Holding on to Hope

This is a meditation on the lessons for the Last Sunday after the Epiphany, specifically the ascent of Elijah into heaven in 2 Kings 2 and the transfiguration of Jesus Christ in Mark 9. It is an audio meditation, which is to say a sermon, which can be heard here.

What do we hold onto when we feel lost? What does God give us to carry us through the difficult times?

Building Hope

Funerals are those strange moments when we acknowledge our grief but try to cling to hope. Sometimes that hope is concrete and specific, but often it’s vague and theologically misplaced. “She was really suffering near the end, but she’s in a better place now,” we might say to one another without really understanding what we mean. As a funeral preacher, I’m still learning the art of embracing both the pain and the joy in order to convey a more substantial message of hope despite grief. I’m learning to trust that by confronting the depth of our loss—even to some extent the unpleasantness of broken relationships, missed opportunities, and lost dreams—I help the congregation (especially the family) to trust that God’s promise of new life is real. It always feels a little risky, but I think it gives the family something more than an abstract and platitudinous message of hope to hold on to.

On Sunday, as we celebrate the last Sunday before the journey of Lent begins, we will read about Jesus’ transfiguration (Mark 9:2-9). This is the moment when Jesus takes his most inner circle of disciples—Peter, James, and John—up on a mountain to pray. While they are there, the disciples witness the glory of Jesus’ divinity shining through as his clothes become a dazzling white. The great figures of the Hebrew tradition—Moses and Elijah—are seen flanking Jesus. A voice from heaven confirms Jesus’ identity as God’s beloved son. And, right in the middle of it all, Peter asks whether he should build three booths or tents—one each for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah—because “it is good for us to be here.” Silly Peter. Soon, of course, the vision fades, and the disciples join Jesus on the journey back down the mountain, and Jesus offers one last word on the matter: “Don’t tell anyone about what you have seen until the Son of Man has risen from the dead.”

Like building blocks, moments like this one with Jesus must have been a source of comfort and confirmation as the disciples tried to make sense of the passion, death, and resurrection of their Lord. Some of those building blocks were more substantial than others—like the transfiguration or the raising of Lazarus or the stilling of the storm. Putting them all together, the disciples found enough substrate for faith in order to cling to Jesus’ promise of resurrection even in those early days when none of this was familiar enough to be certain of. Jesus’ command to the disciples, “Don’t tell anyone about this until I’ve risen from the dead,” is another way of saying, “Hang onto this moment because you’ll need it during the difficult days ahead.” And Peter’s desire to build three booths is, perhaps, an unconscious attempt to avoid the painful road to Jerusalem and Calvary that lay ahead.

As twenty-first century Christians, we hang on to the Paschal mystery as something that gives us hope in difficult days. We have had two millennia to understand that the resurrection of Jesus is confirmation that God’s love for us is greater than death and that God invites us, through his son, to participate in that resurrection. We’ve heard that story for two thousand years. But sometimes we still need something to hold on to when things get tough.

What is your source of comfort when death and grief and fear crowd in? Is it the empty tomb? Is it the transfiguration mount? If you’re like me, those passages in scripture are important building blocks, but sometimes I need to see and feel resurrection in my own life and not just receive it from so long ago. Yes, as Jesus said to Thomas, blessed are those who have not seen at yet believe. And, no, I haven’t seen quite like those disciples did in that Upper Room. But I have seen resurrection. I have seen moments of hope in hopelessness. I have seen paths destined for destruction be reversed in ways that I attribute to God’s resurrecting power. And I hold on to these so that the bigger hope might stay real to me even in tough moments.

Elijah Who?

Every year, on the last Sunday after the Epiphany, which is to say the last Sunday before Lent begins, we hear the story of the Transfiguration. Each successive year in the lectionary cycle presents its own version of the story, and, since this is Year B, we get to hear Mark’s plain, Joe-Friday, just-the-facts-ma’am version. I’ll write about that later this week, but today I’m smacked square across the face by another reading we have in Year B: 2 Kings 2:1-12.

As you know, the Transfiguration is the moment when Jesus’ clothes became a dazzling white and when Moses and Elijah appeared with him. Moses represents the Law, and Elijah represents the prophets, which is to say that this moment on the mountaintop is when Jesus’ identity is made manifest as the one to whom both Law and prophets point. In Years A and C, we read from Exodus—once about Moses going up the mountain to get the Ten Commandments and once about him coming down with a shining face. But only in Year B do we get to hear about Elijah, and that’s why I’m excited to write about him today.

When compared with Moses, I don’t really understand Elijah. Maybe that’s because I don’t know his story as deeply as I know the story of Moses. He was jealous for Israel’s God and fought against the prophets of Baal, who had corrupted God’s people and their worship. He worked miracles—even raising the dead—and was not afraid to wield a sword to get his point across. He held fast to his principles even when it seemed that he was the only God-fearing person in all of Israel. Under duress, he journeyed back to Mt. Horeb, where Moses had received the Ten Commandments. Hiding in a cave, he heard the presence of the Lord not in an earthquake or wind or fire but in the “sound of sheer silence.” Ultimately, as we read in this Sunday’s lesson, he was taken up into heaven not through a normal death but by “the chariots of Israel and its horsemen.”

All of that to say, Elijah is a really interesting prophet who did some amazing things, but I still feel like I don’t really appreciate him or his role in the Transfiguration story.

On Sunday, I want to hear Mark’s version of the Transfiguration with a deeper sense of why Elijah was there—not just because he represented the prophets but what it means that he was there. Yes, I get that it’s because the legend is that Moses and Elijah were among the rare few who were taken up into heaven when they died, but I want to understand why the Elijah story ends with his chariot-driven trip into God’s presence. I want to value the witness of Elijah as much as I already appreciate the story of Moses.

I’ll be spending some time this week reading Sunday’s reading from 2 Kings, and I’ll be looking at the other stories of Elijah that lead to his dramatic departure from this life. By the time we get to Sunday, I hope I hear the Transfiguration as something more than the story of Jesus’ appearance with Moses and that other guy.

Letting Go of Urgency

February 8, 2015 – 5^th Sunday after the Epiphany, Year B

Isaiah 40:21-31; 1 Corinthians 9:16-23; Mark 1:29-39

© 2015 Evan D. Garner

 

Audio of this sermon can be heard here.

What do you do when you’re being pulled in a thousand different directions, and then someone comes and drops a crisis in your lap and asks you to take care of it?

One Saturday morning, Jesus went with his disciples to the local synagogue, where he taught a lesson on the scriptures. He was well-prepared, and the congregation was amazed at the quality of his message. In the middle of the service, however, he was interrupted by a man with an unclean spirit—a demonic possession—and Jesus stopped what he was doing long enough to attend to the man’s spiritual infirmity. In dramatic fashion, he cast out the spirit, an authoritative act which caught the attention of the congregation, who immediately began discussing amongst themselves how amazing this Jesus was. By the time he left the synagogue, word had already leaked out to the wider community, making Jesus quite the celebrity-du-jour.

In the afternoon, Jesus and the disciples left the synagogue and retreated to Simon Peter’s house, where they could eat and enjoy some Sabbath rest. That Jesus was exhausted, however, did not seem to matter to anyone because, as soon as they walked through the door, the disciples told Jesus about Simon’s mother-in-law, who lay in bed with a fever. “Um, Jesus?” they asked, tentatively. “We know you must be tired after a long day, but would you mind taking care of this sweet woman who has been sick for a while?” “Of course,” Jesus said, not wanting to be rude, and he took her by the hand and healed her.

As soon as the sun set, the Sabbath was over, and any time Jesus might have taken for rest had expired. “The whole city,” Mark tells us, “was gathered around the door.” All who were sick or in need of deliverance were brought to his doorstep, where he met them and “cured many who were sick with various diseases and cast out many demons.”

I don’t know when the crowd finally dispersed, but Mark lets us know that Jesus didn’t get any downtime until the middle of the night—“in the morning,” he calls it, “while it was still very dark.” Quietly, when no one was looking, Jesus snuck out of the house and fled out into the wilderness, where he could be alone to pray. Even then, however, he could find no peace because, when the disciples awoke and discovered that their master was gone, they went out and hunted for him. The word translated as “hunted” literally means “chased down” or “stalked” in the same way that a hunter tracks down its prey. In other words, they had a need that could not wait, and, when they ran up to Jesus, out of breath, they panted, “Master, what are you doing here? Everyone is searching for you.”

I get tired just reading this passage. Maybe I feel particular sympathy for Jesus because I am a busy preacher who struggles to find enough time to pray, but I doubt that the clergy are the only ones here who can identify with that sentiment. Clergy who whine about how busy they are exasperate me. Y’all are just as busy as I am. We’re all busy. None of us has enough time to tend to the important, quiet needs of life. But the lesson Jesus teaches us here isn’t just that we all need to spend more time taking care of ourselves and our prayer life. We don’t need Jesus or any other preacher to remind us of that. We already know that. What we need—what I need—is for Jesus to help me figure out how to do it. And I think his response to the disciples is the key to making that happen.

What do you do when someone comes to you with an urgent need? How do you handle the crises of others? What is your response to those who are desperate for your attention? The disciples were hunting for Jesus. “Master!” they cried out, “Everyone is looking for you!” And what was his reply? Jesus looked at them and said, “Alright, it’s time to move on. We’ve got other work to do. They’ll figure it out. I’m needed elsewhere. I can’t do everything. Pack it up. Let’s get moving.” If I didn’t know him better, I’d say Jesus was turning his back on people in need. But that can’t be right. Jesus would never do that, would he?

Jesus teaches us that there’s a difference between responding to someone with an urgent need and letting someone’s urgency need your response. Sometimes the best thing to do for both of you is to let it go and keep walking. How much of your life is controlled by the crises around you? To what extent are you held hostage by the urgency of the day? Bouncing from one emergency to another has an effect on your faith. You cannot see what God is doing in your life and in the lives of those around you when your perspective is limited to whatever crisis is right in front of you. So what should you do when it seems like your focus has shifted from the big picture to whatever need is right in front of your face? Do what Jesus did: find a quiet place and say your prayers.

Prayer is a powerful thing. How we pray says a lot about how we’re handing the urgencies around us. And how we pray also has the power to shape the way we handle those urgencies. Think about your prayer life and what your prayers sound like. Are you so focused on the immediate needs in your life that you’ve forgotten how to look for answers in places where God might be trying to surprise you? Or are your prayers open to the belief that God is already in control of the situation and, no matter what happens, will always take care of you?

When we are held hostage by urgency we cannot see the big picture. When we are dominated by an immediate need, we cannot know what it means to trust fully in God. Under the tyranny of the urgent, our prayers become simplistic: “Lord, I know that this is exactly what I need, and my hope is tied completely to your ability to answer my prayer in this specific way.” That isn’t faith that God will take care of us no matter what. That is letting the urgency of a situation defeat us and rob us of real hope.

As Christians, we believe in the power of the resurrection. That means that we’re supposed to believe that our true hope is not bound by the needs of today but is fulfilled in the promise of new life in Jesus. The cross and empty tomb show us that nothing can stand between us and God’s victory for us. Faith in God does not mean that God will give us exactly what we ask for. It means that God will take care of us no matter what we ask. Faith isn’t found in those who simply bring their needs before God. Faith belongs to those who trust that God will meet their needs even when their prayers go unanswered.

Lots of Little Pieces

As I prepare to preach on Sunday, I am drawn to the gospel lesson (Mark 1:29-39), but I admit I'm having a hard time figuring out what to say. I think it's because there are so many different elements to this story, none of which is an obvious choice for a sermon.

You might remember that this same lesson came up as the gospel lesson in the Daily Office a few weeks ago (Jan. 14), and I preached a midweek sermon on this text. You can read it here, but I'm not sure I want you to since I might be preaching the same sermon again on Sunday.

Like Steve Pankey, I was drawn to the word "hunted." I also hadn't noticed that word until I preached on the text a few weeks ago. It's a fascinating word, and Steve wrote a great post on it that's worth a read. There's a very good chance that some of his observations will end up in Sunday's sermon.

I am also fascinated by the encounter with Peter's mother-in-law. Forget what it says about the "first Bishop of Rome" being married. And likewise ignore the fact that as soon as she was healed she got up and served them. Sure, there's an interesting sermon about servant-hearted mothers-in-law, but I'm even more interested in what it was like to be Jesus, who walked into a house only to be met by another need.

Yesterday, Seth Olson and I had a conversation about the phrase "very dark," and I think that's his sermon focus for the 5pm service this week. I confessed to him and confess to you now that I'm jealous. In addition to being held at a time when it's mostly dark outside, our 5pm service offers the preacher an opportunity to deliver a meditation on a theme like darkness. I think that would be fun, but I don't think that's quite right for Sunday morning.

In the end, I worry a little bit of all of these things will work their way into not one sermon but six sermons to which a weary congregation will be subjected. Can you imagine hearing a sermon for which the thesis is "Jesus shows us what it means to heal others so that they can reach their full potential yet also shows us that healing sometimes must wait so that the healer can reach his full potential despite the fact that the world doesn't want to wait?" Yeah, that sermon sucks. I know.

I think I'm going to preach on Jesus' response to the disciples inquiry: "Let us go on..." What does it mean to encounter the desperate needs of the world--of people we know and love--and to keep on moving? Maybe that's what it means to offer healing to the world.

Cornelius' Country Club for Sinners

Have you heard the joke about the Episcopalian whom St. Peter took on a tour of heaven? Or the one about the Methodist, Baptist, and Christian Scientist talking outside the pearly gates? Or the one about the line of Catholic nuns who were waiting to get in? Yeah, there are lots of jokes about getting into heaven because lots of us like to joke (and worry) about who’s going to be there. Our collective fascination with who’s in and who’s out is nothing new.

One day, as he was making his way toward Jerusalem, Jesus was approached by someone who asked, “Lord, will only a few be saved?” (Luke13:22-29). What an interesting question! And I’m curious how you hear that question in your mind’s ear: “Lord, will only a few be saved?” How does that sound to you? Is it the question of someone who is worried about whether there will be enough room for him? Or is it the inquiry of someone who is concerned that heaven might be too crowded a place to spend eternity? I’m really not sure. For the first part of Luke 13, Jesus has been teaching parables about the kingdom that both suggest its breadth (the mustard seed) and its exclusivity (the fig tree). For me, it’s hard to know what’s on this person’s mind. And maybe that’s the point of Jesus’ response.

In reply to the man’s question, Jesus gives the kind of answer we’d expect him to give. He starts by saying, “Strive to enter through the narrow door; for many, I tell you, will try to enter and will not be able.” But, by the end of the response, he says, “Then people will come from east and west, from north and south, and will eat in the kingdom of God.” So which is it? Is the door so narrow that many will not be able to enter? Or is it the kingdom feast so huge that people will be able to stream in it from all directions? Yes. It’s both. And it depends on how you look at it.

The problem with this man’s question is the same problem we have when we start asking who is in and who is out: grace is a wonderful thing, but it’s easy to take for granted, and it’s even easier to resent. Notice that the man’s question isn’t about him it’s about others. As soon as our focus shifts from ourselves to others, the wonderful, amazing gift that is grace becomes problematic. “Wait a minute!” we say to Jesus. “It’s fine for people like me to get into heaven, but what about all those other people? What about the real sinners—the ones who didn’t even show one ounce of remorse during their lives? You can’t mean that they get into heaven, too!” Grace is a gift we’re eager to receive and willing to share with people we like, but, as soon as we see that God loves our enemies just as much as he loves us, we think it’s unfair. It’s like a government handout or affirmative action. If we’re getting the check, it’s because we deserve it. If they’re getting the check, it’s clearly bad for our country.

Jesus returns the focus to the one who is asking. “You,” he says to the man, “strive to enter by the narrow way. Don’t worry about anyone else. Take care of your own relationship with God. Keep your eyes focused on your own path. Don’t worry about anyone else. Let God take care of them.” Yes, the kingdom of heaven is a lot bigger and a lot fuller than you could ever imagine. But don’t worry about that. Don’t worry about who is in and who is out. Concern yourself only with what God promises you. Start by celebrating what God’s grace means for you. If you focus sufficiently on your own path, you’ll discover what it means to celebrate whoever else is on the journey with you.

Loveable Losers

I don’t remember the first time I ever flew in an airplane, but I do remember what it feels like to be a child and look out the window as the plane climbs higher into the sky. I remember how cartoonish yet perfectly real the ant-like cars and trucks appear as they move up and down the highway. I can picture how cities and fields and warehouses and factories and schools and rivers and lakes all look like a picture but still have the animation of real life. I can recall understanding for the first time how my community was put together, how neighborhoods were connected by roads, and how clean the line between city and country was.

In Sunday’s reading from Isaiah 40, God is described as the one “who sits above the circle of the earth” and can see that “its inhabitants are like grasshoppers.” The contrast between God’s power and creation’s frailty is depicted by a great distance—an unfathomable elevation that separates the one who looks down and we who look up. “Lift up your eyes on high and see,” the prophet invites, “who created these?”

Yet, as a child is fascinated with the sudden ability to behold all that is below, so too does God always behold even the tiniest detail of what is beneath him: it is “he who brings out their host and numbers them, calling them all by name.” We are, by comparison, tiny grasshoppers. We are, in God’s eye, “like stubble.” Still, the prophet declares on behalf of God’s people, “My way is not hidden from the Lord…He gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless.”

I live in a culture that celebrates power. Last night, millions of people tuned into the Super Bowl, and why? To watch one team beat the other. Even though most of us have to ties to Seattle or New England, we want to identify with a winner. We are entertained by a display of physical force, intellectual prowess, and pregame preparation. We celebrate the familiar coach-quarterback duo who again hoisted the Lombardi trophy. We mock the play selection of the offensive coordinator who chose to throw the ball and stop the clock instead of try to put the game away with his team’s powerful rusher. And why? Because we know that power is good and weakness is threatening.

This Sunday, however, we will embrace the opposite message. We are not strong. We are not powerful. Like it or not, the prophet reminds us that even the princes among us—even our greatest athletes—are like grass in a field, which is scarcely sown but the breath of the Lord blows on them and they wither to nothing. Yet that is good news—good news because still God is with us. God does not honor our strength. He does not care for us because of our might. God shelters us in our weakness. In our powerlessness, we are made powerful by the one who is truly powerful.