John 21:1-14
David A. Davis
April 22, 2018
Jump to audio

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
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

John 20:1-18
David A. Davis
April 1, 2018
Jump to audio

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
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

Luke 19:29-44
David A. Davis
March 25, 2018
Jump to audio

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
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

Psalm 51 and Luke 19:1-10
Youth Sunday
March 18, 2018
Jump to audio

On Youth Sunday the youth of the church lead our services of worship, including preaching the sermon. Our youth preachers are Emily Yeh, Christian Martin, and Sarah Tel.

---

Emily Yeh

---

Ten verses. That’s all we get. We learn a little about Zacchaeus — he was short, he was a tax collector — and we make assumptions based on previous rich men Jesus has encountered. But then Jesus recognizes him, and Zacchaeus shows the exact opposite behavior than what we’ve come to expect from the rich men of the time. A complete paradigm shift of character.

The technical definition of paradigm shift is a fundamental change in approach or underlying assumption; how a new piece of information affects your perception. I have one every time I turn on a news channel and hear the next ridiculous thing coming from the political theater, you may have had one when you realized your child or grandchild who you swear was a baby yesterday is leaving for college this summer.

I assume the citizens of Jericho had a pretty big paradigm shift when Zacchaeus offers half his wealth to the poor and says he will repay over-taxed people four times over. None of the citizens of Jericho were expecting that. That’s why Jesus came to Zacchaeus, to give him a chance to be saved.

Jesus knows Zacchaeus, just as God knows all of us. We were made by his hand in his image. There are no paradigm shifts with God. When Jesus sees Zacchaeus in the tree, he’s not just a short tax collector, Jesus sees a son of Abraham who is lost and seeks out Jesus to find his way. We can all get lost in our lives the way Zacchaeus had been. And Jesus will seek us out and offer us cleansing and salvation through him.

Zacchaeus seeks out Jesus by climbing up a tree, his own twist on the crowds that flock to see Jesus. It’s a funny image although I’m not really one to talk since I let Mark drag me up a mountain in British Columbia for the same purpose.

I was the youngest person on that Beyond trip, technically too young to go backpacking at Beyond but I wasn’t letting something as trivial as an age requirement stop me from getting away from my parents for a full two weeks.

As a rising sophomore at the time amid juniors, seniors, and graduates, I had barely peered into the abyss of the college searching that they were wading through. The long van rides were full of all nine other teenagers having intense discussions comparing the SAT to the ACT to the AP tests, and which schools were better for what programs; all of this flying completely over my head.

A few more days into the trip and up the mountain, the discussions had turned more theoretical: Where are you applying? What do you think your major will be? Are you going to double major? Are you going to minor in something? And so on.

To my surprise at the time, their answers to those questions were much more ambiguous than their previous debate had lead me to believe. Only one person had a concrete plan following high school graduation and it was to take a gap year to give himself enough time to figure out what he actually wanted.

It’s such a strange time in your life, this cusp of greatness, caught between childhood and adulthood. Asked to make important decisions that will shape our futures and fundamentally change who we are. Yet we are not quite old enough to be fully serious about our choices.

We are old enough to have opinions in “grown up” discussions like gun control, but we are young enough that we still get punished for demonstrating them. We are old enough to feel the pressures of image and attach our self-worth to how we are perceived, but we are young enough that any ensuing effects are just lunch room drama. We are old enough to see the cracks in our systems, but we are young enough to be hushed without alarm.

So get ready for your perceptions to be changed, because there has never been a better time for a generation to spread a message, to make a movement, and we will not go gently into this good fight.

---

Christian Martin

---

Todos somos peregrinos en esta tierra. Todos somos peregrinos en esta tierra. We are all pilgrims on this Earth. Looking back on our trek across Spain, those words, said by a priest originally from Burundi preaching in the Spanish city of Sarria, seemed to define our 270 kilometers pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela this past August. I know I speak for myself, and probably many others, as we taped our bloody, oozing blisters, taking off hot boots, we asked ourselves, “why am I doing this?” Why between the early mornings, the crowded hostels with sometimes just a little too friendly Italians, there honestly seemed no logical reason, on paper as to why we would hike, along dusty roads, not usually particularly scenic, but just walking. The answer is, as the Father in Sarria said, that we are all pilgrims on this Earth. And sometimes we  need to walk, with absolutely no reason to walk but to find one.

It doesn’t take long in the Spanish heat to be reminded that always and forever, our strength, our way forward comes from God alone.

And sometimes we forget that. We become dependent on our phones on our heating and lights as at least evidence to me during last week’s power outages. Sometimes its because of this dependency that we need to do away with all the illusions that distract us in order to see our true source of purpose. Because once we look up, look around us, we see Jesus, as Zacchaeus did in Luke chapter 19 when he climbed those trees. We saw Jesus in some of the most beautiful Spanish sunrises, and we saw him in the face of every determined pilgrim we passed, who without fail would every single time wish us the same blessing “Buen Camino.”

But now we’ve seen Jesus. And as he did to Zacchaeus , Jesus challenges us. But he doesn’t challenge us to get perfect SAT scores, or become captains of the football team, no he challenged Zacchaeus to donate half of all his belongings and dedicate his time in the service of God’s people. As the apathy in my generation has engendered inaction in the ruling generation, we take it upon ourselves, having seen Jesus, to rise to his challenge. We on the Camino were blessed. We were forced to truly look around us as we were surrounded by Jesus. But now that we are back in lives of stress and hecticness and distraction we cannot turn back. We must continue to look for Jesus in the faces of those who need our aid. Loving our neighbors.

We see too many of our fellow Americans needlessly gunned down every day. Because of that, we are praying. But we are not just praying. We are also writing letters, calling representatives, walking out, marching and doing everything we can to meet Jesus’ challenge. And though this is where the national dialogue currently is, we cannot and will not stop here. While too many of God’s children suffer, from oppressive regimes and oppressive hunger alike, we cannot stop here. While there are those of us in our community who seek to work and serve society, but are uncertain of their future status as residents, we will cannot stop here. And as we march, as I will be in Newark next Saturday, I will see the same determination in the faces of the patriots to my right and left as we did the pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago. We will see the determination of people who have seen Jesus, and now rise to meet his challenge. Because todos somos peregrinos en esta tierra. So go on a walk, then comeback and march, write, call or do anything you can, like Zaccheus did, in the service of God’s people. After all, we all are pilgrims on this Earth together.

---

Sarah Tel

---

My friend was hurting. She was angry at me. And maybe she had a right to be. When she walked away her pain was obvious—you could read it on her face. So I reached out to her with a text message: “How are you?” And the reply—the only obvious right answer—“I’m fine.” The words kept flashing on the screen of my phone: I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. It’s the American way. I ask you how you’re doing and I already anticipate your answer: you’re fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine. Everyone has experienced times when they were forced to put a smile on their face. I remember during college interviews my face started to hurt and twitch from smiling too much. We believe that the best way to be accepted is with a bubbly personality, a perfect smile, and a seemingly put together life.

The writer of Psalm 51 must have missed the memo. God wants to know, “how are you?” The psalmist answers honestly—“I am NOT fine.” Have mercy on me! I am NOT fine—cleanse me from my sin—I am NOT fine—I have done evil—I am NOT fine—teach me, purge me, wash me—I am NOT fine.

According to Psalm 51, God delights in truth in the inward being. And yet we are tempted to bring our fake emotions to God. “I’m fine. I’m OK. It’s all good.” Well, if it’s not, God knows, and there is no fooling God. God wants us to come clean, to be honest. To get rid of our fake smiles.

I recently happened upon a snarky Instagram post that asked a question: “Does anyone else smile at old people to show them that you are one of the good ones?” I think the psalms ask us the same question: Are you one of those people who smiles at God so that God might think that you are one of the “good ones?” “I’m good, God, really.” Well, God knows better, and our relationship with God will also be better if we speak honestly with God, and confess, “I’m not a good one. Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity. Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love, according to your abundant mercy.” Now we are getting somewhere.

Last month seventeen kids were shot down at the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida. Again we heard the whispers—it’s fine, we don’t really need to do anything, “our thoughts and prayers are with you,” you’re fine, we’re all fine. But this sentimental expression does not cut it. Somebody needs to shout, this is not fine, we are not fine. We are hurting. We are angry. Don’t pretend to go to God whole. The psalm says of God, “Behold, you delight in truth in the inward being.”

In Princeton we live in a bubble. We seclude ourselves into an area where everything is fine. It can sometimes trick us into believing that everything is fine. Through the youth programs here I started going on the ASP trips (Appalachia Service Project). These trips opened my eyes to see the systemic poverty in some parts of Appalachia, showing us that something is broken. The trip brought us face to face with this problem. This has been a gift to us as young people in a community where we are able to realize we have sequestered ourselves in a world where everything is seemingly fine. We turn our face away from places of brokenness because we are scared of being vulnerable, scared of the possibility of our bubble bursting. ASP has brought us face to face with the pain and resilience of impoverished people. Like Zacchaeus, we need to be able to see. The bubble of our privilege, our sentiments of “we’re fine” can get in the way. We need to see. We need to know. We need to be able to say to God and to one another. “I’m not OK. Have mercy.”

The psalm mentions hyssop. “Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean.” Hyssop is a small bush plant with bitter minty leaves which was used for purification. It’s ironic that it’s the bitter stuff that helps us feel better. I guess back then they did not have the grape-flavored Tylenol syrup to artificially disguise the medicine. Sometimes the reality of life really hurts and is hard to confront. We hope that if we tell each other “we are not sick, we are not broken” we might trick ourselves into believing it. But like the grape-flavored Tylenol, it is artificial, fake, a disguise. We cannot implement change or have our sins purged unless we acknowledge the parts of us that are dirty, bitter, and are not fine. We are scared that God will not accept us if we go to him broken.

God knows we are dirty and broken. God fixes those who come to him broken.

Zacchaeus was a sinner and a dirty man. Yet the Greek word for Zacchaeus literally means pure, clean. The crowds protest because Jesus is eating with a sinner–Jesus comes face to face with the unclean. Everyone else claims that they are pure, that they are clean. They say to Jesus, “we are fine.” But it is the sinner who comes to Jesus and says, “I’m not fine,” he is the one called pure. He has been purged with hyssop. The psalmist prays: “Create in me a clean heart, … restore to me the joy of your salvation.” And Jesus shouts to the grumbling crowd from the doorway of Zacchaeus’ house: “Today salvation has come to this house.”

Don’t pretend to go to God whole. Go to him broken so that he can fix you. Don’t pretend to go to God clean. Show God your dirt so he can clean you and make you pure. Everything is not fine, and that’s a good place to start.

---

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