John 5:1-9
David A. Davis
May 1, 2016

“Grace alone, faith alone, scripture alone.” It’s a phrase, an affirmation, a sort of theological branding that runs deep in the Reformed Tradition of the Presbyterian Church. “Grace alone, faith alone, scripture alone.” As our denomination’s constitution puts it, and has put it for a very long, long time, “the Presbyterian Church (USA) upholds the affirmations of the Protestant Reformation. The focus of these affirmations is God’s grace in Jesus Christ as revealed in Scriptures. The Protestant watchwords — grace alone, faith alone, scripture alone — embody principles of understanding that continue to guide and motivate the people of God in the life of faith.” (F-2.04) “Grace alone, faith alone, scripture alone.” Not works, not the tradition, not even the church. “Grace alone, faith alone, scripture alone.” It ought to be right on the tip of the tongue. Sort of like “Walgreens: at the corner of happy and healthy,” or “Princeton University: in the nations service and the service to all nations” or “Nassau Church: on the edge of campus in the heart of town proclaiming the love of God.” “Grace alone, faith alone, scripture alone.” It sort of sums it up, right? It sums it pretty well… until it doesn’t. Because sometimes, it all stops at “grace alone.” Sometimes it’s nothing but grace.

In Jerusalem by the Sheep Gate there was a pool. The pool was surrounded by five porticoes. These porticoes around the pool, they were filled with the blind, the lame, and the paralyzed. One man there among that crowd of human need, he had been suffering for 38 years. 38 years. Jesus saw him lying there. Jesus knew he had been there a long time; he had been there near the pool for a long time, he had been in that condition a long time. A long time and Jesus knew. “Do you want to be made well?” Jesus asked the sick many lying on the ground. “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up; and while I am making my way, someone else steps in front of me.” Jesus said to him, “Stand up, take your mat and walk.” Just like that the man was made well. He took up that mat and he began to walk.

After 38 years — 38 years — the man was now walking along with his mat under his arm. It was a Sabbath day. So the religious leaders confronted the newly well man about doing work, about carrying his mat. “The man who made me well said to me, ‘Take up your mat and walk.’” They wanted to know who that man was but the walking man didn’t know. It seems Jesus just sort of disappeared into the crowd. Sometime later in the temple Jesus came upon the man again. “See, you have been made well! Do not sin anymore, so that nothing worse happens to you.” The man went away and announced to those who wanted to know that it was Jesus who made him well.

Thirty-eight years. And Jesus tells him to keep out of trouble so nothing worse happens. Scholars try to make that provocative statement from Jesus a bit more palatable by suggesting that sin in John’s Gospel comes down to unbelief. So the last line from Jesus is less about blaming his 38-year ailment on sin and more about exhorting him to believe and know in his heart where his newfound wellness came from, where wellness comes from, where wellness will come from. Maybe that part from Jesus is much more ordinary, much simpler: “Look, I just made you well after 38 years. You don’t want go and mess this up. Okay?!”

It is so easy for the reader, for the interpreter, for the preacher, for you and me, to come to conclusions about the man. Just a quick check on things written about John 5 and the negative assumptions about him pile up pretty quickly. He was lazy. He didn’t try hard enough. He didn’t want to be made well. He blamed others. He didn’t even care enough to learn Jesus’ name. He wasn’t grateful enough. He threw Jesus under the bus for his Sabbath carrying. He ratted Jesus out and set the persecution in motion. One preacher didn’t hold back: “He’s a real bum, that’s who he is! He had no gratitude, no faith, no humility, no guts.” Ouch! Calm down, preacher! It was 38 years. Thirty-eight years the man was not well. Those religious leaders judged him for picking up his mat on the Sabbath and the rest of us just keep judging him for not saying thank you. Thirty-eight years! Instead of saying, “Hey, look at you, you’re walking!” they said, “Hey, why are carrying your mat?” You’d think you could get a little more of a pass after 38 years. Instead, us able-bodied, healthy, pew-sitting, mostly grateful, comfortable Christians expect him to be more respectful.

It’s a theological example of “respectability politics.” The term refers to the notion that an underprivileged class, or a minority group, or disenfranchised people, or an oppressed population will make better progress if they express their concerns or protest or act out in a manner respectful to the standards of those who have the power and the privilege and the majority. In the current issue of The Christian Century a letter to the editor in response to several thoughtful pieces on the Black Lives Matter movement is a perfect example. In questioning the tactics and methods of their protests, the letter writer asks, “Was the whole point to annoy allies in the white community?” In other words, couldn’t they all be more respectful. “Respectability politics.” Respectability miracles. That man now walking — where’s the gratitude, where’s the faith!

When you psychologize the man and superimpose an attitude on him, in him, when the focus becomes how that man disappoints any expectations about how healing, miracles, and transformation are supposed to happen, it’s far too easy to miss the disturbing scene unfolding there under those porticoes. Maybe it’s a hot spring of medicinal value or it’s some kind of a spiritualized ritual that rewards the first one in the pool when the water stirs. Regardless, something about it is not working. Judging from the numbers and from at least one man’s wait time, it’s not working. You just can’t gloss over the lack of compassion and assistance that the the able-bodied might offer to those trying to get to the pool. Or there is that ageless practice of gathering the blind and the lame in a dehumanizing way. That portico practice was some kind of systemized round-up of the broken. If you set aside your disappointment with the man made well for just a second, that scene by the pool is as unsettling. The NRSV labels the people strewn around as “many invalids.” But the King James says it was a “great multitude.” A great multitude! Like the great multitudes of crowds who gathered for the Sermon on the Plain in Luke. Or the great multitude from Galilee that followed Jesus in Mark. Or that great multitude in the Revelation to John, a great multitude that no one could number from every nation. It was a mass of human suffering there by the pool. It was an institutionalized gathering of human suffering there by the pool.

There is no indictment here of that man who was sick for 38 years. The Lord’s indictment is of humanity’s chronic inability to care for the least of these. Jesus didn’t carry him down to the water and wait for the waters to stir. Jesus told him to stand up and walk. The healing bucks the system. The healing flies in the face of Sabbath law and healing pools and that guttural human yearning to avoid the sick and the aging and the disabled and the dying and the broken. Yes, one man was transformed that day but the gospel of Jesus Christ sheds light on the bigger human predicament as well.

Around here at Nassau Church, you can’t hear 38 years, you can’t think 38 years without thinking of David Bryant. In the spring of 2013, through the work of Centurion Ministries, David was released after spending 38 years in prison for a crime he didn’t commitment. After about a year here with us in Princeton, living in the Robeson House at Witherspoon Street Church and working at Princeton Seminary, a judge reversed the decision to release David and he now sits back in prison in upstate New York. A few church folks have made the Saturday drive up to visit David. Thirty-eight, now 39, 40, 41. The gospel of Jesus Christ ought to shed light on the bigger predicament of broken systems and broken institutions and humanity’s chronic inability to care for the least of these. The next time someone suggests that maybe my preaching is too political, I’m going to tell them about David Bryant and the man healed after 38 years. I’m going to tell them about Jesus, David Bryant, and the man who stood up to walk after 38 years.

In the healing story just at the end of Chapter 4, a royal official comes to Jesus and begs him to come and heal his son who was dying. John records that the royal official believed the word Jesus spoke to him and started home knowing his boy would be healed. Jesus had him at hello. “He himself believed, along with his whole household.” That healing story oozes faith. John 9 records the long narrative of the healing of the man born blind. When we was grilled by the religious leaders about who healed him, his answers were legendary. “The man called Jesus put mud on my eyes. Then I washed, and now I see… What do you say about him? It was your eyes he opened… He is a prophet… I do not whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see… Here is the astonishing thing! You do not know where the man comes from and yet he opened my eyes. We know that God does not listen to sinners but God does listen to one who worships God and obeys God’s will. Never since the world began has it been heard that anyone opened the eyes of a person born blind. If this man were not from God, he could do nothing!” Okay then! Testimony? Affirmation? Giving the shout out to Jesus. Check! One thing I know!

But here in John 5, under the porticoes, Jesus picked that guy. Jesus healed him. There amid that sea of humanity there must have been folks with more faith, more gratitude, more piety, more spiritual health. People who were more deserving. Someone who would have a better story to tell for the ages. But Jesus picked him. Jesus picked that guy. No faith. No gratitude. No shout out. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing but grace. And if you and I are honest about our sinful selves and our life in the world out there, the world in here, nothing irks you more… I better speak only for myself here… nothing irks me more than someone else getting something they don’t deserve.

Nothing irks me more, nothing saves me more than grace. Sometimes its nothing but grace. That amid this sea of humanity, this great multitude, Christ picks me. Jesus picks you.

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

Revelation 7:9-17
Lauren J. McFeaters
April 17, 2016

Let’s start at the beginning. The entire Bible is a library and its different types of literature appeal to us through different avenues.

Some books, like the Psalms, touch our emotions.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul,
and all that is within me, bless God’s holy name.”

There are also books of law and commands that speak to our will, requiring us to respond in obedience.

“Thou shalt!” “Thou shalt not!” “Thou shalt!”

There are books of letters, like Paul’s that send us to our intellect, our brainpower, and we patiently move through theological reasoning.

“Therefore, since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained access to this grace in which we stand; and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God.”

And then there’s the Book of Revelation or more correctly:

The Revelation of Jesus Christ
to John the Theologian,
imprisoned on the Isle of Patmos
off the coast of Turkey.

It is Revelation that takes us straight to our imagination. The Revelation to John is one colossal extravaganza of dreams and creatures and angels. It’s an enormous and spectacular poem full of shocking visions, countless beasts, and ruinous verdicts.(1) A book innumerable people have tried to de-code.

So let’s pause and start where we really should start — with a corrective: We need to forget about trying to decode Revelation. It can’t be done. Trying to translate that this particular beast means a future calamity, this seal signifies the doom of a particular part of the world, this prophecy indicates a cataclysm event.

All of this de-coding of beasts and disasters and seals is swirling around our heads not because of translation with integrity, but because of the Doomsday Industry: the Left Behind series, Doomsday gaming, Armageddon publishers, Judgment Day apps, and big-screen, end-of-the-world Hollywood productions.

It’s all modern day marketing, playing on fear, anxiety, and panic, and using the Revelation to John as a time table for the rapture — the very end of the world. The word “rapture” never appears in the Bible. It’s all to make a buck on the backs of people’s upset and distress. The Doomsday Industry, although it’s made billions, is nonsense. Garbage. All of it. Every bit of it can be left behind. Wiped away. Bye. Bye.

And why should it be left behind? Because Revelation, first and foremost, is a book of comfort and hope, not desolation and despair.(2)

Revelation is a letter written to seven churches experiencing unimaginable persecution and it depicts a consummation toward which the whole biblical message of redemption is focused. It’s a letter of compassion and empathy. And rather than catastrophe it encompasses what it is to be an Easter people serving a Risen Lord.

It’s written by a fellow Christian, John. He offers:

• Pastoral encouragement for Christians confronted with tyranny and cruelty
• A soulful guide in times of fear
• A daily devotional for the renewal of hearts
• An inspiration for discipleship
• Sustenance for our work with the Holy Spirit.(3)

And the One who is seated on the throne will shelter them.
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,
he will guide them to springs of the water of life,
and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.

On the western coast of Scotland is an island called the Isle of Iona. I know some of you have been there. It’s magnificent. It’s quite small and calm and surrounded by the sea.
Iona is known to the locals as a “thin place.” A “thin place” is named not because of slight size or high altitude, but because it is believed within these places the distance between heaven and earth is slender, and in its “thinness” you can perceive something of heaven itself.

Nora Tubbs Tisdale puts it like this: The ancient Celts, sensing the deep spirituality of this place built many of their worship places on them, some still marked today by circles of stone. Later Christians also built churches and monasteries and cemeteries there. And people who visit today sometimes say they lose all track of time and space, and they know, deep down, they are on holy ground. For in thin places, boundaries of time and space fade away.(4)

We need thin places. I’ve been to Iona and indeed it is a place where the confines of time and space melt away; where the veil between heaven and earth grows marvelously slight. I’ve experienced this in places like Kyoto, as a child, looking up to the sky from under the cherry trees; in Quebec City overlooking the vast St. Lawrence, inside New York City’s Signature Theater, and here at the font and table.

And I wonder: do you have thin places in your own life? Places where the confines of time and space melt away; where the veil between heaven and earth grows marvelously slight; where you have the sure sense you’re grounded in the holy?(5)

The Revelation to John is a thin place. The Revelation to John is where we step through the ethereal veil and glimpse something of God’s dream for us.

I looked and there was a great multitude
that no one could count, from every nation,
from all tribes and peoples and languages,
standing before the throne and before the Lamb,
robed in white, with palm branches in their hands.
“Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb!”

Prof. Tisdale says she recently heard someone say we’re were going to be very surprised by the people we meet in heaven, and if John’s vision is an accurate one, it will definitely be so. John says: We’re all going to be surprised about heaven and certainly about people we consider deplorable. People who have mightily wronged us. People we’ve had an eagle eye on; from homelands we consider to be enemies. And people we’ve had no eye on because of poverty, sickness, or class.

They will all be there: all genders, all colors, all abilities, all gifts, and all liabilities. No matter how inclusive we think we are; heaven, according to John’s vision, will be infinity times more so. Inclusivity will not be the only surprise awaiting us in heaven. We’re also going to be surprised by the scope of healing.

I know that most of us already think of heaven as a place of personal healing. And what a comfort it is to know that our loved ones, many of whom have suffered great illness in this life, will be completely whole in the life to come. But as John lifts up the veil and lets us glimpse into heaven, we witness a healing that is substantially more than our personal lives and the lives of our loved ones.(6)

We witness the rebuilding of the nations and the homelands and the nation-states. We witness the restoration of humanity scared by warfare and missiles; starvation and disease; rape and viciousness. We witness the healing of dreams deferred and childhoods postponed.

Heaven is the place where the injustices of this world will be made right and “neither Jew nor Greek, male nor female, slave nor free” will be held hostage. Neither rich nor poor, employed nor unemployed, neither citizen, nor immigrant, nor refuge will be held in captive. There will be a new homeland for the vulnerable, the meek, the righteous, the merciful, the peacemakers.

All are embraced. All are welcome. All are healed. All find home.

People of God, hear the Good News:

The One who is seated on the throne will shelter them.
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 is their shepherd,
and he is guiding us to the water of life.
And God; well, God is wiping away
every tear,
every sob,
every wail.

Let us pray: Lord God, you have given us a glimpse into the heart of love. We praise you. Your promise is full of healing and hope. Show us how to participate in this mystery, and transform us to be your faithful people. We thank you for a life in the Spirit. We thank you for this vision and for your infinite peace. Amen.

(1) Bruce M. Metzger. Breaking the Code: Understanding the Book of Revelation. Nashville, KY: Abingdon Press, 11-12, 106, 1993.
(2) Thanks to Susan W. Thompson for this reference from a class taught at Princeton Theological Seminary by Bruce M. Metzger.
(3) Metzger, 106.
(4) Nora Tubbs Tisdale. “Glimpsing Heaven in Thin Places,” Revelation 7:9-17. Day 1, Alliance for Christian Media. Atlanta, GA, www.day1.org/1117-glimpsing_heaven_in_thin_places, November 2, 2008.
(5) Tisdale.
(6) Tisdale.

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

John 20:19-31
David A. Davis
April 3, 2016

In a bit of a post-Easter fog, one night this week I watched a few episodes of the latest season of “House of Cards.” In the very beginning of the series I remember the interesting technique when one of the shows characters would text and the text would show up there on the screen just like on the phone. Another unique part of the production comes when the main character played by Kevin Spacey turns to the camera and speaks to the viewer while none of the other characters in the scene are able to hear. It is a creative effect that draws the viewer in with that direct address. In theater they call it “breaking the fourth wall.” It’s an historic reference to a box theater with that last imaginary wall, the fourth wall, being between the actors and the audience. To break the wall is to cross the boundary between stage and audience. Apparently the term applies to video games as well as the characters on the screen offer direct address those doing the playing.

Michael Morgan, one of our morning liturgists, was in the Broadway musical production “Amazing Grace.” A whole bunch of Nassau folks had the chance to see Michael in the show. Some in a big church trip. Others on their own. There came a moment at the very end of the play where the fourth wall sort of comes tumbling down. It didn’t come in that same kind of actor addressing the audience technique I just described. No the distinction between audience and actor became blurred as everyone sang the hymn “Amazing Grace” together at the end. The tune of the hymn only shows up in subtle ways throughout the score. So when the tune plays at the end, everyone is ready. The cast is arrayed on stage as you would imagine for a Broadway show finale. Finally, the hymn comes and I guess there was an invitation from the stage but there didn’t need to be. Everybody was singing. It was as if the audience was on stage, like the actors were out in the seats. It wasn’t just a way to end the show. It was a way to carry that chilling historical narrative forward. As the horrific account of the slave trade and one man’s conversion and transformation is brought forward in a moment of hopefulness as a routine gaggle of theatergoers find themselves united in an affirmation of hopefulness and the divine promise for a better world, a better humanity, a better future. Lost, found, blind, see. It was now everybody’s part to play, to live.

A week later the disciples of Jesus were again in the house. The doors were shut and locked again. This time Thomas was with them. Jesus came and stood among them, saying, “Peace be with you.” Jesus said to Thomas, “Give me your finger, give me your hand.” Thomas touched the scars on Jesus’ hands, the scar on his side. “My Lord and my God” is what Thomas said. Jesus said to Thomas, “Have you believed because you have seen me?” Then the Risen Christ, with the echo from the Mount of Beatitudes, says, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” Jesus wasn’t just saying that to Thomas.

Just in case you miss how Jesus breaks the fourth wall, the writer of John’s Gospel leaves no doubt of the intended audience of the Lord’s direct address. “Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of the Living God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” John’s remarkable turn to the reader. So easy to miss, so easy to skip; just some narrator comment. But when it comes to the four Gospels, it is a unique literary boundary crossing. Often in my preaching, you will hear me say, “And Jesus turned and said to the disciples, and to the church, and to you and to me.” I said that just last Sunday in my Easter sermon. Here John does it all by himself. John’s direct address. John finishing that one last beatitude from Jesus. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe, Jesus said… that through believing you may have life in his name, John concludes. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe for they shall have life in his name.

More than a literary device. It’s a promise. It’s a gospel promise. A gospel, resurrection promise to you. A blessing to you and to all who have not seen and yet have come to believe. Life in his name. John’s invitation to a routine gaggle of Easter people who find themselves drawn into his story, carrying the narrative forward in hope. Lost. Found. Blind. See. Everybody’s part to play, to live.

One of the phrases in the prayer at the Table, it goes like this, “Accept this our sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving as a living and holy offering of ourselves.” It is a liturgical turn to the hearer. A profound shift in the Reformed Tradition; not just his sacrifice, not Jesus being sacrificed again and again in communion, but our sacrifice. The giving of ourselves in praise. Here at the Table, of course. But even more with our lives, our life in his name. We proclaim the gospel story with the praise and adoration of our lives. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe for they shall have life in his name. The boundaries fall. The breaking of the theological fourth wall. Bearing the narrative of salvation history forward. A foretaste of God’s future. An affirmation of resurrection hope. His story is our story.

I had coffee with one of Nassau Church’s college students home for spring break. I always enjoy hearing stories of late-night conversations, classroom challenges, the things roommates argue about, how current events are thought about, how, when you are tossed in the deep water of the college environment, faith and theology and religion come up in the most unexpected ways as young people embrace that mosh pit of ideas. This post-Easter text for today about Jesus and Thomas easily sparks one of those late-night, ruminating, never-ending, no-right-answer conversations. One of those conversations about scripture and theology and faith and God and Jesus. It starts with a question from the skeptic with an attitude, who knows enough about the Bible to make everyone else stop and think. “So if God could raise Jesus from the dead, why didn’t God fix the scars?” If God raised Jesus from the dead, why would God not fully restore God’s Son. Why leave the marks?

It wasn’t because of Thomas and his insistence (unless I see the mark!). Jesus showed the marks to the disciples the first time. It’s not like it was necessary for proper identification, like some sort of CSI episode. Here in John, Mary knew it was Jesus right when she heard her name. Whatever on earth “resurrection of the body” means, when it comes to yearning for life forever in the kingdom of heaven, I for one would rather not be saddled with these same knees and this waistline. If God raised Jesus from the dead, God could have taken care of those marks. You born-and-raised Protestants out there all know how we were brought up to look down our noses at crucifixes. Jesus isn’t still on the cross. He has been raised. Christ is risen! So why the marks?

Those marks, those scars, tell of his suffering, his brokenness, his humanity. His hands, his feet, his side. Even the resurrection can’t cover up or remove the lasting signs of what the world did to him, of what happened to him, of all who abandoned him. His flesh bears the mark of human sin and of human suffering. His resurrection wasn’t a do-over. It wasn’t all an April Fool. Those scars, it’s God’s way of saying, “Don’t forget his humanity.” Or as Paul puts it in Philippians, “He emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” He forever bears the mark of our humanity.

The scars are there to help us remember his love when our lives on this side of his resurrection still include brokenness and suffering and death. The marks, they ought to inspire us to see his face in the faces of all who suffer around us. There before Thomas and the disciples, his body stands as a sign that there ought to be, there has to be, a more excellent way. The marks are there for all of us who are called to push the narrative forward in hope, working toward a world full of righteousness, justice, and peace. The marks, the scars, his hands, his feet, his side, they tell us that even the Risen Christ knows what it means to be us. His pain is our pain. His suffering is our suffering. His death is our death. Here at the table we proclaim his death, until he comes again. He forever bears the mark of our humanity. Yes, his story is our story. But our story is his story too.

“By your Spirit, O God, make us one with Christ that we may be one with all who share this feast, united in ministry in every place… As this bread is Christ’s body for us, send us out to be the body of Christ in the world.”

Talk about breaking the fourth wall. When it comes to the Jesus of the gospel and faith and the kingdom and resurrection hope and our future in God and life in his name, that’s the fourth wall forever shattered.

You are the body of Christ in the world.

Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe for they shall have life in his name.

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

I Corinthians 11:23-26
David A. Davis
March 24, 2016
Maundy Thursday

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
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