him. I want him to know we love him no matter what. I want him to remember that God loves him and that God will see him through.” Her email was less about asking me to do something and more of her offering a prayer. That her son would know God’s presence, God’s promise amid the grind.

A member of my first congregation was a retired gasoline truck driver named Walt. He drove the truck for 30 years. He was a World War II veteran captured at the Battle of the Bulge. He raised five sons. Lost one to death way too young. Those years when I served as a pastor Walt’s rough edges were being worn down by his grandsons who lived a few doors down. They called him Pop. Walt is the one who told me once he wouldn’t buy a new car with automatic windows: “If I am too old to wind down my own window, I’m too old to drive.”

I once stood with him and his wife at his hospital bed while a cardiac surgical resident presented what they needed to do. I offered to leave rather than invoking some kind of pastoral privilege. Walt told the doctor I should stay. He told the doctor I was his son. The doctor then rushed through a conversation about his upcoming by-pass surgery, including drawing pictures, a technique the doctor clearly had not perfected in medical school.

After the doctor left, I ask Walt and Alma what they were thinking, how they were feeling about tomorrow’s surgery. First Walt said, “I didn’t understand one thing the doctor said.” And then he looked at me with some tears in his eyes, and he said, “Davie boy, I learned a long time ago that God is able.”  It was his faith statement paired down, chiseled out, weather-worn by the grind of life. His way of telling me God would be with him, no matter what.

I’ve lost track of all the faith statements I have heard from the children of God over the years that had little to do with doctrine and a lot to do with clinging to God’s promise, God’s presence. Saints in the community of faith, a great cloud of witnesses who have seen and lived more than their share, people who know the world’s shine has long since worn off, the beloved in Christ who rise every day to give a witness to the presence and the power and the meaning of the Risen Christ in their lives and in the world, those who have known the struggle, who have been up to their eyeballs in the earthiness of it all, who know how hard it can be, people who have come face to face with the world’s darkness, who have lived through a long night of nothing and, yet, experienced his presence. “It’s been a long, long night. I’m so sorry. How can I help?”

I just finished teaching Presbyterian Worship this semester over at the seminary. The day we discussed baptism I discovered a wonderful quote from the Directory for Worship, the Book of Order, the Constitution of the PCUSA. A quote about baptism. It said, “No one comes to it alone.” It is an affirmation of the role of parents, family, friends, and the congregation in nurturing faith, supporting the baptized, and surrounding them with our prayers. Part of our prayer, every time we gather at the fount and dip into God’s grace afresh, part of the prayer, it ought to be that you, O Child of God, would know that God is able. That you would carry that promise all of your days.

Today the one being baptized is Edith. An Eastertide baptism. Edith, that you would know on your best days that Christ is risen! Edith, that you will cling, on the hardest days, to the promise, Christ is risen! Edith, on the most ordinary days, amid the routine, when the days fly by and nights are too short, and the pace of it all just flies by, right then, that you would hear that Christ is risen! Edith, that when a day comes or the night lingers, and you’re not sure, or you don’t remember, or you can’t bring yourself to say it, or believe it, or accept it… plenty of folks around here have been there and done that, and we’re going to say it for you. Christ is risen! God is able, child, God is able.

Easter Sundays come and Easter Sundays go. They add up. They all smush together. Sort of a big Easter shout. Christ is risen! But the resurrection promise that lasts forever? God’s promise you will never forget? The promise from the Risen Christ that you cling to and claim and maybe even tell someone about? It’s the one that comes in the grind after Easter.

© 2018 Nassau Presbyterian Church
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John 20:1-18
David A. Davis
April 1, 2018
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I was never very good at memorizing scripture. Actually, I was never very good at quoting chapter and verse either. At my age I figure I’m on the down side of memorizing anything, so I’ve come to terms with it. But I am here to tell you I know every word of every song of the musical Jesus Christ Superstar. There is absolutely no reason to be proud of that. Trust me, it has much less to do with me being a child of the church and much more due to the fact that I grew up in the 70’s. So I am actually looking forward to tonight’s live television production of Jesus Christ Superstar (assuming I can keep my eyes open at all tonight).

Youth leaders and pastors in the 70’s worked very hard to make sure every kid knew the theological and biblical problems with the content of what was called back then “a rock opera.” Right at the top of the list of concerns was that there is no telling, no singing, no account of the resurrection. The production ends with the crucifixion and then an instrumental piece entitled “John 19:41,” which since I don’t memorize chapters and verses I looked up again. The verse tells of the body of Jesus being laid in a garden tomb. No resurrection. No Easter. Jesus Christ Superstar ends in death.

So I was caught off guard when I read of resurrection and new life in an article about tonight’s show. The writer asks a few questions to those who have the lead parts. One of the questions was about their own faith. The singer John Legend, who plays the role of Jesus, tells of growing up in the Pentecostal Church and how his whole family was involved in just about every aspect of church life. Then he says, “but I’m not religious now.” Sara Bareilles, also a well known singer and songwriter, takes the role of Mary Magdalene. She grew up Catholic, went to Catholic School. She says that she has faith and a belief in God and that she looks back on the ritual and comfort of the church with fondness but she doesn’t go to church anymore.

Then there was Alice Cooper. He plays King Herod. For those who didn’t grow up in the 70’s and 80’s Alice Cooper is sort of a grandfather of heavy metal and rock music as performance art. To say he was a character would be a huge understatement. Full makeup, crazy costumes, smashing guitars, very loud music. Listen to what Alice Cooper told that reporter. “I was basically the prodigal child. I grew up in the church, went as far away as you could possibly go, and then came back. When I got sober, I started understanding. I had all the fame and the money and everything that went with it, but I started realizing what was important to me was my relationship with Jesus Christ… I study the Bible every morning. I have a Wednesday morning men’s Bible study. I pray before every show. I go to church every Sunday with my wife and kids. I don’t think I have ever been more happy in my life. People say, ‘Think of all you gave up to be a Christian’… I’m not giving anything up. I’m giving it back, to him.” Alice Cooper, for goodness’ sake.

Meaning and purpose found amid the distant loneliness of prodigal wanderings. New life rising out of the vain, destructive trappings of the world’s allure. The tug of a Spirit-filled joy and happiness and assurance that pulls and pulls against the almost insurmountable riptide of the powers and the principalities of this present darkness. Resurrection hope. It is only to be understood when death and darkness are so real. The promise is to be received when death and darkness are winning, when death and darkness carry the day and define the night. Surrounded, confronted, by death and darkness. That’s when Jesus asks her, “Woman, why are you weeping?”

“Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark,” John writes, “Mary Magdalene came to the tomb.” “While it was still dark.” The other three gospels are very clear that Easter starts at the break of day: “as the first day of the week was dawning” (Matthew), “very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen” (Mark), “on the first day of the week, at early dawn” (Luke). But not John. “Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb.” Still dark. Really dark. Darkness in John’s gospel has little to do with the time of day. Darkness; it has everything to do with all that is opposite to the mighty works of God. All the powers and principalities that work to destroy life, life in all fullness, as Jesus said in John. Darkness; it is the symbol, the sum, the prototype, the theme, the weight, the rallying cry in John for all that works against God, God’s reign, God’s kingdom. Mary came to the tomb when it was still dark. In John’s gospel, darkness IS death. Tomb. Dark. That’s death squared.

This isn’t dark as when a theater or concert hall is empty for the evening with nothing scheduled, “the hall is dark.” This isn’t dark as when you are at McCarter Theater for an Anton Chekhov play that is so depressing and there’s so much yelling that you consider leaving at intermission, saying to your seatmate, “it’s too dark.” This is the kind of dark that comes amid the bright lights of a hospital waiting room, when “butterflies in your stomach” doesn’t begin to describe it, and as you wait for the doctor and you keep trying telling yourself this is all a dream, this can’t be happening. This is the kind of dark that tomorrow brings when it takes absolutely every ounce of courage you have to stay sober today. The dark that comes when your grandchild tells you about the mean kids at school and you can’t find any words to make him feel better. The dark that comes as the person you love like no other starts to fade before your eyes. Dark like that walk from the car to the grave in the cemetery that no one can avoid because of the absolute finality and boundless reach of death. It was still dark.

And Mary went alone. Here in John, she went alone. No mention of Mary, the mother of James or of Salome. No reference to the other women. No use of plural pronoun. Mary was alone in all that darkness. She stood outside the tomb all alone weeping. She was not full of fear and great joy. There was no terror and amazement. She was not perplexed. She was weeping. John tells four times she was weeping. Mary stood weeping. As she wept, she bent over the tomb. The angels asked “Why are you weeping?’ The Risen Jesus asked her, “Why are you weeping?” Weeping. Weeping. Weeping. Weeping. She wasn’t crying. This wasn’t shedding a few tears. She was weeping.

When I was a very young boy my brother, who was 21 at the time, was killed in a car accident. I can still hear my mother weeping. I would be outside in the backyard and I could hear her inside weeping. I would wake up in my bedroom next to theirs, and I could hear her weeping in the night. I can hear that sound of weeping like it was just last night. Mary’s tears were the kind of tears you can hear. She didn’t just bend over to look in that tomb. She was doubled over in grief, anguish, lament. Humanity’s brutal force has killed him and now taken him too. He was gone. Everything was gone. It was finished. Mary weeps not just for herself but for everyone, for all, for every single one who has stood alone, surrounded by death and darkness, and who has wailed in the face of the utter absence of God.

And that’s when Jesus asks. He asks “why are you weeping?”  The hot take on the question is to assume Jesus is offering a “there, there, there, Mary,” with a pat on the back and a few “mansplaining, Jesus-splaining,” condescending words like “We all know how this going to end. I’ve been telling you forever how this ends. Mary, Mary, you just don’t get it.” A flippant take on the question is to portray Jesus as a frustrated. “Mary, it’s me, I’m here. I’m standing right here! Uh, hello.” The strong take, the faithful take, the compelling take on Easter morning is to realize that the first words spoken by the Risen Jesus in John’s Gospel he asks after her tears. He acknowledges her tears. He hears her tears. Her tears and ours. He asks. Jesus asks.

And only then comes her name. Then he says her name. He calls her by name. With all those tears, and the piercing reality of darkness and death that proclaims the absence of God, the resurrection promise comes with her name. Before Mary offers the first Easter morning sermon, before she says, “I have seen the Lord,” Christ affirms his resurrection presence with her name.  No trumpet blast. No angel declaration. No earthquake. Just her name. Standing in the very vortex of despair, death, sin, abandonment, hopelessness, judgement, and hell, the Savior called her by name. God knew her by name. And the message was then and forever announced. That Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!

Some years, the Easter acclamation is a daring, defiant word of hope unleashed on a world that seems increasingly to look like anything but “thy kingdom come on earth as it is heaven.” Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! And some years, other years, Easter’s call and response is a plea deep within, a yearning of the soul, a cry of the heart, between you and the Living God, a longing to hear the voice of Christ Jesus call, that this year, it would be an Easter moment with your name on it. That you would recognize, that you would see, that you would know Christ and the power of his resurrection. Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! And that you would experience afresh the promise of him asking after you.

The strong take, the faithful take, the compelling take on Easter morning is not about telling people about an empty tomb. It is not about winning some argument at dinner about the bodily resurrection, it is not about pretending death is not real. You and I have been to the grave too many times together to think we can fool each other. It’s not even about trying to convince the world or your cousin Phil that Jesus rose from the dead. No. The strong take on Easter morning is the awareness of the mystery and an acknowledgement of what will never be explained. Christ is risen! He is risen indeed.

The strong take on Easter is the gratitude deep within for God’s presence in life and in death. Christ is risen! He is risen indeed. The strong take on Easter is the affirmation that washes over you from head to toe that God knows you by name and God loves you. Today and forevermore! Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!

The strong take on Easter is the bold testimony to the Risen Lord and his presence in your life and in mine.

© 2018 Nassau Presbyterian Church
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Luke 19:29-44
David A. Davis
March 25, 2018
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Throughout this season of Lent here in the sanctuary on the Lord’s Day we have been pondering Luke’s recording of some of the conversations Jesus had along the Way from Galilee to Jerusalem. There was that conversation Jesus had in Capernaum with the friends of the Centurion when Jesus was amazed. And when Jesus noticed that the woman who had been sick for so long touched his clothes. And that awkward conversation with Mary and Martha when Jesus stayed for dinner. And then that painful conversation with rich ruler when Jesus disappointed him to the point of gut-wrenching grief because he told him to sell all that he had and give it to the poor. And last week, on Youth Sunday, Emily and Christian and Sarah so powerfully brought us in on the conversation between Jesus and Zacchaeus. This morning, this Palm Sunday, it’s another conversation, a familiar conversation. Jesus and the two disciples: “Go, into the village ahead of you, and as you enter it you will find there a colt that has never been ridden. Untie it and bring it here.” Jesus and the Pharisees: “Teacher, order your disciples to stop. Jesus answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.” Jesus and those who were selling things in the temple: “My house shall be a house of prayer; but you have made it a den of robbers!” And then there’s the conversation Jesus has with himself. Somewhere along the way, just outside, just below, just near but still outside Jerusalem. The conversation Jesus has with himself.

[Luke 19:28-44 is read]

Jesus went on ahead, going up to Jerusalem. But to get to the city from the Mt of Olives and the Garden of Gethsemane, he was going to have to go down before he went up. It wasn’t a long way but it was a bit of rugged way. So the colt, and some cloaks spread on the colt for him to sit, and then some cloaks tossed along the path. It was something of procession. Maybe less of a parade and more of a march, a kind of movement. Some shouts of praise are unleashed. The followers of Jesus cry out in loud voices about the deeds of power they had seen along the Way. Not quite “hosannas” in Luke. But a sounding off nonetheless with scripture. “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Psalm 118). “Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven.” Shouts like those of the angels who trumpeted his birth.

It was, according to Luke, the whole multitude of the disciples. You remember that Luke writes of the heavenly host filling the sky that night, Luke writes “And suddenly there was with the angel, a multitude of the heavenly host.” Here along the pathway down and then up to the city, Luke tells of “the whole multitude of the disciples.” That could have been twelve. Or maybe twelve plus Mary and Martha and Lazarus and the Centurion whose servant was healed and the woman whose hemorrhage finally stopped and Zacchaeus and maybe even, do you think maybe, the rich ruler? “The whole multitude….of the disciples.” That could be one of those biblical hidden expressions of humor or juxtaposition or oxymoron. Like when Jesus told the parable of the mustard seed and how that mustard seed becomes the “greatest….of shrubs.” “The whole multitude….of the disciples.” That could be Luke years later just rounding up. Like me when I tell folks I played high school football on Friday nights in Pittsburgh in front of ten thousand people, I’m sure if I ever have grandchildren that number will grow to at least twenty-five thousand!

“The whole multitude….of the disciples.” Maybe the irony of shouts to a king and folks trying to make a bit of pomp while the king rides on a colt was fairly obvious. The royal treatment of a meandering, winding procession from one hill to another with no army, no galloping horses, no striking stallion, no vast military parade, no chariots, just one young, awkward, weak-legged, stumbling colt. Maybe the absurdity of it all was just as plain as day. The Triumphal Entry and the whole multitude……of the disciples.

“Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to Jesus, ‘Teacher, order your disciples to stop.’” Scholars have varying opinions on the Pharisees’ motivation here. Maybe they were worried that all the shouts about a king would upset the Romans; a sort of in the moment political calculation. Or perhaps it reflects their sense of the growing threat to their own religious authority. Or maybe they’re just tired of hearing over and over again about all the great things Jesus has done. That’s the beauty and the wonder of scripture. You just don’t know why the Pharisees said it. It could have been that the whole scene, this whole “faux parade”, this procession with “the whole multitude….of the disciples”, that it looked a whole lot less like hundreds of thousands of kids marching and shaking their fists at the NRA and a whole lot more like a weak conga line at bad wedding reception. So the Pharisees shook their heads and turned away and said, “Teacher, please, please, just tell them to stop!”

Jesus answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.” The stones would tell the same story. If these stones could talk, the stones would praise God joyfully. The stones would tell of all the deeds of power. Creation itself will start to sing. The mountains and the hills….shall burst into song, the trees of the field shall clap their hands. (Isaiah 55). The stones themselves will give the shout out! Because this, this inevitable act of praise and testimony that gives witness to the fullness of God’s love and the breadth of the gospel and the sure and certain promise of the coming realm of God, it is so much bigger than this multitude, so much more sure than these feeble shouts. The sure and certain promise is that one day, one day, “Thy kingdom shall come on earth, as it is in heaven.” So yes, these stones will start to sing.

You can continue to mock all those who do believe that “love wins” and that “there is more excellent way” and that “love is stronger than hate” but these stones will still sing about his dying love that will not let us go. You can tell a young African American athlete who dares to speak for justice and equality and asks questions about yet another unarmed African American man shot by police to “just shut up and dribble” but these stones will still sing about the flow of justice and stream of righteousness and the indisputable teaching of the One who emptied himself taking the form of the servant of all. You can tell all these kids to just go back to school, and stay in class, and get back in their rightful place, but these stones will still sing the refrains of a peaceable kingdom and of lions laying down with lambs and assault weapons turned into garden rakes and classrooms that are safe and no one hurting or destroying on all of God’s holy mountain. These stones will still sing about a God who so loved this blasted, broken world of ours that God sent God’s only Son, who humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross—so that one day, one day, “Thy kingdom shall come on earth, as it is in heaven.” Yes, these stones will start to sing.

And then, when Jesus is just outside the city, just down the hill from the gate to the city, that’s when the conversation with himself comes. It is a conversation with himself while the rest of humankind is invited by Luke to listen in. That’s when Jesus weeps. “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace!” What comes next is Luke’s Jesus describing the destruction of Jerusalem; enemies, ramparts, crushed to the ground, not one stone left upon another. Gospel scholarship informs the reader of the unique sense of timing here. Jesus predicting what was to come. Luke writing about what has already happened; the fall of the city in the year 70. But chronology and time line take a back seat here to the symbolism of the city, of this city, being ravaged by war. Now, seemingly all by himself along the Way, between the Mt. of Olives and the city just up the hill. Jesus makes his last stop on the way to the cross. He looked up and saw the holy city once and forever devastated by violence, humanity’s never ending lust for violence. And Jesus wept

Nobody wants Jesus to weep on Palm Sunday. Thursday. Yes. In the garden. But not this day. Not today. “All Glory Laud and Honor”, “Hosanna in the highest”, palm branches. Yes! Tears, not so much. But it’s not just today. Jesus and his tears. They must come with a timelessness, and everday-ness. Hostility. Violence. Poverty. Oppression. Hate. War. The things that do not make for peace. It all never goes away. Some weeks, like this one, the shocking inevitability of it all smacks you right in the face. Of course Jesus weeps. This conversation Jesus had with himself along the Way comes with a haunting timelessness. A timelessness to both his tears and a timelessness to his exasperation in the face of humanity’s inability to grasp peace. “If you, even you, you and you and you…. even you” If you only knew. Jesus looked up at that city and all of humanity at the same time.

And he still goes. He goes up. He still goes up. Knowing right then and there that “you, even you” would never know the things that make for peace, he still goes up. He still rides on. Jesus is still going up; not just up to Jerusalem. He’s going up to the cross. His lament over humanity’s sinful lust for violence, that lament is on the way to the cross. He rides on. He still goes there. And he takes the very lowest part of the brokenness with him, the very darkest part of all the brokenness with him. He takes it, and he still goes. He goes up. He still goes up. He rides on. This Christ Jesus, who “though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself.” (Phil) . He still goes there. He reaches down and he takes it all, he takes all this, with him.

A few weeks ago I told you that I wasn’t willing to explain away that conversation Jesus had with the rich ruler because I was having a hard time remembering the last time I sacrificed anything, really sacrificed anything, for Christ and his kingdom. This Sunday, this Palm Sunday, I want you to know that I believe with all of my heart that Jesus died for my sins, that God’s forgiveness rests at the very heart of the gospel. That the grace of Jesus Christ redeems, sustains, and leads me absolutely every day of my life. But when I think this week of him stopping along the Way, when I ponder his tears caused by humanity’s inability to grasp the things that make for peace, and inability that only seems to magnify in one’s lifetime, when I think this week of him stopping along the Way to the cross, then I yearn to remember deep within my soul and to proclaim to you, that Jesus died for more than just me.

He kept going. He went up. And he took all of us, all of this, he took all of this with him. So that so that one day, one day, “Thy kingdom shall come on earth, as it is in heaven.”

© 2018 Nassau Presbyterian Church
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