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

[Luke 19:28-44 is read]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Psalm 51 and Luke 19:1-10
Youth Sunday
March 18, 2018
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On Youth Sunday the youth of the church lead our services of worship, including preaching the sermon. Our youth preachers are Emily Yeh, Christian Martin, and Sarah Tel.

Emily Yeh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christian Martin

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah Tel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Luke 18:18-30
David A. Davis
March 11, 2018
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I wonder if he heard it. The promise I mean. The ruler. The certain ruler who was very rich. I wonder if he heard the promise, if he heard from Jesus about God’s grace. I sort of don’t think so. I don’t think he heard it. Maybe he was gone by then. Maybe he walked away. Stormed away. Or in all the sadness, the shock, the grief that washed over him, he just couldn’t hear it. He certainly didn’t like the answer Jesus gave and I bet he never heard the promise.

According to Luke, the ruler was listening to Jesus tell a few parables. Jesus told the one about the persistent widow who kept coming to the judge for justice. “And will not God grant justice to God’s chosen ones who cry to God day and night?” Jesus said. And Jesus told the parable about the self-righteous, arrogant Pharisee and the humbled tax collector who went into the temple to pray. Jesus said, “For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.” Then all these people started bringing babies to Jesus so he could touch them and the disciples sternly ordered to stop. Jesus said “no, no” and waved in the parents carrying the children. “Truly I tell you whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.”

It was then that the ruler asked Jesus, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus corrected his theological grammar before he tackled the question as he pointed out no one is good but God alone. Don’t call me good. Now that’s not the first theological corrective that comes to mind here. After all, Jesus’ identity and relationship to God is rather…complicated throughout the gospels. When it comes to the “fully God” part of Jesus, well, “good” seems appropriate. The ruler’s word choice that Jesus chose not to pick up on right away was the “what must I do” part. The “do” part. Jesus could have said to the man, there is nothing you can “do” to inherit eternal life. You cannot earn it.

Jesus rattled off a few of the Ten Commandments, a few intended to represent all. “You know the commandments” Jesus told him. Of course the man knew the list. He knew them all. He knew the Ten Commandments and told Jesus with confidence that he had kept all of them since he was a kid. He’d kept them since he’d learned them. I’ve got them covered. I’m batting a thousand. I’m a A plus when it comes to the Ten. Ten for Ten. I’m 100. “It’s all good, then”, he said to Jesus. Actually, it was more than good for the ruler, for the rich ruler, for the very rich ruler. Life had treated him very well. He was very successful. He was doing just fine. That’s how he knew he was okay when it came to the Ten. That’s where his confidence came in responding to Jesus about the Ten. Because by all measure, God had blessed him. God had rewarded him for killing it with the Ten. God had blessed him because of his piety. His wealth was a sign of God’s favor. Tucked inside this account of the rich ruler’s conversation with Jesus along the way is a biblical example of what we call now “the prosperity gospel”, the “health and wealth gospel”. In his case, the prosperity law; keep the Ten and God will make you rich. So, yeah, “Teacher, I’ve kept all those since I was a kid. See?”

“When Jesus head this, he said to him ‘there is still one thing lacking. Sell all that you own and distribute the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven: then come, follow me.’ ” When the man heard that, when he heard Jesus refer to his money, when he heard Jesus starting to mess with his stuff, when Jesus started meddling, when the “Good Teacher” talked about the poor, when the man heard Jesus mention “wealth redistribution”, when he heard Jesus tell him to sell everything and give it to the poor so that he could have treasure in heaven, the man “became sad….for he was very rich.”

Sad. What an odd expression. He was sad. The word doesn’t come up all that often in the New Testament. Sad. When Luke tells of the Risen Jesus approaching the two men along the Emmaus Road, when Jesus asked them what they had been talking about along the way, Luke writes that that “they stood still, looking sad.” But that’s a different word in Greek. They had a gloomy look on their face. The word here for the rich ruler indicates he was deeply grieved, stricken with grief, he was overcome with grief. Sad doesn’t really begin to describe it. Mark uses the same word to describe King Herod’s reaction to his daughter asking for the head of John the Baptist on a platter. The bible says “The king was deeply grieved.” Both Matthew and Mark use the word to describe how Jesus was feeling in the Garden of Gethsemane. Jesus told the man to get rid of all his riches and even at the thought of it, he was as distraught as if a loved one had died. He wasn’t just sad.

“Jesus looked at him and said, ‘How hard it is for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God! Indeed it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of heaven.’” Others of course were listening in on the conversation. Others who must have known the rich ruler who was now doubled over in grief. Others who cut their own teeth on the “keep the Ten and you too can be rich” approach to life and wellness and success. Others who were trying to wrap their heads around the camel and the eye of the needle thing that Jesus just said. Others suddenly worried about what it might all mean for them, for their salvation, for them and God? If not him, if not this guy, then who, then what about us? “Then who can be saved?”, they said.

So this is what I don’t think he heard. I don’t think the rich ruler heard it when “Jesus replied, ‘What is impossible for mortals is possible for God.’” Abraham and Sarah heard it when the Lord told them they were to have a child even when they were old. “Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?” was what God said to them. Mary heard it from the Angel Gabriel. “For nothing will be impossible with God.” Only God can save and with God nothing is impossible. Drowning in his own complete heart break when it came to the things of this world, the man must not have heard the promise, the promise from Jesus, the promise about God, the promise of salvation. “What is impossible for mortals is possible for God.” He must not have heard it because that’s right when he would have said to Jesus, “So you’re telling me there’s a chance!”

Whether or not the rich ruler heard the word about grace, Peter heard it and apparently didn’t like it. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Look we have left our homes and followed you! We dropped everything! Everything! And your telling us that rich guy has a chance? Salvation could be his as well?” Peter heard about the impossible saving grace of God, a suggestion that God’s saving grace reaches beyond what even the closest followers of Jesus can imagine. And he didn’t like it. He suddenly worried about what it all meant for him, for his salvation, for him and God. And he was… sad. First Jesus disappointed the rich ruler and then he disappointed Peter.

Jesus said, Truly I tell you, there is no one who has left house or wife or brothers or parents or children, for the sake of the kingdom of God, who will not get back very much more in this age, and in the age to come, eternal life.” There is no one who makes a sacrifice for the kingdom of God who will not get back very much more in this life and in the life to come. There is no one who takes a risk for the kingdom of God now who will not get back very much more and then in the world to come, all the more. No one who gives of themselves for the kingdom of God will be lost in this life or in the life to come. “For nothing is impossible with God.”

Jesus, the rich ruler, and the camel going through the eye of a needle. I wonder what those fundamentalist, scripture is infallible and you better take it literally preachers do with these bible verses? They must give mulligans for this one too. The truth is, though, preachers and theologians have been working pretty much since the Apostle Peter to explain it, make it more palatable, more understandable for life and faith. There was that historical effort to argue for an actual city gate called “the eye of the needle” where a camel might actually be able to walk through. Or there is the overly spiritual approach that would offer a pat on the shoulder and something like “now, now don’t worry about your money, it’s more about whatever holds you back, whatever hinders your relationship with God. For some of us it would be that Reformed theology on steroids approach that affirms that at the end of the day that its not about your wealth at all but any part of you that falls back into that trap of thinking you can earn, or merit, or deserve God’s saving efforts. Don’t worry about the money its grace alone!

Of course, there is always the cut and paste approach. The just ignore it approach. The try to pretend “Jesus talked more about your sexuality than your money approach.” This story of Jesus disappointing both the Ruler and Peter with his comments about riches, it appears in Matthew, Mark, and Luke. And in the three year lectionary cycle of assigned Lord’s Day gospel readings, it appears only once. Mark’s account. Once. Luke’s rich ruler never gets a shout out, nor Mathew’s. Just once in three years. And that’s probably a good Sunday to preach from the Epistles or the Old Testament. Jesus so disappointing that we pretend it just isn’t there.

I’m not a literalist but I’m not going to just explain it away either. Sometimes you just have to sit with the most difficult, the most challenging parts of the teaching of Jesus. You just have sit and stew with it, stew in it. I can’t just explain it away. I can’t just make it all better. Mostly, frankly, between you and me, I can’t just explain it away because I’m just trying to think of the last time I sacrificed anything, anything, for the kingdom of God, the last time I took any risk for the kingdom of God, the last time I really gave anything of myself for the kingdom of God. How about you? How about us?

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

Luke 10:38-42
David A. Davis
March 4, 2018
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When Jesus stays for dinner in the gospel of Luke, chances are its going to get uncomfortable. You remember the Risen Christ walking with the two men along the Emmaus Road in the very last chapter of Luke. When they came near to the village the two urge Jesus to stay because it was getting late. And they still didn’t know, then, that it was Jesus. So he stays for dinner. As he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them, it was then that their eyes were opened and they recognized him. Jesus vanished but they stayed at the table talking about how their hearts had been burning within as he taught along that way. Hearts burning. Eyes opened. But in Luke, when Jesus stays for dinner, it’s not always like that.

Early on Levi the tax collector, the one whom Jesus had just called to follow him, gives a great feast for Jesus in his home. The table is full of tax collectors. The religious leaders get in the face of the disciples complaining about him eating with tax collectors and sinners. “Those who are well have no need of a physician but those who are sick. I have come to call not the righteous but sinners to repentance,” Jesus says. And that’s when one tax collector must have turned to another and said, “Did he just call us sinners?” The Bible doesn’t say that, but right then, that moment, that dinner, it must have been… awkward.

A few chapters later Luke reports that one of the Pharisees asks Jesus to eat with him. So Jesus goes to the house and takes his place at the table. A woman in the city, one who Luke chooses to tell the reader “was a sinner,” she shows up with an alabaster jar of ointment and sits behind Jesus at his feet weeping. She bathes his feet with her tears, dries his feet with her hair, kisses his feet, and anoints his feet with ointment. Not surprisingly the Pharisee host has a concern.

After a brief give and take between Jesus and the Pharisee about debt and forgiveness, Jesus turns toward the woman but says to the Pharisee, “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet but she bathed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. You gave me no kiss but from the time I came in she has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil but she has anointed my feet with ointment. Therefore, I tell you, her sins, which were many, have been forgiven, since she has shown great love.” Ouch! That dinner was uncomfortable.

Then there’s that night when Jesus goes to the house of one of the Pharisee leaders for a sabbath meal. Right away Jesus notices how the guests all chose the places of honor to sit. Yeah, that didn’t go so well for the seat-choosey guests. “For all who exalt themselves will be humbled and those who humble themselves will be exalted… When you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will blessed,” Jesus said.

Or the time when a Pharisee invited him to dine after he finished speaking. That meal kind of went south quickly with Jesus saying, “Woe to you Pharisees!” not once, not twice, but three times. A lawyer who is at the table says to Jesus, “Teacher, when you say these things, you insult us too. And Jesus said, ‘Well, woe to you lawyers too!’” Luke writes that when Jesus left that dinner, “the scribes and the Pharisees began to be very hostile toward him and to cross examine him about many things, lying in wait for him, to catch him in something he might say.”

Every time Jesus stays for dinner, according to Luke, every time except for Emmaus, every time Jesus stays for dinner, he stirs the pot. That includes the Last Supper, which from Judas’ perspective had its own share of moments. So you and I shouldn’t be surprised when a bit of discomfort stirs within as you read about Jesus staying for dinner at Martha’s house. Apparently, he is not the easiest of table guests.

Beyond Jesus’ dinner tour in Luke, if you stop and think about, when you invite Jesus over, when you invite Jesus in, when the gospel of Jesus Christ draws near in your life, there is bound to be times when he makes you uncomfortable. There ought to be times when his teaching makes you uneasy. There better be times when you hear the gospel teaching of Jesus and compare it to your life, times when awkward doesn’t even begin to describe it.

As Otis Moss III has said more than once in his preaching, “People want their pastors to preach Jesus, they just don’t want them to preach what Jesus preaches.” If some part of the gospel doesn’t convict you, cause discomfort, frustrate you, mystify you, humble you, you ought to have Jesus over more often.

Martha welcomes Jesus to her home and goes about the tasks of hospitality and preparation that would, of course, be expected by all, including Jesus. Mary chooses to rather boldly take a place at the feet of Jesus and to listen to every word. Mary takes an uncommon place. Mary takes her place. Martha is distracted. She’s too busy to listen. She worries about getting everything right.

Here’s where maybe Martha could have thought of a different approach. Here’s were Martha, if she could have it all back, she might have handled it differently. She asks Jesus to intervene, to tell Mary to help her in the kitchen, to tell her to get back to her “right place.” Martha asks Jesus to put Mary in her place. Jesus answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried about and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”

When Jesus stays for dinner, and says your name twice, what comes next is probably going to be hard to hear. You know Jesus had more to say. Luke just doesn’t tell us. Darn it, Luke. No takeaway. No one-verse definition of the one thing, the better part. No memorable parting shot like Jesus usually offers to the Pharisees at the end of dinner. This dinner just ends with the one thing. Jesus, Mary, and the better part. That’s it.

It’s good to know they all got together again; Martha, Mary, and Jesus. There were more dinner parties. The Gospel of John tells of Jesus coming back to their house after Lazarus died. Then John tells of another meal a few days later with Lazarus now out of the tomb. Martha served dinner for Jesus too. But no word of judgment. No questioning of Mary. Probably less banging of pots. So there were more conversations, times together, more dinners. I wonder if Mary ever cooked? So Martha could find that place. Her place. The one thing. The better part.

Trying to find the one thing. It’s not just about polishing one’s spiritual disciplines or stepping up when it comes to devotions, or trying to be more religious (heaven forbid). It’s less, much less about perfect attendance here and much more about how easily we are distracted out there. Distracted until you eventually care less, or you don’t care at all. You take Christ’s love for you for granted. Forget about God’s promise of you. And scoff at that kingdom vision of a more excellent way.

Is there a greater threat to faith and practice and community and witness than people who just don’t care? A greater threat than when God’s people move from distraction to nothingness? Those called by God who come to the point where they just couldn’t be bothered anymore? That’s the antithesis of the one thing, the opposite of the better part. The opposite of Mary’s one thing is not Martha’s distraction. It’s not getting lost in the tasks of hospitality. The opposite of the better part is becoming one with a world that is oblivious to the presence of God and the way of Jesus. A world whose powers and principalities work against the kingdom way, a kingdom life.

One thing. To walk along this discipleship way, this way with Jesus that takes us from the Galilee of teaching to the Jerusalem of cross and resurrection, to travel this journey with Christ Jesus, the journey that is our lives, and to find somewhere along that way to sit at his feet and listen, to find somewhere along the way when you can take your place. One thing.

To yearn to hear a Word, the Word, the Living Word that tells you again and again of God’s love for you, and God’s vision for the kingdom, and God’s promise to be with you, through it all. One thing. To attend to the transforming presence of God in every corner of your life, and to attend to it with urgency. One thing. To be caught in the swirl of the world’s chaos, knowing yourself to be a bit out of control to, a sense that the ground under your own feet is shaking, and yet finding a way to turn to, fall before, sit at the feet of the Rock of our Salvation. One thing.

A figure–ground relationship where God is at the center. One thing. To smash the idol of compartmentalization, as if your faith can be kept safely here, here in the pew to be picked up each week and then left behind for the next time. One thing. Tending to the presence of God in your life, at work, in your home, in your relationships, in your finances, in your politics, in your recreation, in how you give back.

One thing. To understand somewhere deep within that you can never sustain the pace of life, the mountain of responsibilities, the ever-mounting worries without returning to, finding that place again and again.

When you hear the story of Martha and Mary again, a story of Jesus staying for dinner, it’s uncomfortable, a bit awkward, and raises more questions than answers. That’s okay. It’s not surprising. It’s kind of expected when Jesus comes for dinner. But the take away, the prayer, it’s not that hard at all. “Jesus help me find my place at your feet. Oh, Lord Jesus, put me in my place. The place you have for me.”

© 2018 Nassau Presbyterian Church
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