4.24.11--Easter Sunday Sermon

And they said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.

The earliest copies we have of the Gospel of Mark end here, at chapter 16 verse 8. These three women, Mary, Mary, and Salome, who were all said to have been ardent followers of Jesus, had spent the last two days mourning the loss of their friend, their rabbi, their Messiah. As the life was extinguished from his body that afternoon as he hung on the cross, so were their hopes extinguished. They had bet everything on Jesus, and had come up empty-handed.

And yet, they were not ready to let go just yet. Even in death, he was still beloved by them. He had done right by them in life, and so they would do right by him in his death. And so, they got up early that morning and headed to the tomb where he had been placed.

Now, in this day and age, women prepared dead bodies for burial. It was usually done quickly, as close to one’s death as possible, so that the body had as little time as possible to decompose before they completed their task. Jesus, though, died after sundown on the day before the Sabbath. They were not allowed to prepare him for burial, and so he was placed in the tomb still ritually unclean.

So these women were heading to what could easily be a very gruesome, very smelly body. But they loved Jesus, and they would do right by him. Their hope for a better tomorrow was lost; all that they had were their rituals, all that they had were the tasks at hand.

And yet, upon arriving at the tomb, they are greeted with an amazing sight: the boulder was moved away, the body of Jesus was gone, and a young boy was perched on top of the preparation table.

What is going on? What has happened? Where is Jesus? Who is this boy?

And before they can say anything, the boy speaks: “Don’t be alarmed. You are looking for Jesus the Nazarene, who was crucified. He has risen! He is not here. See the place where they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter, ‘He is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him, just as he told you.’”

What wonderful news from this strange, mysterious boy! Jesus is not dead! He has been raised! He is risen! The tomb is empty—well, except for the boy—the stone is rolled away, and Jesus is risen! The hope that they had lost, the hope that died on that cross with their teacher, had been given new life!

And yet they said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.

I would think that, having received such amazing news, they would have run as fast as they could to go and tell Jesus’ other disciples! To share with them the good news so that their hope might be returned as well!

And yet they said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.

Is this the Easter story that you remember? Is this the way you see it played out in your head every year? Can this be the end of the story?

Of course not. When most people, myself included, think of the Easter story, we think of the disciples running to the tomb and seeing the empty table. We think of everyone celebrating the resurrected Christ! We think of Jesus speaking to the women at the tomb and them mistaking him for a gardener. We think of Jesus appearing to His disciples in the upper room, on the way to Emmaus, at the shore of the Sea of Galilee. We don’t think of the first people to hear the good news running away, scared.

And yet they said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.

Why would they have done this? Why would they have kept silent about this news? Why would they have been frightened by the prospect of Jesus rising as He told them He would?

I don’t think that we can hold this against Mary, Mary, and Salome. They encountered the supernatural, and responded the way most people do when they encounter the supernatural. That is why every time an angel appears to an individual or a group of people, they always have to begin speaking with the phrase “Fear not” or “Do not be afraid.” Even our boy in the tomb uses the words “Do not be alarmed.” Encountering the supernatural can be a scary thing. So of course, after hearing that Jesus had come back from the dead, and after seeing a strange sight at the tomb, these women were afraid! They had every right to be.

To make matters worse, three days prior, they were cut to the core with the loss of their Lord. All of their hope had been wrenched away. Everything they had believed to be true seemed to have turned out wrong. Could they dare to hope again? Could they even for a second allow themselves the opportunity to think that things might not be as they seemed? Could they give their hearts away again, so soon after losing them?

And so they said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.

But this is obviously not the end of the story. I mean, the earliest accounts of Mark’s Gospel might end here, but we know today that this is not the end of the story. How could it be? We know the story. It got out. We might not know how it did, but we know that the good news of Jesus’ resurrection was shared with the world and His church grew and grew. The other Gospels give us accounts of this. They say that the women ran back to tell Peter and the other disciples. Others dashed over to the tomb and saw the empty table. Jesus appeared to many of them in different places and for different reasons. And then He ascended into Heaven with the promise not only to come again, but to be with us always, even to the ends of the age.

Word got out. The story spread. The good news was told.

I’d like to think that after the initial shock of their experience at the tomb, Salome and the Mary’s were able to breathe and think about what had happened. Maybe they had sprinted away, ran as far as they could, and while they were gulping in air and panting after such a hard run, they looked at each other, saw the glimmers of hope twinkling in each other’s eyes, and dared to believe that it was so. Maybe then they went to share with the men and women who had followed alongside them. Maybe then they had the courage to place their faith back in this man who was once dead but is now alive again.

Whatever happened, however the word got out, we have these three women to thank that we now have the story of the empty tomb. We know from their witness that Jesus the Christ is not dead, but was raised back to life by His heavenly Father.

And we have them to look toward as an example of how to live our lives.

Not only were they willing to see Jesus through to the very end, not only were they willing to risk their very lives to prepare His body for burial, not only did they see the empty tomb for themselves, but they shared the story even though they were frightened and amazed.

And so, we are called to do the same. We are called to hold onto our faith even in those times of life when it seems like the world is as dark and dismal as it could get. We are called to keep going even when it seems all hope is lost. We are called to be witness to the glorious work of the resurrected Christ in the world today. And we are called to share that story, no matter the cost to us.

Let us pray. 

4.22.11--Good Friday

This is my first shot at a narrative sermon. It is from the perspective of one of the Roman soldiers on duty at the cross.

It never gets any easier for me. Some people seem to be able to get used to it, grow accustomed to it. They seem… desensitized from it. It’s as if emotional calluses have formed around their hearts and they are no longer able to empathize at all with these poor unfortunate souls.

They can joke about it. They laugh through it.

They don’t seem to see the fear, the anguish… the pain in the man’s eyes. They don’t hear the cries for mercy, the screams that escape mouths. They don’t see the spasming muscles. They don’t notice when their grips slip because they are holding flesh that is torn open and slick with blood.

You’d think that they were friends at a feast, not soldiers at a crucifixion.

Maybe that is their way of coping. Maybe they realize just how brutal it all is, but they have to make light of it to keep from being buried under the weight of such a heavy burden. Maybe they have all been where I am, and they have found that they have to laugh to keep from crying. But try as I might, it never gets any easier for me. I can’t drown out the screams. I can’t ignore blood. I can’t find any humor amidst the horror.

So I do my duty to Caesar and to Rome. I crucify these insurrectionists. And the entire time, I keep my mouth shut and eyes forward, praying to the gods that I won’t have to revisit my last meal until I am alone and safely away from the judgmental eyes of my company.

Today we were put on high alert and we’ve been accompanied everywhere we go by an extra contingent. My commander, Centurion Gaius himself, has come out to oversee the crucifixion of this man, Jesus the Nazarene. I had heard the name whispered by passing Jews throughout the week. Everyone had. This man who would have himself raised as king, who would dare to challenge the Emperor Caesar himself, was getting what he deserved, just like those who came before him.

Why this heightened security, though? Why this enhanced military presence? Was he really so great a threat that this was all necessary?

He’s making his way up path now. He’s so beaten and bloodied that he’s unable to even carry his own crossbeam! I’m glad that I was able to stay in the background for his lashings and beatings. We have some really sick people in our company, some people that enjoy inflicting pain. I can’t stand it! I want to serve my country, I even want to be a Centurion some day, but I’ll never be able to do that to a living, breathing person! I don’t care if they are rebel scum…

I’ve been assigned the duty of nailing his left hand to the cross. There are worse jobs, but this is one of the few that mean I have to be right up next to the criminal. I have to touch him. My wife will have bloodstains to remove. Again. She doesn’t understand why I do this. She wants me transfer. Oh, I wish it were that simple!

I stand there with my fellow brothers in arms, watching him make his way to the place of his execution. Everyone around me begins to shout insults at him and spit at him when he is close enough. I just stand there, with the nails in one hand and the hammer in the other.

The nails are enormous. As long as the hilt of my sword, they start from an extremely sharp point and grow until they are thicker than my thumb. I was issued two nails. Only one is really needed, but there’s always the chance for a mistake. My supervisor joked with me on my first round of nailing duty, “We wouldn’t want you driving it too far in and his hand flopping off! Take extras just in case.” Nice joke, sir. I really needed that mental picture.

The hammer is heavy, and it always seems heavier right before I have to use it. My father was a carpenter. What would he say about this heinous use of a hammer? A tool that is used to create, to bring order and togetherness, used as a tool of torture, a tool of death… Would he be proud of his son, the Roman soldier?

Why is this hammer so heavy?

It’s time. My task is at hand. I hope it doesn’t take too many blows. Someone loops a cord around his wrist to keep his arm taught. I place the nail in position. I strike once, twice, a third time and it is done.

I step back as they raise him up. The vertical beam slides securely into place, and there he hangs, in the middle of two criminals that had gone up not even an hour earlier. How could this man be a threat to anyone? He looks sad. Pitiful.

Everyone around is taunting him. We stand at the cross for hours, and my comrades and the Jewish bystanders spend the entire time mocking him. Even some of their priests have come out for the soul purpose of laughing at this man, who is hanging there dying!

After six hours of it, he lets out a strangled cry: “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?” I had to grab a nearby Jew boy and ask him what he had said. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Forsaken indeed. I hope I never have to feel that despair and abandonment. I hope my death is nothing like that.

And then, as he breathed his last, everyone seems to grow silent for the first time since venturing out to this accursed hill. Maybe everyone else is realizing just how horrible this act is. Maybe they see what I see.

Then my commander, Centurion Gaius, raises his voice and exclaimed “Yeah, sure. This was the son of God!” Everyone breaks out laughing. It’s pretty evident. When they look at the dead man hanging off of the cross, they see a humorous tale to share with friends back home.

That will never be me, though. All I see is this poor man’s limp body, up on the cross where I placed it. I can’t laugh. All I can do is pray that this will some day get easier.

Why is this hammer so heavy? 

4.17.11--Palm Sunday Sermon

(Just a little bit of context, I removed the pulpit, altar, and every cross, painting, and banner from the sanctuary. The walls are bare. The sanctuary only contains pews and people. And I am preaching in a polo, jeans, and barefoot.)

So it looks a little bit different in here today, doesn’t it? The walls are a little barer. The altar is not where we expect it be. We all know there should be a cross on the wall, a picture of Jesus, flowers, banners, towering chairs, flags, and a podium all right here, but they are gone. I’m sure that some of you, maybe even most of you, can close your eyes right now and picture in your mind’s eye exactly how the sanctuary is supposed to look, down to the last cross, the barest detail. Close your eyes. Give it a try. Can you picture it? Can you see the church the way it’s supposed to be? Well, my friends, today we encounter a very important lesson, both in the Palm Sunday text and in the appearance of our sanctuary. God does not always encounter us the way we expect God to. Jesus does not always ride into our lives as the Messiah that we expect Him to. Church does not always fit into our comfortable definitions the way that we expect it to.

Let’s dive into this text together and look at the story of Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem. We’ve spoken a number of times over the past year of the role of the euangelion, the Gospel bringer, during this time of history. Well, after the forerunners had gone out to spread the good news of victory to the nation, the people would gather in the capital city to welcome home their victorious king. The king would enter into his city, surrounded by his retinue, to the sights and sounds of a massive parade, a crowd gathered to greet their lord and assist in bringing glory to him as he rode triumphantly atop his warhorse from the city gates to the royal palace. Each person had his part to play in this: the crowd members shouted exultantly and laid down palm branches upon the ground as a kind of red-carpet treatment; the retinue mirrored the pride and glory given their king; the king handled himself with the charisma and honor worthy his status.

And this is how Jesus is understood to have entered into the Jerusalem for Passover. Proud. Mighty. Powerful.

But… Is this really how He entered the Holy City? There are most definitely some parallels, but Jesus, as he is famous for doing throughout the Gospels, doesn’t stick to the status quo in His entry. Jesus enters into the city not on a mighty warhorse, but on a donkey, a colt. He must have looked rather silly on this animal while the crowds and His disciples, all of whom were standing, were probably level or even a little bit taller than Him on his donkey. One of the disciples probably had to walk in front of Jesus to lead the donkey that had never been ridden before. The poor colt might have even been startled by the crowd, causing the disciples to have to constantly feed it treats and comfort it to keep it from bucking or dashing off. Jesus probably had to ride sidesaddle on it, like a girl, so that He could jump off and not risk getting kicked by the frightened animal.

Jesus rides not to a palace or stronghold within the city, but to the Temple, a place of worship. He goes to worship God, not make plans for war. He goes to teach, not spark a rebellion to drive the oppressive Romans out of Israel’s rightful land. He goes to heal the afflicted, not afflict pain on others.

And yet still, the crowds lay down their branches and yell, “Hosanna! Save us now!” They fulfill their part of the unspoken agreement between crowd and king.

There is something very different going on. It’s right in front of them. He is right in front of them. And this crowd, as they are waving their palm branches and shouting, doesn’t seem to get it. They were expecting a king to come in on a warhorse with an army behind him. They received a servant on a donkey, with twelve dirty men walking next to him. They expected a violent overthrow of the enemy occupying their home. They received a man who taught to love and pray for the ones who persecute you. They did everything they were supposed to do. They waved the palm branches. They shouted their hosannas. And this is what they received.

Maybe this is why a large number of them, four days later, changed their shouts from “Hosanna” to “Crucify”…

I’ve wondered for a long time what it would look like if Jesus were to come and visit some of the churches I’ve attended. Would the congregations welcome Him into their midst? Would they recognize their Savior if He stood before them? Would they follow Him if He called them out of the church and into the mission field?

Or would they hold too tightly to an understanding of church that only tangentially related to the worship of Jesus the Christ? Have the altar flowers, banners, golden crosses, and beautiful pictures of Jesus become so important to them—to us—that they have become the things we truly worship? Is the church building so important to us that it has replaced the people of Christ as what we know and understand to be the Church? Are clothes and shoes so important that we cannot hear the message God has for us unless it is delivered in suit and tie?

But Christ comes in and breaks the status quo.

Jesus does not enter the city as the messiah we want or expect. Christ does not allow us to be comfortable with a false identity and false understanding of the church, His bride. Christ comes in, riding on a donkey, worshipping in the Temple and teaching the true ways of God. Jesus does not incite a rebellion against the oppressors or raise up an army for war. Christ conquers sin and death through sacrifice and love. And in the same way, Jesus does not call the church to be a building with a sanctuary full of banners and altars and flags and symbols with a man in a starched black suit giving a sermon. Christ calls the church to be the living Body of Christ, the people of God in the world who share His light and life with everyone they can.

So where is it in your life that you need your status quo messed up? What definitions and identities do you need to have shifted? Where do you need to be jarred into a place of uncomfortability? Where is Christ arriving on a donkey, when you expected Him on a warhorse? We all have these places, myself included. I pray that God will reveal them to us all, and that God will help us to shatter these boundaries and break down the boxes that we try to fit Him into. I pray that God will again show us, in every part of our lives, not the Jesus we expect, but the Christ we need.

Amen.