Mark 6:30-44
David A. Davis
October 7, 2018
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The math doesn’t add up. Five loaves. Two Fish. 5,000 men. You don’t have to be a math wiz to figure it out; that the math doesn’t work. Old math. New math. No math. Calculator. Computer. It doesn’t work. Math doesn’t work when it comes to the loaves and fishes. “The multiplication” is how the story is sometimes described by the tradition. Certainly not a “multiplication table” but a table story nonetheless.

The math doesn’t add up but the numbers stand out. This gospel favorite is painted by numbers. 5 loaves, 2 fish. That’s 7. A great biblical number. When the leftovers were all collected, they filled 12 baskets. That’s a biblical number. Jesus ordered them to sit down in groups of hundreds and fifties. The total was 5,000 men. Some see here a military reference that gives a nod to those in the crowd who were looking for a conquering, victorious, ride in a big horse kind of messiah. Who knows? 5,000. Maybe that’s just a number that means a whole. I mean as in that’s a lot of people. A lot of people around and not a lot of food for them to eat.

The multiplication of the loaves and fishes is the only miracle told in all four gospels; Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. That repetition, in and of itself, offers an exclamation point on this story and its place, its place on the church’s shelf, the church’s oral history, the church’s story telling about Jesus, the church’s shared imagination. And “the multiplication”, the loaves and fishes, this indelible story from the life of Jesus cannot be summed up just with numbers. The story is so….so full.

That reference to the location as “a deserted place”? Mark repeats it three times. It is a deserted place where 5,000 people could show up for the day. “Deserted place”? “Deserted place” in scripture often connotes wilderness, arid, sparse, a dessert like place. But this deserted place has a nice green, a quad, a sitting place for a picnic of 5,000. There is also the sense in which the crowds did not just recognize Jesus but also the twelve. Jesus had sent out the twelve earlier here in Mark. Right at the beginning of this story, they are reporting to Jesus “all that they had done and taught.” When Jesus and the twelve went away by boat to this deserted place, Mark tells that many from all the towns recognized not just him, but them. The ministry of the twelve was attracting attention. People coming from all the towns around the sea of Gallilee. Crowds scurrying, scampering, rushing around the shore. So much so that they made it to the deserted placed before Jesus and Twelve who were traveling by boat. The deserted place; when Jesus arrived at the place there were already thousands of people.

When Jesus saw the “great crowds”, the bible says he had compassion on them. He had compassion on them because they were like “sheep without a shepherd.” They were lost. They were a wandering heard. They were a mess. It doesn’t say right then that he had compassion on them because they were hungry. This apparently was not one of those gospel crowds of sick people, or folks who couldn’t walk or couldn’t see or couldn’t hear. They were like sheep without a shepherd. They were lost. So Jesus begins to teach them many things. It doesn’t say what; maybe it was a Sermon on Mount kind of day, or one parable after another for hours, parable, or a day of questions and answers. Whatever he taught, it is day full of the gospel. A gospel day. A kingdom of God day. A God with us day. Jesus taught them many things.

At some point, as it grew late, as the many things being taught turned into many, many things, the twelve are ready to call it day. They were done. They were craving the deserted place and having it all to themselves. The twelve want to send everyone away so they could get something to eat. Jesus, of course, tells THEM to give the crowd, the great crowd, something to eat. The twelve are quick to complain that it would take a whole lot of money to order takeout for this many people; about 8 months of daily wage, they say. There’s that math again. A lot of money to feed the great crowd of not so lost sheep now already fed in a different way by a day of gospel teaching. Yeah, 5,000. It’s a lot of people.

Five loaves. Two fish. That’s all they have. Jesus takes the 5 and 2, looks up to heaven, and blesses and breaks and gives them to the twelve to set before the people. “Taking the give loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves and gave them to the disciples to set before the people, and he divided the fish among them all.” He took. He blessed. He broke. He gave. Just like another meal. You had to hear it. Take. Break. Bless. Give. Just like the Last Supper. “On the night of his betrayal, Jesus took bread, and after giving thanks, he broke it and gave it them, saying “this is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’” (I Cor. 11) Take. Break. Bless. Give. And ever since, we remember that meal. But that night, that night of the Last Supper, when the twelve heard Jesus’ words, and saw Jesus’ actions, when they took the bread and the cup from Jesus, they had to be remembering another meal. That meal in the deserted place. They had to be remembering the loaves and the fishes. Remembering that evening when “all ate and were filled.” Were filled. Not just filled but satisfied. Fed by the very the fullness of a gospel day. Filled. Satisfied. A lot less lost having been found and filled by their shepherd. It was a FULL day.

And the twelve, they would never forget how the twelve full baskets came back. Never forget the great crowd. Never forget the multiplication. They were never to forget. The story is in all four gospels. You and I are not to forget either. Five. Two. Hundreds. Fifties. Twelve. Twelve and 5,000. A full day. So much more than the numbers. The story is so…..full. It’s a miraculous story.
Corrie Berg and I went to visit one of the children from church who was out of school and home recovering and healing. We went to visit one of our youngest sheep, one of the lambs. The young one showed me the daily devotional book that was sitting there on the coffee table in front of the couch; showed it to me like it was a most prize possession. It was a Veggie Tales Daily Devotional that included a small lesson for the day, a short verse from scripture, and a prayer to say. Now I won’t take the time to fully explain Veggie Tales but they been around since our kids were very little. If you would like to borrow our Veggie Tales VHS tapes, the Cook Davis household has quite a few. The young one was quite surprised when the old pastor new several Veggie Tales songs, my favorite being “God is bigger than the boogie man!”. We had a nice visit with mom and recovering young patient. At some point I asked the little lamb if I could offer a prayer, if we could pray together asking God to help the child keep feeling better each day. The answer, not surprisingly, was yes. But first, the youngest in the room, asked, required, instructed, me to read the day’s devotional from the well-worn book on the coffee table. It was a bit of wisdom coming from the little lamb. Prayer is good but let’s learn something first. Let’s learn something about God first. Let’s have a little something to grow on first. Let’s be fed first.

Before the multiplication, before the loaves and fishes, Jesus taught them many things. Before they were fed, he fed them. When the long gospel day turned to night, they were full. They were satisfied. Yes, it’s a miracle. It’s a miraculous story, And part of the miracle is how those lost sheep heard, learned, tasted the gospel that day. It never says what he taught them. But they must have learned something new about God, and themselves, and life, and the kingdom, and yes, they must have learned about him.

Jesus’s compassion is for the lost, the wandering. When things are all turned upside down, when life is king of tumbling, when it all seems like such mess, Jesus has so many things to teach. In a world and at time when being entrenched in your own ideas is hailed as a virtue, when making up your mind and sticking to it no matter what is deemed a path to success, when good conversation between those who differ seems like a distant memory and the laboratory of sharing ideas only a dream, would that Jesus would teach us something new. In a world and at a time so different than what most of remember about how things were, or how they were supposed to be, or maybe how we wished they were, would that you and I could be blessed by God’s grace with one of those long gospel days. Not in terms of hours, not some sort of all day thing, let’s not get all cra-cra here. How about this; that we might be blessed with a gospel moment that fills us, that’s satisfies us, that we might be fed with the fullness of a gospel day. That Jesus would still teach us something new.

A colleague once said to me that if on any given day, if he could read a little, write a little, and get his hands dirty, then it was good day. Similarly, if you learn something new from the gospel, it’s a good day.

It is a worthy table thought. A faith-filled prayer for communion. A prayer for wandering days. Take. Bless. Break. Give. And open my eyes, Lord Jesus, that I might see you afresh, see the world more like you want me to, and learn something new about the gospel and about me and about you.

When is the last time Jesus taught you something new?

 

 

Psalm 124
Nassau Youth
September 30, 2018
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Nassau Youth reflect on a summer spent in service and spiritual formation.

Audio only available.

 

 

Exodus 18: 1-27
David A. Davis
September 23, 2018
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Jethro doesn’t hang around long in the bible. He first shows up when Moses comes about the burning bush and experiences the call of God. According to Exodus, that seen of divine revelation happened as “Moses was keeping the flock of his father-in-law Jethro” out beyond the wilderness near the mountain of Horeb. After God convinced Moses to go and confront Pharaoh on behalf of the people Moses went to his father-in-law Jethro to ask permission to leave the flock and head back to Egypt. Jethro said “go in peace”. And that was it for Jethro until he shows up to visit Moses and to bring along Moses’ wife and two kids who had been sent back to Midian in case things didn’t go so well.

Moses goes out to meet Jethro and the two men share an embrace. Moses bows down and kisses Jethro. They ask after each other and Moses tells the remarkable story of all that God has done, how hard it was along the way, but that God had delivered Moses and the people from the hand of Pharaoh. Jethro shared Moses’ joy and expressed his gratitude. “Now I know God is greater than all the other gods”, he said. So Jethro offered a sacrifice. They worshiped and shared in a feast. No mention of Zipporah and the two kids, but father-in-law and son-in-law had quite the celebration in the presence of God.

The next day, as the story is told, Moses sat as judge for the people. Apparently Moses wore a few different hats in the community. In addition to parting the sea and offering a play by play on plaques and drawing water from a rock and overseeing military action, Moses sat as judge for the people. Like a tribal leader or a town patriarch, he listened and adjudicated minor and major disputes among the people, offering them a word from the Lord on the nitty-gritty realities of life. Given the case load described as the people standing around him from morning until evening, God’s people had more than their share of issues in that season of life after Pharaoh.

When Moses’ father-in-law saw what was going on, first he asked what it was all about, what was going on. “What are you doing?” Moses explained it all to his father-in-law. “I decide between one person and another and I make known to them the statutes and instructions of God.” Yeah, Jethro says, that’s not good. That’s not going to work. You’re going wear yourself out and all these people, your going wear them and their patience out too. It’s all too much. The task is to heavy. You cannot do it alone. You listen to me, I’m going to give you some advice. And Jethro goes on to tell Moses that he should find some able folks who are trustworthy and fear God and hate dishonest gain. Jethro offers a bit of math: let them judge of thousands, hundreds, fifties, and tens. “It will be easier for you,  and they will bear the burden with you.” It’s the only way you will endure and these people can go to their homes in peace. Then Jethro went back to Median. That was it. Moses let his father-in-law head back but only after, as summarized here in the 18^th chapter of Exodus, after “Moses listened to his father-in-law and did all that he had said.”

            It was a small part to play for the father-in-law. In these few verses that tell of Jethro’s visit, almost every reference to him includes the label “father-in-law”. The narrator refers either to Jethro, Moses’ father-in-law, or just to Moses’ father-in-law. Over and over again. The only time his name is used without the relational tag is in when Jethro rejoiced for all that God had and when Jethro offered his own words of praise. With every other reference, all here in one chapter, over and over again, father-in-law. Moses heeded the advice of his father-in-law.

Some of you know that our daughter Hannah became engaged to be married this summer. So I am thinking more and more about this father-in-law thing. I’m thinking it would be pretty nice if Henry ran out to meet me, bowed and kissed me every time I showed up for visit. Or maybe even more, if he listened and did all that I said. Actually, I’m not sure I can remember any specific wise counsel offered from my father in law over the years other than love and encouragement. And upon hearing of Hannah’s engagement, one experienced father of the bride here in the congregation told me what was told to him when his daughters were married. The father of the bride is expected to show up, pay up, and shut up. So I am not sure what all to make of this constant reference to Jethro as Moses’ father-in-law. At the very least, I think we can conclude that the advice that you can’t do this all alone comes from a rather unexpected source.

You won’t be surprised to know that preachers and devotional writers kind of have a field day with Jethro. Sermon after sermon after sermon on things like “Jethro’s five lessons for leadership”, “the Jethro principle”,  “Jethro and the case for servant leadership.” Then there are those who search for 21^st century takeaways on Jethro’s description of community-based, distributive justice; searching antiquity for what might be relevant for a judicial system, for judicial process. Some offer the observation that Moses’ role in the community reveals that the practicalities of life, relationships, day to day, operations and disputes, that, in fact, God cares. Able people who fear God, are trustworthy and hate dishonest gain. God cares. Moses wasn’t just in charge of ritual and revelation but also the messiness of life together. Faithfulness in the nuts and bolts and life beyond all things religious, it is important. It matters.

Jethro certainly didn’t hang around all that long in the bible. So maybe we ought not to overplay the hand of the father-in law. Maybe the takeaway, the lesson learned, maybe it’s all a whole lot simpler, a truth that’s just a lot plainer, a message that’s right there in the low hanging fruit of the advice to Moses from his father-in-law Jethro. Moses, Moses, Moses, you cannot do it alone.

Years ago I was with a group of pastors on a guided tour of the Andrew Wyeth museum down in Brandywine, PA. Our docent for the morning was actually the granddaughter of Andrew Wyeth. I’m not quite sure how our host pastor pulled that off. As we moved from painting to painting, she pointed out the common and repeating symbols in much of Wyeth’s work: the doors, the windows, particular seasons of the year, the woman named Christina. At one point we stopped in front of the well known painting of a dog curled up, snuggled up to the pillows on a bed. We were all looking at it and our guide, she didn’t have anything to say. A colleague asked “what’s the title of this painting”.  She said, “dog on a bed”. Then she said, “sometimes a painting is just a painting” meaning sometimes you can’t overplay the symbolism. It’s just a dog on the bed. Moses, Moses, Moses, you cannot do it alone.

A few years ago Tara Woodward Lehman wrote an essay entitled “Do you Really Need Church?’ Tara was the Presbyterian campus chaplain at the time and her piece was a response to a conversation with a student on campus who just wasn’t buying the whole church thing, the whole Sunday morning worship thing. “After given it much consideration” Tara wrote, “I have decided that there is at least one very good reason why I need church. I have a really bad memory. It’s true. I have a terrible memory, especially when it comes to remembering who I am as child of God, especially when it comes to remembering what God has done, and continues to do, in and through Jesus Christ….I need Church, because church reminds me of everything that’s important. When I say church” Tara concludes, “I’m not talking about a building. I mean the people. I’m referring to the organic, collective, flesh and blood Body of Christ. I’m talking about the beautiful but undeniably imperfect community of people who help me remember who I am, and to Whom I belong, over and over again.”  Or to put it another way, Tara was saying “I can’t do this alone.”

The Body of Christ. The eye, the foot, the hand. You cannot do it alone. Being an instrument of God’s praise, joining the choir of creation where the mountains and the hills burst into song and all the trees clap their hands. You cannot do it alone. Weeping with those who weep. Rejoicing with those who rejoice. Singing for someone who can’t sing. Knowing today someone else is going to have to pray for you, believe for you, hope for you. You cannot do it alone. Feeding the hungry. Making a difference in the life of the child you tutor. Filling one back pack and then watching them multiply like loaves and fishes. Speaking for justice. Yearning for righteousness. You cannot do it alone. Raising children when the challenges, the conflicting values, the multitude of other voices, it just so hard.  Trying to make the best decision as to where you are going to live when you finally sell the house, trying to make a way after you bury the love of your life, worrying about your young adult children still sort of finding their way. You cannot do it alone. Remembering what is important, and living as a child of God, and just trying to be faithful and live the life God intends for you, and feeling God’s presence, and clinging to the hope of God’s future, and allowing your heart and soul to be wrapped in the embrace of God’s eternal presence, you cannot do it alone.

Sometimes it’s just a dog on a bed and the passing advice of father in law.

Moses, Moses, Moses, you cannot do it alone.

 

 

Mark 8:27-38
David A. Davis
September 16, 2018
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It is a familiar story in the gospels: Jesus and the disciples at Caesarea Philippi;  “Who do you say that I am?” Matthew’s telling of this familiar story includes Jesus Installing Peter as the rock of the church and giving him the keys of the kingdom of Heaven, promising that the gates of Hell will not prevail against the church.  It is a familiar story in the life and teaching of Jesus.  So familiar that it is easy to miss Mark’s twist.

When Jesus and the disciples head toward Caesarea Philippi, they are moving on to foreign soil. Maybe not in the sense of boundaries and check points and passport control. Caesarea Philippi was a well-known place of worship far beyond the Jewish tradition. This was a pagan place. This was a place to worship what the bible sometimes refers to as “foreign gods”. This was a place similar to the Areopagus in the Book of Acts where the Apostle Paul once preached: “The God who made the world and everything in it, he who is the Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in shrines made by human hands, not is served by human hands, as though God needed anything, since God gives to all mortals life and breath and all things.” When Jesus takes the disciples to Caesarea Philippi, he is not taking them to a home game. It was light years from the little, safe, isolated, fishing village, that incubating faith community of Capernaum.

It was somewhere along the way, somewhere where the all the sights and sounds and smells of all that the world has to offer, where it was all just coming into play. It was somewhere near the timeless intersection of the religious and the secular. A place where seemingly every faith group or faith practice had its moment at some point in time. A place where the teaching of Jesus, the gospel of Jesus Christ could be tossed in with all the rest. They were drawing near to what history could describe as a veritable marketplace of all things sacred and holy. Jesus takes them to a place where, in a Charles Dickens kind of way, visions of Christian faith past, present, and future could be pondered in light of humanity’s unceasing longing for a relationship to a higher power.       

That is where Jesus asks them what people are saying about him. That’s where he asks them what they would say, what they believe, what they would affirm and attest and proclaim and say about him. “You are the Messiah”, Peter answers in what seems like a firm and unequivocal way. And then, darn it, Jesus tells them not to say anything about him. He doesn’t just tell them, according to Mark, he “sternly ordered them.”  And the Christian church has pretty much ever since tried to wrap head and heart around that secret, about why they were not supposed to spread the news of the Messiah, yet. Why there, especially there at Caesarea Philippi, the spiritual hotbed, they couldn’t point to him and announce: “Messiah”.

Because Jesus wasn’t done yet. Because it just wasn’t time yet. He had so much more to teach. Besides, his accusers, his betrayers, his adversaries, his murderers were abundant and aggressive enough so no need to fuel the beast. Why say anything until they could finally understand what Jesus as Messiah really meant? That insight, that revelation, that perspective could never come until after his crucifixion and resurrection. Yes, the good solid theological reasons for the secret are legion. Except for those who take a kind of reverse psychology approach. They try to argue that Jesus told the disciples (and the others that he healed along the way), he told them all not to tell so that they would do the opposite. That of course they would then, go and tell. Other than that attempt, the church has come up with all kinds of good rational for the secret.

When Luke writes about this conversation between Jesus and the disciples there is no mention of location, no mention of Caesarea Philippi. And the secret part, what Jesus tells them not to say anything about? It is less a reference to him being the Messiah and more about his prediction about his own suffering and death. “Jesus said to them, ‘But who do you say that I am?’ Peter answered ‘The Messiah of God.’ And Luke continues “Jesus sternly ordered and commanded them not to tell anyone, saying ‘the Son of Man must undergo great suffering , and be rejected by the elders, chief priests, and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised.’”  Luke makes it sound like the secret is the suffering.

Which brings us back to Mark and Mark’s twist on a familiar story. After his stern command, in Mark Jesus also begins to teach about how the Son of Man would experience great suffering, be rejected by those religious leaders who had the power, the authority, the tradition on their side, and that he would be killed. After three days he would rise again. The Messiah, the Son of Man, the Savior, Emmanuel, God with us, the Messiah must undergo great suffering, and be killed. But everyone knows, and Peter knows, the suffering and dying was not part of the messianic expectation of the tradition. That’s not part of the victorious, triumphant image of the Messiah. When Peter takes Jesus side to begin to rebuke him, it’s not the “after three days rise again” that was troubling. Resurrection was and is too mysterious for that immediate rebuke. It was the suffering and death. That’s not messianic for Peter, for the disciples, for the faith. That’s not where anybody thought this was going.

And yet, and this is different in Mark, for according to Mark, “Jesus said all this quite openly.”  Suffering. Death. Rise again. “Jesus said all this quite openly.”  What? Quite openly. What about the secret? For Luke the suffering apparently was the secret. Here Jesus tells it all quite openly. Yes, Jesus goes on to rebuke Peter. And then the teaching on discipleship and taking up your cross which ought to jolt you absolutely every time you read it, you hear it, you remember it. Losing your life in order to save it. Yes, it is part of the familiar story. But Jesus talking about his own suffering, his own death, his own resurrection “quite openly”?

Quite openly. In the Greek of the New Testament the word for “quite openly” can also connote courage, fearlessness, boldness and confidence. That makes sense: Jesus courageously talking of his own death. It could also be used to refer to someone speaking in a straight forward, plain truth kind of way. Sort of the opposite of teaching in parables. Jesus was getting right to the point with the disciples. He wasn’t mincing words. When it came to the reality of his own suffering and death, Jesus spoke “quite openly” to the twelve. Interestingly, the Greek word appears often in the Gospel of John. Like in chapter 11 when Jesus told the disciples plainly that Lazarus was dead. Other times in John the word is used to refer to Jesus speaking or moving about publicly. Or perhaps here in Mark, Jesus spoke quite publicly about his suffering, he death, his rising on the third day. That messianic secret captures the attention of the tradition pretty much forever but Mark’s take on the Lord’s suffering and death is that he spoke about it “quite openly.”

When our group from Nassau Church arrived at Caesarea Philippi  a few years back, it was jam-packed crowded. Bus after bus after bus. The historic site is operated by the Israel Nature and Parks Authority. We discovered it was a national holiday in Israel that day so the crowds were even bigger than usual. The site has significance for many faith groups. It is also has so much history. It is a key water source for the Jordan River and for all of the region. So there are beautiful water falls nearby and nice places for stream side picnics. They have small gathering places where groups can sit on benches Tour guides speak of the archaeological finds. Pastors preach sermons to their group on that question from Jesus “Who do you say that I am?”  It is quite the happening place. That day we saw Muslim families having picnics with children running around at play. Every now and then you get a whiff of their meal. There were several “Birth Right” tour groups of American Jewish college kids learning first hand of Israel’s geography and history. A group of really big and fit American college students from the Fellowship of Christian Athletes was there all with their respective school gear on. It was jam packed alright. Muslim, Jewish, and I’m sure completely secularly minded folks plus the wide spectrum of Christian theology represented.

It was as if all the sights and sounds and smells that the world had to offer were present. A place where seemingly every faith group or faith practice had its moment at some point in time. A place where Jesus teaching, where the gospel of Jesus Christ, could be tossed in with all the rest. And it was there, right there that Jesus spoke publicly, plainly, courageously, Jesus spoke quite openly about his suffering, his death, his rising again. And Peter didn’t get it. The disciples didn’t get. The followers of Jesus didn’t get it then, and pretty much we don’t get it now. Jesus and how he quite openly teaches about his suffer, his death, his rising again. Turns out, it’s easier to keep the secret.

As communities all over are increasingly multi-faith and our children are learning so much from friends who celebrate and worship in different ways, many in the Christian faith lament not just with nostalgia but with fear insisting on some kind of dominating, cling to power, superior, condescending Christ. But Jesus still speaks quite openly about his suffering, his death, his rising. To all the corners of the church were folks make a  mountain of an issue on being able to say “merry Christmas” or make their own belief the law of the land or use the term “religious liberty” as a euphemism for Christianity in charge, Jesus still speaks openly about his suffering, his death, his rising. His own power coming through weakness, his victory coming only after death.

To a church were trusted religious leaders maliciously and sinfully and criminally abuse and sexually assault young children and young adults, and to a church where trusted religious leaders violate every norm, expectation, and ounce of integrity when they prey on women and girls, using the pastoral role as a tool for misconduct, abuse, assault and infidelity, while destroying lives and congregations, Jesus just must weep and he still speaks quite openly about power coming only in service, leadership only in true servanthood, and losing your life in order to save it.

In a world that thrives on naming winners and losers, where success is defined by numbers, where power is understood as might and privilege and access, where so much of the wealth is in the hands of so few, where getting ahead by definition means leaving others behind and pushing them down as you go up, Jesus still speaks quite openly about his suffering, his death, his rising again. To all of us who fall into that trap of thinking this life of discipleship is supposed to be easy, comfortable, and convenient, that the Christ we worship is supposed to agree with us all the time rather than challenge us and make us uncomfortable once in a while, Jesus still speaks quite openly of his own cross and of ours. To us who so often find ourselves entrenched in “what is in it for me” understanding of faith, that its all about what I get out of it, that my needs, my concerns, my frustrations, my heart, myself absolutely always comes first, Jesus still speaks quite openly about his suffering, his death, his rising.

It’s a familiar story from the life of Jesus. Jesus at Caesarea Philippi. We’ve kept that messianic secret long enough. It’s easier to keep the secret than to live the life of discipleship, and experience the call to sacrifice, and to become servants first, and to proclaim the foolishness of the cross, the weakness of his power, and to live and breath and have your being amid all the sights and sounds and smells the world has to offer, and yet believe and hear and live for the one who still speaks quite openly.

 

James 2:1-17
David A. Davis
September 9, 2018
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            When you read the Book of James, when you hear it from James, there’s really not that much more to say. “Do you with your acts of favoritism really believe in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ…Has not God chosen the poor in the world to be rich in faith and to be heirs of the kingdom that God has promised to those who love God?…You do well if you really fulfill the royal law according to scripture, ‘you shall love your neighbor as yourself’……If you show partiality, you commit sin…. Mercy triumphs over judgement…..what good is it if you say you have faith but no not have works…..Faith by itself, if it is has no works, is dead…Show me your faith apart from your works and I by my works will show you my faith….just as the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without works is also dead.” Faith without works is dead. Faith without works is dead. Faith without works is dead. James on the life of faith. James on the work of faith and the triumph of mercy. James…. there it is.

No, you don’t read it and go sit down. You read it, you listen to it, and you go live. Not only is there not much more to say, to use a whole lot of words to interpret James, to pass on James, to proclaim James as the living word of God, to settle for words is, well, it is ironic. The sermon for James is feeding the hungry, and clothing the naked, and caring for the poor, and welcoming the stranger, and visiting the prisoner. The sermon for James is loving your neighbor, and showing mercy, and showing no partiality. The sermon for James is to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God. The sermon for James is the work of faith and the triumph of mercy.

We were in New York City last weekend enjoying the last drips of summer. There was a slight break in the heat so together with our friends we walked a ton in Central Park. The next day we walked the Highline, that elevated old railroad bed garden trail. Unfortunately, that part of our city hiking was like inching along in bumper to bumper traffic. But the crowd isn’t what makes a walking tour of New York City so difficult. It’s all the people, all the individuals, all the children of God along the sidewalk and in Penn Station and in the subway who are suffering in ways that go beyond description. Over the years many of you who work in the city have told me your faith-based approach of trying one thing or another to try to make a difference. You have shared stories of particular individuals you would see every day and sort of get to know. Some have come to ask my counsel of how to help, or how to process it all, or how to understand when it comes to the gospel and the endless suffering in the streets.

Down in the neighborhood of Chelsea I saw a little girl with her father on the sidewalk. She had set up a table to sell her old toys and children’s book. I couldn’t figure out if they were selling stuff to get some food, or if they were trying to get some money for something bad, or frankly, if it was just a New York City example of a lemonade stand and she would be able to buy some new age appropriate toys. Who knows? One thing I know, is that when your doing some urban hiking in New York City knowing that you are preaching on the Book of James in about a week, at some point your head explodes and your heart hurts and you find yourself saying, “But James!”

Here at the church, we partner with ArmInArm and their lower level food pantry when folks stop in with needs. Given our location the walk-in traffic is regular and a lot more than most people would think. Over the years we’ve developed ways to get someone a hot meal, or offer them a gas gift card and occasionally work with other clergy to help. One friend, he stops to see me once a month when he takes the bus into town to get his groceries from downstairs. He usually asks for a prayer. Another regular visitor stops in to ask if someone could carry her groceries to a friend’s car or to the bus stop. Every one of the staff and our office volunteers participates in our efforts. And sometimes its hard. This summer, we had to tell someone that we couldn’t help every week and tried to explain that we had to have enough to share with others who come in. She said to me “But I’m Christian! You have to help.” I tried to explain again. “What’s wrong with the church, not this church, but the whole church,” she said with exasperation.  “Why won’t the church help me find a place to live and get back on my feet?” At some level, I found myself thinking that she had point. After she left, I plopped down at my desk, and heaved a sigh, and rubbed my temples. What I should have said was , “Seriously, James!”

I have been following the story on social media about the young couple In Philadelphia who set up a “GoFundMe” page for the homeless man who lent them $20 bucks for gas when they ran out of gas along I-95. I guess they instagrammed the story and set up this fund and it went viral and some $400,000 were raised for the guy. Well, then apparently, they were not giving him the money. They said he was still on drugs and not keeping sober. They really wanted to help him get everything together and didn’t just want to give a blank check to make things worse. The next report I read told of some big new purchases and trips the couple took. And the latest, well now a lawyer says all the money is gone. They spent it.

And somewhere James is just shaking his head. And those of us who paddle in the streams of the Reformed theological tradition of our Presbyterian heritage are reminded again of the inevitability of sin and the human condition. What the Reformers called our total depravity. Total depravity and the all-out war on mercy, the triumph of mercy. The story was on the front page of the Trenton Times yesterday. If it had all just stopped where it started, it would have never made the paper. Mercy doesn’t make the front page, James.

But here’s the twist, here’s the rub, here’s the power, here’s the gospel. James never gives up. “Do you with your acts of favoritism really believe in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ…Has not God chosen the poor in the world to be rich in faith and to be heirs of the kingdom that God has promised to those who love him?…You do well if you really fulfill the royal law according to scripture, ‘you shall love your neighbor as yourself’……If you show partiality, you commit sin…. Mercy triumphs over judgement…..what good is it if you say you have faith but no not have works…..Faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead…Show me your faith apart from your works and I by my works will show you my faith….just as the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without works is also dead.”  What James wrote was that mercy triumphs over judgment and faith without works is dead. James never gives up on mercy and James never gives up on us.

The sinful temptation for you and for me, in a time when  favoritism is the way of life, and the world’s bullies seem to carry the day, and the public square is obsessed with name-calling and dividing lines, and the loudest voices in the Christian church are majoring in judgment and often spewing hate, and when so much of human suffering seems beyond our reach or too complex to tackle or just plain easier to ignore, when we fool ourselves into thinking that the folks we disagree with politically or socially or theologically or intellectually are more prone to judge or more apt to exclude or more likely to serve their own best interest than we ever would, when we live and breathe and have our being in a world so starkly antithetical to the gospel, the sinful temptation for you and for me, is to conclude, of course, that James is writing to them. That James is speaking to someone else. That when it comes to faith and works and the triumph of mercy, that you and I are doing just fine thank you very much. Which, of course, isn’t just a sinful temptation, it’s ridiculous. It’s the only way to read James, to hear James. To realize James is speaking right to me; not to them, not to you, but to me. And James will never give up.

Back in the day when I played football, I had a high school coach who said to me, “Davis, you are slow as molasses. But you have a good first step.” What he meant was that my first move, my first reaction, my first instinct in one play or another, it was a good one, a quick one, a solid one. A first step. In the world of Apple geniuses who help us with all our devices, there is the default setting, where everything sort of resets, or you choose a default browser, regardless of anything else on your phone, it is the setting where it all starts. On college campuses all around these weeks, first year students are getting dropped off and family and friends and new roommates are helping to set up dorm rooms. There comes that all important choice of a family picture, a gift from a special friend now far away, or some other kind of treasure that the student has to select. Yesterday I saw someone carrying a full-sized stuffed giraffe into a dorm. That’s not really what I am trying to describe. I’m thinking of something that gets the place of honor. There in the room, somewhere near the bed or above the desk. Something that will be the first thing the student sees in the morning or the last thing to see at night, that go to image on a lonely day, or a full day, or a fun day, always, on a new day. A first thought. A default setting. A first step.

If you are a person of faith who yearns to live as Jesus would have to you to live, and if you are struck by how hard it is to live as a Christian in this culture defined by judgement and ridicule and self-interest, and if your head spins and your heart churns every now and then when you try to ponder the magnitude of the genuine need of hurting people, if you shake your head wondering how in this day and age of technology, science, and achievement, how there are kids in this community who go to school hungry, and we as nation can’t figure out how to have place to live for everyone, and poverty still stretches from shore to shore, if you ever get weary as you hold the gifts you have to offer in one hand and you try to grasp the suffering of the world in the other, and you wonder if there is anyway way for you, for us, for the church to even make a difference, remember James and what James has to say. Because James never stops. James never gives up. Remember James on the work of faith and triumph of mercy.

And then ask God for the grace, the strength, and the wisdom to allow your first step, your first thought, your default setting, to be mercy, to always be mercy.

Can you imagine a world, imagine along with James, and Jesus, and the Hebrew prophets, imagine a world, a kingdom, where everyone’s first step is mercy?

In that kingdom, in God’s kingdom, faith without works is dead and mercy triumphs judgement every time.

 

James 1:17-27
Len Scales
September 2, 2018
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Yesterday, was move-in day for first year undergraduate students at the University. The sidewalks around the church were filled with excited, anxious energy, and I imagine a couple tense and/or teary family conversations. The Princeton-orange “do justice, love kindness, walk humbly” banner is up. The beginning of the academic year is upon our community.

What does this Scripture reading in James have to say to us as we embark on a new season?  “Be quick to listen, slow to speak, slow to become angry.” “Be doers of the Word, and not merely hearers.” I often take in these directives in James as an individual. But James is not writing to an individual. James is writting to communities in diaspora, and we are a community reading it today.

Part of the reason I first take these words in as an individual is because I am a white, well educated millennial and citizen of the United States—part of a demographic more likely to “go it alone” than depend and invest deeply in community.  Recently, I attended an anti-racism training led by Crossroads Organization. Over the weekend, a couple groups of attendees gathered for an experiential workshop. It was a simulation challenging each group to cross the river of white supremacy. The facilitator taped down paper stones across the floor, and the object was to get everyone in the group across the river, without stepping in the water, within a short period of time.  I imagine many of us in that room had led similar team building activities in other contexts, so it was particularly embarrassing when we failed at our first attempt. I later heard our group approached the task as individuals much more than the more successful group before us. Many of us were trying to lead and none of us were listening well. The facilitator helped us debrief our less than stellar attempt, and gave us a second chance. After we took more time to listen and less time ignoring the quieter members of the group, we were able to make it across the “river.” The experience was humbling.

Reading James is humbling. Its clarity, its call for discipline, its simple charge to care for orphans and widows in their struggles, highlights all the ways the church fails to live into its calling.  Churches have a history of imposing harm on those who are vulnerable.  It is not only some long time ago in history occurrence. Rather, any of us listening to the news will know there are fresh wounds being inflicted daily by church leaders.  As we look at the law of liberty, as we gaze into the good news of God’s love, we know we have not clearly and consistently mirrored this love in our life together. Reading James prompts confession and a more disciplined life. But if we think about this with an individual mindset we will only fail or be paralyzed by the work that is left to do and we will have also missed the point. In acting individually, not one of us are able to get all of us safely across that river.  James reminds communities, “Every generous act of giving, with every perfect gift, is from above, coming down from the Father of lights.”  All good gifts come from a God who loves us and who loves the world.  It is in remembering the truth of God’s love that we can have patience, perseverance, and knowledge that we are not in this alone. It is through the power of the Holy Spirit that the Church is empowered to care for orphans and widows.

Dr. Christine Hong, Assistant Professor of Educational Ministry at Columbia Seminary, lectured on prayer at the same anti-racism training as the humbling river crossing simulation.  Hong included the following four steps for prayer in anti-racism work: confess, invoke God, look up, begin again. Acknowledging there is much to confess in our institutions when it comes to racial injustice is important. But to not get stuck there, we must also call on the God who loves us and loves the world. In so doing, we realize how small we are in comparison to God’s great cosmos. Then, only then, are we ready and energized to begin again.  Just as James’ direction to “welcome with meekness the implanted word” is not a one time occurrence, but an ongoing process,^[1] so is Hong’s pattern of confession.  God’s love, which this pattern of prayer revolves around, is something to remember. We need to give it more than a glancing look. Rather, we look intently into the great love of God and God’s good provision.

With James’ reference to mirrors and the beginning of new academic year, Harry Potter came to mind this week.  The Mirror of Erised is a feature in Harry’s first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In J. K. Rowling’s masterful coming of age story, the main protagonist Harry Potter was orphaned before the age of two. So it is a shock when he stumbles upon a mirror in an empty classroom and along with his reflection, he sees his parents. Harry’s striking green eyes, messy hair, and knobbly knees are evident in the images of these adults who smile at him in the mirror. Harry later learns that the Mirror of Erised reflects to the viewer the deepest desires of their heart. For Harry that desire is to know and be with his family.^[2] This is an image Harry remembers, it holds his attention, and communicates the truth that he is not alone and that he is loved.  Harry comes back to sit in front of the mirror three nights in a row, not wanting to miss one moment with the reflection of his family. It’s not an image he forgets. For those of us familiar with the entire series, we know the strength Harry gains in remembering his parents and those who were willing to sacrifice themselves for his life and the future of the world.  Similarly, we remember in the book of James the good gift of God’s love. One that provides perseverance and courage.

Near the close of Aretha Franklin’s funeral service on Friday (well into hour 7), Stevie Wonder’s spoken tribute began, “Giving all praise to God. For the truth is, were it not for God’s goodness, greatness, we would have never known the Queen of Soul. We would have never known the joy that she brought to us. We would have never known…someone who could express in song the pain that we felt.” He went on saying, “The reason we are here today is because of love. … The greatest gift that we have been given in life itself is love. Yes, we can talk about all the things that are wrong, and there are many, but the only thing that can deliver us is love.”  He is right. We are loved and we are called to love. James reminds us, our power to care rests first in God’s love, in God’s goodness.  We remember God’s love every time we come to this table. God’s sacrifice for us and for the world is a visible sign of God’s enduring grace.  We remember Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection. We are honest that we are in need of this meal. We invoke God through the power of the Holy Spirit to be present with us. We acknowledge that we do not come to this meal alone, but in community, and among the universal church that spans all time and space. We come to be fed, so that we may begin again.  We are given strength at this meal to live into a religion that is pure—to care for orphans and widows in their suffering.

As this summer comes to a close, the orphans who come to mind first for me are those whom the United States recently separated from their families at the border. 497 children, 22 under the age of 5, remain in detention facilities as of August 31.^[3]  Church, James makes it plain: we are called to care for the orphans and widows in their distress. There is clearly more work to be done for the vulnerable in our communities, nation, and around the world.

We come to this table, confessing we have failed to eradicate the systems of white supremacy. We confess we have abided rhetorics of fear. We confess we turn away and forget your abundant love, O God. We confess we participate in institutions that create and keep orphans and widows in distress. Forgive us, dear God.

Gracious God, you are the one who gives us all good gifts. You show us what love is. You love us and love the entire world. Remind us that you have called us together, as your body, to love as you have loved. Give us eyes to see the truth that we need one another and that we are not alone.

Holy Spirit, give us strength to begin again. Amen.

^[1] Sleeper, C. Freeman. “James” Abingdon New Testament Commentaries (Abingdon Press, 1998), 62.

^[2] Rowling, J. K. “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” (Scholastic Inc., 1997), beginning on 194.

^[3] https://www.washingtonpost.com/local/immigration/still-separated-nearly-500-separated-migrant-children-remain-in-us-custody/2018/08/30/6dbd8278-aa09-11e8-8a0c-70b618c98d3c_story.html?noredirect=on&utm_term=.6aace5388a60

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