Revelation 7:9-17
Lauren J. McFeaters
April 17, 2016

Let’s start at the beginning. The entire Bible is a library and its different types of literature appeal to us through different avenues.

Some books, like the Psalms, touch our emotions.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul,
and all that is within me, bless God’s holy name.”

There are also books of law and commands that speak to our will, requiring us to respond in obedience.

“Thou shalt!” “Thou shalt not!” “Thou shalt!”

There are books of letters, like Paul’s that send us to our intellect, our brainpower, and we patiently move through theological reasoning.

“Therefore, since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained access to this grace in which we stand; and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God.”

And then there’s the Book of Revelation or more correctly:

The Revelation of Jesus Christ
to John the Theologian,
imprisoned on the Isle of Patmos
off the coast of Turkey.

It is Revelation that takes us straight to our imagination. The Revelation to John is one colossal extravaganza of dreams and creatures and angels. It’s an enormous and spectacular poem full of shocking visions, countless beasts, and ruinous verdicts.(1) A book innumerable people have tried to de-code.

So let’s pause and start where we really should start — with a corrective: We need to forget about trying to decode Revelation. It can’t be done. Trying to translate that this particular beast means a future calamity, this seal signifies the doom of a particular part of the world, this prophecy indicates a cataclysm event.

All of this de-coding of beasts and disasters and seals is swirling around our heads not because of translation with integrity, but because of the Doomsday Industry: the Left Behind series, Doomsday gaming, Armageddon publishers, Judgment Day apps, and big-screen, end-of-the-world Hollywood productions.

It’s all modern day marketing, playing on fear, anxiety, and panic, and using the Revelation to John as a time table for the rapture — the very end of the world. The word “rapture” never appears in the Bible. It’s all to make a buck on the backs of people’s upset and distress. The Doomsday Industry, although it’s made billions, is nonsense. Garbage. All of it. Every bit of it can be left behind. Wiped away. Bye. Bye.

And why should it be left behind? Because Revelation, first and foremost, is a book of comfort and hope, not desolation and despair.(2)

Revelation is a letter written to seven churches experiencing unimaginable persecution and it depicts a consummation toward which the whole biblical message of redemption is focused. It’s a letter of compassion and empathy. And rather than catastrophe it encompasses what it is to be an Easter people serving a Risen Lord.

It’s written by a fellow Christian, John. He offers:

• Pastoral encouragement for Christians confronted with tyranny and cruelty
• A soulful guide in times of fear
• A daily devotional for the renewal of hearts
• An inspiration for discipleship
• Sustenance for our work with the Holy Spirit.(3)

And the One who is seated on the throne will shelter them.
They will hunger no more,
and thirst no more;
the sun will not strike them,
nor any scorching heat;
for the Lamb at the center of the throne
will be their shepherd,
he will guide them to springs of the water of life,
and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.

On the western coast of Scotland is an island called the Isle of Iona. I know some of you have been there. It’s magnificent. It’s quite small and calm and surrounded by the sea.
Iona is known to the locals as a “thin place.” A “thin place” is named not because of slight size or high altitude, but because it is believed within these places the distance between heaven and earth is slender, and in its “thinness” you can perceive something of heaven itself.

Nora Tubbs Tisdale puts it like this: The ancient Celts, sensing the deep spirituality of this place built many of their worship places on them, some still marked today by circles of stone. Later Christians also built churches and monasteries and cemeteries there. And people who visit today sometimes say they lose all track of time and space, and they know, deep down, they are on holy ground. For in thin places, boundaries of time and space fade away.(4)

We need thin places. I’ve been to Iona and indeed it is a place where the confines of time and space melt away; where the veil between heaven and earth grows marvelously slight. I’ve experienced this in places like Kyoto, as a child, looking up to the sky from under the cherry trees; in Quebec City overlooking the vast St. Lawrence, inside New York City’s Signature Theater, and here at the font and table.

And I wonder: do you have thin places in your own life? Places where the confines of time and space melt away; where the veil between heaven and earth grows marvelously slight; where you have the sure sense you’re grounded in the holy?(5)

The Revelation to John is a thin place. The Revelation to John is where we step through the ethereal veil and glimpse something of God’s dream for us.

I looked and there was a great multitude
that no one could count, from every nation,
from all tribes and peoples and languages,
standing before the throne and before the Lamb,
robed in white, with palm branches in their hands.
“Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb!”

Prof. Tisdale says she recently heard someone say we’re were going to be very surprised by the people we meet in heaven, and if John’s vision is an accurate one, it will definitely be so. John says: We’re all going to be surprised about heaven and certainly about people we consider deplorable. People who have mightily wronged us. People we’ve had an eagle eye on; from homelands we consider to be enemies. And people we’ve had no eye on because of poverty, sickness, or class.

They will all be there: all genders, all colors, all abilities, all gifts, and all liabilities. No matter how inclusive we think we are; heaven, according to John’s vision, will be infinity times more so. Inclusivity will not be the only surprise awaiting us in heaven. We’re also going to be surprised by the scope of healing.

I know that most of us already think of heaven as a place of personal healing. And what a comfort it is to know that our loved ones, many of whom have suffered great illness in this life, will be completely whole in the life to come. But as John lifts up the veil and lets us glimpse into heaven, we witness a healing that is substantially more than our personal lives and the lives of our loved ones.(6)

We witness the rebuilding of the nations and the homelands and the nation-states. We witness the restoration of humanity scared by warfare and missiles; starvation and disease; rape and viciousness. We witness the healing of dreams deferred and childhoods postponed.

Heaven is the place where the injustices of this world will be made right and “neither Jew nor Greek, male nor female, slave nor free” will be held hostage. Neither rich nor poor, employed nor unemployed, neither citizen, nor immigrant, nor refuge will be held in captive. There will be a new homeland for the vulnerable, the meek, the righteous, the merciful, the peacemakers.

All are embraced. All are welcome. All are healed. All find home.

People of God, hear the Good News:

The One who is seated on the throne will shelter them.
They will hunger no more, and thirst no more;
the sun will not strike them, nor any scorching heat;
for the Lamb at the center of the throne is their shepherd,
and he is guiding us to the water of life.
And God; well, God is wiping away
every tear,
every sob,
every wail.

Let us pray: Lord God, you have given us a glimpse into the heart of love. We praise you. Your promise is full of healing and hope. Show us how to participate in this mystery, and transform us to be your faithful people. We thank you for a life in the Spirit. We thank you for this vision and for your infinite peace. Amen.

(1) Bruce M. Metzger. Breaking the Code: Understanding the Book of Revelation. Nashville, KY: Abingdon Press, 11-12, 106, 1993.
(2) Thanks to Susan W. Thompson for this reference from a class taught at Princeton Theological Seminary by Bruce M. Metzger.
(3) Metzger, 106.
(4) Nora Tubbs Tisdale. “Glimpsing Heaven in Thin Places,” Revelation 7:9-17. Day 1, Alliance for Christian Media. Atlanta, GA, www.day1.org/1117-glimpsing_heaven_in_thin_places, November 2, 2008.
(5) Tisdale.
(6) Tisdale.

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

John 20:19-31
David A. Davis
April 3, 2016

In a bit of a post-Easter fog, one night this week I watched a few episodes of the latest season of “House of Cards.” In the very beginning of the series I remember the interesting technique when one of the shows characters would text and the text would show up there on the screen just like on the phone. Another unique part of the production comes when the main character played by Kevin Spacey turns to the camera and speaks to the viewer while none of the other characters in the scene are able to hear. It is a creative effect that draws the viewer in with that direct address. In theater they call it “breaking the fourth wall.” It’s an historic reference to a box theater with that last imaginary wall, the fourth wall, being between the actors and the audience. To break the wall is to cross the boundary between stage and audience. Apparently the term applies to video games as well as the characters on the screen offer direct address those doing the playing.

Michael Morgan, one of our morning liturgists, was in the Broadway musical production “Amazing Grace.” A whole bunch of Nassau folks had the chance to see Michael in the show. Some in a big church trip. Others on their own. There came a moment at the very end of the play where the fourth wall sort of comes tumbling down. It didn’t come in that same kind of actor addressing the audience technique I just described. No the distinction between audience and actor became blurred as everyone sang the hymn “Amazing Grace” together at the end. The tune of the hymn only shows up in subtle ways throughout the score. So when the tune plays at the end, everyone is ready. The cast is arrayed on stage as you would imagine for a Broadway show finale. Finally, the hymn comes and I guess there was an invitation from the stage but there didn’t need to be. Everybody was singing. It was as if the audience was on stage, like the actors were out in the seats. It wasn’t just a way to end the show. It was a way to carry that chilling historical narrative forward. As the horrific account of the slave trade and one man’s conversion and transformation is brought forward in a moment of hopefulness as a routine gaggle of theatergoers find themselves united in an affirmation of hopefulness and the divine promise for a better world, a better humanity, a better future. Lost, found, blind, see. It was now everybody’s part to play, to live.

A week later the disciples of Jesus were again in the house. The doors were shut and locked again. This time Thomas was with them. Jesus came and stood among them, saying, “Peace be with you.” Jesus said to Thomas, “Give me your finger, give me your hand.” Thomas touched the scars on Jesus’ hands, the scar on his side. “My Lord and my God” is what Thomas said. Jesus said to Thomas, “Have you believed because you have seen me?” Then the Risen Christ, with the echo from the Mount of Beatitudes, says, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” Jesus wasn’t just saying that to Thomas.

Just in case you miss how Jesus breaks the fourth wall, the writer of John’s Gospel leaves no doubt of the intended audience of the Lord’s direct address. “Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of the Living God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” John’s remarkable turn to the reader. So easy to miss, so easy to skip; just some narrator comment. But when it comes to the four Gospels, it is a unique literary boundary crossing. Often in my preaching, you will hear me say, “And Jesus turned and said to the disciples, and to the church, and to you and to me.” I said that just last Sunday in my Easter sermon. Here John does it all by himself. John’s direct address. John finishing that one last beatitude from Jesus. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe, Jesus said… that through believing you may have life in his name, John concludes. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe for they shall have life in his name.

More than a literary device. It’s a promise. It’s a gospel promise. A gospel, resurrection promise to you. A blessing to you and to all who have not seen and yet have come to believe. Life in his name. John’s invitation to a routine gaggle of Easter people who find themselves drawn into his story, carrying the narrative forward in hope. Lost. Found. Blind. See. Everybody’s part to play, to live.

One of the phrases in the prayer at the Table, it goes like this, “Accept this our sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving as a living and holy offering of ourselves.” It is a liturgical turn to the hearer. A profound shift in the Reformed Tradition; not just his sacrifice, not Jesus being sacrificed again and again in communion, but our sacrifice. The giving of ourselves in praise. Here at the Table, of course. But even more with our lives, our life in his name. We proclaim the gospel story with the praise and adoration of our lives. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe for they shall have life in his name. The boundaries fall. The breaking of the theological fourth wall. Bearing the narrative of salvation history forward. A foretaste of God’s future. An affirmation of resurrection hope. His story is our story.

I had coffee with one of Nassau Church’s college students home for spring break. I always enjoy hearing stories of late-night conversations, classroom challenges, the things roommates argue about, how current events are thought about, how, when you are tossed in the deep water of the college environment, faith and theology and religion come up in the most unexpected ways as young people embrace that mosh pit of ideas. This post-Easter text for today about Jesus and Thomas easily sparks one of those late-night, ruminating, never-ending, no-right-answer conversations. One of those conversations about scripture and theology and faith and God and Jesus. It starts with a question from the skeptic with an attitude, who knows enough about the Bible to make everyone else stop and think. “So if God could raise Jesus from the dead, why didn’t God fix the scars?” If God raised Jesus from the dead, why would God not fully restore God’s Son. Why leave the marks?

It wasn’t because of Thomas and his insistence (unless I see the mark!). Jesus showed the marks to the disciples the first time. It’s not like it was necessary for proper identification, like some sort of CSI episode. Here in John, Mary knew it was Jesus right when she heard her name. Whatever on earth “resurrection of the body” means, when it comes to yearning for life forever in the kingdom of heaven, I for one would rather not be saddled with these same knees and this waistline. If God raised Jesus from the dead, God could have taken care of those marks. You born-and-raised Protestants out there all know how we were brought up to look down our noses at crucifixes. Jesus isn’t still on the cross. He has been raised. Christ is risen! So why the marks?

Those marks, those scars, tell of his suffering, his brokenness, his humanity. His hands, his feet, his side. Even the resurrection can’t cover up or remove the lasting signs of what the world did to him, of what happened to him, of all who abandoned him. His flesh bears the mark of human sin and of human suffering. His resurrection wasn’t a do-over. It wasn’t all an April Fool. Those scars, it’s God’s way of saying, “Don’t forget his humanity.” Or as Paul puts it in Philippians, “He emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” He forever bears the mark of our humanity.

The scars are there to help us remember his love when our lives on this side of his resurrection still include brokenness and suffering and death. The marks, they ought to inspire us to see his face in the faces of all who suffer around us. There before Thomas and the disciples, his body stands as a sign that there ought to be, there has to be, a more excellent way. The marks are there for all of us who are called to push the narrative forward in hope, working toward a world full of righteousness, justice, and peace. The marks, the scars, his hands, his feet, his side, they tell us that even the Risen Christ knows what it means to be us. His pain is our pain. His suffering is our suffering. His death is our death. Here at the table we proclaim his death, until he comes again. He forever bears the mark of our humanity. Yes, his story is our story. But our story is his story too.

“By your Spirit, O God, make us one with Christ that we may be one with all who share this feast, united in ministry in every place… As this bread is Christ’s body for us, send us out to be the body of Christ in the world.”

Talk about breaking the fourth wall. When it comes to the Jesus of the gospel and faith and the kingdom and resurrection hope and our future in God and life in his name, that’s the fourth wall forever shattered.

You are the body of Christ in the world.

Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe for they shall have life in his name.

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
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I Corinthians 11:23-26
David A. Davis
March 24, 2016
Maundy Thursday

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
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Matthew 20:1-16
David A. Davis
March 27, 2016
Easter Sunday

Talk about a surprise ending. When evening came, the owner of the vineyard told his manager to gather all the day laborers so they could get paid. “Begin with the last and then go to the first,” he said. It all would have been fine if he paid them in the right order. If the all-day workers were paid first, they never would have known how much the owner gave to the end of the day folks. But the line was messed up. So when the people who were hired at 5:00 stepped up and were given a full day’s pay, everyone else saw it. The workers at the end of the line, the 10-, 12-hour-day guys at the end of the line, they could see how much was being paid. At the end of the line, when it was they’re turn, of course they expected to be paid more. They figured something had changed that day. Maybe the market price spiked or the minimum wage went up or the job was finished and it was a harvest time bonus. Whatever happened, the all-day-long laborers still expected the owner to pay them what was right, which would, of course, be more than the last-minute workers who barely broke a sweat.

But no. When it was their turn, when those at the end of the line who just had to watch everyone else get paid finally stood before the manager, they received the same amount. A day’s wage, no more, no less. And in an understatement of biblical proportion, Jesus the parable teller said they “grumbled against the landowner.” Grumbled. Grumbled? Really. Can you imagine? “We have been out here all day long busting our butts for you in the heat of the day and these johnnys-come-lately, entitled, coddled, like to sleep in, don’t want to get their hands dirty, millennial workers show up when the sun is going down and you pay them the same thing you pay us?” Grumbling wouldn’t begin to describe it.

The owner of the vineyard turned to one of them, one of the grumblers, and said, “You know this isn’t about you. It doesn’t always have to be about you. It isn’t just about you!” Well, in the parable what he said was, “I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage?… Are you envious because I am generous?” Envious of generosity? It wasn’t about them. It’s not supposed to be about them. It’s about the owner’s generosity. It’s about generosity. It’s about the vineyard owner’s disruptive generosity. It was his generosity that messed everything up.

Right at the end, with the parable now finished, Jesus said, “So the last will be first and the first will be last.” It’s what Jesus said right before the parable too. “Many who are first will be last and the last will be first.” He frames the parable, right before, right after, “The last will be first, the first will be last.” That’s messed up. That’s how the line was messed up. First last, last first. It’s such a familiar phrase, “the first last, the last first”. It has that familiar, Bible sound to it, as if Jesus said it all the time. At least in Matthew’s Gospel, it is only here. Before and after the parable. Matthew’s Jesus only said it twice. Both right here.

“So the last will be first and the first will be last.” It’s so much more than a description of the parable’s payroll line. It’s more than a verse to quote in your head when a new line opens at the grocery store and you push your cart from last to first. “The last will be first and the first will be last.” Here in Matthew it’s not even a takeaway from Jesus’s teaching on leadership and servanthood. “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” That’s Mark. The first and the last in Matthew is all wrapped around this parable with the messed up line.

“The Laborers in the Vineyard.” Don’t call it that if the whole point is that it is not all about them. It’s about the owner and his generosity. His disruptive generosity. It’s “The Parable of Disruptive Generosity.” Jesus finishes the parable and turns to the disciples, to the church, to you, and to me, and says, “So the last will be first and the first will be last.” It’s Jesus’ exclamation point on God’s disruptive generosity. A lasting reminder about how that outrageous, disruptive generosity messes things up. Messes things up when it comes to our inflated sense of self and humankind’s innate expectation about how the line is supposed to work. God’s generosity so completely baffles the world’s way of doing things, thinking things, understanding things. “The last shall be first and the first shall be last.” It’s Jesus shaking his head at the world, sticking his finger in the world’s chest, standing toe to toe with the world, and saying, “You have no idea.”

When it comes to the world’s way of lining up, the world’s way of doing things, the world’s order to things, there is not much more certain and sure than death. The reminders of that come all too often. Death has this way of defining the end of the line. So when God set about raising Jesus from the dead, God was messing things up in a big way. It’s why one preacher called the resurrection “God’s great disruption.” In Matthew that disruption comes with an earthquake and a stone-moving angel. The angel transforms the rock that guards death’s door into a throne. And from that throne the angel proclaims to the women, “He is not here, for he has been raised, as he said.” From the throne there at the empty tomb, the angel says, “the line now starts here.” It is the very voice of God announcing to the women and to the world, “You have no idea”. God’s life-giving power, shattering death’s stranglehold. God’s steadfast love, giving birth to an earthshaking hope. God’s generosity unleashing a resurrection promise that forever transforms. Light out of darkness. Love out of hate. Life out of death. The Risen Jesus shaking his head at the world, sticking his finger in the world’s chest, standing toe to toe with the world and saying, “You have no idea.”

Matthew’s Easter morning earthquake. No other gospel tells of the earthquake. Just Matthew. Yes, a sign of God’s great disruption. A shaking of cosmic proportion. A reminder that this resurrection power is bigger than one thinks. You never really wrap your head or your heart around it. The earthquake. It’s Matthew’s way of reminding you that this Easter stuff isn’t just about you. It’s about God and God’s generosity, love, and power. It is the promise of an abundant life beyond what can be seen or heard or touched. The promise of life eternal where death rules no more and Christ himself is first and last and the inevitable march of time is drawn into the very heart of God. Resurrection life unchained. It is the affirmation that God is at work here and now to bring about a kingdom where goodness is stronger than hate, and peace can overwhelm the force of violence, and righteousness can rise even as chaos and destruction seem to rule. It’s not just about you, this resurrection life and power. It is about the Living God’s salvation movement — for creation, for humanity, for the world. The Easter morning earthquake. You get the divine irony, right? It is so not about you and it is so for you. God for you.

This morning marks the twenty-ninth Easter morning I have stood before a congregation and proclaimed, “Christ is risen!” But I long ago lost track of how many times I have stood in a cemetery and announced, “Behold I tell you a mystery, we shall not all die but we all shall be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.” I can’t tell you how many times I have stood in funeral homes, sanctuaries, and hospital rooms, and affirmed, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.” Today it might sound loud and victorious around here all morning, but the strongest Easter shout I know comes when you are turning away from the grave with a broken heart and mud on your shoes. The view from up here on Easter morning is awesome for a pastor, but when it comes to being a part of God’s movement of resurrection life, nothing compares with standing back in the line, back amid all that sorrow and grief, and watching people lean on the generous grace of God as love and strength and comfort and hope and life rise up again and again and again refusing to let death win.

Christ is risen! To proclaim it is to affirm so much more than one dead man rising. It is to testify to God’s intent and desire for the kingdom to come on earth as it is in heaven. It is to confess with amusement that God is not done messing with the world. Christ is risen! To shout it is to announce to all that war and terror and hatred and bigotry and religious violence and hostile exclusion will never conquer the light of God. It is to stand toe-to-toe with the world and say, “You have no idea.” Christ is risen! To sing it strong is to place yourself squarely in God’s resurrection choir, working to make this world a new one, serving a kingdom that is surely coming where the hungry will be fed, and the thirsty will have something to drink, strangers will be welcomed, and the naked clothed, and the sick cared for, and the prisoners visited. Christ is risen! To tell it to our children is to shape godly imaginations so they can dream of, work toward, live in classrooms and workplaces and homes where bullying is no more and social media only serves the common good and people who are different aren’t demonized because that death-rattling cosmic Easter morning shake is at work, one heart, one life, one child at a time.

Christ is risen! To boldly whisper it is to exhort yourself to know and believe that the sin that holds you back, the demons that try to pull you down every day, the voices that clamor at your joy, your assurance, your peacefulness, that they cannot and will not ever separate you from God’s life-giving love. Christ is risen! To join your voice with the great cloud of witnesses, this communion of saints, is to set aside your own intellectual arrogance that you think you have to understand “all this.” It is to lay down that stubbornness that tries to convince you that God’s presence, God’s power, and God’s future somehow depends on whether you believe “all this.” It is to join with all those who have gone before and those who come after, forever acknowledging that the chief and highest end of humanity is to glorify God and enjoy God forever, because of “all this.” Christ is risen! To live it is to find yourself fully immersed in a great cosmic symphony of praise that is offered in response to the outrageous, disruptive, generosity of God. The One who raised Jesus from the dead.

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
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Matthew 21:33-46
David A. Davis
March 20, 2016
Palm Sunday

When you watch the end of one these NCAA tournament basketball games, sometimes the camera shots of the crowd are sort of gut wrenching, especially if you are watching the final seconds of a stunning upset. One team nobody expected to win (like the team from New Haven on Thursday). The other team expected to be playing for another couple of weeks. So the camera shows the winning fans in all of their celebration. Then, of course, they cut to the faces of those who can’t believe what they are seeing. You sort of figure some are parents of the players knowing they’re going to have to have something to say to their heartbroken child. The game’s not over yet so the players themselves have yet to react. I saw one young fan, maybe 10 or 12. Maybe he was a little brother, or a coach’s kid, or just with a family who had good seats. But the look on his face as they zoomed in. He was too shocked to cry. His face said it all: It wasn’t supposed to be this way!

When our children entered the “go to the party at someone’s house the parents don’t know” stage of being teenagers, we tried to do all the things parents are supposed to do. Set the rules. Confirm adults will be at the party. Who’s driving, who’s picking up. One of the parts of the plan was a code word we gave to them. If they called and said the word, one of us would come immediately and pick them up, no questions asked. This was before cell phones so if the party was going bad and you needed to leave, you would have to ask to borrow a phone and you wouldn’t want to risk embarrassment in front of your friends. Thus a code word. Our code word was “pickle.” If Hannah or Ben ever called and said, “Hey, if you’re coming to the party, could you bring some pickles,” I would have been there in a heartbeat. Today your teenager would just text and say, “This is out of control, please come get me.”

In the Gospel of Matthew, the Palm Sunday account comes in the same chapter as the parable of the wicked tenants that I just read to you. Jesus and that ride on the donkey down from the Mount of Olives and then back up the steep hill to the city walls of Jerusalem. The parade comes with all those “hosanna shouts” and palm branches and garments strewn on the path. “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!” Here in Matthew 21 when Jesus gets to the temple, he overturns tables and tells the money changers to get out. Then Jesus heals the blind and the lame as the tension among the chief priests and scribes continues to rise. The very next day he comes back to the temple again and has a heated exchange with the elders and the chief priests. They confront Jesus and pretty much say, “Who the heck do you think you are?” So he tells them this parable. The one about a landowner who planted a vineyard. The landowner who tried to collect the harvest. The landowner who ultimately sent his son to collect. Jesus told them the one about the tenants in a vineyard who seized the landowner’s son, took him out of the vineyard, and killed him because they wanted to get his inheritance.

It’s the day after the Triumphal Entry, that great “hosanna” party and there in the temple Jesus is going toe-to-toe with those who are determined to put an end to all this, put an end to him. There had to be some followers of Jesus with a stunned look on their face. As Jesus was telling this parable of violence and death, there must have been those who just about then were starting to get it, put two and two together, figure it all out. You and I, we’re sort of expected to think that the crowd surrounding Jesus was full of fickle deniers and betrayers who shout “hosanna” one week and “crucify him” the next. But there had to be some, a few, someone, some follower of Jesus there on the edge of the crowd, just within earshot of the Teacher’s voice, someone who hears the one about the death of the son, someone who right then realizes this is going to end badly. There had to be someone in the temple the morning after Palm Sunday who texted a family member, “Can you come get me? This is out of control.”

It’s the Palm Sunday predicament of faith. The followers of Jesus, you and I, we know where this is headed. The Son is being treated like a king today. But he is going to be sweating drops of blood soon. The Son is going to betrayed, and tried, and beaten, and tortured, and killed. This parade is going bad. It’s far too easy to shout “Hosanna” today and “He is Risen” next week. Sometime, some moment in between there comes this awful realization that it shouldn’t be this way, it shouldn’t go this way. And there’s not a darn thing you can do about it. And yet today we still shout, Hosanna in the highest! Save us! We know where this parade is heading and we still have to shout to the Son of God!

Last summer a group of travelers from Nassau Church stood on the Mount of Olives and looked across the Kidron Valley at the Old City of Jerusalem. It is an incredibly beautiful view. The Garden of Gethsemane is just down the hill. The view of the valley sort of allows you to ignore the highway that runs through it, so full of cars and tour buses. You look over at that old wall and the iconic skyline. After you get your bearings and someone points out the various domes and steeples and rooftops, after you take the pictures, you just linger there in silence. Time and history sort of collapse. And this unsettling feeling comes. This gnawing at the spirit. A sort of soulful nausea. Because the view, there from the Mount of Olives, it’s a Palm Sunday view. You can see it. Where the parade starts. You can trace it down the hill and up the other side. You can see the gate in the wall where the parade passed through. And you just know, you know what’s going to happen. How the parade goes bad. How he so willingly empties himself, gives himself, sheds his blood. How God so loved the world that God sent his only Son. Hosanna! Hosanna! The Palm Sunday view it is so… so… so beautiful.

The Palm Sunday predicament. You see what I mean, right? Shouting “hosanna” and knowing how it’s all going to end. That Palm Sunday view. I’ve discovered a Palm Sunday song too. A song that gets at this wondrous combination of praise and heartbreak. I didn’t just discover the song. It actually is at the top of the most played on my device. I checked my stats this week. The top three in order? “Born to Run.” “Birdland.” And “Oh Happy Day.” That’s the Palm Sunday song. Not just the song “O Happy Day,” but a recording of Aretha Franklin and Mavis Staples singing “Oh Happy Day.” Two giants of gospel music with a full choir behind them. Everybody knows “Oh Happy Day, when Jesus washed my sins away… he taught me how to watch, fight and pray, living, rejoicing every day.” But the lyrics themselves don’t do justice to how Aretha and Mavis sing it. Theirs is a Palm Sunday arrangement.

They don’t sing, “Oh, happy day.” It’s more like, “Awh, happy day.” At one point in the song, if you listen carefully, you can hear them telling the story, it starts with well, well, and then going back to the Garden of Gethsemane, and not my will but thy will be done, and riding into Jerusalem, and the crying crowds and waving palms, and crying hosanna. As they tell about Jesus and his suffering, how he goes about washing sins away, the choir just keeps singing “Oh Happy Day” louder and louder, an incongruent shout of praise. The women, they’re not just singing about Jesus and his suffering, it comes with this kind of guttural shout, this groan, this pain from somewhere deep within. Because they know how it’s all going an end. It’s a Palm Sunday song because the praise, the gratitude, the shout, is in response to all that Jesus gave, all that Jesus gave. By the time they sing about the stone rolled away, the song has calmed down. The resurrection is a peaceful denouement. Easter is the postlude. The guts of the song, the climax of their interpretation, what makes it a happy day is his dying love.

Listen… [music plays]

It’s how you ought to shout “hosanna.” From the deepest part of your soul. A shout to the one who gave his life. One of those shouts that comes through tears. A shout to the Son that God sent. An informed shout because you know how this is all ends. One of those shouts that’s even louder, more striking, more powerful in your head. Not just your head, but your heart.

A shout to Jesus and his dying love.

Hosanna! Hosanna!

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

Matthew 25:31-46
David A. Davis
March 13, 2016
Lent V

I wonder if anyone clapped? When Jesus finished the parable of the sheep and the goats, the parable of the last judgment, his teaching about the least of these, do you think anyone clapped? When I was an undergraduate, students would often clap at the conclusion of the last class in the course at the end of the term. It wasn’t for every class. Not languages or seminars, certainly not the class in which you were stuck with a grad student. But the courses that were larger and lecture-based, the courses held in the bigger halls, the amphitheater classrooms. At the end of that last class, students clapped.

Matthew 25:31-46 is the last part of the last class for the disciples and the followers of Jesus. What comes next after the parable is this: “When Jesus had finished saying all these things, he said to his disciples, ‘You know that after two days the Passover is coming and the Son of Man will be handed over to be crucified.’” Jesus isn’t just predicting it. He is announcing it. It’s now. It’s here. It’s over. The Jesus of Matthew’s gospel is the Great Teacher in the tradition of Moses. This is the “you have heard it said… but I say unto you” Jesus. Matthew’s Jesus is the teacher and the teaching is now done.

The teaching started with “blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” and “you have heard that is was said, ‘you shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy,’ but I say to you, love you enemies and pray for those who persecute you” and “pray then like this…” and “ask, and it will be given, seek and you will find.” The teaching started with the Sermon on the Mount. More came when Jesus gave his sending lecture to the disciples: “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.” Then came some parables like the parable of the sower and the parable of the mustard seed. There was a memorable sermon moment: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” And there was teaching in response to a question: ‘Teacher, what good deed must I do to have eternal life… Go sell you possessions and give the money to the poor.” That bit of teaching included the part about the rich and the eye of the needle and with God all things are possible.

All this teaching from Jesus in Matthew: the parable of the unforgiving servant, the parable of the wedding guests and the one not dressed right, and the owner of the vineyard and the workers in the field. And just right here in Matthew 25: the wise and foolish maidens and the parable of talents and then this, “Truly I tell you, as much as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me… as much as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.” Jesus is the great teacher and the course is now over. “These will go away in eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.” Clap. Clap. Clap. That’s James somewhere in the crowd. James, who wrote, “I by my works will show you my faith… be doers of the word… faith without works is dead.”

The Teacher’s last class, the final point, the last word. “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.” Some editors refer to the parable as the parable of the Great Judgment. All the nations gathered. The Son of Man on the throne. A great judgment scene that ends with eternal punishment and eternal life. But the judgment isn’t the most unsettling part of the parable. By the time you get to this point in Matthew, there’s been plenty of weeping and gnashing of teeth and outer darkness and eternal fire. There is something about the parable more troubling than even the judgment.

What’s more disconcerting in this parable is the hiddenness of Christ. The invisibility of the Son of Man. The “un-detectedness” of Jesus. Neither the righteous nor the unrighteous were able to see the face of Jesus in the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick, the imprisoned. “Lord, when was it?” That’s what they both said, the sheep and the goats, the ones on the right and the ones on the left, eternal life and eternal punishment. None of them knew where Jesus was. None of them knew it was Jesus. The righteous didn’t have a leg up on piety, patting themselves on the proverbial spiritual back, believing they were caring for the Son of Man. They had no idea! They were just feeding the hungry and caring for the sick and welcoming the stranger and clothing the naked and visiting the prisoners. The accursed weren’t sent away for disrespecting the king or denying the Son of Man or for lack of faith or for failing to subscribe to every part of the creed. Judgment comes because they turned their backs, they didn’t do a blessed thing. They couldn’t have cared less. Of course that means they couldn’t have cared less about Jesus. If there is something that ought to make you squirm in your Christian life, uncomfortable in your walk of faith, it’s the hiddenness of Christ. Our inability to see the face of Jesus in the least of these.

The Teacher’s last class, the final point, the last word. “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.” For all the challenge that the parables bring to the followers of Jesus, for all the wrestling with scripture we’ve done this Lenten season — trying to comprehend allegory, trying to embrace hyperbole, trying to understand a first-century context, trying to take in all the judgment, trying to let the really difficult ones just stay difficult, for all the wonder and the mystery that come with the parables of Jesus — this last one is rather shockingly straightforward and it lands with an unadulterated punch with no need to put a finer point on it. Feed the hungry. Give the thirsty something to drink. Welcome the stranger. Clothe the naked. Care for the sick. Visit the prisoner.

In his column this week, Ross Douthat of The New York Times writes about how the current presidential election process is exposing what he calls “many hard truths about American Christianity.” The core of the essay addresses how Donald Trump is appealing to conservative Christian voters despite what the columnist calls Trump’s “transparent irreligiosity.” Setting aside the political commentary and the main gist of the column, I was struck by the his mention of “a distinctively American heresy” (his term). What he means is an unfortunate turn in American Christianity over the last 50 years. A turn toward a theology that is, as he describes it, “nationalistic, prosperity-worshiping, apocalyptic, and success-obsessed.” I read enough of Ross Douthat to know that as a conservative Roman Catholic he and I don’t agree on much when it comes to theology. But his brief description of the unique heresy of American Christianity, nationalistic, prosperity-worshiping, apocalyptic, and success-obsessed left me wanting to think more and read more. To think more about how contemporary Christianity so easily becomes exclusive and tribal, self-absorbed, fear-based, and the means to justify one’s own desires and one’s own opinions. Douthat left me wondering about how different a Christian walk can be if you skip the last class.

I met this week with a sophomore from Princeton University who is writing a paper for a journalism class on the current coverage and conversation and process of refugee resettlement in the United States. She is from North Jersey. She’s Jewish. Her family is from Syria. During our discussion she asked me what motivates a congregation like Nassau to engage in the kind of program that would bring an international family to the Princeton community every 4-5 years over the last 50 years. At that point I said something boring and vague and uninspiring about the Christian faith. I’m sure in the paper it will sound something like an adult in a Charlie Brown cartoon (wha, wha, wha, wha). I should have told her about the “un-detectedness” of Jesus in Matthew 25. Because some want us to look at a Syrian refugees and see possible terrorists. The gospel calls us to look at Syrian refugees and see the face of Jesus.

According to the local Princeton group Send Hunger Packing, statistics on the free and reduced lunch program in the Princeton Public Schools indicate that there are about two students in every classroom from K through 12 who may not be getting enough food to eat on a weekly basis. Someone might want to let the teachers know that Jesus might be sitting in their classrooms. The national association for hospice care reports that the number of people on hospice care in the United States is increasing by hundreds of thousands every year. The opportunity for you and I to care for Jesus is ever on the rise. The United States represents one twentieth of the world’s population. The prison population in the United States is one fourth all people incarcerated around the world. Long before the term “mass incarceration” was used, long before advocates for prison reform began to question the prison industrial complex or the abuse of solitary confinement, long before, the gospel called the church to look for and to visit Christ in the millions of people in prison.

The Teacher’s last class, the final point, the last word. “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.” The title of that last lecture? The Great Judgment. The Parable of the Sheep and the Goats. Unto the least of these. How about “The Haunting Hiddenness of Christ.”

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.