Philippians 4:1-9 [i]
Lauren J. McFeaters
October 15, 2017

In traveling to Canada this summer, I stayed in Old Quebec City at the Monastery of the Sisters of St Augustine.

Their story starts four hundred years ago when several sisters, 16 years of age, left the shores of France and traveled by ship to the shores of New France. They traveled with one goal: to serve Jesus Christ by bringing healing to the Inuit peoples and settlers of New France.

They created a church in a tent. They opened a clinic for the healing of bodies and a clinic for the healing of minds. They shaped holy friendships. They mended and bandaged and stitched and bound up the broken and infirm.

They built a small hospital in the middle of the settlement. You see the word hospital in French is Hotel Dieu, meaning House of God. And over the last 400 years they have created an entire hospital system: 12 hospitals stretching north throughout Quebec Province. Each with a free clinic, a sanctuary, and a Monastery.

Whatever.
Whatever the disease – they found a way to treat.
Whatever the condition – they found a way to mend.
Whatever the complication – they found a way to sooth.
Whatever.
Whatever is true. Whatever is honorable.
Whatever is just or pure or pleasing or commendable.
Whatever.

I think the Church of Philippi needs the ministrations of the Sisters of St. Augustine. You see two leaders of the church, Euodia and Syntyche, are in crisis.

Their friendship needs a therapeutic intervention.
Their disease needs a cure.
Their condition needs treatment.
Their complications need soothing.
A House of God needs intercession.

We don’t know the substance of the quarrel between these two women, but whatever it is, it’s not inconsequential.^[ii]  What we do know is there’s distress in the church. There’s anxiety. The times are ominous. Times are frightening. The Romans are bearing down and Christians are swept into prisons to rot, and Coliseums to be slaughtered.

Paul himself writes this letter under extreme conditions. He’s in jail awaiting trial. The outcome is his death. So, when he hears his Companions in Christ; his friends in the Book of Life, are hostile and antagonistic, he is more than eager for things to be set aright. Because you know and I know and Paul knows that left untreated – quarrels and resentment can lead to years of bitterness and estrangement. The Christian family does not have that kind of time to waste.

And though Paul does not explicitly describe it as such, these nine verses are essentially medicine for the church. He’s sending a remedy to the Hotel Dieu du Philippi and not just for the mending and bandaging and stitching up of individual friendships, but for the binding and suturing of friendships within a group of holy friends.

Throughout the entire letter, Paul emphasizes a cure for the mending of the church: it’s friendship and reciprocity; that the healing of deep friendships is not a one-way street: it’s a constant give-and-take from both sides, full of mutual caring, loving generosity, and most of all – wait for it – that long-lost and forgotten word “Forbearance.”

Forbearance.

If you asked for words that describe the healing of friendships, I highly doubt forbearance would make the Top-10. And yet Paul – and the Sisters of St. Augustine in their rule for community life – uphold this concept as the crucial medicine for healthy Christian Community.

Forbearance? What is it? Well it’s patience, gentleness, and mercy. It’s self-control and moderation. It’s acceptance and leniency. It happens when friends walk through the muck of life together and accept the good, bad, and ugly.[iii]  It’s taking on anxiety and fear as a part of life; a life being difficult to live.

Have you noticed when forbearance is not a part of Christian living life becomes palpably anxious and fearful on the outside and people turn against each other on the inside. Holy Friendships are scuttled. Without forbearance:

• The community of faith bends in on itself.
• Comments are muttered under the breath; not to take sides mind you, but out of “Christian” concern.
• Up go the walls. Down go the connections.
• Up go the defenses; Down goes the contact.
• “It doesn’t surprise me at all that she’s acting this way. It’s so…typical.”
• “Well if he’s going to decide to show up; I’ll just leave.”
• “No wonder they’re so lonely, all they do is gripe and complain.”
• Or, no comments are given at all. Instead of the right hand of friendship, what’s given is the cold shoulder of self-righteousness.
• Without Forbearance we become the Church of Whatever.

We become more of what our society becomes:

• where disparagement is a profession,
• and mockery a pastime,
• and ridicule is lifted as an aptitude.
• “Whatever.”

In our lives, where reality is known as Big Brother and Hell’s Kitchen – and Twitter is used as a weapon of mass destruction, and abuse and mistreatment becomes best-see, 5-star entertainment, Christ Jesus is our Forbearance and our Mercy.

Beverly Harrison puts it like this:

Our world is on the verge of self-destruction because we have so deeply neglected that which is most human and most valuable and most basic: the work of human caring and nurturance, of tending the personal bonds of community.

Because in the larger scheme of things it’s too insignificant, too mundane, too non-dramatic, too distracting from the serious business of world rule.

Yet the urgent work of love is gentle and powerful. Through acts of love — what Nelle Morton calls “hearing each other to speech” — we literally build up the personhood of one another; we build up dignity and self-respect. ^[iv]

Whatever.
Whatever the disease – we find a way to treat.
Whatever the condition – we find a way to mend.
Whatever the complication – we find a way to sooth.
Whatever.
Whatever is true. Whatever is honorable.
Whatever is just or pure or pleasing or commendable.
Whatever.

You know as followers of Jesus our Lord, we have the power, through him, to stand the world on its head. It starts at home and at school and work and on the streets. We stand the world on its head for Christ when we:

• When we make that step in humility toward someone we’ve hurt or betrayed;
• When we finally stop long enough to listen to what our elderly parent has been trying to tell us; what our spouse has been trying get through; what our nephew needs to let us know;
• When we refrain just long enough not to hit “send” on our snarky response or juicy gossip or
• When we go to the Assembly Room today to meet new friends from Malawi;
• When we fill up the food bin at the back door and the coat bin at the side door;
• When we pack our bags with hammers and nails and work boots and head out to mend and rebuild;
• When forbearance and its patience, gentleness, and mercy becomes our rule of life.
• Whatever.

Whatever is true, whatever is honorable.
Whatever is just, pure, pleasing, commendable.
This is our call to faith.

ENDNOTES

[i]  Philippians 4:1-9: Therefore, my brothers and sisters, whom I love and long for, my joy and crown, stand firm in the Lord in this way, my beloved. I urge Euodia and I urge Syntyche to be of the same mind in the Lord. Yes, and I ask you also, my loyal companion, help these women, for they have struggled beside me in the work of the gospel, together with Clement and the rest of my co-workers, whose names are in the book of life. Rejoice in the Lord always; again, I will say, Rejoice. Let your forbearance be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.

[ii] Fred B. Craddock. Philippians, Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching. Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1985, 69.

[iii]  Christi O. Brown. “Holy Friendships.” Duke Divinity School, faithandleadership.com, December 1, 2014.

[iv] Beverly Wilding Harrison. Making the Connections: Essays in Feminist Social Ethics. Boston:  Beacon Press, 1985, 12.

[1]  Philippians 4:1-9: Therefore, my brothers and sisters, whom I love and long for, my joy and crown, stand firm in the Lord in this way, my beloved. I urge Euodia and I urge Syntyche to be of the same mind in the Lord. Yes, and I ask you also, my loyal companion, help these women, for they have struggled beside me in the work of the gospel, together with Clement and the rest of my co-workers, whose names are in the book of life. Rejoice in the Lord always; again, I will say, Rejoice. Let your forbearance be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.

[1] Fred B. Craddock. Philippians, Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching. Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1985, 69.

[1]  Christi O. Brown. “Holy Friendships.” Duke Divinity School, faithandleadership.com, December 1, 2014.

[1] Beverly Wilding Harrison. Making the Connections: Essays in Feminist Social Ethics. Boston:  Beacon Press, 1985, 12.

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

Psalm 19
David A. Davis
October 8, 2017

Just a few weekends I was looking out at the Atlantic Ocean as night was falling. The wind was whipping and there was a bit of mist in the air. There on the dune facing the surf I could see a few lights on ships far out on the sea. All I could hear was the wind though the crowd gathered for the rehearsal dinner wasn’t that far away. The vast expanse of the water. The constant rhythm of the waves. The mist starting to feel more like rain. Sometimes there are no words.

When you hold a newborn child for the first time. When you sit and watch your child say “I do.” When you stand before a Van Gogh and take in those water lilies. When you listen to a Bach cello suite. When you hold the hand of a parent who is drawing their last breathes after a full life of “four score and ten.” Sometimes there are no words. When you’re toddler has one of those blasted ear infections and it’s four in the morning and all you can do is hold them tight. When the doctor said the wait would be about two hours and it’s going on four. When your teenager goes through a breakup and doesn’t want to hear about other relationships yet to come. When you climb or hike or drive to that high point and then just look. Sometimes there are no words.

When all that you have is destroyed in a storm. When people you love are in harm’s way and there’s nothing you can do about it. When scenes of devastation and destruction are relentless. When you wake up Monday morning and learn of yet another mass shooting and the horrific death of more than fifty people in a matter of seconds and you try to wrap your heart around the magnitude of grief for those families and wrap your head around the sinfulness of a civilization that is bound and determined to do absolutely nothing about gun violence, the idolatry of the Second Amendment, and the feckless leadership of those elected to serve the common good. There are no words.

When you take a few moments to stop and breathe, to stop and be still… to stop; before starting the car, just as the light goes out at night, in the back of the Uber midday, when the child has just fallen asleep in the car seat, before the kids blow in the door from school, when you look at yourself in the mirror at the start of the day. You stop, heave a sigh, some days like a groan, others like a gasp of joy, and there are no words.

“There is no speech, nor are there words,” writes the psalmist. And yet there is this everlasting proclamation, this wordless telling, this persistent affirmation of God’s steadfast, immovable, presence in life and in death.

The heavens, the firmament, the sun, the moon, the stars. Creation’s expanse reflecting the One whose glory forever shines, whose mercy abounds, whose grace pours out, whose strength abides. The vast mysteries of the universe reflecting the unspeakable holiness of God amid our lives of unanswered questions and raging doubts and indescribable suffering.

The holiness made real in an eternal love known in the life, death, and resurrection of the Son, made sure in the Spirit’s presence with every breath we take, made visible in lives transformed, lives sustained, lives forever touched by the beauty of salvation. When words fail, when words are not enough, when words are nowhere to found, you and I, like the psalmist, we cling to and yearn for the silent telling of the glory of God.

On that canvas, onto the awe and wonder of that canvas God speaks. Into that intricate beauty comes God’s voice. God’s breath. God’s Spirit. Where there is no speech and there are no words, God has spoken. God speaks. God utters God’s promise. “The wind from God swept over the face of the waters… I am the Lord God Almighty; walk before me and be blameless and I will make my covenant between me and you… I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of Egypt, out of the house of slavery; you shall have no other gods before me… Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord alone. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all you soul, and with all your might… The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness — on them light has shined… I am the Lord your God the Holy One of Israel, the One your Savior… the grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand forever.”

The word, the promise God speaks. “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God… The light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overcome it… Remember I am with you always, even to the end of the age… I am the resurrection and I am life… Come unto me, all you who labor, and I will give you rest… Therefore, my beloved, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain… They will hunger no more, and thirst no more; the sun will not strike them nor any scorching heat; for the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd and he will guide them to springs of living water, and God will wipe away every tear from eyes.”

The heavens declare, the firmament proclaims, and God’s voice, God’s promise, God makes it all the more beautiful. It revives the soul. It makes the wise so simple. It fills hearts with joy, enlightens eyes, endures forever. Righteous. Pure. Like gold, much, much fine gold.

I was with a group of my Presbyterian pastor colleagues in St. Paul, Minnesota, at the end of last month. One morning in our daily worship, one of our colleagues preached on that scene in Luke’s gospel when Jesus is teaching and reading from the scroll in the synagogue. You remember:

“He unrolled the scroll and found the place where it was written: ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.’ And Jesus rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the attendant, and sat down. The eyes of all were fixed on him. Then Jesus began to say to them, ‘Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.’”

The entire sermon that morning was one “today,” the word “today.” What does it mean that Jesus has fulfilled the scripture “today.” The preacher was offering encouragement and exhortation and reflection on what that prophetic promise from Jesus means “today’; to live into it, to live like it, to work for it, “today.”

So with the psalmist, Psalm 19. “The heavens are telling the glory of God” today. “There is no speech, nor are there words” today. “The law of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul” today. “Making wise the simple… enlightening the eyes… true and righteous altogether” today. “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable to you, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer” today. The heavens declare and God’s promise makes it all the more beautiful today.

I had to learn to drive in Scotland last summer because the three congregations I served on the island were miles apart. We picked up the car after a few days in Edinburgh. Online I made a reservation for a mid-size. It was more like a “Mr. Bean” car that I could barely get in and out of. It was quite an adventure driving in Scotland, an everyday adventure.

I came up with a saying about driving on the wrong side of the road (or the correct side of the road as folks told me over there). Every time I made a turn, every time, I would say out loud to myself “lefty tighty, righty widey.” I guess I was invoking a form of what my father taught me about a screwdriver, “lefty loosey, righty tighty.” Cathy can vouch for me that I said it every time and I said it out loud. Every day for six weeks. “Lefty tighty, righty widey.” I am pleased and bit relieved to tell you that it worked every time.

Some days, some moments, sometimes it feels like the whole world is driving on the wrong side of the road. Disorienting, dangerous, frightening, exhausting. Sometimes there are no words. At that moment, on that day, today, you ought to try a psalm or two. Just a snippet, a verse or less, like a breath, a breath prayer:

“The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want… How lovely is thy dwelling place, O Lord of hosts… I lift mine eyes to the hills, from whence does my help come. My help comes from the Lord.”

Say it every day. In those wordless moments, out loud in front of God and everybody:

“Bless the Lord, O my soul and all that is within me bless God’s holy name… God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble… The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?… Wait for the Lord, be strong, and let your heart take courage, wait for the Lord… Be still and know that I am God.”

Just try it. I am pleased and relieved to tell you that it works.“Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable to you, O Lord, my rock and my Redeemer.” Say it today. Every day. It’s a way to remember and to live remembering and knowing that the heavens declare and God’s promise makes it all the more beautiful today.

When there are words… why not use theirs.

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

John 17:20-23
David A. Davis
October 1, 2017

They call it “the priestly prayer.” This prayer Jesus offered, tradition calls it “the high priestly prayer.” Jesus’ longest prayer recorded in the gospels. Here in John the prayer comes after Jesus final words, his last teaching to the disciples. The prayer comes after “Let not your hearts be troubled” and “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places” and “Peace I leave with you” and “Abide in me as I abide you” and “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” The prayer comes after Jesus washed the disciples’ feet, after he celebrated the Last Supper. The night of his betrayal and Jesus prayed. The night before his death and Jesus prayed. It was the same night he begged the disciples to stay awake with him. It was the night of his anguish.

The night, according to Luke, that Jesus’s sweat became like great drops of blood falling to the ground while he prayed. It was the night he prayed that God would let the cup pass from him. Matthew tells that Jesus threw himself on the ground in prayer. “Yet not what I want but what you want.” It was that night. This prayer. “Jesus looked up to heaven and said, ‘Father, the hour has come…’”

In that hour, the hour, Jesus praying to God on behalf of others. That’s the priestly part. Jesus praying for the disciples whom he had called. The ones he loved. And Jesus praying for “those who will believe in me through their word.” Jesus praying for those followers yet to come. For all who will hear and believe. For future generations. For the great cloud of witnesses. The communion of saints. Jesus’ prayer for the church. On that night, amid betrayal, arrest, denial. With his arms about to stretch to embrace the world in his death on the cross, on that night, Jesus prayed for you and Jesus prayed for me.

Like the time when you were a child and you could hear a voice at bedtime coming from your grandmother’s room while she was staying at the house after a fall. You stopped to listen and realized she was praying, she was praying for you. Like the saint of the church now in a care facility whose body is failing but not the size of his heart. At the end of your visit, he takes your hand in his, hands big enough to almost wrap around twice and he tells you he prays for you every day. Like the person at work whose email flashes with a note, a request from the prayer chain at the church. Right there at the desk so as not to forget later, the head bows and the eyes close, the name is lifted up to heaven. Like the child who won’t let you leave the bedside until you say all the names with her, like the young adult in church you saw adding names to the prayer list on his phone, like the hospice patient, when asked what she would like to pray for, pretty much names everyone except herself. Jesus prayed for you and Jesus prayed for me.

“That they all may be one. As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they all be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me… I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one, so that the world may know that you have sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me….so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.” Jesus, God, and us. That we might all be one. That’s what Jesus prayed.

Since the earliest church fathers, theologians, philosophers, thinkers, and skeptics have tried to wrap their minds around Jesus, God, and their “oneness.” The pathway leads to discussions of the Trinity and the fully human, fully God part of Christ’s being and uses words like hypostasis and homoousios and perichoresis. All complex terms used to try to understand the relationship of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The earliest creeds of the church address the “oneness” of Jesus and God. The Nicene Creed, coming from the Council of Nicea in the year 325. You’ve heard the language. “We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, eternally begotten of the Father, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten not made, of one Being with the Father.”

But that night, that night, that hour, in that moment Jesus wasn’t offering a philosophical discourse or a theological dissertation or even a creedal statement. It was a prayer. He was praying for you and praying for me, praying that in and through us, the world would know of God’s love.

Today is World Communion Sunday. A day to live into those words of Jesus in Luke’s gospel: “People will come from east and west, and from north and south, and sit at table in the kingdom of God.” A day to imagine believers of every kind and in every place lifting the cup and breaking the bread. As we affirm in the Apostles’ Creed, “one holy catholic church.” Beyond Roman Catholic. Beyond Protestant– Catholic. Universal church. One. God. Jesus. The church. One. Of course, long before the Reformation, now 500 years ago, the church of the east and the church of the west were moving in different directions in practice, in theology, in belief. Ever since, such fragmentation defines the Christian Church in the world. “One” in not so much. Sort of like the man rescued from a deserted island all by himself after 30 years. The rescuers found two churches. The man “that’s the one I built. I built the second one after I left the first.” Some would suggest that the multi-faceted landscape that defines the church in the world must be disheartening to Jesus. I tend to believe Jesus understands us better than that. That he understands what it means to be human.

Besides, on that night, that night, that hour, in that moment, Jesus wasn’t offering an ecclesiastical organization chart. He wasn’t speaking of sacramental theology. He wasn’t looking to the far horizon of 2000 years later in church form and structure and belief. He was praying. He was praying for you and praying for me, praying that in and through us, the world would know of God’s love.

The current issue of The Christian Century includes an excerpt from a forthcoming book by a pastor entitled Love Big, Be Well: Letters to a Small-Town Church. A work of fiction, it is a collection of written correspondence between a Presbyterian pastor and a small church called the Granby Presbyterian Church. The exchange begins when the PNC, the pastoral nominating committee, decides to write a letter to potential candidates. That first letter reads in part like this: “We do have a few questions for you. Perhaps we’re foolish, but we’re going to assume you love Jesus and aren’t too much of a loon when it comes to your creed… I’ll be up front with you: we don’t trust a pastor who never laughs. We’ll put up with a lot—but that one’s a deal-killer.

“Here are our questions… Is our church going to be your opportunity to finally enact that one flaming vision you’ve had in your crosshairs ever since seminary, that one strategic model that will finally get this Church-thing straight? Or might we hope that our church could be a place where you’d settle in with us and love alongside us, cry with us and curse the darkness with us, and remind us how much God’s crazy about us?… Will you love us? And will teach us to love one another? Will you give us God—and all the mystery and possibility that entails? Will you preach with hope and wonder in your heart? Will you tell us again and again, about ‘the love that will not let us go,’ not ever? Will you believe with us—and for us—that the kingdom is truer than we know—and that there are no shortcuts? Will you tell us the truth—that the huckster promise of a quick fix or some glitzy church dream is 100% crap?….” In other words,” they wrote, “do you really want to be our pastor?” They wrote about Jesus, God, the church, the congregation, and the pastor being one.

One candidate wrote a very long response. The excerpt implies it was the beginning of their new pastoral relationship. In that long letter, part of what the pastor wrote was this: “I committed my life to walking alongside people whom I hoped to call friends. I committed to learning how to help people pray. I determined it would be my job to simply recount over and over again that one beautiful story of how Love refused to tally the costs but came for us, came to be with us, came to heal us. I took ordination vows and promised that though I might be asked to do many things as pastor, I would always do one thing: I would point to God. And I would say one simple word: ‘love’. But it didn’t take me long to figure out that lots of church don’t actually want a pastor. They want a leadership coach or a fundraising executive or a consultant to mastermind a strategic takeover… In this scheme there is little room for praying and gospel storytelling, for conversation requiring the slow space needed if we’re going to listen to love.”

Jesus, God, and us. That we might all be one. That’s what Jesus prayed. On that night, that night, that hour, in that moment Jesus prayed. It was a prayer. He was praying for you and praying for me, praying that in and through us, the world would know of God’s love.

Jesus on the unity of church. Jesus on his unity with God, the one whom he called Father. Jesus, God, the church, you, me, and love. It sounds like a pretty low bar. A low ecclesiastical, theological, intellectual, ministerial, missional bar. But don’t be fooled. There is absolutely no higher bar. Love. Just look around. It’s a very high bar. That in and through us the world would know of God’s love.

I am persuaded, not to sound too much like the Apostle Paul, I am convinced that every Sunday morning when we gather in this place there is someone, every Sunday there is someone, maybe just one person, someone in the sanctuary longing to be reminded, needing to be assured, hearing for the first time, hoping beyond hope to be told today that God’s love is for you. That God loves you. The second grader struggling each morning because you’re convinced this year’s teacher doesn’t like you very much. The retired one wondering if you will ever feel needed again. You who were raised in a home where everyone kept score, including God, even though you figured out a long time ago score-keeping isn’t helpful in relationships or in faith. The one with the broken heart wondering whether anyone will ever love you again. The student convinced no college will want you and why would God either. The brooding thinker among us who long ago cast off any trappings of faith or things eternal so God couldn’t possibly anything more than a long lost lover who won’t have you back.

Those among us who’ve been told by some of the loudest Christian voices that they’re going to hell because of who they are. Or those who have been drowning far too long in the tepid waters of phrases like “it must have been God’s will” and “hate the sin, love the sinner” all the while growing distant from a God you’re left to conclude is punishing and one to be feared. The spouse and parent here every Sunday for the sake of the family, who deep down just figures that when it comes to all this stuff, “yeah, I was never good enough.”

Every Sunday there’s someone here in this room who longs to be told of God’s love for them. That’s where it has to start. Helping the world to know of God’s love. It starts with knowing God loves you.

Jesus, God, and us. That we might all be one.

That night, that night, that hour, in that moment Jesus prayed. He was praying for you and praying for me, praying that in and through us, the world would know of God’s love. Praying that you would know God loves you just as much as God loved Jesus.

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

Romans 14:1-12
David A. Davis
September 17, 2017

“I am the resurrection and I am life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, yet shall they live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die” (John 11:25-26). That’s Jesus talking to Martha after her brother Lazarus had died. Jesus, responding to death and grief with words of resurrection hope. “Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence? If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there. If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast” (Psalm 139:7-10). The words of the psalmist. The psalmist singing, praying, affirming the fullness of God’s presence in life and in death. Psalm 139. An existential piece of poetry that plunges the very the depth of our being, our life in God.

“I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last. I was dead and behold I am alive forever and ever; and I hold the keys of hell and death” (Revelation). The cosmic, victorious Christ of the Apocalypse to John, the Book of Revelation. A triumphant proclamation of God’s ultimate resurrection power. “What is your only comfort in life and in death? That I belong—body and soul, in life and death—to my faithful Savoir, Jesus Christ” (Heidelberg Catechism, Question 1, 16th-century). A bold, right out of the gate, here’s where we start, everything else flows from this affirmation of the resurrection promise that defines our life in Christ.

“For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 8:38-39). The Apostle Paul in that memorable eighth chapter of Romans. A soaring conclusion to those paragraphs of the epistle, paragraphs that include: “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus” and “If the Spirit of the One who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, the Lord who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also through the Spirit that dwells in you” and “For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen?” and “What then are we to say about these things? If God is for us, who is against us.” “I am convinced that neither death, nor life… shall separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Paul on the hope, and the promise, and the victory of resurrection life.

And from our text today, the 14th chapter of Romans. “We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves. If we live, we live to Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s. For to this end Christ died and lived again, so that he might be the Lord of both the dead and the living.” Once again, Paul on the eternal promise of life in Christ. Not chapter eight but slipped in here in chapter 14. Like Jesus daring to speak of life in the face of death. Like the psalmist waxing eloquently on the purpose of life and God’s constant presence. Like the Christ of Revelation trumpeting the victory of all victories. Like the theologians of the Reformation pounding the defining stake into the ground. Romans 14:8. “If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord, so then whether we live, or whether we die, we are the Lord’s.”

In our tradition’s “Book of Common Worship,” the liturgy of the Service in Witness to the Resurrection, the liturgy for a memorial service, for a funeral, it begins with opening sentences of scripture. The notes to the liturgy suggest that the pastor read some or all the verses listed. There are about 20 verses and they read like a “hall of fame” of scripture texts, the greatest hits. Some of those top 20 I’ve already mentioned. You will remember or you can guess some others. “Our help is in the name of the Lord, who made heaven and earth… God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear… We believe that Jesus died and rose again; so it will be for those who have died in Christ. God will raise them to be with the Lord forever. Comfort one another with these words.” And right there in the list is “If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord, so then whether we live, or whether we die, we are the Lord’s.”

At many, many weddings, I have read I Corinthians 13, “Love is patient, love is kind..” and many, many times, my first line of the homily has been to say to the congregation and to the couple, “Now you know this has nothing to do with marriage, right?” The point being that Paul is writing about love and community and love in the Body of Christ and love as the greatest of spiritual gifts which means, of course, that it has everything to do with marriage. But I have not, at least so far, I have not stood before a congregation at a memorial service and stopped after reading, “If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord, so then whether we live, or whether we die, we are the Lord’s.” I’ve never stopped right then said, “Now you know this has nothing to with mourning, grief, and death, right?

Because when you drop the quote from Romans back into context of the 14th chapter, it doesn’t come with profound reflection on humanity’s knowledge of God and therefore the knowledge of ourselves, not some divine pronouncement to the saints of every time and place gathered around the Lamb of God. Paul is writing about the issue of food choices, dietary laws, sabbath keeping, judgment, and self-righteousness. It’s a plea to avoid quarreling over opinions and an exhortation to honor and give thanks to God in the mundane practice of life. It is Paul weighing in, not on death, but on life. Paul writing to the ordinary, the everyday rituals and routines of life. What you eat, when you abstain, whether you observe a day to be holy and when you don’t. How in the rhythms of the day, the waking up and the going to sleep, the goings and comings, how amid life itself, folks in the gathered community of faith are so easily prone to judging one another.

This is not the soaring theological treatise of Romans 8. This isn’t Jesus confronting the heartbreak of death. This isn’t an apocalyptic vision of Christ upon the throne. It’s Paul writing about life, ordinary, everyday life and food and relationships and community. And right smack in the middle of it, he plays the resurrection card. “We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves. If we live, we live to Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s. For to this end Christ died and lived again, so that he might be the Lord of both the dead and the living.”

It’s not about dying, its about living! It’s about a life together infused in absolutely every way with resurrection hope, resurrection promise, resurrection power. It’s not just about shouting, “Christ is risen.” shouting it on Easter morning. It’s about living it long about Wednesday, and praying in the dark of night, and whispering it with your life into the world’s chaos. Christ is risen! It’s not just about standing in the cemetery and hearing, “Behold I tell you a mystery, we shall not all die, but we will all be changed.” It’s about living in the light of that mystery every day, basking in the promise of eternal life, and passing forward the living, giving, life-sustaining power of God’s love to those around you moment by moment.

It’s not just about singing, “Abide with me… Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes, shine through the gloom and point me to the skies… in life, in death, O Lord, abide with me,” it’s about singing a resurrection song with the forgiveness you sow in your life, and proclaiming the resurrection gospel with how your treat others in your office, and giving a resurrection witness with the unconditional love you can now give back to your father whose health and mind is fading fast. It’s the assurance of God’s resurrection presence you cling to when the loneliness of the first week on campus rises up. It’s that resurrection strength you didn’t know you had that carries you the day after the diagnosis. It’s that grabbing hold of God’s resurrection future as the tears fall down your cheeks as your turn from the font with your baptized infant in arms, as your daughter climbs the steps of the school bus for first grade, as your son almost forgets the hug outside the freshman dorm.

It is the resurrection confidence that calms you at day’s end and lifts you at day’s beginning. It is the resurrection hope that echoes in your ear and beats in your heart when news of missiles and bombs and threats of war rise up again. It is that resurrection rising that you see when cities rebuild, and communities rally and hearts are changed and lives are transformed. It is that incomparable resurrection comfort that can carry you all of your days, every day, that I belong body and soul in death… and in life, to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ. If we live, we live to Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s. Christ is risen!

“So then, each of us will be accountable to God,” Paul writes. Accountable for our judgment and our self-righteousness. Sure. Thank goodness grace abounds. But accountable also for the proclamation and witness to God’s resurrection hope, God’s resurrection promise, and God’s resurrection power in our lives. One theologian notably argued a long time ago that in and through the preached word, Christ rises from dead. Sunday after Sunday when the gospel is proclaimed. I have to tell you that preachers like me, we’re not that good. But you, the witness to the resurrection? It starts with you and in the smallest of ways you could ever imagine.

Christ risen. He is risen indeed!

So go, and live like it.

© 2017 Nassau Presbyterian Church
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