Monday, April 29, 2024

Faithfulness Comes First

 

April 28, 2024 – The 5th Sunday of Easter, Year B

© 2024 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon is available here. Video can be seen here.

In his letter to the Philippian church, written in the first part of the second century, Polycarp, the Bishop of Smyrna, wrote, “I also rejoice because the firm root of your faith, famous from the earliest times, still abides and bears fruit for our Lord Jesus Christ” (1.2). Those words must have been a source of deep encouragement for the Philippians because if anyone knew what it meant to bear fruit for Jesus it was Polycarp. 

A disciple of John the Apostle, Polycarp was made Bishop of Smyrna by the apostle before John’s death. Although not a very learned man, Polycarp used his first-hand experience and knowledge of the apostles to help the early church remember what Jesus had taught. He was counted on to identify with authority what teachings should be followed and which ones should be thrown away. But that doesn’t mean that everyone always listened to him.

A year or two before his death, Polycarp made a trip to Rome to consult with Pope Anicetus over a controversy that had begun to spread throughout the church. Quartodecimanism, from the Latin for “fourteenth,” was the practice of observing Jesus’ death on the day of Passover—the fourteenth day of the Jewish month of Nisan—regardless of what day of the week on which it fell. Polycarp, like John the Apostle, was a Quartodeciman, but the Western practice of commemorating the crucifixion on Good Friday, after the tradition of Peter and Paul, had become widespread. 

Records of their conference suggest that neither Polycarp nor Anicetus was willing to budge, but Polycarp, the Fourteener, through his deep faithfulness, succeeded in showing the pope that this was not a matter worth breaking fellowship over. As a sign of deep respect for his philosophical opponent, Anicetus invited Polycarp to celebrate the Eucharist in his own church. It was moments like that which made Polycarp’s name ring true. Historians are not sure when Polycarp was given his name—a name that literally means “much fruit”—but it is clear that he came by it honestly, reminding even those who disagreed with him that to remain rooted in Christ is the means by which Jesus’ disciples bear much fruit. [1]

“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.” I wonder how many times Polycarp heard John say those words, which he, in turn, had heard Jesus say. The concept of abiding in God by abiding in Jesus is central to the John’s understanding of the Chrisitan faith. This is the third week in a row in which our lessons from John’s gospel account and his first letter have reminded us of the importance of abiding in him. And next week we will hear it again.

As the Way of Jesus spread across the globe and different leaders brought different traditions to different communities, which then took those traditions and made them their own, it was hard to know which way of being a Christian was the right way. One of the ways that the apostles and their successors used to measure the validity of a particular tradition was the fruit being born by its followers. Is a community of Christians bearing fruit for God, or has it lost its way—lost its connection with Jesus? And we would do well to use that same measurement for Christian communities today.

“I am the true vine,” Jesus said, “and my Father is the vinegrower. He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit.” As Christians, Jesus calls on us to bear fruit for God—the kind of fruit that makes a difference in the world, the kind of fruit that makes the reign of God clearer and more fully manifest in the community around us. And what does that mean? It means making sure that everyone has enough to eat. It means ensuring access to quality healthcare and education regardless of economic or immigration status. It means adopting housing policies that allow everyone to have a decent place to call their home. And it means helping other people know about God’s love in Jesus Christ—the kind of love that has the power to transform lives and communities. 

But what if we’re not doing enough? What if we aren’t bearing enough fruit? The needs around us always seem greater than the fruit we bear. No matter how many meals we serve, there are still hungry people in Fayetteville. No matter how many Quorum Court meetings we attend, the housing crisis isn’t going away. Jesus says we’re supposed to bear more fruit—that God will remove the branches that aren’t fruitful and prune back the ones that are so that they bear even more fruit. Only then is the Father glorified, Jesus said, when we bear much fruit and so become his disciples.

But that’s exhausting. I’m exhausted just thinking about it, and I had a three-month sabbatical less than a year ago. We live in a world that is never satisfied—in which what you’ve got is never enough—and that culture is as strong in the Christian community as anywhere else. If you’re staying put, you’re falling behind, and the good Lord knows that we can’t afford to fall behind. As churches like ours vie for more members, more volunteers, and more money, we’ve got to add more programs, more outreach projects, and more trendy opportunities for community life if we want to stay relevant. 

The insatiable hunger for more is overwhelming, and it’s sickening all of us. Unless we’re the best church in Fayetteville, we’re not good enough. Unless I’m the best priest, the best teacher, the best preacher, and the best pastor, I feel like I’m failing at my job. And I’m sure you feel it, too. If you’re not the best mom, the best dad, the best coach, the best teacher, the best grandparent, the best Christian, then why do you even bother? How do you hold your head up when you pick your child up from school, knowing that you haven’t done absolutely everything you can and then some?

But none of that has anything to do with bearing fruit for God. And you know how we know that? Because that sort of obsession with being better than others doesn’t fill us with life; it leaves us empty. Being a disciple of Jesus may cost you everything you’ve got, but it will always fill you with abundant life—even to overflowing. That’s the difference between bearing fruit for God and bearing fruit for ourselves. It’s like the difference between eating a green apple and eating green-apple flavored candy. Just because something looks good and tastes sweet doesn’t mean it’s good for you. Just because the fruit you bear looks godly and seems righteous doesn’t mean you’re bearing fruit for God.

Notice that in this gospel passage Jesus doesn’t tell his disciples to bear fruit—not even once. Instead, he tells them to abide in him. And he promises them that those who abide in him will bear much fruit. So, if we want to be the best church, the best parent, the best person that God has made us to be, our focus should be on abiding in Jesus Christ and on trusting that, when we abide fully in him, God will use us to bear the kind of fruit we want to see in our lives. 

That can feel like a risky strategy. In a world that expects results and in relationships that are measured in outcomes, a relentless focus on the process, the foundation, the root of our relationship with God instead of focusing on today’s action items can feel out of touch or, worse, negligent. But Jesus himself says it—the only way we can bear fruit worth bearing is if we abide in Christ. 

So what does abiding in him look like as a congregation or as individuals? It looks like daily prayer every morning and every evening. It looks like reading and studying and meditating on God’s holy word. It looks like worship as individuals and as families throughout the week and as a congregation every Sunday. It looks like fasting in times of turmoil and celebrating in times of joy. It looks like sitting and listening for God’s voice and learning to quieten our minds long enough to hear it. It looks like spending time together in each other’s homes and invoking Jesus’ name whenever we’re together. It looks like giving thanks for the bounty God has given us and sharing it with those in need. It looks like all of those things that keep us rooted in Jesus Christ because, when that is our focus, the fruit will come.

Polycarp knew that, although bearing fruit is the measure of discipleship, staying rooted in faith is the disciple’s first call. I want to be a part of a church that would rather seek to be faithful than fruitful because only when we are deeply rooted in the faith of Jesus Christ will we bear much fruit. 

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1. Early Christian Fathers. Richardson, Cyril C., translator & editor. Macmillan; New York: 1970, p. 123.


Monday, April 22, 2024

Love Beyond Words

 

April 21, 2024 – The 4th Sunday of Easter, Year B

© 2024 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon is available here. Video can be seen here.

Have you heard about the five love languages—the five different ways that people typically give and receive love? There’s words of affirmation, quality time, gifts, acts of service, and physical touch. Barry Chapman, a Baptist minister and counselor, introduced the concept in his 1992 book, The Five Love Languages: How to Express Heartfelt Commitment to Your Mate. As the theory goes, all of us can demonstrate our love through any of the five languages, but each of us has a preferred way—the expression we return to, the one that comes most naturally for us. What’s your love language—words of affirmation, quality time, gifts, acts of service, or physical touch?

When Elizabeth and I were going through premarital counseling and the priest who was preparing us for marriage introduced the concept to us, it was revelatory for me. It won’t surprise any of you that words of affirmation is my love language. Words are, after all, my stock and trade. But what really blew my socks off was the idea that the way I tend to show love might not be the way that the person I love prefers to receive it. (I know, right?) I might be pouring my heart out in a near-constant stream of kind and affectionate words only to have them fall upon a deaf heart. It turns out that for Elizabeth, a profound introvert, my words were not always a channel for love but more often a barrier to it. Her love language is quality time, which means that, if I can ever learn to keep my mouth shut long enough for both of us to enjoy being together, our marriage has a fighting chance.

In our second reading, John wants us to know that words of affirmation won’t cut it. “Little children,” he writes, “let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.” Maybe he was more of an “acts of service” sort of apostle. John writes to the early church to remind them that being a Christian means more than saying they believe in Jesus. It also means acting like it. “How does God’s love abide in anyone who has the world’s goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help?” That’s not a metaphor or a hypothetical question. John means every word. How can God’s love abide in us if we have the earthly means to help someone in need and won’t do it?

This is what love looks like, John writes—that Jesus laid down his life for us. That’s what love is. That’s how God loves us—enough to die for us. And those of us who abide in that love, dwell in that love, and are defined by that love must love one another in the same way. We, too, must lay down our lives for one another. If we won’t, we have no right to call ourselves Christians. 

But that’s a tall order. Even the apostle Paul, in his letter to the Romans, acknowledges that “rarely will anyone die [even] for a righteous person” (5:7). While sacrificing your life for your child or spouse may be an instinctive gesture of love, who among us would give up their life for someone we don’t know all that well or don’t like very much—an acquaintance from church or an annoying neighbor down the street? But that’s how God loves us. Jesus did not lay down his life only for the people who loved him the best. He surrendered to the cross for the religious leaders and Roman soldiers who put him there. And, if we want to call ourselves Christians, we must love one another just like that.

But, actually, that isn’t right. That’s not true. That’s confusing John’s description of the Christian life for a prescription for it. It’s like putting flour, sugar, butter, and eggs in our shopping cart and expecting the cashier to compliment us on our delicious cake. We don’t become Christians when we love one another enough to die for their sake. We learn to love one another like that when we belong to Jesus. He’s the one who shows us what love is. He’s the one who teaches us how to love each other.

In this letter, John has some harsh words for those who say that they are Christians but don’t act like it, but John never says that acting like a Christian will make you one. Instead, he reiterates over and over that God’s love comes first and that those who abide in that love will always show it in the way they love one another. How we treat other people is a diagnosis for our faith. How we love one another is a reflection of our love for God. Our focus, therefore, should not be on treating the symptoms but on curing the disease.

If someone comes up to you in the parking lot and asks you for money, they might be scamming you. There are plenty of people in this world who trade in deception. But, if you belong to Jesus, the money in your pocket doesn’t belong to you. It always belongs to someone in need. “How does God's love abide in anyone who has the world's goods and sees a brother or sister in need and yet refuses help?” It doesn’t. And those in whom God’s love abides know that. So, if you’re having a hard time surrendering what’s in your pocket to someone who needs it—if you’re having a hard time laying down your life for the sake of other people—that might be a sign that it’s time for you to get back in touch with how much God loves you. That’s because, when you know that God loves you enough to die for you, you cannot help but love other people like that.

When we give our hearts to God, to the one who loves us like that, God takes our hearts and shapes them until they know what it means to love others in the same way. Loving God and loving our neighbor—even the annoying neighbor—always go together. That’s what John means when he writes, “And this is his commandment, that we should believe in the name of his Son Jesus Christ and love one another, just as he commanded us.” Let the perfectly circular nature of that statement sink in: God’s commandment is that we should believe in the name of Jesus and love one another, just as God commanded us. 

Also notice that the commandment is singular even though it comes with two realities—believing and loving. The first necessitates the second. Believing in God always means loving our neighbor. It is an unavoidable consequence—so much so that, as John writes, its absence is conclusive evidence of a missing antecedent. If we don’t love one another, it means we’ve forgotten what it means to believe in God, no matter what we say, because God’s love cannot be limited to word and speech. It is always manifest in truth and action. 

Don’t we know this to be true in our lives? When you love someone so much that it consumes you—that you lose yourself in them—it doesn’t matter what your love language is and whether you “speak” the same love language as your partner. When you love someone like that and they love you back, the translation always gets through. When you fall into the deep end and immerse yourself completely in the love that you share with someone else, that love cannot be stoppered up, crimped shut, or tied off. Such love cannot be denied. It captivates you and changes you in ways that show you how to love them perfectly and sacrificially for their sake instead of your own. Then, that perfect love flows through you and into the life of the one you love until it flows back to you again. 

That’s the way God loves you. And when you know it—when you know how much God loves you—when you recognize that God’s love is the very source of your life and is everything that gives your life meaning—you cannot help but allow that love to flow through you and back to God. And what does it mean to love God if not to love one another? How can God’s love abide in us if that love does not also pour from our hearts into the hearts of those around us? It can’t. When God’s love comes to us, it cannot find a dead end. God’s love always leads us into abundant life. 

“We know love by this—that he laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for one another.” It is good news that God loves us enough to die for us, but that’s not all. God’s love for us is so strong that it has the power to transform us into people who would die for one another. And you don’t need words to understand love like that.


Tuesday, April 2, 2024

Good News to Share

 

March 31, 2024 – Easter Day, Year B

© 2024 Evan D. Garner

Audio of this sermon can be heard here. Video can be seen here.

I’ve got some really good news, but you’re not allowed to tell anyone. Is there anything more frustrating than that? Your boss lets it slip that your best friend at work is getting a big promotion, but you’re not allowed to tell her because he wants it to be a surprise. You’re the ultrasound technician at an OB-GYN’s office, and you can see that everything looks good on a particular scan, but you’re not supposed to say anything, even though you know it would be a relief to an anxious mother. You learn that a world-famous musician is planning to play at Razorback Stadium, but you can’t say anything because negotiations are still taking place and you don’t want to mess them up. 

Good news is supposed to be shared, and keeping it to ourselves is hard, especially when the news is good not just for you but for other people, too. Sometimes, though, we have news that we’d like to share but our concern for what other people will think or say gets in the way. “What if people think I’m bragging or gloating?” we ask ourselves before sharing something on social media. Or what if someone responds to what I say with something even better and it makes me look foolish? Or what if I tell someone my good news and it turns out that they just received the worst news of their life? What if my good news only reminds them of their grief and loss?

The good news of Easter isn’t the sort of news that we are supposed to keep quiet, and there isn’t any risk that sharing it will make us look foolish or hurt anyone’s feelings because God’s foolishness is what we proclaim, and that foolishness is a message of hope for everyone. When we proclaim the good news of Jesus’ resurrection from the dead, we are not touting our accomplishments or celebrating our worthiness. In fact, Easter is about celebrating the opposite. The Easter narrative is not a story of good people bosting of their holiness but of God’s goodness being bestowed upon ordinary people one proclamation at a time. 

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb. The Bible doesn’t tell us why she came. Maybe she didn’t even know herself. But something stirred within her that led her to come as close as she could get to the place where Jesus’ lifeless body had been laid. But, as she approached the tomb, she was shocked to find that the stone had been rolled away from the entrance. Without stopping long enough to look inside, she ran and found two of the disciples—Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved—and told them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.”

Her confusion and grief instantly became their own, and they raced to the tomb as fast as they could to see it for themselves. The other disciple got there first, and, when he bent down to look inside, he could see the grave cloths lying where the body should have been. When Peter arrived, he stooped down and even crawled inside, where he found nothing except the linen wrappings and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ face. Eventually the other disciple also went inside and saw exactly what Peter had seen. Then, they went back to their homes because there was nothing else for them to do. There was nothing for them to tell and no one to tell it to.

But Mary Magdalene couldn’t bear to leave. She stood there, weeping outside the tomb. She bent down and, through tear-filled eyes, looked into the tomb where, to her surprise, she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been. “Woman, why are you weeping?” they asked her. “Because they have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him,” she replied. In the next moment, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not recognize him. Figuring that he must have been the caretaker, she asked him to tell her where they had placed the missing body so that she could come and take it away. But then he spoke her name: Mary. 

In that instant, everything changed. Easter came and found her. The resurrection was made manifest to her. God’s victory over sin and death were disclosed to her. Nothing less than the radical reorientation of the universe back to its sacred foundations was presented to her. And that was good news that she could not keep to herself.

“Don’t hold onto me…,” Jesus said, “But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, my God and your God.’” So she ran, as fast as lightening, and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord!” And she told them everything that Jesus had said to her. Because good news like that can’t be kept quiet, and good news like that is always right for sharing. 

Why do you think Jesus appeared to Mary Magdalene first? Why didn’t he show up when Peter and the other disciple got to the tomb? Or, to put it another way, if God’s hope for the world is that all people would come to know God and God’s love through Jesus Christ, why doesn’t the risen Lord just take center stage and reveal himself to all of us? Because the good news of Easter doesn’t spread like a viral video or a TikTok trend. It spreads throughout the world as each one of us experiences the presence of the risen Christ and feels the power of the resurrection take hold in our hearts until we are compelled to share that good news with others.

The Easter story isn’t finished when the tomb is found empty or even when the risen Christ reveals himself to Mary Magdalene. It is only complete once she carries the good news that the risen Jesus came and found her and proclaims it to those who needed to hear it. 

Easter is a celebration of the good news being passed from one person to another. In John’s version of the Easter gospel, Jesus tells Mary Magdalene to go and tell his brothers the good news. In his speech to Cornelius in Acts 10, Peter describes how, after the risen Jesus revealed himself to them, he commanded that Peter and the other disciples preach the good news to all people. In his first letter to the Corinthians, the apostle Paul calls himself the least of the apostles, “one untimely born,” the last among them to see the risen Jesus. Nevertheless, Paul knows that, because of that encounter, he is called to proclaim the good news to others.

It is a universal truth that anyone who experiences the power of the resurrection—anyone who meets the risen Jesus—has good news to share and that they are called to share it. That includes you. Where have you met Jesus Christ and felt the power of the resurrection in your life? Think about the ways that has God called you back from the dead and filled you with new and abundant life. When have you known without a doubt that nothing can come between you and the love that God has for you? What is your resurrection moment? When did Easter come and find you? And whom will you tell about it?

Many of us have felt the power of Easter become real in our lives, and that means we have a story to tell—our own story of the resurrection. The good news of Easter is not something we can keep to ourselves. The joy of this day is not that the empty tomb might be seen by each one of us but that we might share that good news with each other. Only when we tell others that we have met the risen Jesus can the Easter story be complete.


To Wait Is To Hope

 

March 30, 2024 – Holy Saturday

© 2024 Evan D. Garner

Video of this sermon is available here.

Death is a natural part of life. The only two things that are sure in life are death and taxes. Or, as Meša Selimović wrote, “Death is a certainty, an inevitable realization, the only thing that we know will befall us. There are no exceptions, no surprises: all paths lead to it.”  [1]

It usually takes us a while in this life to walk down that path far enough to appreciate how fragile life is and how final death is. Sometimes parents agonize through an extended adolescence while their offspring test the limits of their mortality and, in effect, that of their parents. But eventually most of us reach an age at which we know that death is unavoidable. Some of us even live long enough to greet death as a welcomed companion. 

But what if none of that is true? What if that isn’t the way that things are supposed to be? What if the goodness and love and beauty that we know in this life are actually, in and of themselves, a good of such enduring character that anything less than their eternal existence represents a violent rip within the fabric of creation? What if death is anything but natural—the most unnatural, improper, and artificial terminus of life? 

The Christian faith teaches us exactly that—that death is not natural—but how are we supposed to believe it? How on earth are we supposed to believe something that runs contrary to the experience of three and a half billion years of life that has lived and died on this planet? How are we supposed to make sense of something that sounds so illogical, so supernatural, so unintellectual? And, if that is what the Christian faith teaches us, are we supposed believe it before we can call ourselves Christians?

The Old Testament saint Job reminds us that it’s ok if we haven’t found a way to believe that yet. When a tree is cut down, Job proclaims, there is still hope that it will sprout again—that its shoots will not cease. “At the scent of water,” he declares, even a seemingly lifeless stump “will bud and put forth branches like a young plant.” But that is not the case with human beings. “Mortals die, and are laid low; humans expire, and where are they?” We are not like trees, which lie dormant for years before sprouting forth new life again. We are like a barren lakebed or a dried up river—vessels that cannot spring forth again on their own. “Until the heavens are no more, [mortals] will not awake or be roused out of their sleep.”

Job had experienced the bitterness of death in the loss of all his children—seven sons and three daughters. God had allowed everything to be taken away from him, and Job was as sure of the reality of death as any person who has ever lived. All he knew was loss, yet, in that agonizing darkness, a tiny ray of light shines down. “If mortals die, will they live again?” Job asks. “All the days of my service I would wait until my release should come.”

Job waits. Job waits on God. Without knowing how things could be any different—with no reason to believe in anything except the finality of death—Job waits on God. Job reminds us that we, too, must wait on God. Even when that waiting is devoid of any hope, the sheer act of waiting on God is itself an offering of hope. The hope of empty waiting does not depend on a particular outcome or anticipate the fulfillment of a promise. It is not a waiting we pursue with our minds or even with our hearts. It is simply to sit and wait on God—often because, in our grief, we do not know what else to do. 

On this Holy Saturday, we know that the proclamation of Easter is only a few hours away. We know that Mother Church will again remind us that death has been defeated and our true nature has been restored. We will hear those words—that invitation to hold fast to the hope of the gospel. But, even though it will come again, some of us are not ready to receive it. Some of us have not yet found a way to believe that any of that is possible. Some of us are still here, outside the tomb, waiting and weeping in grief.

Today, as is true every day, we are allowed to wait on God even though we may not really know what we are waiting for—even if we do not have confidence in what lies ahead. Even before we know how to formulate for ourselves the hope that seems to come so easily to others, we are invited to sit and wait—to wait with Job and to wait with Mary Magdalene and the other Mary. The good news of Holy Saturday is that God’s love for us does not depend upon our ability to anticipate it, receive it, or proclaim it as our own. That love is true for all of us, no matter what we believe or cannot believe.

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1. Selimović, Meša. Death and the Dervish. 1966.