It's Not the Splash - It's the Ripples (Sermon)

“It’s Not the Splash – It’s the Ripples”

Luke 19:29-40  

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

3/18/18

²⁹When [Jesus] had come near Bethphage and Bethany, at the place called the Mount of Olives, he sent two of the disciples, ³⁰saying, “Go into the village ahead of you, and as you enter it you will find tied there a colt that has never been ridden. Untie it and bring it here. ³¹If anyone asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ just say this, ‘The Lord needs it.’”

³²So those who were sent departed and found it as he had told them. ³³As they were untying the colt, its owners asked them, “Why are you untying the colt?”

³⁴They said, “The Lord needs it.

³⁵Then they brought it to Jesus; and after throwing their cloaks on the colt, they set Jesus on it. ³⁶As he rode along, people kept spreading their cloaks on the road

³⁷As he was now approaching the path down from the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude of the disciples began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, ³⁸saying, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!’

³⁹Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, order your disciples to stop.”

⁴⁰He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the stones would shout out.” (NRSV)

         The liturgical observance of Palm Sunday includes leafy branches and shouts of “Hosanna!” In Jesus’ day that word and those branches were reserved for momentous, big splash occasions like national celebrations and ticker-tape parades. And we do tend to imagine Jesus’ arrival into Jerusalem as a magnificent splash, don’t we?

         Luke, the gospel to the poor and marginalized, presents a more understated account. He doesn’t even mention the nationalistic symbol of leafy branches, only cloaks laid on the roadway. Luke does say that Jesus’ disciples – a small band of powerless misfits – shout Hosanna, a word used to welcome conquering heroes. And their hero arrives not on a great steed, but astride an unbroken colt whose value seems suspect because its owners barely blink an eye when a couple of strangers borrow it without permission.

         Because the scene lacks spectacle and sensationalism, reporters would have chosen to cover the public execution of those two thieves who stole something of greater value than some scrawny colt. Watching two men nailed to crosses writhing in pain – now that’s entertainment! Forget the veracity of the news and the reporters’ lack of objectivity, nothing sells ad copy like nationalism draped in fear and vengeance.

         In Luke, God’s arrivals tend to be quiet gurgles rather than eye-popping splashes. Remember, the birth of Jesus is a lonely whisper through the bare branches of winter. Sure, some shepherds describe a heavenly host of angels, but who knows what they really saw? And who trusts shepherds, anyway? According to Luke, then, the king trotting into Jerusalem was born to parents who were shown all the hospitality offered to your average barnyard animal.

         Our contemporary culture is addicted to big splashes. Believers and non-believers alike expect experiences of God to be sensational and overwhelming, because only then can they be convincing and real.

I hear Luke saying, No, the story’s not about some triumphalistic splash. It’s about the things that happen out of sight. It’s about the mystery at work in the deep darkness just before the dawn a few days later. It’s about bread broken and eyes opened. It’s about things we would no more expect than we would expect rocks to start talking.

         Written years after the first Easter, the gospels aren’t great splashes. They’re ripples. That’s why Luke doesn’t end his story with the resurrection of Jesus but continues on with the Book of the Acts of the Apostles. I think Luke wants us to see that the arrival of Jesus doesn’t end with his birth, his entry into Jerusalem, or even with his resurrection. The arrival of God in Jesus Christ continues. Luke wants us to watch, and to feel, the ripples continuing to spread from generation to generation.

How many of you experienced parents cringed when your children begged for some kind of pet? If you did, you might have done so because you suspected that all your kids had in mind was the splash – that momentary newness that wears off as soon as your kids realize that the dog, or cat, or hamster must be cared for day after day. But you wise parents probably went ahead and got the critter because you knew that it wasn’t about the splash. It’s about the rippling lessons of relationship with and responsibility for something other than one’s own self.

         You and I are ripples from the splash that began in the beginning when the Word was with God, and the Word was God. Yes, the Word becomes flesh and lives among us, but even this enfleshed Word is part of the ripples God set in motion long before.

         As Jesus’ colt descends the Mount of Olives and clip-clops into the City of David, a cluster of disciples feels those ripples spreading into their hearts. They, in turn, send ripples into the air with their shouts of Hosanna! They send ripples into the earth by spreading their cloaks on the ground. These ripples lap against the stony shores of Pharisee hearts, and they can’t handle it.

         “Rabbi!” they say. “Calm your people down!”

         Too late! says Jesus. They’re just ripples from the God-splash that happened billions of years ago. Even these ancient rocks are ripples, he says, and you can’t shut them up.

         Where are the places that holiness laps against the shores of your heart?

Where are you being shown the rippling presence of Jesus in your life and the lives of those around you?

While some of those revelations may arrive as breath-taking events, they’re probably fairly subtle things, instances that occur in the nooks and crannies of your life. You may know them as ripples of eternity because they don’t happen for your sake alone. And they’re much more than some beautiful sunrise or bird’s nest. They’re the teasing little moments that push the ripples of love and compassion outward from you and into and for the world.

It seems to me that learning to relinquish our lust for the big splash helps us to experience the transforming blessings of the ripples.

         Big-splash conversions are badges of honor in evangelical circles. And I’ve become skeptical of the way dramatic, individual experiences are used. They tend to become standards for authenticity. Years ago, I heard a young missionary say, “We’re out there trying to get people saved.” The young man had splashed his way out of addiction, and I celebrate that with him. But his personal experience imposed a no splash/no salvation dogma on his target audience.

         I don’t recall a splash. And I’m convinced that faith doesn’t begin when we say “yes” to Jesus. That’s just one moment in God’s ongoing work in the Creation. Our faith is about participating in the ripples of yeses that continue throughout our lives. It’s about the forgiveness we give and receive, the cups of cold water we offer to those in need, the visits we make to those who are lonely, the prayers we pray with those who suffer. It’s on such down-to-earth colts that Jesus steals into our hearts and rides through our lives and into the world.

         In early January many folks find themselves depressed after having put so much into the Christmas splash. But Christmas is about the ripples. It’s about the day-to-day reality of Jesus’ life. The same is true for Easter. While we make special plans for that day, our celebrations remind us that we are ripples of resurrection. We are called to the steady work of walking from Capernaum to Jerusalem to Emmaus, from Damascus, to Rome, to Wittenburg, from Sudan, to Selma, to Parkland. And we’re called to remain grateful, generous, and hopeful through it all.

Enjoy the splashes when and where you can. But may your lives be ceaseless ripples of love, fresh reminders of the constantly and gently arriving presence of God’s Word made flesh.

The Ladder (Story Sermon)

“The Ladder”

John 3:1-17

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

3/11/18

         My name is Nicodemus. I’ve been a leader of the Jews for many years. And just weeks ago I would have told you how confident I was of myself, and of my mastery of the law. I would have told you that in knowing the law, I knew the heart and mind of God.

         Part of me still aches for that sense of clarity, for that certainty. But things have changed. Where my vision once seemed clear, it’s now blurred. Where my feet once felt like they stood on broad and solid ground, they now step tentatively, as if crossing some high, narrow bridge through thick fog.

         Things really turned when I snuck out one night to speak with that young rabbi, Jesus from Nazareth. He’s an odd man, disturbing and compelling at the same time.

         My brothers on the Sanhedrin think little of him, as did I at first. But the reports of things he said and did fascinated me. I was curious. He wasn’t of high birth or formal education, but if what people were saying were true, where did Jesus get his authority if not from God?

         I spoke to Caiaphas about Jesus, and the chief priest did not receive my questions with patience.

“Have you forgotten his sacrilege in the temple?” he said.

Then he sneered saying, “We’ve seen his kind before. He won’t last long.”

         I let it drop, but the curiosity kept stirring inside me.

One night, I was unable to sleep. And like my mind, my feet wouldn’t stay still. So, I found myself sneaking through the streets of Jerusalem toward the house where Jesus was staying.

Pitiful. Me, a leader of the Jews, creeping like some cockroach through the inky shadows of that new-moon night.

         When I reached the house, I knocked so gently I knew that part of me didn’t want the door to open. But in a moment, it creaked on its hinges. It was one of Jesus’ disciples. That bunch of vagabonds. You know, Jesus may have lost his temper in the temple, but many consider his choice of followers his greatest weakness.

The one called Peter answered my knock. It was midnight, but if the sun had been shining behind him, it would have been no less dark in the huge man’s shadow. A fisherman, patient and strong, Peter must have been watching over the others, waiting to catch someone like me in some act of mischief against Jesus.

“Who are you,” he said in a threatening voice.

         “My name is Nicodemus. I’m a priest. If possible, I would like to speak with the Nazarene.”

         Peter eyed me with suspicion. Then a quiet voice from above said, “Peter, let him in.”

The disciple opened the door and stood aside. He led me to a wooden ladder against the back wall. It led to an opening in the roof.

“Up there,” he said. Then he caught me by the arm. “Count the rungs,” he said, “and step over the sixth one. It’s coming loose.”

         I thanked him and eased onto the ladder. It groaned and flexed beneath my feet.

         Jesus sat across the rooftop on front edge of the house. He was staring into the sky as if the stars themselves were some still and small-voiced text he was reading.

He motioned for me to come and sit beside him. As I shuffled across the timbers of the roof, I thought of Adam, reaching out with dreadful curiosity when tempted with forbidden fruit.

“So,” he said. “What brings you here?”

         “Rabbi,” I said, “we know you’re a teacher sent by God. Who else could do what you do without God’s help?”

         Returning his gaze to the sky, Jesus said, “I tell you the truth, Nicodemus. No one can see the kingdom of God without being born anew.”

         Born anew? I wondered. Born anew?

“Jesus, I heard you turned water into wine, but how can anyone be born a second time?”

          “I’m talking about a different kind of birth,” he said. “I’m talking about a spiritual birth, a birth from above.

“Right now, Nicodemus, you can’t see beyond the worldly realm. It’s not your fault, but over the years, the leaders of our faith have reduced God’s Torah to a scoresheet. You’re missing the fundamental blessing – the blessing of holy community through which people come to know and love God.

         “The physical world is good, Nicodemus. It’s a great gift from God. Indeed, the creation is a revelation of God. As such, everything around us, including each other, is an invitation – an invitation into the deeper world of relationship with all that is seen and unseen. That’s the world of Spirit and truth.

“Don’t look so surprised, Nicodemus. You have the stories of the Exodus and the prophets. You have the poetry of the psalmists. You have all you need to hear everything I’m saying.

“Like the wind, you hear it, but you don’t know exactly where it comes from or where it’s going, do you? It’s the same way with everyone who is Spirit-born, everyone who walks in the flesh while living in the Spirit.”

         “Rabbi, I…I’m not following you.”

         Jesus looked at me with those deep, night-sky eyes. “Nicodemus,” he said, “bless your heart. You’re a teacher of Israel. You’ve memorized so much, but you understand and feel so little.”

         At that point Jesus began to speak some more, but he didn’t seem to speak just to me. He spoke inward, to himself. Or maybe he spoke outward, to God, or to the stars, or to ages yet to come. He said something about believing earthly things and heavenly things. Something about how no one had ascended into and descended from heaven but the Son of Man.

         Then he talked about God’s love for the whole world. He mentioned an only Son, sent by God, and how that Son connected everyone with God in such a way that he brought us into God’s presence and light. He said that the Son’s purpose wasn’t to keep score or to punish, but to redeem. In all of this he made no mention of laws or sacrifice. Only love.

“Jesus, what you’re talking about,” I said, “sounds like a love that lives beyond the law. Is there even a word for that?”

Jesus let a silence as deep as the heavens fall around us. He didn’t answer, and when it was clear he wasn’t going to, I got up. Frustrated and confused, I made my way back to the ladder. When I set my foot on the top rung, it dawned on me: I had counted six rungs on the way up, but I hadn’t counted beyond that. So going down, which was the bad one? I had no idea. I leaned into the ladder and held tight to the upper rungs as I made my way down. I expected, at any moment, to feel that weak rung give way and send me crashing into the pile of snoring roughnecks below.

         When my foot touched solid ground, I turned and found myself face to face with Peter.

         “You okay?” he said. I think I heard a grin in his voice.

         “Yes,” I said. “Did you fix the ladder while I was up there?”

         Peter shook his shaggy head. “No. Did you trust me when I told you to avoid the sixth rung?”

“Of course, I did.”

         “But you didn’t count above it, did you?” 

         “No, I didn’t.”

         “So, coming down became a kind of step-by-step leap of faith.”

         “I suppose so,” I said.

         “‘No one,” said Peter, “has ascended into heaven but the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man.’”

          So, he had listened to our conversation.

“Nicodemus,” he said, “here’s what we’re learning from Jesus: He is the Son of Man. He is God’s Son. And I’ve decided that he’s kind of like this ladder.

         “You doubted the ladder when you went up because someone told you it wasn’t safe, but you had feel your way down. And the ladder held. It will always hold, Nicodemus. It will always take you to the roof where you can stand beneath the endless heavens, where you can feel the renewing peace of awe and humility. And it will always deliver you back to earth.”

         It seemed that I had misjudged this fisherman.

Peter stamped his foot on the dirt floor of the house “Nicodemus, this earth, right here, right now, this is where the Son of Man and all who follow him live their Spirit-born lives.”

Just then, a breeze rattled the shutters on the front of the house. In the cedar outside, a warbler began to sing. Down the street a dog barked. I wanted to stay and hear more, but dawn was about to break, and I could not be seen leaving that house.

“I should go,” I said.

“I understand,” said Peter. “But listen, Nicodemus, everyone in authority is saying that Jesus isn’t safe. And while there’s a certain truth to that, he is faithful. He’s true and good. He can be trusted.”

         I thanked Peter, and he opened the door for me. The moment I stepped into the street, someone whispered my name.

“Nicodemus!”

Terrified that I’d been caught, I looked around.

“Up here,” said the voice.

I looked up and saw Jesus peering from the roof.

“There is a word for it,” he said, “a word for love beyond all law.

“The word is grace.”

Discipleship: The New Exodus (Sermon)

“Discipleship: The New Exodus”

John 2:13-22

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

3/4/18

         Estimates are that in the early years of the first century, over 100,000 people traveled to Jerusalem for Passover. That more than doubled the city’s population for at least a week. Think of a whole week of Storytelling Festival with 10,000 people in downtown Jonesborough, all day/every day. Then take away certain refinements – like plumbing.

         Pilgrims to Jerusalem, many of whom traveled for days or even weeks, had a deep-seated hunger and thirst for both the process and purpose of Passover. The story of the Exodus defined the Jewish community. And the people kept the story alive through this yearly ritual.

It’s a human thing to create rituals and celebrations in both religious and secular life. And when those rituals and celebrations are questioned, when our defining assumptions are challenged, human beings tend to get defensive, even to the point of persecuting those who dare to threaten some sacred status quo. We are loath to admit to ourselves when something’s amiss with our comfortable, cultural arrangements. If there’s something wrong with the way we live in the world, there must be something wrong with us. There must be something incomplete about us. And if that’s the case, who are we?

An example of the consequences of tolerance for cultural inertia is to feel good about feeding the poor without questioning and challenging the systemic causes of poverty itself. Conservative columnist Scott Jennings challenged a cultural mindset last week when he asked, “Are we trying to win gun battles in school hallways, or to prevent school shootings…in the first place.”¹ Even to try to begin working toward solutions for the most serious problems requires the boldness of Moses to lead and the trust of Israel to follow. And remember, in the desert, the Hebrews, wandering and afraid, begin to crave the fleshpots of Egypt. They curse Moses for ripping them away from security and normalcy.

Change never comes easily. And systemic change doesn’t come just by passing new laws. Now, I’m not saying that laws are unimportant, but lasting transformation comes through an experience of Exodus, an experience of death and resurrection. The law given to Moses would have meant very little apart from the experience of the Exodus. That says to me that the work of prophets and prophetic communities is to lead God’s people into and through transformational experiences for the sake of all Creation.

John 2:13-22

¹³The Passover of the Jews was near, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. ¹⁴In the temple he found people selling cattle, sheep, and doves, and the money changers seated at their tables. ¹⁵Making a whip of cords, he drove all of them out of the temple, both the sheep and the cattle. He also poured out the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables.

¹⁶He told those who were selling the doves, “Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!”

¹⁷His disciples remembered that it was written, “Zeal for your house will consume me.”

¹⁸The Jews then said to him, “What sign can you show us for doing this?”

¹⁹Jesus answered them, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.”

²⁰The Jews then said, “This temple has been under construction for forty-six years, and will you raise it up in three days?”

²¹But he was speaking of the temple of his body. ²²After he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this; and they believed the scripture and the word that Jesus had spoken.

When Jesus storms the temple during Passover and drives out the moneychangers and the sacrificial livestock, he calls into question more than a thousand years of religious and cultural heritage.

He challenges the legitimacy of generations of biblical faith and practice.

He disrupts the systemic inequities that benefit the wealthy and the powerful and that allow them to exploit the poor, the hungry, the lonely, the sick, the very young, and the very old.

With a grace that is as disturbing as it is amazing, Jesus declares that the very institution that purports to trust, bear witness to, and celebrate God, are actually doing more to deny God and to withhold holiness and joy from the world.

When Jesus clears the temple, he inaugurates a new Exodus. He says loud and clear, “Let my people go!”

The rituals of our faith are meant to invite people into God’s presence and grace, not to manipulate God’s people through guilt and fear. Jesus incarnates the psalmist’s words, “For you have no delight in sacrifice; if I were to give a burnt offering, you would not be pleased. The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.” (Psalm 51:16-17)

         In his Passover outburst, Jesus declares that the whole sacrificial system is not only obsolete, but antithetical to who God is. This radical moment prepares us to understand that the crucifixion of Jesus reveals our bloodlust, not God’s. And the resurrection strengthens us for the Exodus of dying to self and rising to the new life revealed and offered to us and to all Creation in Jesus.

I still hear many Presbyterians call the area in the front of the sanctuary an “altar.” But in reformed ecclesiology, we have no altars. We have no need for them. Because of Easter, pastors stand in a chancel, a place not of sacrifice to a God who must be appeased, but a place of proclamation of the good news that in Jesus Christ, God’s own heart is being opened to us and poured out for us.

         In just a few minutes we will celebrate the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. And the purpose of this 2000-year-old ritual is to connect us to the life of Jesus. In the sacrament, we declare that as followers of Jesus, we are called to his outpouring work of resurrection and renewal, not of sacrificing livestock. This meal strengthens us for following Jesus through the wilderness and into the ever-present household of God.

When we take the bread and the cup, we remind ourselves, and we declare to each other and to the world, that Jesus is cleansing the temples of our bodies and minds. He’s cleansing us of everything that makes fearful, greedy, and vengeful. He’s cleansing us of everything that can make us irrelevant in the world. We also acknowledge that for him to purge us of those things can be as traumatic as purging the temple was for the moneychangers and the Jewish leaders.

As Jesus-followers, our lives are not our own. So, before any of us can belong authentically to our families, our communities, or our nations, we belong to Jesus first. All else must be rearranged so that our strength and our identity begin with Jesus, whose authority comes from his fearless love for God and for all that God loves.

When you come to the table this morning, may you taste and see the goodness of the Lord purging your body, mind, and soul for living an entirely new life, a life in service to one who does not need you to kill anything or anyone in order to prove your loyalty and love.

Instead, you live in service to God, who is eager to make alive all that is dead and to make new all that is old.

As disciples of Jesus, we live in a new Exodus. In this wilderness of blessing, God, through Jesus Christ, in the power of the Holy Spirit, is redeeming us and restoring us to the wholeness out of which we were created in the first place.

All thanks and praise be to God.

¹https://www.courier-journal.com/story/opinion/columnists/scott-jennings/2018/02/27/mass-shootings-soul-searching-guns/377590002/

Charge (Prior to Benediction):

The sacrificial system was far too easy:

Kill something, and appease an angry God.

We’re called to do the more difficult thing.

We’re called to do the opposite.

We’re called to die –

die to self and to rise to Christ,

through whom we are being made whole ourselves,

and signs of wholeness for the world.

You are being cleansed, renewed, and called out.

May your life be a journey –

an Exodus into God’s shalom.

Holding "The Bag" (March Newsletter)

Dear Friends,

         Recently, Marianne and I were walking our dog, Todd. We were clipping along a neighborhood route we’ve used for almost five years. We passed a house we pass every time we walk that route. Every time. With Todd on the leash. And he often sniffs and offers a canine “hind salute” to a tree out front. We’ve never thought about it. We always clean up what shouldn’t stay in someone else’s yard, and we never think about it when a dog salutes anything in our yard – a tree, a bush, even our mailbox. Never.

         Marianne had Todd, and I was holding “the bag.” When Todd sniffed and saluted a tree in front of the house, a man strutted out of the garage and yelled at Marianne: “GET YOUR [DARN] DOG OFFA MY TREE!”

         Because I was about twenty yards behind Marianne, I didn’t see or hear it all clearly, but I heard Marianne apologize as she kept walking.

         Spiteful emotions began to hit me in waves. I imagined all sorts of scenarios in which I got the best of this guy, humiliated him, beat him up, beat him down. I wanted to get even with him. I wanted revenge for his unfriendliness.

         Where did all of that come from? Where did his angry curse come from? Especially at something so petty? More importantly, where did my visceral reaction come from? Who is that guy inside me who charged from his own garage with a desire to do physical harm to another person. Whoever he is, he obviously thinks that such actions are justified and will make a difference.

The real me knows better. The real me knows that that guy inside me, just like the guy who cursed at Marianne, never accomplishes anything constructive. In fact, his actions always leave him holding “the bag.”

         The experience reminds me how tender our culture is right now. Many of us are one straw short of broken backs. We’re hyper-sensitive to the slightest words or actions. In a climate of anxiety and antagonism, it doesn’t take much to make folks defensive, or offensive. That makes our work as disciples of Jesus all the more difficult right now – and all the more crucial.

         In our current book study on the Beatitudes, Marjorie Thompson quotes P.C. Ainsworth who defines righteousness as “the human spirit recognizing and claiming kinship with God, and seeking all that is involved in that relationship.”*

         Jesus reveals to us God’s own deep hunger and thirst for righteousness among human beings. The life of Jesus reveals God’s own desire for us to know and to be in relationship with the image of God within us, God’s image being that part of us which is inseparable from God, that part of us out of which our true life and living arise.

Righteousness, justice, mercy, meekness, poverty of spirit, peacemaking – all these things are attributes of true disciples. They are utterly indispensable for us if we expect to follow Jesus in an age of vengeance, violence, and fear. To learn to put them into practice is to follow Jesus. It is to bear witness to God’s redeeming love in and for the world.

Apart from relationships of compassion, gratitude, and generosity, all of us are left holding “the bag.”

                                             Peace,

                                                      Pastor Allen

 *Marjorie J. Thompson and Stephen D. Bryant, The Way of Blessedness (Participant's Book), Upper Room Books, Nashville, 2003. p. 60.