Two Messiahs, One Jesus

I haven’t cracked open any commentaries on John 10 yet, but it seems that “the festival of the Dedication,” which John names as the scene for this Sunday’s gospel lesson, may play an important role. Nowadays, we call that celebration Hanukkah, and the search for a messiah probably felt a little different during the celebration of the dedication of the Temple.

I am not an expert on second-century BCE Palestine, but I gather that the Jerusalem Temple (version 2.0) was desecrated by Antiochus, provoking a strong reaction from the inhabitants of Judah. During the revolt that followed, the Temple was cleansed and restored, and the always-burning menorah was relit. At the time, however, only enough oil for one night’s burning was available, yet the flame stayed true for eight nights—until more could be procured. Yes, Hanukkah is a festival of lights, but it’s also a festival of Jewish victory over oppression.

So, in this Sunday’s gospel lesson, when the Jewish authorities come looking for Jesus and ask whether he’s the messiah, they don’t mean, “Are you the one to come and shepherd the lost sheep of Israel?” They mean, “Are you the one to come and defeat the Romans like Judah the Hammer did two-hundred years ago?” Jesus’ reply shows that the problem isn’t that they refuse to recognize his authority but that they’re looking for the wrong kind of messiah in the first place.

If you’re looking for an anointed one who is going to lead a rebellion against the unholy Roman occupiers, Jesus probably isn’t the right guy for your cause. Now, he shows promise. He’s saying lots of exciting things about God’s kingdom. He’s performing some pretty amazing feats. The crowds are starting to flock to him. But something’s missing. He doesn’t have that killer instinct. It’s easy to understand why the leaders missed Jesus’ messiahship. And that means it’s easy to understand why we miss it, too.

What sort of messiah are you looking for? Although I’m not Jewish and can’t quite identify with the rededication of the Jerusalem Temple, I have my own messianic needs that aren’t really what Jesus has in mind. I want to be noticed. I want to be affirmed. I want to be successful. I want to be right. And I want Jesus to want all of those things on my behalf. I want him to win my own personal victories. But that’s the wrong Jesus. That’s the wrong messiah.

Jesus looks at his interrogators and says, “I have told you, and you do not believe. I do works in my Father’s name to testify to me, but you do not believe because you do not belong to my sheep.” I’ve heard what sort of messiah Jesus really is. I’ve read about the miracles and feats of wonder. And I know they’re all pointing to his messiahship, but none of it has been about my own need for victory. Belonging to his fold—being one of his sheep—means accepting a different sort of messiah.

Skip Church and Go Fishing

I grew up on the coast, and now I live on the Tennessee River. In both places, people like to fish…a lot. And in both places people use the excuse, “I feel closest to God when I’m out fishing,” to explain why they don’t come to church more often. Usually, I’d say “Bullshit,” but this week (John 21:1-19) it seems they may be right.

The resurrected Jesus shows up in a net full of fish. After a long night of casting and dragging and hauling and coming up empty, a stranger calls out to the boat as it approaches the shore and invites them to try one more time. Bingo. That there’s a metaphor, and it’s one we almost have to go back down to the water’s edge to understand.

I know that fishing isn’t completely luck. Some people are better at it than others. Trust me: I went fishing with my father dozens of times and never caught a thing. Though I understand that, for some professional fisherpersons, the catch is a matter of putting food on the table for a family, I still don’t grasp why fishing is a professional sport. But it is, and that means that knowledge, skill, and ability are all involved. And, for these disciples, many of whom made a living on the sea, fishing, though relaxing and therapeutic, wasn’t just a hobby. So these guys weren’t in the boat for the first time. They knew what they were doing, yet still they had a bad night.

Bad nights happen. Even the guys who fish in shiny boats and are shown on ESPN occasionally come back with nothing. No matter how good you are at fishing you can’t force a fish to jump into your boat. You have to coax it. You have to fool it. You have to convince it to take a bite (or surprise it in a net). And sometimes, no matter how good you are, you come back empty handed. And that’s when Jesus shows up.

For John, this is a resurrection story. This is about Jesus showing up and proving to his disciples that he had risen from the dead—that God can and has and will win the ultimate victory over death. And how does he show up? By inviting the exhausted and frustrated disciples to cast their nets one more time. Bingo. Resurrection.

Death comes first. Defeat precedes victory. Emptiness occurs before abundance. You’ve got to know what it means to come back empty-handed before you can know what kind of celebration is appropriate for a haul of 153 fish. If you’re looking for resurrection, don’t ignore the moments of frustration or defeat. New life springs where life seems absent.

Why William Law Matters

Normally, I ignore the lesser feasts in the church year. Unless there is a “red-letter day” on the calendar, I like to read the Daily Office, and, if I’m preaching at a weekday service, I use that text—regardless of whether a Eucharist is celebrated. Today, though, I paused long enough to see who William Law was, and, at least on the surface, I find him intriguing.

In the late 17^th century, Law was an well-educated, up-and-coming Anglican clergyman with a teaching position at Cambridge. According to a Christianity Today article, he was the “son of a prosperous business man” with a “solid future” ahead of him (http://www.christianitytoday.com/ch/131christians/innertravelers/law.html). Then Queen Anne died without an heir, and George I of the House of Hanover took over the throne.

Apparently, there were many, many closer relatives to Queen Anne than George of Hanover, but all of them were Roman Catholic. A series of Parliamentary acts, the latest of which was the Act of Settlement 1701, had made it clear that none of them were entitled to ascend to the throne, so it passed to the German Lutheran George. The House of Hanover replaced the House of Stuarts, and William Law didn’t like it.

As a matter of conscience, Law refused to swear the oath of allegiance required for him to maintain his position in the University. By advocating for the Jacobites, he lost his job, lost any chance to progress in the Church of England, thus losing all sense of professional direction. He spent the rest of his days as a curate without a notable cure, writing theological texts that were cited as foundational by many 18^th-century theologians (e.g., John Wesley). I haven’t ever read any of his works, and, given what I’ve read about them, I doubt I would like them all that much, but that’s not the point.

I must confess that as an avowed Protestant I find Law’s political position of supporting the Catholic claim to the English (and later British) throne troubling. But, as a Christian, I find his willingness to give everything up for a matter of conscience encouraging. I don’t know what his motives were, but I have respect for someone who is Anglican and yet is willing to give everything up to support what he thinks is a legitimate Catholic claim to the throne. He wasn’t Catholic, yet he stood up for what he thought was right.

It’s not very often we have the opportunity to do what Law did in a public arena like his, but we have the daily opportunity to give up our own claim to center stage on behalf of the gospel. I read a post today from the Mockingbird blog on Erik Spoelstra’s recent decision not to set the final play for his Miami Heat (http://www.mbird.com/2013/04/thank-you-for-not-coaching/). The post points to a humility that is rare in sports—rare, even, in human experience of all arenas. How might we do likewise? How might we care less about ourselves and more about the principle of the gospel, namely putting God’s kingdom first? What might we give up? How, as today’s gospel lesson exhorts, might we practice our piety in secret for a purely heavenly reward?

Eventually Believing the Virgin Birth

Well, it’s about time. Poor Mary has been waiting and waiting for the angel Gabriel to come and tell her that she’s going to be the mother of Jesus, but she’s had to wait a few extra weeks. March 25 fell in Holy Week, so the Annunciation was transferred to the first open day in the calendar, which isn’t until today. Happy conception day, Mary!

The angel said to her, "The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God. And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son; and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren. For nothing will be impossible with God." (Luke 1:35-37)

There’s a window in our church that shows an image I haven’t seen (or at least noticed) in any other setting. I’m sure it’s out there in other churches or in artwork, and I’m curious if others have seen it. It’s a depiction of the scene from the Annunciation when the Holy Spirit actually comes upon Mary and, we assume, impregnates her with the child to be Jesus. In the window, you can see Mary kneeling down. The angel Gabriel is standing next to her, having finished his announcement. And from the sky is a ray of light that beams down from a dove and hits Mary on the head. (I wish it were hitting her in her midsection, but the artist didn’t ask my opinion.) The whole thing is frozen in time for all of us to see.

When I first saw it (several years before coming to this church as rector), I noticed it and found it remarkable. I even gave it an inappropriate title with  connotations unfit for public consumption (let the reader understand!). But, as remarkable as the overtones are, what really startles me is the factual, literal, concrete, tangible depiction of the conception. We’re not talking metaphor, here. This is the real thing. If Joseph had been a jealous fiancée, this would have been the incrimination photograph. For all of us who see the window, there can be no doubt: this is how Jesus was conceived.

The Virgin Birth is a remarkable doctrine of the church. It’s important—I think essential—but it hasn’t gotten high billing in recent years. Maybe that’s because we’re a little squeamish when it comes to talking about sex. Or maybe it’s because we’ve learned that in the 21^st century it’s hard to attract someone to the faith by asking them to believe in a virgin birth narrative. For whatever reason, I think we’ve buried the story. It gets mentioned in the creeds. We Christians know it’s a part of the faith whether we believe it or not. But, for the most part, no one stops and asks us to believe the virgin birth in the same way we are asked to believe that “Jesus died for our sins” or that “He is risen!”

As a minister who is interested in making the good news relevant to a seeking, skeptical audience, I don’t think we need to lead with the doctrine of Mary’s virginity (perpetual or not). I think as an evangelistic, pedagogical method, we should start with the bigger truth that the Virgin Birth points us to and then work our way backwards. We should tell people that God loved the world so much that he wanted to take on its nature. God wanted to show us who he really is and could only do that by becoming one of us—not just in appearance or by adoption but by total, full-on birth. How is that possible? Well, when we get to that point, the answer is shown in the window. But let’s start somewhere else.

Preaching the Collect

Sometimes, when I’m trying to figure out why three particular lessons have been stitched together for a Sunday reading, I go back and read the collect. Although it isn’t always true, more often than not I can see in the prayer a connection between the readings. If you’re preaching this week, go back and read the collect again. There are at least three sermons waiting there.

Almighty and everlasting God, who in the Paschal mystery established the new covenant of reconciliation: Grant that all who have been reborn into the fellowship of Christ's Body may show forth in their lives what they profess by their faith; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

#1. In the Paschal mystery, God has established a new covenant of reconciliation. As I wrote about two days ago, I have a hard time preaching on Thomas and not saying the same thing each year. Usually, I read that text and think, “Disbelief is a reasonable but erroneous conclusion,” and I go on to try to build a systematic view of resurrection certainty based on Thomas’ transformation. But, as the collect suggests, is the encounter between Jesus and Thomas an example of reconciliation? Are they made one? Is the disbelief that held Thomas from giving his heart fully to Jesus a fracture in their relationship that can only be restored through the power of the resurrection? Is our own disbelief an example of brokenness in our relationship with God that can only be overcome through the Paschal mystery?

#2. We are reborn into the fellowship of Christ’s body. What is the church? Why do we gather? What do we proclaim? We are the fellowship of the resurrected body. Thomas’ encounter with Jesus reminds us that we are body-focused. It is the body of Christ that defines our community of faith. It is the body of Christ that gives us the faith that holds us together. And I don’t just mean Communion-body, but I mean that, too. Back in the early days, the Christian community was a weird society of body-obsessed people who seemed to outsiders like cannibals. Of course we’re not. But there was such an other-worldly, mystical, resurrection-centeredness that it gave the church some “street cred.” Maybe we need to get that back. Maybe we need to embrace the reality of being a church that gathers around the body of Christ—not just as a metaphor but as a physical reality.

#3. Our prayer is that we might show forth in our lives what we profess by our faith. When we encounter the disciples in the upper room, they aren’t really doing it. They’re hiding out of fear. The doors are locked. What are they waiting for? What are they expecting? A week later, even after they’ve seen Jesus, heard his “go-forth” command, and received the Holy Spirit, they are still in the locked room. Again, what are they waiting for? If we claim to be Christians (and most of us do), we believe that God has sent us out to do the work he has given us to do. We are disciples. We are apostles. How many of us are still waiting behind locked doors…and for what? When is Jesus going to say something or do something that finally get us to show forth in our lives what we claim with our lips? Lives and lips—there’s an interesting dichotomy for a sermon.

Knowing through Experience

Last night, we had a dish for supper that is pretty common in our house—Kung Pao chicken—but this time, we added an unusual-for-us ingredient to the stir-fry: mushrooms. The dish almost always comes with chicken, onions, bell peppers, peanuts, red chili peppers, and the sauce, but, because we had a surplus of edible fungus on hand, we decided to add mushrooms to the dish.

“What is this? Is it chicken?” my three-year-old asked as he speared a quartered mushroom with his fork. Not wanting to dissuade him from eating it, I replied, “What do you think it is?” He said chicken, and I said ok, and he popped it into his mouth. He chewed. We watched. “It tastes more like a mushroom thing. Is it a mushroom?” Busted. We told him what it was, and, even though he ate the first bite without any objection, he wouldn’t eat anymore.

His mother explained that the mushrooms didn’t taste like anything other than the sauce that they were in, but that didn’t help. Then our five-year-old daughter joined the conversation. Searching for affirmation and thus siding with her parents, she wholeheartedly confirmed that the mushrooms indeed did taste like the sauce. I took that as an opportunity to distinguish between taste and texture. A short vocabulary and culinary lesson ensued. We talk about different textures and noted that, although some things may taste alike, they often have different textures—like mushrooms and chicken. “What sort of texture does a mushroom have?” I asked. We didn’t get very far. How do you explain in words to a three-year-old and a five-year-old the difference between textures? By comparison. “Is anything on your plate crunchy? Is anything creamy?” In the abstract, I got nowhere, but, when I focused on the experience of dinner, our conversation became fruitful. And that got me thinking about the resurrection.

On the road to Emmaus, Jesus meets some downcast disciples. He engages them in conversation and seems appalled when they don’t understand that the messiah was supposed to be betrayed, arrested, tortured, and killed before rising on the third day. So he starts with Moses and explains how the Hebrew scriptures point to this.

But still they cannot see him.

Only when they are sitting at table and Jesus breaks the bread are their eyes opened and they understand who he is. The same is true for us—not just that we experience the risen Jesus in Holy Communion, which we do, but that we must experience the resurrection to know it. When the two disciples make their way back to the eleven in Jerusalem, they explain “how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.” Known. They know him by experiencing him. Not in hearing the scripture. Not in listening to an explanation. Although their hearts burned when they heard it, they didn’t recognize him until they experienced it.

How will you experience resurrection this Easter? You can’t know the risen Jesus until you experience him. No amount of explaining or talking (or preaching) or pointing or studying will get you there. You have to experience the resurrection. We spend 50 days in the season of Easter for just that reason—to remind us that we have to experience it to understand it. Where will the empty tomb show up for you this year? 

Looking for a Different Thomas

I’ve been writing my 2 Easter sermon for six weeks. Why? Because for me the gospel text that is used this coming Sunday (John 20:19-31) is even more expected than last Sunday’s resurrection narrative. In case you haven’t been to church on the Sunday after Easter Day in the last 30 years, the text is always the story of “doubting Thomas.” Perhaps it’s because I’ve preached on ‘Low Sunday’ a lot in the seven years I’ve been doing this (5 as a curate/associate), but I feel like I have “put your hand in my side” down pat. In my mind, I’ve been preparing for (and trying to avoid) a sermon on this ultra-familiar text.

Does anyone have any surprises out there?

That’s the real trouble for me. I want to be surprised like Thomas. I want to have my expectations rocked to their core. I want to read this gospel text and not hear myself preach the same sermon. Anyone have anything new to say?

I like what Steve Pankey wrote today. Thomas didn’t doubt; he had unbelief. Steve points out that what was lacking wasn’t faith but relationship. That helps me get a fresh perspective on it.

What about others? What’s the preacher’s message to the faithful (and I do mean faithful to show up on 2 Easter)?