The Doors Were Shut

Dora the Upstairs Cat is often on the wrong side of the door.  Doesn't matter which door.  Doesn't matter which side.  It’s the wrong side.  And she complains mightily about it.  Sometimes by sitting and yelling at the people who just don’t seem to get it.  Sometimes by banging on the door, persistently, loudly, unflinchingly, she just keeps banging.  Could be that I’m in the shower and inadvertently left her inside the bathroom with me and she wants out.  Or that I am in the shower and inadvertently left her outside the bathroom and she wants in.  Could be that it’s the middle of the night and she wants somewhere where she isn't but there is a door in the way.  She can sit and bang on the door until it either opens on its own, or someone gets up and lets her out.  Or in.  Or maybe she changes her mind and says “since you’re up...”

One of the interesting features of the house we are leaving is that the bedroom closets have automatic lights.  You open the door and the light comes on.  Dora can bang long enough to open these doors and a shaft of light comes stabbing into the darkness of the bedroom and someone has to get up. Usually me because someone manages to sleep through lights being turned on in the middle of the night.  Someone.  

Anyway, my point is cats hate doors.  They always seem to be in their way.  They don’t seem to take the hint that a closed door means no access.  Stay out.  Be content with where you are.  A closed door means no admittance.  Unless you are a cat.  Or Jesus.  

Jesus seems to have an almost feline dislike of doors.  He won’t let them keep him in when he wants out.  Nor will they keep him out when he wants in.

John 20:19-31  When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you."  20 After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord.  21 Jesus said to them again, "Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you."  22 When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, "Receive the Holy Spirit.  23 If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained."  24 But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came.  25 So the other disciples told him, "We have seen the Lord." But he said to them, "Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe."  26 A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you."  27 Then he said to Thomas, "Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe."  28 Thomas answered him, "My Lord and my God!"  29 Jesus said to him, "Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe."  30 Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book.  31 But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name. 

You know what?  There is simply way too much stuff in these verses to adequately deal with it all in this space.  Way, way too much.  In church we are looking at Thomas, and we just might come back to him here in a moment, but for the most part, I’ll skip over the usual.  There is also the whole Pentecost theme that appears here in John’s Gospel.  “He breathed on them and said ‘Receive the Holy Spirit.’” Very different from Luke’s version that appears in Acts, with tongues of fire and mighty winds.  A quieter, gentler Pentecost perhaps.  But we’ll leave that one too.

Then there is that pesky “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”  Yeah like that hasn't caused centuries of abuse of power from the hierarchy of the church, or caused self-righteous Christians to think it is their job to be judgmental and to point out specks while conveniently overlooking logs.  But hey, he said we have the power to determine what sins are the bad ones and which ones don’t really matter all that much.  Right?  Well, no.  But we’ll have to return to this one at another time.  Sorry.

And then there are those curious verses at the end there that seem to open the door to all kinds of stuff.  Like maybe is it possible that Jesus kinda sorta wanted us to think for ourselves sometime? That we've got to take his life and teaching and apply it to stuff he never took the time to tell us about?  Or John and the others didn't take the time to write down what he said about hedge funds and immigration?  You think, maybe?  Well, someday we’ll come back and cover that.

But right now what occupies my thinking are those doors.  On Easter evening they were locked. Locked for fear, John says.  But locked up tight.  The disciples were locked in, behind doors, piles of furniture too perhaps.  Blinds drawn on the windows and nobody moved much in case someone below heard the footsteps on the floors.  They were huddled, hunkered down.  Behind the doors.  And who was there?  Well, Thomas wasn't, we learn that later.  So, what’s that leave now ten?  Maybe ten. But maybe more.  See, in the Gospel of John, the word disciples is a slippery term.  It’s not just the twelve, usually. John rarely just talks about the twelve.  He’s interested in a bigger crowd.  The twelve, now ten, plus the women who were there.  And maybe others.  At one point Jesus sent out seventy.  Maybe there were seventy, or sixty-eight, in that room, crowded in, avoiding eye contact. Which would be hard if there were seventy.  Maybe less, maybe ten, maybe a few more.  

And if the women were there, did they try again?  “Look,” Mary of Magdela says, “It was Him.  He’s alive!”  Yeah, sure Mary.  Maybe your demons have come back?  Just sayin.  And didn't you think it was the gardener?  You have no idea who it was, do you?  It was early, you were up all night, none of us slept.  You must have been dreaming. “No, it was Him.  He said my name.  When he said my name I knew it was Him.”  She crossed her arms and turned to Peter and John who were trying really hard to be interested in the pattern of the rushes thrown on the floor.  “You were there.  You came running in like your shorts were on fire and dashed into the tomb.  What did you see?”  The silence hung in the air behind the locked doors.  Nothing.  They saw nothing.  Not what they expected to see. Not what they hoped to see.  They saw nothing.  Now they sit, comforted by nothing, afraid of everything, hoping locked doors would save them.

They didn't.  Jesus came.  That’s what John says.  The doors were locked and Jesus came.  How did he come?  Dunno.  John doesn't say, he just came.  “Peace be with you.”  He had to say it twice because the first time they didn't hear it for fear of ... Him.  He sighed (must have) and showed his hands and his side.  Then, John says, then they rejoiced.  How long did he stand out there banging on the doors hoping someone would let him in?  Jesus who had earlier that morning burst through a stone door, now appeared through a locked door and said “Pace be with you.”  

Then Thomas shows up.  How much later?  We don’t know.  Later.  They tell him, those almost seventy or maybe ten disciples tell him, “we saw the Lord.”  Yeah, sure, says Thomas.  Ah, Thomas, why did you doubt?  Because the doors were still locked.  “We saw the Lord!  He showed us his wounds be which we were healed.  He offered us peace.  He gave us power, he sent us out to forgive!”  Yeah?  The doors are still locked.  A week later, the doors are still locked.  The truth is none of them believed.  They saw but they didn't believe.  Not enough to open a door anyway.  Not enough to venture out. 

But a week later the doors were shut, but Jesus came anyway.  With a sigh, undoubtedly, but He came.  He came to show them what they needed to see.  Just like he shows all of us what we need to see.  Remember?  That’s the Easter proclamation.  He is going before you, going back home, going to familiar territory, going where you belong, where you live and work, and there you will see him. That’s the promise.  That’s what they were offered, what we are offered.  We will see him.  

But wait.  What about that “blessed are those who haven’t seen and yet believe”?  What about that? Well, I think he threw that in because he heard the locks turning on our own doors.  And he wanted to pry them open.  Maybe coming through locked doors was strenuous, maybe it was painful.  Or maybe he wanted to spare us the false security of locked doors and just be open enough to see Him in our midst, showing us his wounds, the brokenness of this world, the suffering of Christ on the backs and sides and hands of our brothers and sisters.  But also to see the grace and the forgiveness that is poured out even on us just when we’re sure we won’t get it, just when we are afraid we can’t have it and we turn to push the doors closed against a world too cruel to live in, too empty of Him. Or so we think.  But he’s there.  

He doesn't like your locked doors.  Like a cat on the wrong side we try to shut Him out.  But he’s persistent, he keeps banging, he keeps coming through.  And in our darkness he appears, with a shaft of light that’s almost blinding.  And he says Peace be with you.

Shalom, 

Derek 

Who's Who in Easter

I was so excited the first time I received notification that I was going to be included in Who’s Who.  I mean, what an honor, right.  Who’s Who, for heavens sake.  It meant recognition and notoriety and ... well, good stuff.  I read the fine print and was getting ready to write the check for a copy of the book, and a check for the framed notice and a check for ... it was the third charge that tipped me off.  I’m slow, but not that slow.  It wasn't an honor, it was a scam.  A moneymaking enterprise that played off everyone’s inner desire to be someone, to be recognized.  You got listed in this book that no one would see unless they had shelled out the cash to get one of their own.  Your achievements were the ones you listed in the form provided.  It was a way of tooting your own horn and paying someone for the privilege of doing so. 

We all want to be remembered.  To accomplish some great feat, or create some great work of art, we want to perform a rescue, or invent a cure.  We want our lives to have meaning, and that is only when we accomplish something.  Only?  Well, intellectually we know better.  But our guts tell us that we are defined by what we do.  Who we are is what we do.  Right?

No.  Not right.  At least not according to Easter.  At least as Mark portrays it.  Take a look.

Mark 16:1-8  When the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him.  2 And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb.  3 They had been saying to one another, "Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?"  4 When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back.  5 As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed.  6 But he said to them, "Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him.  7 But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you."  8 So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid. 

Most scholars agree that this is the original ending of the Gospel of Mark.  Verses nine through twenty were added later, on at least two different times.  Probably because the church was uncomfortable with the original ending.  “And they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”  Kind of a damp squib of an ending.  A what?  Is that an idiom used over here.  I get confused.  A damp squib.  It means a dud, a firework that didn't go off.  A sputter instead of an explosion.  

You’d think resurrection calls for fireworks at the end, wouldn't you.  A big, wide-screen, special effects kind of moment.  Filmed in “Vista-Vision!”  In “Technicolor!”  In Hi Def, three D!  But no, we get “they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.”

And who are the they in this case?  Well, the women, who went to do something.  At least they tried to do something, to care for the dead body.  To anoint him, Mark says, forgetting that he was already anointed back in chapter fourteen, by an unnamed woman with an alabaster jar.  Maybe it was Mary.  Mary Magdalene, or Mary who was Martha’s sister or some other Mary, the mother of James, perhaps, Jesus mom maybe.  There were just too many Marys.  Mark couldn't keep them straight, no wonder we get confused.  And Salome?  Wasn't that Herod’s daughter who danced a dance that won her a prophet’s head?  Surely not.  Another Salome.  Thought to be the mother of James and John, Zebedee’s wife.  Mother of James?  Isn't that Mary?  Or is it a different James?  Arghh.  We need a cast list.  We don’t know who’s who in this story.  We know what they did.  Or didn't do.  Or tried to do.  Don’t we?

They intended to anoint the body, to prepare it for burial.  The practice was actually to aid in the decay process.  The spices were to help with the smell, but also to accelerate the decomposition.  Bodies would like in the tomb for a year and then the family would go and collect the bones and put them in a box, called an ossuary, that would be stored in a different section of the tomb.  So, when Joseph loaned his family’s tomb to the family of Jesus, it was only supposed to be temporary.  But little did he know.

They said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.  It was what they didn't do that Mark was interested in.  They didn't anoint the body because there wasn't a body to anoint.  So they were given a different task by the young man in the tomb.  A young man who seems eerily familiar.  A young man in a garden tomb reminds us of a young man in a garden of violence and betrayal.  And yet that young man ran off without clothes and this young man was dressed in white.  That young man was scared to death, this young man was filled the confidence of life eternal.  He’s not here, look see that empty spot?  He has been raised.  He wasn't interested in tombs, but in what came out of one.  Or rather who came out of one.  Who’s who?  We aren't introduced to this young man, because it isn't his story.  He’s a pointer, a reference to another.  He’s not here.

But go and tell his disciples.  A new mission was given.  They came with one task and they didn't do it.  They couldn't.  It was no longer necessary.  The things of death are no longer necessary.  The attitude of death, the victory of death was no longer.  So, a new mission was needed.  Go and tell his disciples, and Peter.  

And Peter?  They had to blink at that.  The last we saw Peter he was collapsed, sobbing in the courtyard of the high priest’s house.  The last we heard from Peter he was spouting curses and swearing oaths that he didn't have clue who this Jesus person was.  The last we knew of Peter he was condemned by a rooster crowing in the dawn of a terrible day.  The worst day of Peter’s life.  And he knew he had failed.  Failed to keep his word, that he had so vehemently declared mere hours before that damnable rooster.  “Even if I must die with you, I will not deny you!”  And die he did.  Inside, in his soul, in his sense of self.  Who’s who Peter?  Who’s you?  Nobody, that’s who.

But now, “go and tell his disciples, and Peter.”  What did Peter do to deserve this?  What did he do? Nothing.  What did the women do?  The said nothing to anyone for they were afraid.  Nothing.  What did any of them do to make this Easter moment happen?  Nothing.  What do any of us do to deserve Easter?  Nothing.  What do we do to receive Easter?  Nothing.  Who’s Who in the Easter story?  Not them.  Not us.  Only Him.

And Mark doesn't even have Jesus appear in this original ending.  Jesus doesn't pop up from behind a rolled away stone and shout surprise.  He doesn't encounter anyone wander in the garden.  It is just a presence.  No, a Presence.  He’s not here.  He will meet you though.  He will meet you where you live.  He’s already there, ahead of you.  Get moving.  Get going, or Easter will go on without you.  

That’s what we do on Easter.  We run to catch up.  We run to find the one who has gone before us.  The one who was raised for us.  What did we do to make Easter happen?  Nothing.  What did we do to deserve such a gift, such a moment?  Nothing.  What can we do to stop it or to make it better?  Nothing.  Easter is.  Easter was and is and always will be.  And we did nothing.  

That’s Mark’s way of telling the story.  It isn't our story.  It isn't our doing.  It is God.  God is the actor.  God is the doer.  We barely appear.  And those who represent us doing do so well in their doing either.  It isn't a human story, it’s a divine one.  It isn't our story.  And yet.  And yet.

Who’s who in Easter?  Why we are.  We are someone because of Easter.  We are who we are not by our doing but by the grace of God.  We are made new, not because we earned it, but because God gives it.  We have hope, not because we are strong enough to work it, or respond to it, or claim it.  We have hope because God gives it.  And because the resurrected Jesus leads us home.  You will see him, he told you that, remember?  You will see him.  And in seeing him you will know who’s who.

Shalom,

Derek 

I Love a Parade Redo

I used to preach Palm Sunday sermons.  It’s been so long since I did that I don’t really remember when I stopped.  I know that many of you have heard the story of why I stopped already, but I guess I wanted to tell it again.  

Early in my ministry I was determined to let Palm Sunday be Palm Sunday.  None of this “slash” stuff for me.  We needed to focus on the Triumphal entry.  The passion of Christ would come during the holy week services - Maundy Thursday and Good Friday.  That would get us in the proper frame of mind, the proper spirit to really experience - not to mention, really need Easter.  So, The Passion never appeared on Palm Sunday.  

Until I started paying attention to what people were actually doing.  Or not doing, in this case.  The crowd for Thursday and Friday was significantly smaller than the Sunday crowd.  Which meant that many folks were going from Palm Sunday to Easter, from a parade to a party without the passion in between.  Without walking alongside Jesus as he let his love for us fall like great drops of blood.  

So, I gave up preaching Palm Sunday for Lent.  And never picked it up again.  Many have commented on how moving the reading of the Passion story is for them.  And many others over the years have told me that Easter was different for them because of my surrendering of the Palm Sunday sermon in favor of telling the passion story.  I don’t regret it in the least.  But I sometimes feel like I give Palm Sunday short shrift.  So, I decided to dust off a Palm Sunday sermon from the way back machine and put it here for you.  It’s a little longer than my usual bible study, but on the other hand it is a full sermon.  What I preached once upon a time, and might preach again if you all would promise me you’ll be there on Thursday and Friday without fail. ... Didn’t think so.  I understand, really I do.  Life is busy, we can’t all the things we want to do let alone the things we think we should do.  Besides it is a powerful story that needs to be told.  

At the same time, I miss the parade.  So, here is a sermon from when you were a kid (not really) about Palm Sunday.  

Mark 11:1-11  When they were approaching Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives, he sent two of his disciples  2 and said to them, "Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately as you enter it, you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden; untie it and bring it.  3 If anyone says to you, 'Why are you doing this?' just say this, 'The Lord needs it and will send it back here immediately.'"  4 They went away and found a colt tied near a door, outside in the street. As they were untying it,  5 some of the bystanders said to them, "What are you doing, untying the colt?"  6 They told them what Jesus had said; and they allowed them to take it.  7 Then they brought the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it; and he sat on it.  8 Many people spread their cloaks on the road, and others spread leafy branches that they had cut in the fields.  9 Then those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting, "Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!  10 Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David! Hosanna in the highest heaven!"  11 Then he entered Jerusalem and went into the temple; and when he had looked around at everything, as it was already late, he went out to Bethany with the twelve. 

I have always wanted to be in a parade.  I don't know why really, it's just one of those things.  Of course, what I would do in a parade is anybody's guess.  I don't really meet the criteria for Rose Bowl or Homecoming Queen or any other royalty for that matter.  Although, I can do the requisite parade wave.  It is one of my few talents.  But I don't get much opportunity to exercise it.  Which is why I decided to talk about parades today.  Just so I could wave like this for a while.  

La Donna came in while I was working on this and told me she had been in lots of parades.  Oh, thank you very much, just rub it in.  The girl scouts, apparently, used to march in the Memorial Day parade in South Bend.  I forgot to ask if she got to wave.  She then proceeded to tell me that I couldn't be in the Easter Parade because I didn't have a bonnet.  But I told her that I wasn't talking about the Easter Parade because it wasn't Easter yet.  I was talking about the Palm Sunday parade.  "There's no such thing as a Palm Sunday Parade," she told me and then on her way out of the room she offered to make me a bonnet, if I wanted her to.  No thank you.

And there is too a Palm Sunday Parade.  Isn't there?  Of course there is.  In fact Palm Sunday itself is a parade.  And according to Mark that's about all there was to it.  This little parade down the streets of Jerusalem.  No floats, no marching bands, no Spider-Man balloons, no homecoming Queen, no royalty at all, just a guy on a borrowed donkey.  Not much of a parade, I guess.  

But that was the whole deal.  That's all there is to Palm Sunday, a ride into town.  Hardly worth getting so excited about, it would seem.  It does make a nice entry into holy week, I supposed.  It gets us ready for the real show that begins later.  Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Easter.  Those are the real parades.  Palm Sunday is just a road trip, just getting from there to here.  There's no such thing as a Palm Sunday Parade.

Jesus always wanted to be in a parade too, it seems.  Why else would he orchestrate this one?  Palm Sunday was planned.  Remember, he tells his disciples to go into town and bring a colt for him to ride into town, and he even tells them what to say if anyone tries to stop them.  So off they go, worrying about their reputations as they are about to break into donkey rustling, and wondering why Jesus decided he needs to ride all the sudden when walking has been good enough for him up to now.  But they do as they were told being experts at not quite understanding what was going on.  And sure enough there is the colt, just like he said.  They untie it and start to lead it back to him, when someone, maybe the owner of the animal says, "hey, what're you guys doing?"  And the disciples look at each other and back at the donkey like they were trying to remember how it go there, and then one of them remembers what they were supposed to say, "The Lord has need of it and will send it back here as soon as he's through."  With the emphasis on sending it back.  Borrowing always sounds better than stealing.  They wait to see whether the owner of the colt is going to call the cops or raise a fuss or shout for the neighbors.  But he doesn't.  He just says, OK, and let's them go.  Now, I don't know.  Maybe it was the way it was said, or maybe he decided that they looked too simple to be pulling a fast one, or maybe he was a secret follower of Jesus and would have done anything to help, or maybe Jesus had arranged the whole thing ahead of time.  But off they go, with this unridden donkey, casting a few backward glances to make sure the owner wasn't drawing a bead on them as they left.   

They got it back to Jesus, made a saddle out of their clothes and off they went.  One unridden donkey, now carrying a rider, a rabbi from the country, and twelve guys wondering what in the world was going on.  What a scene it must have been.  And yet as they drew nearer to the city, a crowd began to gather.  A big crowd or a small one, we don't really know.  But either way it was a loud one.  They saw him coming and they began to shout.  And not just shout, but to pull off their coats and jackets and began to toss them onto the road, to make a red carpet of many colors to welcome this parade.  And that wasn't enough they ran to the trees and pulled off branches and waved them around and laid them on the road, all the while shouting, shouting at the top of their lungs, shouting their hopes and their prayers and their joy in the recognition of the answer to that prayer riding on a donkey.  What a scene it must have been.

Because this was the moment, you see, where Jesus decided that it was time to make his claim.  That's what was going on here.  It wasn't that Jesus though riding would be a pleasant change from walking.  There was something more significant going on here.

I remember once talking to a young man about faith and church and after listening to me for a bit he finally said, "well, I don't do religion."  You know, like "I don't do fish" or "I don't do country music."  "I don't do religion."  Oh.  

Well, Palm Sunday was when Jesus decided to do Messiahship, or Messiahdom.  It wasn't enough for him to say "Hey, by the way, I am, you know, the one."  No it was time to make that claim in a way that everyone would understand.  It was time to risk his life by telling the world who he was.

By choosing a donkey to ride on Jesus was not humbling himself in the way that we would suppose.  The donkey was not the symbol of slow, stubbornness that it might be today, fit only for grizzled prospectors who have been out in the sun too long.  No, in this culture the donkey was a noble beast and a ride fit for kings.  But, you see, a king would ride a horse only when he was going off or returning from war.  The king on a horse was a sign that blood was to be shed and enemies to be vanquished.  On the other hand, when the king rode a donkey it was a symbol of peace.  So Jesus announced himself as the king of peace.  And the people; the poor, the hurt, the lost, the lonely, the hopeless, the sinner, they saw and heard and they got the message and for a moment at least they were moved to praise this king of peace.   Blessed is the one who comes, the one who comes was the awaited one, the Messiah.  Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.  But it wasn't just praise that they shouted that day.  It was a plea, it was a prayer, Hosanna, they said with as much hope as they could muster, Save us now.  Bring us peace, bring us wholeness bring us a way to live that we might join in this parade with you always.  That's what the shouting was about - that they might be able to get on board, to march in time, to ride with him in this parade for peace.

We love a parade.  I remember watching a parade a number of years ago.  It was while we were in Yell County, Arkansas, serving two little country churches for a year.  It was an interesting time, to say the least.  As La Donna says, Yell county, Arkansas was not the edge of the universe, but you could see it from there.  But one fall day, I found myself in the country seat town getting ready to watch the homecoming parade.  The whole town was there, either in the parade or watching.  There were decorated trucks and wagons, a whole pack of kids on bicycles with paper streamers, some horses and carts, the high school marching band was there, the football team and homecoming queen and her court.  And I stood there watching with the parents and neighbors who laughed and waved and pointed out their little darlings as they rode by.  It was a great day.  

Along toward the end of the parade, there was a small yellow school bus.  Before it got close enough for me to see what it was, I noticed that it was having an effect on the crowd.  It was as if it was traveling in a little cloud of silence.  For was it would pass by the smiles and the laughter would stop and the hands would drop.  As the school bus came past where I was standing I saw the words "Yell County Special Schools" printed on the side, and out of a back window was one of the school's young charges.  She was leaning somewhat precariously out over the road, and waving her arm as if she was trying to get a plane to land.  As she drew even with me, she stopped waving and to all of us standing along the road she shouted with some exasperation "Wave!"  

My hand was halfway up before I noticed that no one else was waving or even looking at her.  And in embarrassment I let my own hand drop.  The parade carried her away from me on down the street.  I watched her for as long as I could, she was still waving her palm, still looking for acknowledgment, still needing a savior.

It seems an easy thing to do, to wave our palms and join in the parade.  But it's not.  For one thing it will make us stand out, be different.  Most of the world, most of our community doesn't even realize that there is a parade going on.  For us to stand and acknowledge the parade is to take a stand against the status quo, to stick out like sore thumbs by shouting for salvation, by admitting we need a savior.  We will be different because our values will be different, because what is important to our society will not be important to us.  To join in this parade is let other parades pass us by.  

And what is worse is that this parade will take us places we may not really want to go.  Jesus made his claim to be the king of peace, but the problem was that he was riding into a war zone.  If he had to go to Jerusalem the smart thing would have been to sneak in the back door and keep very quiet.  But no, facing imprisonment, the lash and the cross, Jesus rode in as the king of peace.  And to share in this parade is to share in that suffering.  

But still, we love a parade.   Because this parade does have royalty,  and we know that this is the only one who can save us.  This is the only one to whom we can shout Hosanna.  This is the only one who can bring us through the darkness of Good Friday and death, that we might meet the Easter light of the risen Son.  

So come on and join in the parade, bonnets are optional.

Shalom,

Derek

Apart From Me

My son is home for Spring Break. I just went to get him yesterday.  So we are still in that readjustment phase, remembering we have a son, and he wants food and clothes washed and space.  It’s not a bad thing, but it is a thing.  Don’t you deny it, you empty nesters!

At the same time, I watch and listen and try to figure out just who this person is.  I mean, yes, there is enough of my son who shared my life for all these years and grew under my care to become someone of whom I was justifiably proud.  But then a few years ago I sent him off (ok, yes, his mother and I sent him off) to college, out of our lives probably forever, except for these parachute drops from time to time.  And the young man who drops in is not the boy I sent off not so many years ago.  Some how he continued to grow apart from me.  

No not grow apart, though that is happening too.  But he grew apart from me.  Without my help, without my presence and guidance, without my tending and shaping.  Apart from me he grew, is growing.  Like his sister who was home a week or so ago, I’m not sure about the connection anymore.  Not sure what my role is anymore.  Not sure how this abiding thing works in the end.

John 15:1-5   "I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower.  2 He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit.  3 You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you.  4 Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me.  5 I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing. 

Jesus is on his way out.  On his way to suffering and death and life and ascension.  Out.  Away.  Apart from them.  And he knew it and told them.  Over and over he told them.  I wonder did they not get it?  Did they just glaze over whenever he talked about that departure?  Did they live each day of their new and exciting lives thinking that it was always going to be like this?  Probably.  Do any of us imagine life without us in it?  Only on our sad days.  And if we try to talk to those we love about this departure, they won’t want to hear.  I can see a field full of disciples with fingers in their ears loudly singing “la la la la, I can’t hear you!!” when Jesus started his the Son of Man will be lifted up to die routine.  

But he knew it.  He knew it as sure as he knew he was breathing now.  And he faced it with the same confidence with which he faced drawing that first ragged breath in a barn in Bethlehem.  With the same sense of presence that he faced when he rose from the muddy waters of the Jordan with a beaming John the Baptism trembling beside him.  With the same sense of possibility and responsibility that brought a sigh out of him when he healed in the face of doubt, or the groan that came when he tossed out a demon that thought it was secure with claws deep in the human psyche.  He knew what was next, and he wanted to prepare them.  Abide in me, he told them, as an antidote to his absence.  Abide in me.

Wait.  What?  He was leaving so he wanted them to abide in him?  What?  Did he mean that the time is short, get your abiding in while abiding is possible?  Or worse, was it a “look what you missed!  You should have gotten closer!  You should have taken up residence, you should have gotten on board, you should have been on the team!”  But now the game is over.  The clock is ticking.  The last second shot will probably fall short, as they do more often than not.  And you will have missed it.  Too bad for you.  I’m on my way out.  You could have had more.  You could have been a contender.  But no.

No.  That can’t be it.  Jesus didn’t taunt in that way.  Jesus wept for missed opportunities, yes.  But he didn’t wag his finger at those who just didn’t get it.  No, this had to be a real opportunity, a real commandment.  Like the other commandment that is about to come in a few more verses, the love one another one.  That wasn’t a taunt.  Neither is this.  Abide in me.  Not you should have, you could have, but you didn’t abide in me.  No, there is still time, the clock hasn’t yet run out.  Abide.  Get in there and abide, there is still hope, we are still alive.

But how?  Jesus is annoyingly short on detail, even as he is rich in imagery.  Vines and branches, fruit and gardeners: there is a secret here.  Not a hidden code, but a obvious puzzle that if we could but glimpse it, then it would explode in our consciousness like a lightning bolt.  It doesn’t need a degree in ancient languages, but an ah  ha moment that unfolds the truth that was always there.  

Look again, abide in me as I abide in you.  As I abide in you.  He’s leaving, but he’s not leaving.  He is with us, even to the end of the age.  Which means we are with him come hell or high water, when the chips are down or our ship has come in.  We are with him and he is with us.  We are on the brink of Holy Week, that divine drama which is acted out as a historical remembrance year after year to our great appreciation.  Except that it isn’t an historical remembrance.  It is the rhythm of our faith.  Christ comes to us and we should for joy, and ask him to save us, because Christ comes to us.  To us.  And with tears streaming down our faces we embrace him and hope for a new start and new opportunity and new outlook on life.  And when the glow dies down and the new outlook looks a lot like the old look and takes just as much effort to hold onto, if not more.  Then our disillusionment grows and we look for someone to blame, a scapegoat who must be at fault for the rotten life we’ve been given, and we lash out and cast aside that which only recently seemed so full of possibility and hope, and now tastes like ashes instead of bread and wine.  And we turn our backs on the one we wept over, and we flee in fear and shame and doubt.  And in the darkness we feel so alone.  Again, so alone.  Like no one understands.  Like no one is on our side.  Like no one ... there’s just no one.  For us.  No one.

We are apart from him, and can do nothing.  Or nothing that we can do seems worth doing.  Or nothing that we have done seems to amount to anything anymore.  Apart from him.  Life is emptier.  The colors are muted, the air is heavy and gravity seems stronger.  Apart from him.  Nonsense?  Maybe.  Maybe it is my imagination, my overactive spiritual sensibilities.  A little bit more time in the real world might do me some good, give me some perspective on how things really work.  Sure, a little bit of Jesus is a good idea, but you can go too far.  Am I right?

I listen to my son talk to his mother and discover depths of awareness and sensibility that I had nothing to do with.  I find a young man who will make a mark in this world somehow, and would like to take credit for it, but I know it wasn’t me.  I know my failings and shortcomings all too well.  I know of opportunities missed and do overs I wish I could have.  And yet, there he is, grown somehow, in spite of me.  Matured in ways I wonder if I have even reached.  How did that happen?

John says I got the order wrong.  I got the responsibilities wrong.  I’m a branch, like my son is a branch and my daughter and wife and members of my church and my community and you.  You are a branch.  We can work together, we have the great and glorious responsibility of producing the fruit, of making things happen, of being the sustenance for the Kingdom of God.  And I can give shade when needed to the tender young branches in my vicinity, I can help collect the nutrients, I can do all that and more, but I’m not the vine.  The sustenance doesn’t come through me.  How did he grow and mature apart from me?  He wasn’t apart from the vine.  Even off on his own, in a new environment, he is still connected to the vine which will sustain him, grow him and help him mature.  

I can help - metaphor notwithstanding.  I can participate in his growth and continually call him back to the vine.  But there will come a time when he is apart from me more than he is connected to me.  But I pray he won’t be apart from the one who gives him strength.  I pray, will continue to pray that he is with the one who will be with him to the end of the age.  Abide in him as he abides in you.  

Shalom,

Derek

Seasoned Servants

I’m tired of sermons.  Oh, no, you’re thinking.  Another bible study whining about his job.  Get over it, dude.  Well, either that or “Now you know how WE feel!”  If that was your reaction to the first sentence, then don’t tell me about it.  OK?  

But, I repeat.  I’m tired of sermons. This was month two of my Course of Study class on preaching down in Indianapolis.  The Course of Study is for those who are in process of becoming Local Pastors.  And a Local Pastor is not the same as a pastor who is local.  Local Pastor is an official designation within the United Methodist Church, they are clergy but differentiated from Elders and Deacons.  In some ways, they are a bridge between the laity and the clergy.  They have a foot in each camp.

Their training is done over a long period of time, a course of study, where they take one class a semester that meets over three Saturdays.  This was the second of three sessions that I will have with the current group.  So, I left early this morning and drove, in the fog mind you, down to the University of Indianapolis to teach my course.  Last month I did the talking.  Gave them a crash course on everything you need to know about preaching.  And then today and next month they preach and we critique.  So, I got to hear nine sermons from 9am to 4pm Saturday.  I’m tired of sermons.

Actually, I heard ten sermons.  Because I was invited to preach at the opening devotions.  So, I heard me and then nine more.  I’m tired of sermons.  Doesn’t bode well for Sunday morning now does it?  Not to worry.  I’ll be fine by tomorrow.  I hope anyway.  Since I have to be.  Pretty much.  Kinda my job.  

Well, actually, I’ve got to deal with another sermon right now.  Right here.  The passage I chose for this week is a part of a sermon.  Perhaps the most famous sermon of them all.  The Sermon on the Mount.  

Matthew 5:13-16  "You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.  14 "You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid.  15 No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house.  16 In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven. 

Point two of the Sermon on the Mount.  Well, part two.  Jesus’ introduction is ear grabbing and powerful.  It stands on it’s own.  In fact you talk about the Sermon on the Mount and most people will know about the opening.  The Blesseds are.  The Beatitudes.  The Happys.  It’s a wonderful picture of how God chooses those that the world might overlook.  “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”  Blessed are the meek, those who mourn, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, the pure in heart, the merciful, the peacemakers, the persecuted.  Quite a team.  Good on you Jesus.  You know how to pick them.  

Now moving on, let’s look at the next group.  Salt and light Christians.  But wait a minute.  What if he isn’t moving on.  What if he’s talking about the same group.  The Beatitude group.  Except now he’s saying “you know that kingdom of heaven thing?  Yeah, well, that’s not just so that you come out ok.  You have the kingdom of heaven so you can share it.”  What if the inheriting the earth thing is not so that you can have it, but so that you can share it?  So that you can serve it?  

OK, maybe, that might work.  But the middle three, that sounds like something to keep.  Blessed are you who mourn for you shall be comforted.  That’s just helping someone get through, right?  Just a partner through the grief process, don’t you think?  And Blessed are the merciful for they shall receive mercy.  What goes around comes around, don’t you think?  You reap what you sow.  That’s what being said here.  You’ll get yours in the end, whatever it is.  Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for you will be filled.  Surely you can’t share your own filled-ness?  Can you?  Well, no.  But you can share from your sense of being filled.  Because you are filled you see to fill others.  Because you received mercy you offer more mercy.  Because you’ve been comforted, you can now comfort.  That’s inherent in the design of the body of Christ.  A part of what it means to be the community of faith.

You are the salt, you pure in heart, you merciful, you meek and poor in spirit.  You are the salt.  Meaning don’t keep it to yourself.  Don’t just make sure you are ok.  We are in the business of being salt of the earth.  The earth.  Catch that?  Pretty all encompassing that word.  

The idea is that you don’t parcel out little bits of salt, but that you’re like the little girl on the old Morton’s salt package, you just run around pouring it everywhere.  Rain or shine!  Just keep pouring salt.  

On a health kick?  Don’t like all this saltiness?  OK, then you are the light of the world.  The world!  Again, it is inherent in the design.  That’s what light is for, to be shared.  To help others see.  You are the light of the world, so don’t hide in a bucket.  Don’t be so self-effacing that no one knows that you care.  That no one knows that are present.  Or that no one knows who you work for, or why you do what you do.  Let them see your good works, let them see your meekness, your purity of heart, let them see your peacemaking and your hungering and thirsting for righteousness, so that through you they can come closer to God. 

Be a transparent light source.  No, it’s not about you.  But about the one who sent you, who sends you.  Let your light shine so that they see your good works and give glory to God.  But how do they know to give glory to God when they see what you do?  Wouldn't they be more inclined to give glory to you?  Isn’t that how this works?  Do something good and get recognition.  How do they know that your motivation, your inspiration, your passion is God?

Because you tell them.  Duh.  That’s where the sharing of faith comes in.  And you do it everywhere, to anyone, all the time.  Not to beat them down and make God another annoyance in their lives.  But to let them have an answer to the questions they ask.  Questions like “How are you able to do all this and keep a sense of equilibrium?”  Well, you say, I had help.  And then you speak somehow about what motivated you.  In church I heard ..., in my small group we were saying ..., this great book I was reading said ...  You tell them, that’s how they know.

And then you invite them.  To pray with you if that works.  To come to worship with you, if you think they might be open to that (and how will you know unless you ask?)  To join your fellowship group.  Don’t have one?  Start one.  Or ask and we’ll help put one together.  It’s time to get those things going again.

I mean there is salt going to waste because we aren't sure how to share it.  There is light behind closed doors that gets shuttered when we go out.  It’s time to make a difference in the world around us.  Season your surroundings.  Shine bright.  From your natural enthusiasm about your faith.  From your hope and your joy.  Let it shine.

To the world.  Yeah, it’s a big place.  Someone once said that all the light that ever shined is still shining as it spreads father and farther out into the universe.  Good works are like that.  They never really stop influencing, it just keeps rippling out.  No act of mercy or peacemaking ever is wasted, even if the results aren't what you hope.  But the very act of making the attempt has eternal transformative power.  Let it shine.  Let it pour.  Let it brighten.  Let it season.  

Give God glory.

Shalom,

Derek

Abiding in Love

The fall of 1980, I was newly married, fresh off a summer with my parents and new bride (which is a story for another time), and was newly enrolled in Perkins School of Theology for my Masters in Theology that would prepare me to launch into the ordained ministry of the United Methodist Church.  It seems like forever ago, another world, another me.  And yet there are some things That are as though they happened yesterday.  One of those was my first Ministers Week at Perkins, which might have been second semester now that I think about it. It was an impressive time with big names in theology and church history coming to shore up clergy from all over and to set seminary students heads spinning in amazement.  I don’t remember the big names who came, to be honest.  But there was one man who made a powerful impact who it seems I shall never forget.

He was not an impressive looking specimen, quite short, balding, glasses and spoke with an east Tennessee mountain twang.  His subject was preaching, and the subject was “How Loud Should the Sermon be?”  I was not sure what to expect, frankly.  But what happened was that I was held spellbound for three hour plus lectures over the course of two days.  What happened was I was caught up in the power of words and preaching as the hope of the church and the empowerment of the people of God.  What happened was that I found myself in those lectures, I finally understood this sense of call that I had and this deep love for the church and for worship that had been implanted in my very soul.  

The little man from the hills of east Tennessee what the Rev. Dr. Fred B. Craddock, the Bandy Professor of Preaching at Candler School of Theology at Emory University in Atlanta.  And he turned my life around.  Inside out and upside down.  And I was forever grateful.  I wanted more and read everything he wrote.  I even drove to Princeton University later in my ministry to attend a workshop he was leading there and foolishly raised my hand to be one who would preach during the workshop so that he and the rest of the group could dissect my preaching like it was a dead frog in formaldehyde.  I took that risk so that I could receive his blessing on my preaching ministry.  Like Jacob disguised to fool his father into giving the blessing, I dressed up like a preacher who had a clue what he was doing hoping I could fool Dr. Craddock into blessing me.  Whether I fooled him or not, I don’t know, but he did bless me, and sent me off on my path that took me to Edinburgh for a PhD in preaching, and to Geneva to lecture, and Malaysia and Kenya and Ethiopia and then back home to Indiana, to teach and to preach and to attempt to capture a tiny fraction of the passion and power that Fred Craddock poured out like honey from that pulpit on the campus of Southern Methodist University thirty-five years ago.

One of the secrets Craddock shared was that if you weren’t connected to the vine, then the fruit wouldn’t grow.  OK, he didn’t come up with that on his own.  He read it someplace.  Dr. Craddock was a New Testament scholar so he must have been aware of our text for this week about abiding.  

John 15:8-14  My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples.  9 As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love.  10 If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and abide in his love.  11 I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.  12 "This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.  13 No one has greater love than this, to lay down one's life for one's friends.  14 You are my friends if you do what I command you. 

This is, of course, part of the larger piece called the “farewell discourse.”  This is Jesus trying to give them everything they would need to go on without him as he had been with them.  These verse follow the description of the vine.  Jesus says “I am the vine and you are branches, abide in me” That’s they only way to bear fruit.  And if we really want to glorify God, which is what we say when we worship, then we do it by bearing fruit.  But doing something.  By branching out.  Sorry, couldn’t resist.

But Jesus tells us to stay connected.  To abide in him, abide in his love.  That makes a wonderful picture.  Just hanging out with Jesus.  Just being filled up, like a buffet table with all our favorite foods.  Just being restored like a long lazy morning when you don’t have to get out of bed until you want to.  Abide in my love.  Like being wrapped up in loving arms and letting those arms be the buffer between our wounded hearts and the less than gentle world.  Abide.  Sounds nice.  Let’s get some of that.  So, Jesus, how do we go about this abiding thing?

“If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love.”  Sounds a little more involved than just hanging out with Jesus.  Sounds like another one of those doing kind of things.  Keep my commandment ... and this is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.  We abide in love when we love.  We receive more of Christ’s sustaining love, strengthening power, transforming presence, when we sustain others with our love, when we strengthen those around us with our love, when we work for transformation in those who we encounter.  It’s kinda like saying when we set out to love like Christ loves, we can’t ever run out.  

When Fred Craddock retired from teaching preachers to be in the seminary, he couldn’t quit sharing what he learned.  He moved back to the mountains, north Georgia this time, and set up a teaching facility where those who couldn’t go to seminary could come and work on their preaching.  He then discovered that many of the children of those mountains were under served by the public education in the area, so he established the Craddock center that ministered to children - feeding and clothing and mentoring - from Georgia, Tennessee and North Carolina.  He also preached regularly at Cherry Log Christian Church even into his 80's.  It was like he didn’t know how to stop loving like Christ loved. 

That’s how it happens, this abiding thing.  It is when you venture out.  When you wrap the love of Christ around you and take a step into the unknown, to give of yourself, you are abiding.  I know, it doesn’t make sense.  Abiding sounds stationary.  Abiding sounds settled.  But Jesus redefines abiding.  

Or maybe he is just giving directions so we can find him to abide.  Remember the Easter declaration?  (I know, this is the third Sunday in Lent, we shouldn’t be giving away the ending, should we?)  “He is not here, he is risen!  And he is going before you...”  You want to abide in Jesus? You have to keep moving.  Because He keeps moving.  He goes where the hurt is, He goes where the hunger is, He goes where the love is least so he can pour out more.  And he invites us to go with him.

And here’s the bonus.  This is where joy is.  This abiding on the road thing.  This stepping out in love journey.  This is where the joy is.  “I have said these things to you,” Jesus says, “so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete.”  Complete joy.  Wow, what would that be like?  We get glimpses, we get moments, we get a taste of joy from time to time, if we’re lucky.  But Jesus is offering something else, something more.  Complete joy.  

Complete because it is shared.  That is the nature of joy. Mark Twain said that “grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of a joy you must have somebody to divide it with.”  Joy is a shared experience, rather than a solitary one.  Joy is of the community, even if the community is just you and Jesus.  You and one other, with whom you can share and know joy.  What a blessing.  

One other who takes up residence in your heart and helps make you who you are.  I have more than one, I suspect you do too.  But one of those, Dr. Fred Craddock, died yesterday at the age of 86 from complications of Parkinson’s disease and other issues.  I mourn his passing, even as I give God thanks for his witness and his service.  I give God thanks that he knew how to abide in Christ’s love.  And pray that to honor him and so many others, I will learn to abide as well.  Thanks be to God. 

Shalom,

Derek 

Nothing for the Journey

We are consumed by conversation about resources.  Do we have enough?  Will there be enough?  Do we know enough?  Resources come in lots of different forms.  The money one occupies our thinking an awful lot.  But there are other questions facing us.  Do we have the smarts?  Do we have the courage, the brains, the heart?  “We’re off to see the wizard.” ...  Ahem.  Excuse me.

We’re lost in the wilderness and the trees are throwing fruit at us.  The yellow brick road is too hard to discern through the weeds of our doubts and hesitations.  The companions on the journey don’t seem up to the task, or they’ve let us down, or they’ve hurt us and we just can’t forgive them.  Or maybe we’ve lost sight of the destination, the purpose of the journey.  Maybe we aren’t sure we believe in the Emerald City any more.  Maybe it is more about surviving day to day than it is arriving somewhere.  Maybe it is more about being safe and warm and cared for than it is about accomplishing something.  After all we’ve got our own issues to worry about.  We’ve got wounds that need healing, we’ve got stuff we’ve got to learn, we’ve got families to tend to.  We are way too busy to be taking on more stuff.  Maybe later, maybe when we get the time, when we have the inclination, maybe when ... maybe.

Week two of our discipleship series is titled “Disciples are people who have a mission.”  Our guiding text is the Great Commission from Matthew’s Gospel, 28:16-20 – Go into all the world...  We’ll come back to that in a bit.  But I chose another passage for us to look at this week.  Similar, but different.  Take a look:

Luke 9:1-6  Then Jesus called the twelve together and gave them power and authority over all demons and to cure diseases,  2 and he sent them out to proclaim the kingdom of God and to heal.  3 He said to them, "Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor bread, nor money-- not even an extra tunic.  4 Whatever house you enter, stay there, and leave from there.  5 Wherever they do not welcome you, as you are leaving that town shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them."  6 They departed and went through the villages, bringing the good news and curing diseases everywhere. 

The first thing to note is that it wasn’t just at the end where Jesus launched the followers out into mission and ministry.  This is chapter nine of Luke’s Gospel.  He just called them in chapter five.  There’s a lot they don’t know yet, a lot they haven’t experienced.  They hadn’t heard the Good Samaritan story yet, they hadn’t been taught how to pray, for heaven’s sake!  Yet, he sends them out.  

And get this, take nothing for your journey.  What?  Take nothing.  You know Peter grumbled about that one.  We would too, I suspect.  We aren’t prepared, we don’t have the resources, we don’t know enough.  You can’t be serious about sending us out there.  Are you?

Seemed to be.  He gave them power and authority.  Ah, well, that’s a different kettle of fish then isn’t it.  If only he would give us power and authority.  Then we just might take him up on his offer to go.  Cast out a few demons before lunch, heal some diseases in the afternoon, then call it a day.  

Take nothing for your journey.  Nothing.  Nothing to rely on but the power and authority that we just barely comprehend.  Nothing to fall back on but the name of the One who sends us.  Nothing to hide behind but the image of the one we are trying to bring to life in our lives.  Take nothing for your journey, because the journey is everything.  It is not a mission that we take up and do for a period of time and then set down again.  This is not a mission trip, a mission emphasis.  This is life as mission.  Mission as a way of living.  Take nothing for the journey because you are the journey.  You are the presence of the Christ who sends you.  Take nothing external, nothing to prove your knowledge or experience.  Take nothing in your hands so that your hands are free to hold and to welcome, to love and to soothe, to heal what has been broken with nothing but the witness of your life.

Brian McLaren says that we slightly mistranslate the instruction in the Great Commission.  That “Go” thing.  “Go into all the world!”  It sounds like marching orders.  It sounds like a crusade mentality.  Go!  Get on out there!  Ten hut!!   Get on out there.  Like we are crusaders, like we’ve got a fire on our tails, like we are going to make those disciples if it kills us or them, usually them.

McLaren says the tense is actually a little bit different.  He says a better translation would be “as you go” or “as you are going” instead of the hardline “Go!”  As if Jesus is saying “while you’re up,” “as you are going out and about in the world.  As you are living your life, as you are making your way in this world make disciples.  No, I don’t he means be casual about it.  Don’t take it seriously, or do it as an afterthought.  No, in fact it might just be the opposite.  Let it be the reason for being.  Let this making disciples thing be what drives you, what motivates you.

Maybe the question is more about the influence we leave, the ripples that our lives make.  Are we conscious of how our presence makes others around us different?  Are we building up lives or tearing them down?  Are we encouraging others or pushing them out of the way?  Are we sincere about what it is that motivates us, what drives us to go and do and be, or do we keep it hidden, ashamed or embarrassed to admit that we are guided not by our own inner power but a power that comes from above?  It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me, that’s what Paul wrote.  Would we do the same?

In the send here in Luke there is a very specific mission.  Jesus gives power to do two specific things.  He sent then out, Luke writes, to proclaim the kingdom of God and to heal.  Hmm, not sure about that, are we?  Proclaim the kingdom of God.  We’re supposed to talk about heaven all the time.  About what happens after we die, about the condition of our eternal souls.  Oh, great, we’re supposed to be that guy.  That goofy not really dealing with the real world guy.  “So heavenly minded as to be no earthly good.”  Jesus sends us out to be that guy.  Great.  Just great.

Or does he?  When Jesus talked about the Kingdom of God is didn’t sound like a place for dead people.  It didn’t sound like sitting on clouds strumming harps and polishing halos.  It sounded like relationships.  It sounded like people living together in community.  It sounded like caring and helping and supporting and loving.  It sounded like something that I’ve been looking for all my life, to be honest.  All my life.  Not my afterlife.  Oh, sure it is exciting that this kingdom thing, this way of living and being thing just goes on and on, beyond the physical limitations of this bodily existence.  That is a part of the appeal, I admit.  But the real excitement is that it isn’t just a someday kind of thing.  It is a this day, or the next day, or why not now kind of thing.  

As you go about in the world, are you living and inviting others to live differently than many do in this world?  As you are going about your living, your being made into a disciple, are you including as many others in the process as you possibly can?  Are you proclaiming the Kingdom, with words, but not just words, with hope and confidence, with joy and laughter?  Are you a bright spot in a dark time?

And healing.  Uh oh.  Be healed!!  We are to wield magic like powers, right?  Faith-healing.  Well, maybe there are some who can do that, miracles do happen from time to time.  But what is more likely is that we are to be a healing presence in the lives of others. We are to put back together what has fallen apart.  Maybe we heal hearts and souls by loving and accepting as Christ did.  Maybe we heal relationships by reconciling instead of holding grudges, by forgiving instead wanted to get even.  And we keep trying.  Again and again and again.  

Take nothing for the journey.  Nothing but Christ.  Nothing but faith and hope in the One who loves us and works in us to love others.  As you go, feeling underequipped and underresourced, trust in that presence.  Don’t make me get the flying monkeys!  We’re off ... to make disciples.

Shalom,

Derek