Matthew 28:1-10
David A. Davis
April 16, 2017
Easter Sunday

A pastor, a rabbi, and a chaplain went into a bar for coffee. Actually, it was a coffee place. The established meeting place was Small Word Coffee. The pastor and the rabbi entered Small World through the secret back entrance just off Palmer Square. They waited for the chaplain to arrive. The top of the hour passed. Then five minutes. Ten minutes. No chaplain. At that point both phones, the rabbi’s and the pastor’s, buzzed with a text. It was from the chaplain. “Weren’t we supposed to meet for coffee at 10?” “Yes,” the pastor typed, “we’re here. Where are you?” “At Small World” came the response. The rabbi looked around. Then came the next text. “Small World, Nassau Street.” The pastor and rabbi were in Small World, Witherspoon Street. The pastor texted, “Give us a few minutes. Wait for us. We’ll meet you there.” I knew — we all knew — there were two places, two Small Worlds, in town. It was just that no one ever thought to ask.

The disciples never make it to the empty tomb in Matthew’s gospel. It’s Mary and the other Mary that had the Easter morning experience: the earthquake, the angel rolling back the stone, the angel telling them not to be afraid, the angel telling them Jesus was not there but had been raised, the angel telling them Jesus was going ahead to Galilee, the two women leaving the tomb quickly in fear and great joy, and the risen Jesus meeting the women along the road… suddenly. As Matthew tells it, “Suddenly, Jesus met them and said ‘Greetings!’ And the women came to Jesus, took hold of Jesus’ feet, and worshiped him. Then Jesus said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.’”

In John’s Gospel, Peter and the other disciple whom Jesus loved took off and ran to the tomb. Jesus wasn’t there. Here in Matthew, if they took off racing, Jesus wouldn’t have been there either. The women heard it twice, from the angel and from the risen Jesus, that he was going to Galilee. They wouldn’t see him until Galilee. They were going have to meet him there, somewhere else, somewhere up the road, in Galilee. Christianity’s first preachers, Mary and the other Mary, the two female preachers? They told the eleven that Christ had risen! (He is risen indeed!) But he’s not here. He’s in Galilee. He’s in Galilee. We’ll meet him there.

My friend Scott Hoezee at Calvin Seminary in Grand Rapids points out the awkward switch of location. Christ is risen! He’s just not here. Galilee is about 80 miles north of Jerusalem, and that’s as a crow flies. It’s easily 90 to 100 by pathway and roads. I know it’s a good few hours by bus. Scott suggests that walking at a good clip, accounting for elevation changes, eating, resting, and sleeping, it would have easily taken them two to three days to get to that meeting. I figure that means the disciples would not have seen the risen Jesus until long about Wednesday. In John, it’s evening on that day, the first day of the week, when they get to see Jesus in the Upper Room. In Luke, the two walking along the Emmaus Road, they see Jesus in the breaking and sharing of bread. It was later that same day. In Mark, well, in the shorter ending of Mark, no one sees the risen Christ. Here in Matthew, if you define the New Testament experience of Easter as an encounter with the risen Christ, well, then yeah, for the disciples, Easter comes long about Wednesday! And nowhere near Jerusalem. Who would have thought to ask?

Of course, the Bible doesn’t say that it was Wednesday. “Now the eleven went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed him,” Matthew writes. “When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted.” That’s when Matthew’s Jesus gives the Great Commission. “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always to the end of the age.” And that’s it. That’s the end. That’s the end to Matthew’s gospel. No Upper Room. No Emmaus Road. No breakfast on the beach. No “do you love me, do you love me, do you love me” with Peter. Just the trek up to Galilee. The eleven finally seeing Jesus. Worship. Doubt. Some doubted (which means more than one and there were only eleven) and the Great Commission. The risen Jesus gives the Great Commission to the eleven who aren’t even close to 100% on board. And it all happened long about Wednesday.

It doesn’t say which mountain in Galilee. It could have been the same one that Jesus climbed when the devil took him up to show him “all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor.” It could have been the Mount of Transfiguration where Jesus took Peter, James, and John and then Elijah and Moses showed up too. But it must have been the Mount of the Beatitudes where Jesus preached the sermon, the Sermon on the Mount. The risen Christ tells the eleven to teach them “to obey everything that I have commanded you.” It just makes sense that they would been there, at the teaching mountain. And here’s where one of the disciples, maybe one of the doubters, maybe not, but one of them had to ask. Pulling out a fresh notebook, and something to write with, after Jesus said, “Everything, teach them everything.” That’s when one of the disciples said, “Now Jesus, could you tell us again? Tell us again! Tell us again, Jesus!”

Like the student who sits down in the precept with the physics professor still trying to grasp the mind-blowing part of the lecture the day before: “Could you tell us that again?” Like the grandchildren who never tires of the absolute awe in her heart when her WWII veteran grandfather tells stories about those days in the war. Sometime after dinner today, she says, “Papa, tell us again?” Like the person in the office who has to fill in for the presentation because the boss is being called away; the pressure’s on to know it all and to get it right. “Now, before you go, tell me one more time.” Like the child at bedtime who can recite every word of the bedtime story but asks for it every time, and the parent will never say no. “Tell it again.” “Goodnight room, goodnight moon, goodnight cow jumping over the moon.”

Maybe like all of those and so much more; the eleven, the risen Christ, and his body of work that is the kingdom of God. His resurrection shines now through all his teaching, every healing, every miracle, every touch. Letting your light shine, turning the other cheek, laying aside your worries, doing unto others, the exhortation comes with access to resurrection power, death-stomping hope, and a life-giving, life-sustaining, life-creating hope. Trusting in God, seeking first the kingdom of God, shouting hosanna, save us, it’s all undergirded, founded on, nudged along by his resurrection spirit. Losing your life in order to save it, knowing that the last will be first, taking up your cross and following Jesus; only and because of the strength of Christ himself, the Risen Victorious Christ. It was Paul who wrote, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” It was the risen Christ who said, “I am with you always.” Tell us again and again and again, Jesus!

Tony Campolo has a famous sermon known by the title “It’s Friday But Sunday’s Coming.” In the sermon he actually tells of his pastor preaching a “knock it out of the park” sermon all riffing on the phrase that “it’s Friday but Sunday’s coming.” It’s Good Friday but Resurrection Sunday is coming. We live in a Good Friday world but the Easter Victory is coming. It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming. You get the picture. Well, today is Sunday. Easter Sunday. Christ is risen! But Wednesday’s coming. It’s one thing to shout “Christ is risen” today. But what about Wednesday.

Because long about Wednesday is when another trip to an open grave in the cemetery comes. Long about Wednesday is when that brutal meeting at work happens and holding a grudge is the least you can do. Wednesday is when rest and peace and quiet seem a long way off. Wednesday is when no one is talking to each other at the dinner table. Wednesday is when forgiveness is really hard. Wednesday is when time seems to stand still, and loneliness is brutal, and even a sunny day doesn’t help lighten the load, lighten the mood, lighten the journey. Long about Wednesday is when the headlines tell of another terror strike, or the size of a bomb being praised, or the nations escalating talk of missiles and retaliation and war. When nasty graffiti is sprayed on the synagogue wall, when a racist incident goes viral on social media, when an elected official says something hateful. That feels like a Wednesday. A Wednesday is the next doctor’s visit, or just another day to visit your dad long since lost to dementia, or the day when all those blasted acceptances and rejections from schools comes out, or the day after graduation and no job in sight.

It’s a joy-filled, beautiful Easter Sunday with brass and a full church and familiar hymns and a resurrection acclamation. Christ is risen! I don’t know about you, but I hope the risen Christ is waiting for me long about Wednesday. I’m so thankful to rejoice and celebrate with you this Easter Sunday morning. But I want to see Jesus on Wednesday. His presence. His strength. His death-stomping, sea-calming resurrection power. That spirit of his that lifts me. That teaching of his that inspires me. That grace of his that claims me. That kingdom of his that welcomes me. That love of his that will not let me go. I’m going need it on Wednesday. When the nations rage, when the leaders of the world rattle their sabers, and when death just never goes away, and when it’s just harder to love, and hope is harder to find, and it’s whole lot easier to just worry about me, and my old sinful self is winning the day. Wait for me then. Wait for me there. Meet me there Jesus. Oh, uh, guess what day it is! What day is it? It’s Wednesday, Jesus.

Jesus Christ and his resurrection power. It is so much more, so much bigger, so much better than one Easter Sunday. The first preachers, they said Christ is risen. But he’s not here. He’s in Galilee. We’re going meet him there. He’s waiting for us there. He’s there.

Christ is risen.

© 2017 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

Matthew 5:38-48
David A. Davis
March 12, 2017
Lent II

The word “perfect” is rare in the four gospels. For that, I guess, folks like us should be grateful. Folks like us, meaning human beings. There’s no shortage of “perfect” in the epistles, however. “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear” (I John 4). “Every generous act of giving, with every perfect gift, is from above” (James 1). “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect” (Romans 12). Perfect love. Perfect gift. The will of God, good, acceptable, perfect. Lots of “perfect.” But in the gospels, both English and Greek, the word occurs just a few times. Three to be exact and two of them I just read to you from Matthew, from the Sermon on the Mount.

“Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.” The only other instance of the word is also in Matthew. In chapter 19 Matthew writes about someone who came to ask Jesus about what good deed has to be done to have eternal life. Jesus responded, “Why do you ask me about what is good? There is only one who is good. If you wish to enter into life, keep the commandments.” The man asks which one. Jesus rattles off a few from the list of ten. The man said, “I’m all over that. Got it. What else do I lack?” “If you wish to be perfect,” Jesus said, “Go, sell your possessions, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” When the young man heard that, Matthew tells the reader, “he went away grieving, for he had many possessions.” Perfect. The Sermon and then Jesus’ call to the rich young man. Only three times in the gospels. But maybe that’s plenty when it comes to perfection.

Pope Francis has been shaking it up a bit recently. This week he said in an interview that he would entertain the idea of married men becoming priests. He shared thoughts that were much more nuanced on the subject but that was the headline. Last week, just as Lent was starting, in another interview the Pope said that one should always give to the poor and stop worrying about how that person on the street might spend the money. “Who are we to judge?” was his basic argument. And don’t just toss the money in their direction, he said. You have to look them in the eye, touch them, and in so doing acknowledge their human dignity. Some published responses to the Pope’s word about serving the poor covered the spectrum from cynicism to practicality. If someone chose to follow the Pope’s teaching they would soon be a beggar and homeless themselves, one person wrote. Another article pointed out how that in any city in the United States it just would be impossible (in case you had not already figured that out). Others suggested that the Pope must have been exaggerating and that anyone who works in an urban center knows you have to make a plan when it comes to beggars and stick to it to give your philanthropic dollars in ways that go the farthest while working on advocacy and policy. Maybe in that interview, all the Pope was trying to say was, “Be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”

Turning the other cheek. Going the extra mile. Giving to anyone who begs or wants to borrow from you. Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you. And in the context and flow of the Sermon on the Mount it’s not just that short list of aspirational behavior in play. Jesus’ zinger of a concluding sentence, his rhetorical flare, his memorable, quotable sermon snippet goes all the way back to where we left off last week about Jesus coming to fulfill the law. Jesus preaches about reconciling with a brother or sister and not letting your anger open you to judgment, and lusting in your heart being akin to adultery, and if your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out, and divorce, and making an oath, letting your yes and yes and your no be no. Then he says, “Perfect. Be Perfect.”

In his book on the Sermon on the Mount, Professor Allison from Princeton Seminary points out that if Jesus was suggesting moral perfection here, if Jesus was calling those disciples and the crowd listening in to a kind of perfection that means being without sin, if Jesus was intending to refer to sinlessness with the word “perfect,” why would his teaching in the Lord’s Prayer include a petition for daily forgiveness. Just a bit later in the Sermon, Jesus teaches them how to pray and how to ask for forgiveness. It strains theological, spiritual common sense to think that Jesus’ turn of phrase is a hyperbolic call for sinlessness. The word “perfect” might appear a whole lot more in the epistles but it is exactly there where the first interpreters of the gospel, the first theologians affirm that “all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God” (Romans 3) and that “if we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us” (I John 1). Jesus may have been tempted in every way as we are and was yet without sin (Hebrews 4), but as for us, not so much.

The Common English Bible translates the 48th verse of chapter five like this: “Therefore, just as your heavenly Father is complete in showing love to everyone, so also you must be complete.” Professor Allison and others point out that the Greek word for “perfect” here, telios, can be translated, can bear the connotation of “complete.” When Jesus asked that rich young man “if you wish to be perfect…” he was asking him if you want to be all in, if you want to really do this discipleship thing right now, if you want to be completely, utterly, drop-your-net-and-follow-me in, then sell your possessions, give the money to poor, and come, follow me. It’s a “if you want to be complete” kind of commitment.

No, not “you complete me” as Tom Cruise said to Renee Zellweger in the film Jerry Maguire. But more like, there is a completeness, a wholeness when it comes to God and God’s kingdom. It’s God’s perfection, not ours. God’s perfect love. There is an “A to Z” and “Alpha to Omega” sense to God’s whole kingdom of love, righteousness, justice, and peace. It has a “this is it” sort of definition. When it comes to turning the other cheek and caring for the poor and loving your enemies, that’s how it is, that’s how it will be in the kingdom. It is perfect, just perfect. Life in the kingdom of God is the definition of turning the other cheek and serving the least of these and a love that knows no bounds. Complete in the kingdom. Complete in him, in Jesus, for that matter. Perfect. Just perfect.

Three times here in Matthew Jesus used the word. Only three times in all of the gospels. But he must have thought it more than that. You remember when Jesus looked up and saw rich people putting their gifts into the treasury at the temple. Jesus also saw a poor widow put in two small copper coins. Jesus said to the disciples gathered around him, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all of them, for they contributed out of their abundance, but she, out of her poverty, has put in all the living that she had.” What Jesus could have said when he looked over to her was “perfect, just perfect.”

When Jesus was in Bethany at the house of Simon the leper, a woman broke open a very expensive jar of oil and began to anoint his head. It created quite a stir and everyone else in the room became angry and started to scold the woman. That’s when Jesus said, “Leave her alone. Why yell at her. She is offering me a service and anointing my body beforehand for burial.” Jesus spoke those puzzling words about the poor always being with you. “Truly I tell you, whenever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.” That’s how he finished. He must have been thinking “perfect, just perfect.”

When Jesus and the disciples were up around the Sea of Galilee, Jesus looked up and saw a huge crowd coming toward him. Jesus turned to Philip and asked how they were going to feed all these people. Andrew said, “There’s a little boy here who has five loaves and two fish.” Jesus told them to invite everyone to sit down. What he might have thinking was this is perfect, just perfect. After Jesus told the one about the Good Samaritan, he said to that rich lawyer, “Go and do likewise.” He could have easily said, “Be perfect, just perfect.” The father who embraced his lost son, crying out “This son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and now is found.” Those hugging words could have been “perfect, just perfect.” The wise maidens who brought enough oil to keep their lamps burning, the sheep who did all that was described unto the least of these, Martha who chose the better portion and sat at the feet of Jesus, the tax collector who beat his own chest in prayer and cried out, “Lord, have mercy on me a sinner.” The one leper who came back to throw himself at the feet of Jesus and offered him thanks. All of them. All of them. It could have been. He could have said, he could have thought, “Perfect, just perfect.” Because each and every one of those snapshots, those scenes from the life the kingdom, they point to something greater. They offer a glimpse of the kingdom of God. Turns out there’s a whole lot more of “perfect” in the gospel than the three times the word was used.

After the Women’s March back in January, I talked to colleagues and church members and friends and family who all participated in Washington, in New York, in Trenton. One thing, one theme, was consistent in every report and description I heard. What was most meaningful was that sense of being a part of something greater. It wasn’t a particular speech that folks will remember. Most folks could quote a saying or two from a sign or share a chant that moved through the crowd. Everyone noted the lack of any incident or any violence, But what will most be remembered, according to people who went, was that feeling of taking a small part, a little cog, one voice in something that was so much bigger, greater, more important, more profound. Knowing somewhere deep within that day, that each was a part of a powerful message so beyond themselves, but somehow made greater because of the presence of each and every one.

Anyone who has been a part of a choir when the piece was just sublime, or in the jazz band the night they killed it, or on a team that won a game they were not supposed to, or part of a group at work that met the untenable deadline, or in the cast when the play soared to another level, or in the congregation for that Easter proclamation never to forget (“Christ is risen”). Jesus’ exhortation to perfection isn’t a call to a beyond human sinless state. It is an invitation to take part in a kingdom of forgiveness, generosity, and love that is so much bigger and greater, more profound than you can even fathom. And don’t forget the one who is doing the exhorting, the one who is preaching here. Jesus and all those snapshots, those scenes. His life of forgiveness, generosity, and love. The exhortation is to be a part of something much greater and in so doing, to draw near to Christ himself. “Be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.”

There is a major gathering this week in the Presbyterian Church. It’s called the “Next Conference.” About 600 Presbyterians from around the country will gather to worship, to be inspired, to hear about compelling ministries, to discern what might be next in the PC(USA). Tom Charles has been invited to speak. Together with Sue Jennings, Ann Youmans, and others, Tom leads our ministry in refugee resettlement. Tom has prepared a guidebook for sponsoring refugees that has already been shared with hundreds of contacts in other congregations. I received an advanced of Tom’s remarks to the conference next week and with his permission I share this one small bit.

At one point Tom tells of his own motivation and passion for being involved in refugee work. He cites the influence of his parents and grandparents. He mentions being a part of a congregation that has resettled twelve families over 60 years. But then Tom writes this, “But, most of all, my passion comes from the realization that I am most fulfilled as a Christian when I do this work, receiving back so much more than I provide. Put very simply, it is when I am working with a refugee that I feel closest to Christ.”

The hours, the hurdles, the joy, the frustration, the challenges, the laughter, the hard conversations, the organizing, the job training, the language teaching.

“It is when I am working with a refugee that I feel closest to Christ.”

Tom might have put it another way, “It’s perfect, just perfect.”

© 2017 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

Matthew 5:13-20
David A. Davis
March 5, 2017
Lent I

In response to the threats, acts of hatred, and vandalism directed at the Jewish community, my friend and colleague Rabbi Feldman and I wrote a letter to the local media outlets. When discerning whether to respond, we both knew that our members would want, would expect us to say something, to do something. I haven’t seen the letter anywhere yet so perhaps we missed deadlines or used wrong emails or maybe the rabbi and the minister were just too verbose. Allow me to share a portion of what we wrote:

We know from studying history and from each of our own traditions why it is so critical to love your neighbor as yourself, to accept the orphan, widow, and stranger, and to demonstrate respect for people of different faiths and backgrounds. We hear the hate speech coming from too many places in our country and we want to counter that speech with language of love and trust and acceptance and honor.

We know of Muslims who feel threatened today by certain policies and statements being made in many public forums and then this week we witnessed acts of hatred directed at a Jewish cemetery in Philadelphia. This is not only disrespectful to the deceased and their families but it also violates so many of our religious traditions of demonstrating honor to people after they pass away and honoring religious institutions. These actions must stop.

In Princeton, we are proud of the multi-faith voices that come together to celebrate certain national holidays and to unite in support of certain values that are key to our religious traditions and to our country. When the times call for us to speak out against religious discrimination and anti-Semitic acts like we have witnessed this week – we do so as well.

The letter ends with a prayer from the Jewish Prayer Book which in part prays for the day when “all who live on earth shall realize we have not come into being to hate or to destroy. We have come into being to praise, to labor, and to love.” We have come into being to praise, to labor, and to love. It doesn’t get any more basic than that. It’s pretty fundamental: to praise, to labor, to love. Sums up the necessities when it comes to being a child of God, a people of God. Almost a kind of stating the obvious, or establishing the baseline, or it’s in the DNA. As the people of God, at the very least, called to praise, to labor, to love.

When you are reading the Gospel of Matthew and you come upon the phrase “the least of these,” one would expect to be in Matthew 25. “Truly I tell you,” Jesus said, “just as you did it to one of the least of these…” “The least of these” you heard this morning in Matthew is also from Jesus but it comes in the early stages of the Sermon on the Mount. “Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven.” The least of these… commandments. Matthew’s Jesus affirming his fulfillment of the law and the prophets. A continuity with the establishment of God’s people. Rather than abolishing the hows and the whats and the whys of the covenant relationship between God and God’s people, Jesus comes to fulfill, re-establish, embody, deepen, live out even the least of these commandments. The least, at the least, at the core, the basics, as simple as to praise, to labor, to love. Anyone who does the very least of what it means to be a child of God, to be the people of God, they will be the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.

When I was getting ready to move from elementary to junior high school, it came time for me to pick an instrument to learn. The junior high band director — his name was Mr. Salerro — was scheduled to visit my school and meet with anyone who was interested so they could get started over the summer. I had determined that I wanted to be trumpet player and that’s what I reported to the rather intimidating junior high band director. Mr. Sellaro looked at me and said, “What a beautiful embouchure! You are a trombone player.” Translated, that means your lips are too fat to play trumpet. It wasn’t until much later that I realized it likely had nothing to do with my lips. It was more of a head count. The band director needed trombone players. Fuzzy Graffam’s lips weren’t any fatter than mine. He became the tuba player. I don’t remember anything else from that meeting but I know I went home from school that day carrying that big, blasted trombone case. It was an example of what in the philosophy of communication they call “Speech Act Theory.” With those words, with that declaration, “You are a trombone player”, I was a trombone player.

Jesus said, “You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world.” Right there in the Sermon on the Mount, after the blessings of the Beatitudes and before all the instruction yet to come. “You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world.” Before “Let your word be ‘yes, yes,’ or ‘no, no,’” and before turning the other cheek and going the extra mile, “You are the salt… You are the light.” Before love your enemies, and not letting your left hand know what your right is doing when it comes to giving alms, and the Lord’s Prayer, and the lilies of the field. “You are the salt… You are the light.” Before the log in your own eye and ask and knock and do unto others as you would have them to do you, Jesus said, “You are. You are.” Salt. Light.

Preachers like me have the tendency to take the images, the metaphors of salt and light and absolutely squeeze the life out of them until they are just hanging there in a sermon like a dried, smelly dish rag hanging on the faucet the morning after a nice dinner party. So I’m going try not to do that. I’m just going to go with this: when it comes to salt and light, you don’t get any more basic, fundamental, necessary. When it comes to life, to the existence of life, light and salt represent the basics. Jesus and his speech act, establishing the people of God, bringing the people of God to life as salt and light to the world. That the most basic, necessary qualities and characteristics of life in God are in you, part of your DNA, to praise, to labor, to love. At your birth, at your baptism, each day by God’s grace and in God’s Spirit, you are a trombone player! Which is to say, whether you know it or not, whether you believe it or not, you are God’s praise, God’s labor, and God’s love in the world! You are! You are the praise, the labor, and the love of God in the world! You are! You are! Salt. Light. You are because Jesus said so.

I was in the grocery store early one morning a week or so ago. I was in line at the registers in the back of the store just inside the rear entrance. It was before 8:00 a.m. and there was only one cashier working. There were maybe four or five of us in line. One person in line just ripped into the cashier about the line, and not enough help, and time wasted waiting there. “I know it’s not your fault and I shouldn’t be yelling at you!” the person yelled at the cashier.

I was getting off a plane in Newark and most of us had gate-checked our carry-on. So the passengers dutifully lined up along the wall up the jet-way, which is the rule and etiquette of the occasion, while we waited for our bags to be brought in the door. One guy, who looked a lot like me expect bigger and taller, he came off the plane and just stood on the other side by the door. Eventually, someone had to say something like “the line is this way.” The man didn’t move, he just huffed and puffed and said, “Yeah, what are you going to do about it!”

I was driving back to the church for a meeting just last Thursday night. It was dark. I stopped in the center of town on Witherspoon Street there at the crosswalk for several groups of people to cross. I inched forward preparing to turn right and come up through Palmer Square. On the sidewalk was a couple with a stroller. I was checking to see if they were coming out and they waved me on. As I turned my head back, and started to move a bit, a young woman was in the crosswalk already. I stopped as soon as I saw her. I guess she wasn’t sure if I would. She stopped in my headlights, looked right at me, and made a vulgar gesture with her hand.

I can’t be the only one who has noticed that the world could use a lot more salt and light lately. Yes, among the nations. Yes, among leaders. Yes, in governments and policies and decisions. Yes, in the public square, and in local disagreements and debates, and certainly on social media, and, yes, on campus and in schools and in faith communities. But also, more salt and light a whole lot closer to home, more salt and light coming from you and me. A whole lot more of the most basic, necessary qualities and characteristics of life in God. You and your praise. You and your labor. You and your love. You are!

Every one of us knows what it is like to get cranky, snippy, irritable because we’re hungry or thirsty. Every parent has watched a child have a meltdown and then felt guilty because the baby was just hungry. The toddler, the teenager, the college kid, the spouse just needed to get some nourishment, needed to eat something. Like that Snickers commercial where the person turns back into themselves, to their own DNA, after a snack. I’m not sure I could argue theologically that the Lord’s Supper works that way. But it is interesting to think about it that way. Feasting on Christ’s promise, coming back to his table of self-emptying love, nourished again by his goodness, his grace, his mercy so that you can once again be salt and light in your slice of the world, in your corner of life, in your house. So that you can be sent out to praise, to labor, to love. O taste and see that the Lord is good. Filled at this table so you can offer to the world, to your world, the most basic, fundamental, necessary, the “at the very least part” of being a child of God, a disciple of Jesus. You are saved by his grace. You are claimed by his love. You are salt and light! God knows the world could use more, that we could all use a bit more salt and light.

That letter, the letter I shared, maybe it will make it out there, maybe it won’t. The Apostle Paul wrote to one of his congregations, “You yourselves are our letter, written on our hearts, to be known and read by all; and you show that you are a letter of Christ, prepared by us, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone, but on tablets of human hearts” (II Corinthians 3:2-3). When you are expecting your church, your pastor, your rabbi to say something, do something, make sure you’re doing it too. Talk to your neighbor, call your co-worker, stop your classmate, have dinner with friend, the folks you know who are Jewish, and tell how you are really sorry for all that’s happened in the news this week. It’s the least we can do.

This is my body broken for you. You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world.

© 2017 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

Matthew 17:1-8
David A. Davis
February 26, 2017

“Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves.” Jesus took them up a high mountain. He took them up to the Mount of Transfiguration. You don’t have to be a bible scholar to know that when someone in the bible goes up a mountain, some cool God thing is about to happen. Beginning with Moses and the call of God from the burning bush at Mt. Horeb. And when the Lord summoned Moses up to the mountaintop of Mt. Sinai for the giving of the Law. And when Moses went up into the mountain of God for the tablets and according to the Book of Exodus, the glory of the Lord settled on Mount Sinai for six days and on the seventh day God called to Moses and Moses entered the cloud and stayed up there for forty days. And when Moses went up to Mount Nebo to the top of Pisgah to see the view of the Promised Land and God told Moses that he could see it but Joshua would be the one to crossover. Mountaintops and God-moments. Really, far too many to name in scripture.

In his gospel Matthew works very hard to portray Jesus as the next Moses, Jesus in the leadership-tree of Moses, Jesus in the tradition of Moses. Jesus as the fulfillment of the law. Jesus as the Great Teacher of the Law. Jesus of the “You have heard it said….but I say unto you” genre of preaching. So mountains are important in Matthew. From the Mount of Beatitudes, to the Mount of Transfiguration, to that mountain at the very end of Matthew’s gospel where the Risen Christ proclaimed the Great Commission and the Great Promise. “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations….Remember, I am with you always”, Matthew, Jesus, Moses, and mountaintops.

In the case of the Transfiguration, a high mountain. While it is not possible to know which of the mountains in the region was the actual Mount of Transfiguration, the earliest of Christian traditions anointed Mt. Tabor as the location of this mysterious and miraculous occasion. Jesus, Elijah, and Moses together. Peter wanting to pitch tents, preserve the moment. Jesus taking on the glow. The voice from heaven, “this is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!” The disciples falling to the ground in fear. Jesus coming over to touch them and tell them not to be afraid. Peter, James and John looking up and seeing no one but Jesus. Jesus telling them to not say a word…yet.

Mt Tabor is in an area just below the Sea of Galilee. The lower Galilee they call it. It was my colleague Jeff Vamos down at the Lawrenceville Church who pointed out in our bible study a few weeks ago the irony that the earliest Christians built a church at the top of Mt Tabor. How they must not have received the memo from Peter about maybe skipping the construction part. That for Peter, the suggestion to build something didn’t go over very well. Mt. Tabor and the Church of the Transfiguration. My study bible suggests that Mt Hermon might be the spot. Mt Hermon is much further north. The peak of Mt Hermon straddles modern day Syria and Lebanon. And it’s a lot higher than Mt Tabor. It is also much closer to Caesarea Philippi. Caesarea Philippi is where Peter made is bold statement of faith in response to the question of Jesus. “Who do you say that I am?” Simon Peter answered, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.” And Jesus called Peter the Rock upon which he would build his church. Jesus told Peter he would give him the keys to the kingdom of heaven.

Caesarea Philippi. There with two feet planted squarely on the emperor’s turf, surrounded by all the worship and adoration of everything but the God of Abraham, the God of Moses, Peter made his confession. From that point on, Matthew writes at the end of chapter 16, Jesus began to show his disciples that he had to go to Jerusalem. That we would suffer and be killed and on the third day be raised. All of it there at Caesarea Philippi.

You will remember that Peter tried to put a stop to all the talk about suffering and death. “This must never happen to you!” “Get behind me Satan” is how Jesus responded to Peter, the freshly minted Rock of the church. “If any want to become my followers”, Jesus proclaimed, “let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.” Jesus on the cross and his suffering and death. Jesus right at Caesarea Philippi. Caesarea Philippi in the shadow, in the foothills of Mt Hermon. Jesus standing waist deep in the powerful current of the empire down there and with the beams of his radiance waiting to be revealed up there. With the Mt of Transfiguration looming on the landscape, and with his glory about to be revealed up there in the clouds, Jesus smack in the middle of worldly power teaching his followers about discipleship, and sacrifice, and giving up of self.

Folks writing about the flow and structure of Matthew’s gospel often point out how the story of the Transfiguration here in chapter 17 comes immediately after all that I just described from Caesarea Philippi in 16. The Transfiguration comes immediately after Caesarea Philippi. But notice it doesn’t come immediately. It comes six days later. “Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves.” Six days. One could argue that the reference is to the Sabbath rhythm of creation. A nice biblical interlude of time. One could illicit from the “six days” a literary illusion to Moses, to his six days up on the mountain waiting to enter the cloud for another forty. It could be a reference to the length of the Jewish festival of booths. A celebration and remembrance of the wilderness wanderings and the tent dwelling, the booth dwelling of God’s people. Six days. On the face of it here in Matthew, the Transfiguration happened six days later.

Six days. Six days between Jesus’ anointing of Peter and his establishment of the church down there and when he took the three to the high mountain up there. Six days between Jesus’ teaching that first introduced his passion down there and when Jesus countenance took on a divine appearance up there. Six days between Jesus issuing a call to discipleship down there and when that voice boomed from heaven declaring God’s pleasure up there. Six days. Six days for his disciples in the northern mountain range. Miles away from seeing him walk on water and feeding the five thousand. Light years away from sitting at his feet and letting that blessing waft over them and the crowd gathered around. (Blessed are the poor in spirit, blessed are those who mourn, blessed are the meek….). Six days with the echoes of a Caesarea Philippi kind of discipleship ringing in their ears. Six days. Six days before glory.

Who knows which mountain it was and who knows what on earth they did for those six days? You can only imagine that they would have wanted stayed close to him. They kept listening to him, letting it all sink in, trying to figure out what it all meant. That they kept trying to live as he taught, and do as he said, and soak up all that he had to offer. That they rose every one of those six days determined to be faithful, to give praise and adoration to God, to care for one another, to share their lives with those they met along the way, and to follow him. That on the front side of glory, they were sort of fumbling around; trying to put others first and deny themselves. And best guess? They probably weren’t very good at it. Trying to point with their lives away from the worldly ways of Caesarea Philippi, away from the world’s way of doing things, away from the powers and principalities, trying to point with the faithfulness of their lives away from all of that, and point to him, and his love, and his way, and his kingdom. It must not have been all that easy on the front side of glory. Six days.

It’s interesting about the fear, the fear that brought the disciples to their knees. Their fear came in response to the voice from heaven. Their fear came on the mountaintop. Their fear was in response to his glory. That’s when Jesus went over to them, touched them, and like pretty much every angel in all of the bible, Jesus said, “do not be afraid”. “Get up and do not be afraid.” If he said it up there, you know he had to have said it down there. There around Caesarea Philippi. Sometime during those six days. He just have said it as the disciples were following, living, trying to be faithful on the front side of glory. Of course they weren’t connecting all the dots of Jesus and his passion. They weren’t able to figure out the “A + B = C” of Jesus and his death on the cross for us and our salvation. But they were trying to be faithful there in one of the epicenters of the empire. With two feet firmly planted on the world’s turf, brought to their knees by the fear of a Caesarea Philippi kind of discipleship where self isn’t first, and saving your life means be willing to lose it, and Jesus tells you to take up your own cross. Six days before glory. Jesus must to have said, he had to have said, I so hope he said to them, “Get up and do not be afraid.” If he said it up there, he had to have said it down there.

For most of us there have been, there are, there will be some mountaintops along the way. This way of faith; God’s call upon our lives, living by grace through faith alone, servants of the kingdom, our life in God. Yes, there are some mountaintops. But most days, if we’re honest, most days, a little bit of every day, these days, it’s more like the front side of glory. Six days before glory. Down here you and I are called to be faithful, to give praise and adoration to God, to care for one another, to share our lives with those we meet along the way, and to follow him. It is a Caesarea Philippi kind of discipleship and we’re not very good at it! Pointing with our lives away from the worldly ways of the empire, away from the world’s way of doing things, away from the powers and principalities, trying to point with the faithfulness of our lives away from all of that, and point to Christ, and Christ’s love, and Christ’s way, and God’s kingdom. Embodying down here the gospel of Jesus Christ; the gospel of loving your neighbor and welcoming strangers and turning the other cheek and forgiving others and serving the victim in the ditch and embracing the lost son and searching for the lost sheep, and caring for the least of these, and taking up the cross, his and yours.

“This is my Son, the Beloved, with him I am well pleased. Listen to him!” Like the disciples, we may never put it all together: Christ, his suffering, his death, his being raised on the third day. This side of glory, you and I might never figure it all out. But the rest of his teaching, most of Jesus’ teaching, when you listen to him, it’s pretty clear. It’s not easy, but its clear. Down here, when you’re up to your eyeballs in Caesarea Philippi, most days, most days, these days, it’s not easy, but’s clear.

And that’s right when Jesus comes, reaches out and says, “Get up and do not be afraid.”

© 2017 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

I Corinthians 2:1-16
David A. Davis
February 5, 2017

“I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ, and him crucified.” The Apostle Paul to the followers of Christ in Corinth. “I did not come proclaiming the mystery of God to you in lofty words or wisdom. For I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ, and him crucified.” Not Jesus Christ, God with us… him crucified. Not Jesus Christ, Rabbi, Teacher, Healer… him crucified. Not Jesus Christ, peacemaker, boundary crasher, threat to power, kingdom bringer… him crucified. Not Jesus Christ, Son of God… him crucified. Not Jesus Christ, Savior of the world… him crucified. Not Jesus Christ, the Resurrected One… him crucified.

The Victorious, Triumphant, Risen Christ shall always be the one crucified. Remember how he showed them his hands and his side. The one who taught in such parables shall always be the one who was mocked and beaten and whipped. The Jesus who wept over the death of Lazarus and welcomed children into his arms and called down a sinner from a tree shall always be the one who suffered, and bled, and hung with his arms outstretched embracing all even in death. The Beautiful Savior of the world wrapped in swaddling clothes shall always be the one whose body was taken down from the cross by Joseph from Arimathea, who wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in the tomb. Jesus Christ… and him crucified.

It is the mystery of God, the cross and its foolishness. “God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong,” Paul writes earlier in I Corinthians. “God chose what is low and despised in the world, things that are not, to reduce to nothing things that are… God is the source of your life in Christ Jesus, who became for us wisdom from God and righteousness and sanctification and redemption” (1:27-30). The attributes of salvation — wisdom from God, righteousness, sanctification, redemption — through the cross of Christ. “Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified.” That’s how Paul put it. “God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.” “So I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ… and him crucified.”

Jesus Christ. “Who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of slave being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the power of death — even death on a cross” (Phil. 2). Jesus, who turned the other cheek, forgave those who deserted him, betrayed him, killed him. Jesus, with a self-giving love, he loved until the end. Jesus, who actually could have saved himself and come down from that cross. But he didn’t. Jesus, whose agony included sweat that fell like drops of blood and asking God to take the cup away. “Nevertheless, not my will by thy will be done.” Knowing nothing except that Jesus.

It is to know that the Great Teacher of the Sermon on the Mount, the poet of the beautiful Beatitudes, willingly laid down his life — he willing laid it all down for the sake of others. The rabbi with a bit of anger, who muscled the moneychangers out of the temple? He refused to defend himself. He became a victim of violence. The one who came ushering in the kingdom of God and preaching good news to the poor and proclaiming release to the captives? He knowingly, intentionally found himself a prisoner, bound, sentenced to death. To know nothing except that Jesus is to know that before he rose from the grave and conquered death, he suffered and he died. Before he ascended into heaven and sat at the right hand of God, he was a lamb led to the slaughter. Before he was surrounded by the heavenly choir forever singing his praise, he was alone — hanging there, yet loving, giving, praying, serving until there was no breath left in him.

To know nothing except Jesus Christ and him crucified. It is to believe that the God we know in Jesus Christ is the God who sides with the most vulnerable, and the outcasts, and those who suffer. It is to believe that God will always be on the side of the least powerful, not the most; the ones who have the least, not the most; those who are least important, not the most. It is to believe that God works to strengthen the weak, uphold the fallen, find the lost, touch the outsider, rescue the persecuted, welcome the stranger. It is to believe in the God who forever welcome sinners, love sinners, embraces sinners, because of, and in and through, God’s only Son, the One Crucified. It is, frankly, the only way to know that God is for you, that God welcomes, loves, embraces you. Because of him… him crucified.

To know, to believe, to see. To see the face of Christ in those who suffer, and the sick, and the dying. To look at those the world most wants to hate and see those who God most wants you to love. To see in the eyes of someone you can’t forgive, or someone you can hardly stand, or someone you know is just flat wrong, or someone who looks different, believes different, lives different, is different than you, to somehow see in those eyes something of the gaze of Christ coming back at you. To look out at the world and not be obsessed with finding winners and losers, or seeing those who are right and those who are wrong, but remembering that Jesus saw a world of the least and the greatest, the haves and have-nots, and he was always concerned more with the have-nots, and the really have-nots. And that in Christ, in the One crucified, we are not conquerors, we are never conquerors, we cannot ever be conquerors because we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. Him who loved us, him who loved until Love was no more, and then he loved even more.

To know, to believe, to see, to live for nothing other than Jesus Christ and him crucified. To live and bear witness to Jesus Christ and him crucified. Not to be right. Not to be smart. Not to be rich. Not to win. Not be safe. Not to be strong. Not even to live forever. But to live in order to point to him in all of his fullness. “For He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation, for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers — all things have been created through him and for him. He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together. He is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning, the firstborn of the dead, so that he might come to have first place in everything. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to God’s self all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace through the blood of his cross.” (Col.1) In all of his fullness, yet still the One crucified.

“For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you,” Paul writes to the Corinthians in the 11th chapter of this first letter. “The Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, ‘This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ In the same way he took the cup also after supper, saying “This cup is the new covenant in my blood. So do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.” Then Paul concludes, “For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.” Proclaiming the Lord’s death. The One crucified. “I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ, and him crucified.”

Remembering and proclaiming. A table for remembering. A table for proclaiming. “On the edge of campus, in the heart of town, proclaiming the love of God in word and in deed.” That’s what we say around here. This week a graduate student interviewed me for a paper on evangelism in the church for the 21st century. “What’s your theology of evangelism?” was the first question. “Proclaiming the love of God in word and in deed on the edge of campus, in the heart of town.” I blurted it so quickly the student was a bit taken a back. “Nailed it!” I said to myself. What I said out loud was, “Are we done here?”

Our proclaiming out there, it starts in here. It starts right here. Remembering. Proclaiming. Proclaiming God’s love. God’s love given shape and form and substance in him. God’s love made known in him. God’s love poured out in him. God’s love for you in him. Remembering. Proclaiming the Lord’s death until he comes. The One crucified.

“O taste and see that the Lord is good,” the psalmist said. Taste and see. Yes. But also know, believe, see, live. Jesus Christ and him crucified. It is the great gift of God given to us in this feast. To taste again of his dying love. For on the stormiest of mornings or the longest of nights, whether on a joy-filled mountaintop or in the darkest valley filled with the shadows of death, when the world’s chaos races at a fever pitch or the day’s news keeps you awake at night, whether there with your head on the pillow you lose count of the many blessings or you can’t seem to get past the fear of another day yet to come, Jesus Christ is the same, today, yesterday, and tomorrow. Jesus Christ and him crucified. The One crucified. Which means His love has no bounds. His love never ends. His love is for you.

So remember and proclaim. Here and out there. Proclaim here as you eat and drink. Proclaim out there as you live, as you love. Know. Believe. See. Live. Jesus Christ and him crucified.

© 2017 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.