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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christ is risen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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