Casting our Nets on the Right Side of the Boat

I was innocently reading aloud the Gospel story the other day, when I noticed something I had never noticed before.

I've been a pastor for a long time, and occasionally I suffer from the occupational hazard of thinking that I know the scripture passages from which I preach.  Sometimes I even think I know them by heart.

But there I was on Wednesday, reading John 21, that addendum to the Gospel of John, that beach story of fishing and breakfast and restoration.  I was reading it to a group at an assisted living center, and I noticed something.  The disciples had fished all night and caught nothing.  (haven't we all had experiences like this?)  And then -- Jesus appeared to them on the beach, but they didn't know it was Jesus.

And Jesus told them (we all know it's Jesus, but the disciples don't) to cast their nets on the right side of the boat, and they will catch something.

And of course, they do it.

And they catch so many fish they can barely handle them all.

So far, so good.

But on Wednesday, I noticed for the first time:  the disciples do what Jesus tells them to do, without knowing that it is Jesus.  They obey him, they take his advice, even though they think they are talking to a complete stranger.

Why do they do it?  Why do they cast their nets on the other side?

They are the fishermen, after all.  They know what they are doing (even though their expertise did not yield anything this time).  The person on the beach has wisdom (because he's Jesus) but they don't know that yet.

And yet... they do what he says.

I am reminded of the time I went to preach at the City and County Jail.  My text was from Matthew 4:  the call of the disciples.  I thought it was odd that the disciples dropped everything immediately and followed Jesus.  But the inmates were not so surprised.  It was Jesus calling their names, after all.  If Jesus calls you, you have to do it.  You can trust Jesus, even if you can't trust anyone else.  Of course they followed immediately.

But this time -- the disciples don't know who is telling them to lower their nets on the other side, the right side of the boat.  They do it anyway.

For some reason.

And I can't think of any reason why they do what Jesus suggests, except for this:  they have been fishing all night, and have caught nothing.  What do they have to lose?  They have come to the end of their own expertise and are willing to try something, something that might even seem foolish.

When I think of us modern-day disciples, I think that the problem is that we rarely feel that we are in this position.  Instead, we usually believe that we have a lot to lose -- too much to lose to risk casting our nets anywhere than where we have always put them down before.

I know that is often what keeps me stuck:  worrying so much that anything I do, any change I make, will mean loss to me, will mean loss to my congregation.  I don't realize that, in truth, my nets are really empty.

How do we get to the place where we have nothing to lose?  In truth, I do not know, but I know that somewhere, the resurrected Christ stands on the shore, inviting us to put our lives in his hands, inviting us to a strange and unexpected abundance.

Sermon for All saints: The Hope of the Saints

John 11:32-44

Rev. 21:1-6

            “What is heaven like?”  They said it in unison – just as the pastor walked in the door.  

            They were two daughters, and they were standing at their mother’s bedside.  99 years old.  And this was their question.  “What is heaven like?”  

            Well – what would the pastor say?  

            What could the pastor say?  

            To be truthful, there is not much description of heaven in the Bible.  There are a few images in the Revelation of the saints worshipping at the throne of the Lamb, and the one who will wipe away every tear from our lives. 

            There is the apostle Paul, struggling to describe our resurrected bodies, which will be bodies, but imperishable, immortal, changed – in the twinkling of an eye.  

            There is Paul’s conviction that if we hope for this life ONLY, we are most to be pitied.  There is more to life than this life.  

            But about heaven – we do not know much.  So what would the pastor say?  “What is heaven like?”  

            Well, she said, finally, I think heaven is like a great banquet  -- -like those holiday meals that we get together for – when everyone is happy to see each other – and no one is fighting – and there is a place for everyone at the table – and there is enough for everyone, too.  

            And then the sisters remembered the holiday meals in their own family, at Christmas or Thanksgiving or at Easter.   

            They remembered the feasts and the fancy tablecloths, and the care their mother took to welcome everyone home.  

            And they remembered with hope – hope for their mother and hope for themselves.  When someone you love is dying, you need to have something to hope for.  

            And that is part of what All Saints Day is about.  It is about the hope of the saints – our hope.  “What is heaven like?  What do you hope for?”

            In a book by Barbara Kingsolver, “Animal Dreams”, two sisters are separated when one of them decides to go to Nicaragua to live and work.  

            Her sister can’t understand her decision – thinks she’s crazy.  

            In one of her letters home, she tries to explain.  She writes: 

            “The very least you can do in your life is to figure out what you hope for.  And the most you can do is live inside that hope.  

            Not admire it from a distance but live right in it, under its roof.  What I want is so simple I almost can’t say it:  elementary kindness.  Enough to eat, enough to go around…. That’s about it.  

            Right now I’m living inside that hope, running down its hallway and touching the walls on both sides. I can’t tell you how good it feels.” 

             That’s it.  The very least you can do in your life is figure out what you hope for.  

            What do you hope for? 

            Eternal life -- The hope of the saints –– but what does that mean?  “What is heaven like?”  

            And what does it mean to live inside this hope every single day – while we live?

            When I think about the gospel for today – and the hope of Mary and Martha – I first think of Mary’s words, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”  

            Their hope is for their brother’s life – their hope is they not be separated.  

            Their hope is to sit down once more at the table with him, eating and talking and sharing – life. Life.  

            That’s the hope of the saints – is that life – goes on – and that we share it together with those we love.  

            It is the question from the old gospel song, “Will the circle be unbroken?” and the hope that the answer is a resounding “No!”   

            The hope of the saints -- is the hope that  life, not death will have the last word, hope that we will be together – again –to sit at the table and eat and talk and share.  

            The hope of the saints is the hope of the great reunion, where death and crying and pain will be no more and where we will be together – again.

            I can’t help thinking right now about Oscar Romero – who was martyred back in El Salvador in 1980 but who just became a saint.  

            He was murdered while he was saying Mass in a small chapel.  

            He had not been a radical priest by any means.  

            He was quiet and bookish, and he had a deeply traditional faith.    When someone told him that there were two churches – the church of the poor and the church of the rich, he answered, 

            “No, there is only one church, the church which Christ preached, the church which adores the living God.” 

            “Will the circle be unbroken?” 

            But he loved the people, the poor who were hungry, those who were longing to be free.  

            And so he spoke on behalf of them,  spoke up for the violence to stop, spoke on behalf of their hunger.  

            Because the hope of the saints is not just for that great reunion after we die.  

            The hope of the saints is also for a reconciliation of all the things that divide us.  

            It is the vision of the reunion of the living and the dead, the rich and the poor, the privileged and the outcast. 

            What is heaven like?  

             It is a great reunion, where death will be no more.  It is the unbroken circle with those we love. 

             It is the banquet table where there will be enough, where we will sit down and eat and share.   

             It is the unbroken circle with those God loves.  And it is wider than we imagine.  

            Once in awhile we catch a glimpse of it.  

            I remember once long ago – we went up to a concert where someone we loved was playing in a band.  

            We went up to hear him pay even though the event he was playing was somewhat unusual:  a tattoo convention. 

             I remember wandering around the smoke-filled room, hearing the bands, watching people get tattoos, and thinking, “these are not my people.”  

            And then as soon as I had that thought, I saw a display, “Bikers for Jesus.”  and I thought,  “hmmm. Maybe they Are my people.”  

            “What is heaven like?” 

            Close your eyes and imagine the banquet table, the great reunion, that the circle is unbroken.  

            Mary and Martha and their brother Lazarus, Oscar Romero the poor of El Salvador,  bikers for Jesus,  your father, your uncle, your son – people you love, people you don’t know, people you don't love, friends, strangers, all, beloved by God.

            A place for everyone. And there is enough.

            The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.

            “What is heaven like?”

            Amen 

             

            

Introduction to Matthew

For those who follow the Revised Common Lectionary, this is the year of Matthew's gospel.  It was the first Gospel I studied as a student preacher, when I was on pastoral internship.  For the first time I paid attention all year, every single week.  I noticed the words and the themes and the images that recurred in Matthew's gospel:  how often there were mountains, how much time Jesus spent teaching, the friction with the religious leaders.

Even so, I have to admit, Matthew is not my "favorite" gospel.  Is it even right to say we have favorites?  Mark is the short, and breathless gospel.  Jesus is a man of action.  He is always going somewhere, doing something, healing people, casting out demons.  When I think of Mark, I think of the word "immediately."  I also think of the words "Son of Man" and "Son of God."  I think of Mark's abrupt beginning, without a story of Jesus' birth, and his abrupt ending, with a resurrection announcement but no appearance.  Sometimes I think that Mark is my favorite gospel.

Luke is the gospel of the poor, and women, and children.  Luke includes people that other gospel writers leave out.  Luke remembers the prodigal son, the lost sheep, the poor man Lazarus, the widow of Nain.  Instead of a sermon on the Mount, Jesus preaches on the plain.  Luke tells us of Mary and Elizabeth, and Mary sings about a God who lifts up the poor and brings down the mighty.  Sometimes I think that Luke is my favorite gospel.

John is the philosophical gospel.  Jesus speaks in metaphors and performs signs.  There is a depth that we cannot get to the bottom of, a mystery that cannot be solved:  the incarnate Word.  Jesus is the resurrection and the life, the light of the world, the Lamb of God, the bread of life.  Sometimes I think that John is my favorite gospel.

But Matthew?  Matthew makes me think that God is strict.  Jesus is a teacher concerned with righteousness.  "Unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribe and the Pharisees, you will never enter the Kingdom of heaven",  he says.  "You have heard it said," Jesus says in the Sermon on the Mount.  "But I say to you..." he continues.  And every single time what Jesus says is even harder to do.  Matthew wants me to know that being a disciple is hard.  It is not all sweetness and light.  There is a cost to discipleship.

When Jesus teaches a parable about forgiveness in Matthew 18, he begins with a story about a king who forgives a servant an enormous debt.  It is a story of amazing, unbelievable grace.  But then the servant shakes down a fellow servant for a few bucks, and at the end of the story that forgiven servant is not only thrown in jail, but tortured as well -- until he pay the full amount.  O Matthew, do you really have to include the bit about torture?

I have mixed feelings about Matthew, sometimes.

But if it weren't for Matthew, there would be no wise men from the east, bearing exotic gifts.  Joseph would not have dreamed, and we would not know the promise of "Emmanuel," "God is with us."  If it weren't for Matthew,  we would never know the promise that he would be with us always, "to the end of the age."  If  it weren't for Matthew, we would never know that Peter tried to walk on water, once.

If it weren't for Matthew, we would not have these words, "where two or three are gathered in my name, I will be there."

If it weren't for Matthew, we would not know that most difficult of math problems, that we are required to forgive our brother, not just seven times, but seventy times seven.  If it weren't for Matthew, we would not know that the higher righteousness, the impossible righteousness to which we have been called, is forgiveness.  We are called to Mercy.

At the beginning and in the middle and at the end of Matthew, Jesus promises that he will be with us always.  Emmanuel.  Where two or three are gathered.  To the end of the age.  When we try to walk on water, and fail miserably.  When we can't count to seven and struggle to forgive.

I have mixed feelings about Matthew, sometimes.  He tells hard truths.  But he also tells me:  Emmanuel.  God is with us.  In the beginning and in the middle and in the end.

And it is enough.

Cut Off

It was unusual to have visitors in my little churches in South Dakota, unless they were visiting and related to someone else in the church.  This was not because the church was so unwelcoming; there were just about sixty-three souls in the town (give or take a few), and most of them were already members of my parish.

So that April morning in 1997 I couldn't help but notice the new couple, sitting on the aisle, near the back.

"We'll be back," they told me as they shook my hand at the end of worship.  "We're refugees from Grand Forks."

Refugees.  That's the word they used.  And I knew what they meant.  There was water everywhere that spring, and not just in that good, life-giving way we think about.  It had been a terrible winter, and now there were roads under water, and detours around the roads under water, and some places where you could not go.  But it was worse in Grand Forks and in East Grand Forks.

This couple had left their home and left their church.  They were staying with relatives in a small town nearby.  They were told to go.  They were not sure how long they would have to stay.  They were not sure when they would be told they could go back.  There were not sure what would be there when they returned.

They were refugees.  That's what they called themselves.  They were cut off from their home and their church.

They didn't know anyone at my congregation.  But, for about a month, they worshipped with us.  One evening they made an appointment and came by the church office, just to talk, and to pray.

I remembered then that the community of John's gospel included Jewish believers who had, at some point, been told that their confession of Jesus as Messiah made them unwelcome in their synagogues.  They were cut off from the community that had sustained them and given their lives meaning and were struggling to know who they were now apart from that identity.

Cut off.

"Abide in me," Jesus says to his disciples in John 15, "as a branch abides in the vine.  Apart from me you can do nothing."  It makes sense, but it also seems harsh, thinking about those dead branches, cut off.

I thought of all of the places we call "home" -- the farms of South Dakota where my farmers earned their livelihoods and made their lives, the city where my Swedish grandparents moved and learned a new language and raised their children, the congregation that has called me to be their pastor.  They are all places.  We can be cut off from every single one of them.

But when you are cut off, when you are a refugee, when you are told you are not welcome, when you are kicked out, Jesus says, "I am the vine.  Life is in me.  You can bear fruit anywhere."

That's what he says.

Not Exactly An Easter Sermon

We pull out all the stops on Easter.  So do you, I'll bet.  We have the flowers, and the music, and the crowds.  This year we had an incredible liturgical dancer who carried the paschal candle throughout the sanctuary.  The Easter sermon was clear and dramatic and inspiring.

We pull out all the stops on Easter Sunday.  Let me be clear.  I'm not against this.  Not at all.

But may I say?  I have often noticed that the Easter gospel itself is slightly less clear, a little more fuzzy,  more ambiguous.  Take Mark, for example.  The tomb is empty.  "He is not here.  He has risen."  But Jesus does not appear.  And the women run away, and don't say anything to anyone.  Or Luke's story.  Again, Jesus does not appear.  The angels tell the story, and the women believe it this time (that's a relief, anyway), but the disciples think the women are stark raving mad.

No trumpets.  No singing.  Just an empty tomb, a message, and some questions.

This Sunday, the crowds are somewhat diminished, and the questions continue.  But at least Jesus appears, walks through the locked doors and the haze and the ambiguity to say to the frightened disciples, "Peace be with you."

Seeing Jesus isn't exactly a relief, not exactly.  It raises as many questions as it answers.  It complicates things.  For one thing, Jesus expects them to go out.  "As the Father has sent me, so I send you," he says.  And they must be thinking, "wait... as the Father sent you....but what happened to you?"

So you have to wonder exactly what Jesus meant when he said, "peace be with you."  I'm pretty sure that he didn't mean, "have a nice day."  I'm not even sure that he was talking about World Peace, although I'm pretty sure that Jesus would be for World Peace.  No, this has to be a strange sort of peace,  a sort-of "peace with questions."  It's the peace of the empty tomb, the peace of nail-scarred hands, the peace of "Surely God was in this place, and I did not know it."

We don't resemble Jesus, not much anyway.  I don't know how it is that he expects us to go out in his name, bearing his peace, bearing his life, crucified and risen.  I think he's stark raving crazy sometimes.

So Sunday I'll go to church, like Thomas, and I'll be muttering a little under my breath, looking for Jesus to show up, with his wounded hands, breathing on me, and raising me to life, despite myself.  I'll be looking around for signs of mercy, and the love that is stronger than death.  I'll be listening for some strong singing and some soft prayers and some Alleluias.

I'll taste the wine and the bread, and look into the faces of people who know me too well.  And I'll try again to tell my hope.

Christ is risen.  Yes.

Six Monologues from John's Passion: #6

"A Secret Disciple"

I have a confession to make.  I am a follower of Jesus.  You think that's an odd confession?  It's dangerous to be a follower of Jesus.  Not very many people know that I am.  You see, I am a respectable person.  I have my reputation to protect, my standing in the community.  So I try to help, in small ways, and in secret ways.  I try to live by the things that Jesus taught.  "Love one another as I have loved you," he said.  "Servants are not greater than their master," he said.  "Go and bear fruit," he said.  "Unless  a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.  Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life."

That last statement haunts me.  I have tried to live by Jesus' teachings.  I want to honor him.  Not many disciples have the means to provide a tomb.  So I did.  I wanted to honor him and his life.  It seemed like the least I could do.  But as I thought about it, it seemed like the safe thing to do.  I'm glad I gave him a place to be buried.  He was too important, to... holy... to be buried in a pauper's grave, to be buried with all of the other criminals.  But as I sealed the tomb, I thought, just for a moment -- we're save now.  We're safe from those teachings of his -- so compelling, but so difficult.  Can you imagine?  Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life keep it?  If I am honest with myself, that's me.  I love my life.  That's why I'm a secret disciple.  And my my heart knows that what Jesus teaches is true, and life-giving.  But I am afraid.  I am afraid to lose my life, my reputation.  I'm afraid of what will happen if I tell people that I believe in Jesus.  Will they laugh at me?  Will they stop inviting me to their banquets?  Will I be an outcast?

When I sealed the tomb, for a moment I thought -- this is the end.  And I grieved the thought of never hearing his voice again, of never seeing him again, of never being healed again.  But then I thought, what did I think I was sealing up?  Didn't he say, "If  grain of wheat, it bears much fruit?"  This is not the end.  You can try to seal Jesus in the tomb, but he won't stay there.  You can try to make his teachings respectable, but he'll keep meeting you, and telling you to come out of the darkness, and come into the light.  You can try to be a secret disciple, but he'll keep messing you up.

That's how it was with me.  I sealed up the tomb, to provide a respectable burial.  And I vowed to honor his memory with my life.  But as it turns out, Jesus doesn't want me to "honor his memory."  He wants me to join him in a new life.

Six Monologues from John's Passion: #5

"One of the Women"

I don't know why we stayed.  It was hard to stay.  It would have been easier to leave, and not to witness the pain, and not to hear the laughter, and not to see the shame.  Almost everyone had left.  There were still a few soldiers, gambling for his clothes.  But there were no crowds any more.  There were no crowds cheering for him -- and there were not crowds jeering at him, either.  Not any more.   But we stayed, even though it was hard.  Sometimes you have to do the hard thing for someone you love.  And we loved him.

Speaking for myself,  I still didn't want to give up on him.  I didn't want to believe that everything was over.  He had given me dignity.  He had given me hope.  He had healed me.  He had given me freedom.  How could that end?  I didn't want to think that I had believed in the wrong things, trusted the wrong person.

But crucifixion means only one thing, and that is death.  There could be no other ending.  There was no hope.  He was our hope, and he was on the cross.  I suppose that's why everyone else went home.  They knew how it would end.  But we stayed, because we didn't want to believe it -- not yet.  And we wanted to be near him.

Yes, that's right.  We wanted to be near him until the end.  That's what you do for someone you love, and we loved him.  He had given us so much, and now we wanted to give him something.  We weren't even sure he knew if we were there, but he did.  Because even then, he was giving us something.

He gave us one another.  He said, "Here is your son."  and "here is your mother" just as if he knew that we needed each other as much as we needed him.  He made us a family.

We have been a family ever since that day.  Something was born on that cross.  I know that seems strange to say.  And I don't mean just Jesus' mother and his disciples were his family.  No -- we are all connected to one another, brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers.  Because of the cross.  Because of what he did.  We live differently now.  We care for one another.  We make sure each of us has food and clothing -- and hope.  We stay with each other, even in hard times.  I don't mean to say that we have suddenly become perfect.  We haven't.  But like I said -- he gave us to each other on the cross, just like he gave himself to us.

Sometimes you have to do the hard thing for someone you love.

*image is by Patt LaPorte

Six Monologues from John's Passion: #4

"The Governor"

I don't know what I was trying to accomplish, when I sent Jesus out to the crowd.  He was still wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe the soldiers had put on him.  They meant it to make fun of him.  May I thought when the people saw him, they would feel sorry for him, think that he had bee punished enough.  He had leaned his lesson.  But that's not what happened.  Instead, they were like people who had tasted blood, and who wanted more.  "Crucify him!  Crucify him!"  they shouted.  Everything I did just made it worse.  And honestly, for one of the first times in my life, I was afraid.

I am in charge here.  My job is to keep the peace -- the Roman peace.  And I am good at it.  I'm good at it because I don't let personal feelings introduce on my judgments.  I can't afford to feel sorry for any prisoner that comes to me.  I can't afford to second-guess my decisions.  I need to act decisively, without emotion, on the basis of what is right for the Roman Empire.  I also need to act justly -- at least based on how the Roman Empire determines justice.  So I didn't feel sorry for the prisoner that day.  I don't feel sorry for anyone.  That's not the reason I wanted to let Jesus go.  I did not find a case against him.  That's what I said.  There really wasn't a case against him.

"Here is the man," I said to them, without passion.  And everyone started shouting.  I stayed calm, though, and explained to them that there was no reason for the Roman Empire to kill him.  He told me, "My kingdom is not of this world."  So he was no threat to me.  Then why did he make me feel afraid? That's what I felt when I saw him -- fear.  But he didn't fear me.  He stood right in front of me -- and I have the power to light him go or to order him crucified -- he stood right in front of me and said I wouldn't have any power over him unless Someone Else hadn't given me permission.  He didn't recognize my power.  You can't keep the peace with people like him around -- people who recognize a higher power than the Emperor.

They were right.  He had to die.  He was dangerous.  But still -- I was afraid.  I tried to release him.  I wanted him to go away.  But that's not what they wanted.  And that's not what he wanted either.  He didn't want me to release him.  What he really wanted was for me to look at him -- really look at him -- and know that he was a king -- with a power greater than my own.

I tried to get him to go away.  But he will never go away.  I don't feel sorry for him.  I'm still afraid of him.

Six Monologues from John's Passion: #3

"A Bystander"

I'm one of the people who shouted, "We want Barabbas!"  And I'm glad I did.  Oh, it's true, the religious leaders go us all worked up.  That's one of the reasons we all shouted.  Then Barabbas got all the votes.  Jesus didn't get any.  But looking back, it was already beginning to be clear that he was a loser, even then.  And I wanted to be on the winning side.  Barabbas seems to be the kind of a man who gets things done.  We can count on Barabbas to go out there and fight for us.  They say that he was a bandit, but what was Jesus?  All talk.  When push came to shove, did he have a mighty army tucked away so that he could stand up to the Romand and so that we could take our country back?

Some people were saying that Jesus was the Messiah, but I didn't believe it for a minute.  Even when he was popular, I didn't really believe he was the Messiah.  Oh, he had me going there for a minute, but I got over it.  After all, the Messiah is going to be a military leader, and he is going to be our king.  Some king Jesus turned out to be.  But Barabbas -- I could see him as a king someday.  He's a man of action.  He's the kind of man you can follow.

Jesus was a troublemaker, that's what he was.  He set impossible standards for people to follow him!  "Sell everything you have, leave you family, and follow me."  That's what he said.  The funny thing is, I almost did it.  I almost walked away from my whole family, and my business.  To follow Jesus!  To eat and drink with sinners, never to know where I was staying night after night!  My family has a prosperous business!  I don't know what possessed me, but then I thought better about it and I stayed home.  I didn't follow Jesus.  And now.... now it's clear that I made the right decision.

I know what is important.  Financial security, that's one.  And strength, that's another one.  I stayed home and I'm taking care of the family business.  And I'm doing very well, thank you.  Sometimes I worry, just like everyone else, about whether there is more to life than money.  And sometimes I worry about keeping what I have.  That's where security comes in.  that's where someone like Barabbas comes in.  Mybe someone like him can help us get our country back, and have more security.  Then I don't have to worry so much about the corrupt tax collectors coming and skimming off the top of my wealth.

I'm glad I didn't follow Jesus.  I'm sure I made the right decision.

Didn't I?

Six Monologues from John's Passion: Monologue #2

The High Priest

Caiaphas was right.  He told us, right after that man Lazarus was raised from the dead.  "It is better for you to have one man die for the people than to have the whole nation destroyed."  We doubted his wisdom then, but now I am coming to see that he was right.  The more I talked to this man Jesus, the more I saw that he had to be dealt with.  He didn't submit to authority.  He stood right in front of me.  I asked him questions that ought to make him hang his head in shame.  I asked him serious questions right back in my face.  He acted as if he knew the whole thing was a set up.  We already knew the answers.  We had been there every day, hearing him teach.  We saw him do signs, and how the people hung on his every word and action.  The truth is, he saw right through us.  That's how I know that Caiaphas was right.  He had to die.  It was the only way to protect the people from him.

You don't realize what a difficult job we have.  The Romans have given us permission to practice our religion.  We exist by their good will.  That means that we have to keep our devotion in check at times. We can worship God, but not too fervently.  If we become too fervent, the Romans will worry, and we could be destroyed.  So we have to convince them that we are not a threat, our nation is not a threat.  Some people believe that we have compromised our faith, that we only read the parts of the Bible that are convenient for us, that we bend over too far for the sake of the Emperor.  But they don't understand.  The Roman Empire can be our friend, if only we understand our relationship.  It's for Israel's sake that we do what we do.

This Jesus didn't understand that.  He was one of those radicals who believed that we had sold out.  He said, "My kingdom is not of this world," but in the meantime, he was turning our world upside down.  He healed on the sabbath.  He multiplied loaves of bread and then said that HE was the bread of life.  He dared to suggest that we did not understand our own scriptures.  He told us that we were slaves and said that the truth could set us free!  How dare he!  We are children of Abraham and we have never been slaves to anyone!

Caiaphas was right.  Killing Jesus was the only way to protect the people from him.  They would have followed him anywhere.  It's a good thing they were open to other suggestions.  Ha!

Lately I have heard disturbing rumors, though... Rumors that he isn't dead any more.  I know it can't be true.  But if it is... how can we protect the people from him now?

Bread of Heaven

Back in the summer of 1997 one of the country churches that I served had their Centennial celebration. We had a big celebration in August.  There were so many people that they couldn't all fit in the beautiful little white church.  We had a great time that day.

But earlier that summer, we decided that we would have an "old-time" service.  We found some of the very old hymnals, and put together an old communion liturgy.  We chose old favorites for hymns.  Some of the people even wore old-time clothing that morning, trying to reproduce what worship would have been like about 100 years ago.

(Aside:  one woman said we should do it again sometime, and get a "real old-time preacher this time."  "What do you mean?" I asked.  "A man," she replied.)

The communion liturgy about 100 years ago was a little different than it is now.  The order was a little different, for one thing.  First there was the Preface and then the Sanctus.  Then there was an exhortation before communion.  We said the Lord's prayer before the Word of Institution.

The exhortation was something most curious for me.  I was curious about what the exhortation before communion would say.  I knew that it would exhort us to be worthy of the sacrament.  Here's what I read:

"Dear Friends in Christ!  In order that you may receive this holy Sacrament worthily it becomes you diligently to consider what you must now believe and do.  From the words of Christ:  "This is my Body, which is given for you"; "This is my Blood, which is shed for you for the remission of sins"; you should believe that Jesus Christ is Himself present with His Body and Blood, as the words declare.  From Christ's words, "For the remission of sins", you should, in the next place, believe that Jesus Christ bestows upon you His Body and Blood to confirm unto you the remission of all your sins.  And finally, you should do as Christ commands you when He says:  "Take, eat"; "Drink ye all of it"; and, "This do in remembrance of me".  If you believe these words of Christ, and do as He therein has commanded, then have you rightly examined yourselves and ay worthily eat Christ's Body and drink His Blood for the remission of sins.  You should, also, unite in giving thanks to Almighty God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, for so great a gift, and should love one another with a pure heart, and thus, with the whole Christian Church, have comfort and joy in Christ our Lord.  To this end may God the Father grant you His grace; through the same, our Lord Jesus Christ."

So there you have it:  how do we receive the commandment worthily?
1.  Believe that we receive Christ's Body and Blood with the Bread and the wine.
2.  Believe that this is given for you, for the forgiveness of sins.
3.  Eat it.  Drink it.
4.  And give thanks.

So on Sunday we're going to hear some similar words about eating the flesh of the Son of Man, and drinking the blood; they are scandalous words, hard to believe words.  And we are simply asked to trust them.  Trust the words "This is my body.  This is my blood."  "This is my life."  It's as hard to believe now as it was then.

And yet, somehow we put out our hands

"Lord, to whom shall we go?  You have the words of eternal life."