Do Not Be Surprised 1 Peter 4:12-13

“Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that is taking place among you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice insofar as you are sharing Christ’s sufferings, so that you may also be glad and shout for joy when his glory is revealed.”

“Do not be surprised,” the Apostle says. Nevertheless, we could not help being both surprised and horrified by the Easter morning slaughter of the innocents at Saint Sebastian’s Church in Negombo, Sri Lanka.  Sneha Savindi Fernando was just eleven years old, and she was standing in line, ready to receive communion at Easter Mass when she was dismembered by a blast so powerful that it blew off much of the church’s roof and rained down heavy clay tiles upon the heads of the worshippers. Dozens were killed, many of them children. It was part of a violent day on which coordinated attacks by suicide bombers belonging to a terror cell, pledging allegiance to the Islamic State (ISIS), destroyed half a dozen churches and hotels across Sri Lanka, killing at least 250 people.

Perhaps you prayed for those persecuted Christians in Sri Lanka in church on Easter morning. “Rest eternal grant them, O Lord; and let light perpetual shine upon them.” Perhaps the news of the slaughter in Sri Lanka came to you like a chilling draft on a brilliant Easter morning as you sat amongst the flowers and heard the joyous “Alleluia!” again. Or perhaps you looked around, as I did, and the thought dawned on you for the first time—it could happen right here. The images that followed of blood spattered walls and lightly laden coffins from halfway around the world may seem hopelessly remote from our lives.  But make no mistake—those bombs were intended for you and me, beloved, as much as for Sneha and her family.

So do not be surprised. Increasingly the violence in our world is religious in nature, little internecine wars fought by neighboring populations of different faiths. Guerrilla attacks upon the helpless and unwary. They are “the fiery ordeal” of our times. Inspired by the rhetoric of online peddlers of terror, suicide attacks upon houses of worship are becoming more and more commonplace. Incidents like the shooting in a synagogue in Poway, California that took place over the weekend, are becoming horrifically familiar. A lone shooter, inspired by the same white supremacist propaganda that triggered the massacres in a mosque in Christchurch, New Zealand and at another synagogue in Pittsburgh, opened fire during a prayer service, killing one worshipper and wounding several others, including the rabbi. This is our new reality. It is not going to go away.

So do not be surprised. All this a part of great global war of religious ferment. In part it is a violent demonstration of fervent believers—often young– against materialistic Western values. In part it is a battle for dominance and converts in diverse religious communities living side by side in the immerging world.  In part it is the attempt of groups like ISIS  to frighten and unsettle the rest of us. And it does. Sneha was but one small victim in that global war.  Her Christian faith and nothing else made her a victim. She was in every other sense innocent. And your Christian faith makes you a participant in that struggle, beloved, and–whether you think you are or not—a potential victim.

Then what should we do, beloved?  Well, we cannot stop the tectonic plates represented of the great religions from colliding with ferocious results, but we can prepare ourselves for violence if it should come to our own houses of worship. We should have the same active-shooter drills that are now common in schools and libraries and employ the same watchfulness. It is the business of leadership of the church to do what needs to be done to protect the body of Christ.

The Apostle Peter, writing to his little churches in Asia Minor who are experiencing some kind of persecution, tells them–“Do not be surprised at the painful test you are suffering as though something unusual were happening to you.” It was something to be concerned about, but it should be regarded as our share of the sufferings of Christ and a natural byproduct of the Church’s proclamation of the Gospel. It should not prevent us from being faithful to that proclamation.  Persecution for the early church was simply another sign that “the end of all things is near” (4:7). We don’t know whether the end is near or far distant, but these days no one is exempt from the threat of violence targeting people of faith. So at very least we should do what we can do to protect ourselves and our children, so that if the unimaginable should happen if we will not be surprised.

The Limits of Respect 1 Peter 2:13-17

The Apostle Peter writes: “For the sake of the Lord submit yourselves to every human authority, to the Emperor, who is the supreme authority, and to the governors who have been appointed by him to punish the evildoers and praise those who do good. For God wants you to silence the ignorant talk of foolish people by the good things you do. Live as free people; do not, however, use your freedom to cover up any evil, but live as God’s slaves. Respect everyone, love other believers, honor God, and respect the Emperor.”

I chose this passage to share with you, beloved, precisely because I needed to hear it these words myself and because I confess that I have disrespected the Emperor. And I am working with the presupposition that some of you also have as much difficulty following the Apostle’s command—“submit yourselves to every human authority, to the Emperor as the supreme authority”—as I have.

This a passage runs counter to the very spirit of modern America. We consider ourselves sovereign individuals and are not particularly good at submitting to anything above ourselves, let alone an Emperor and his governors. Our ultimate loyalty is to ourselves. The rightness or wrongness of this attitude is up for debate, but there it is. And we disrespect the Emperor because we can do so and get away with it.

That makes our situation is as different possible from that of the church to which the Apostle Peter is writing. In the official theology of the ancient Roman world, the divine Emperor was regarded as the personification of the state and worshipped as such with incense and prayers.  The symbol of unity and peace in the empire, he was hailed publicly as god and lord. Of course, Christians could not participate in these rituals of loyalty; their faith in Jesus as the only God and Lord opened them to charges of atheism and treason, and made them liable to the direst punishments. So they had to be very circumspect in order not to draw attention to themselves. They needed to be especially careful to show as much respect for the symbols of the state—the Emperor and his appointed governors–as their faith allowed, so that they could go on worshipping Jesus in peace as far out of the sight and mind of the Emperor as possible.

We don’t have an Emperor. Our chief executive might at times style himself as one, but he isn’t. Certainly he is not the symbol of unity and peace in the empire. Quite the opposite. It comes as old news indeed that America is a deeply and tragically divided society. What we used to pledge our allegiance to back at school, that “one nation under God,” is now in fact two nations—at very least, and likely more. So which of them are we pledging allegiance to? Which one are we singing our national anthem for? The one on the right? The one on the left? The socialist one? The capitalist one? The one open to immigrants? The one openly hostile to invaders?  It is a real question, beloved. Which America?

And our current wannabe emperor, far from fostering peace and unity, derives his political clout from the hostility that divides us. So he does everything possible to promote the ill-will among the various versions of America in order to enhance his own power. None of this should come as surprise to anyone, no matter which America you belong to. The question for Christians is what to make of the Apostle’s command—which is echoed throughout the New Testament—to “respect everyone, love other believers, honor God, and respect the Emperor.”

These are not four commands, beloved, but a single command expressed in four ways. To “honor God” means to “live as God’s slaves,” as the Apostle puts it. We belong to someone else. And to live as God’s slaves means to adopt a godly attitude toward the whole human family and not to despise anyone in it as inhuman or worthy of contempt. It means to be honest in our words and exemplary in our deeds so as to deserve the goodwill of all—whether you get it or not. It forbids intentionally creating division and disharmony in the world and in the church. To “honor God” also means to “love other believers,” and to cherish the other members of the “household of God” with whatever grace we are given to do it—especially those who differ from us politically.  Finally to “honor God” means to “respect the Emperor” and pray for him. This is just part of the cross that is given to us as followers of Jesus to carry. It’s heavy, but it is a manageable load.

Are there limits to our respect to the Emperor? Of course there are. Like every human relationship, respect is provisional–it depends upon the person who demands it as much as the one who gives it.  And we cannot give our respect to that which is evil or to those who profess and do it, and still retain our integrity.  Because in the end, as my father used to say, “Your integrity is all that you have.”

The early church admonished believers repeatedly to respect the Emperor and the powers that be, both to stay out of trouble and because it is the right thing to do.  But that respect was always limited by the command to honor God alone and by the proclamation that it is Jesus Christ who is Lord and Savior—and no one else.

 

 

The Great Nevertheless Luke 24:10-12

 

“The women were Mary Magdalene, Joanna and Mary the mother of James; they and the other women with them told these things to the apostles.  But the apostles thought what the women said was nonsense and they did not believe them.  But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; he bent down and saw the grave cloths but nothing else.  Then he went back home amazed at what had happened.”

I suppose that the disciples of Jesus–the eleven and some others–could not be blamed for regarding the strange news the women brought as “nonsense.”  It seemed so ridiculous and contrary to the normal order of things–all that confusing chatter about empty tombs and angelic messengers.  They dismissed it out of hand as an empty rumor, mere “hen talk.” Who could believe it?  The message was–and is–absurd.  It cannot be taken seriously as a scientific or historical fact.  Nevertheless–and it is “The Great Nevertheless–the nonsense of the Cross and the empty tomb is God’s sense. And the rumor of what became of Jesus has not died out in two thousand years–far from it–because there is something in us–even the most skeptical of us–that reaches out for what is Really Real.

That is why, while the other disciples reckoned the story to be a mere rumor–hen talk–Peter got up and ran to the tomb.  Something impelled him–something deep in the human soul–not only to walk but to run.  And what he found was something somewhat different from what the women found, but no less shocking in its own way–an empty cave and castaway linen cloths and nothing else.  And that is true of human experience of The Great Nevertheless.  It does not reveal itself in the same way to everyone.  It takes each of us differently.  To some it remains nonsense, but to others it testifies to the truth–beyond the bare facts of science or history–that in this world few things are genuinely impossible.  Anything can happen.

And it usually does.   This week of the Resurrection was indeed a big one for the impossible possibilities.  Who could have imagined that while the whole world watched, the cathedral of Notre Dame could b gutted by a fire that broke on the roof and at one point threatened to consume the entire building?  Parisians and tourists flocked to see the awful spectacle. Who could believe it? When the burning spire collapsed into the nave crowds that included the whole world collectively gasped with horror.  Onlookers wept openly and some sang a hymn–an Ave Maria for Our Lady, for who the great church is dedicated.

The cathedral’s firefighters saved relics of Christ’s Passion and some works of art, but the fate of other treasures is unknown.  France is in shock.  The soul of the French nation has been seared by the flames that ravaged a structure that has stood in the heart of Paris for 850 years.  President Emmanuel Macron vowed to rebuild the cathedral, whatever the cost.  And over one billion dollars have already been pledged to the reconstruction effort.  Undoubtedly the cathedral will rise from the ashes, reborn from the human need for some connection to the divine.  Yet it will not be the same church.  Paris has been changed forever. And, as one commentator observed, how very strange that a nation so deeply secularized, so skeptical, so de-Christianized as modern France should be so moved by the sight of a burning church.  Together in this catastrophe we caught a glimpse of what is Really Real.

Who would have thought it?  What else can happen?  The more we reflect upon it the more we are like Peter walking home, still winded from his run to the tomb, but caught up in sheer amazement by what can happen in a Resurrection world, where anything can and does.

 

 

So Which Jesus Will It Be? Luke 23:18-19

So Which Jesus Will It Be?
Luke 23:18-19
Pastor Bill Roen April 19, 2019
“The whole crowd cried out, ‘Kill him! Set Barabbas free for us!’ (Barabbas had been put in prison for a riot that had taken place in the city and for murder.)”
Talk about bad decisions, beloved. It was by far and away the worst decision ever made. And yet the evangelist Luke is at pains to tell us that the whole crowd made it together, without exception. No dissenting voice was heard that day except the voice of the unbelieving Pilate, who vainly sought to release the innocent Jesus. But the crowd defied his authority and demanded the release of another prisoner, probably bound over for crucifixion.
The gospel writer gives us only a little information about the one he calls Barabbas, which means “son of the father.” The name indicates that no one knows whose son he was. He was a man without a background. “Barabbas” is a substitution for his real name that ancient sources tell us was Jesus. The evangelist changed it out of respect for the other Jesus “the Christ.” But Jesus—“Yeshua”– was a common enough name in Bible times, and the two shared it. So in fact there were two Jesus’s to choose from, which makes the choice of the crowd even more bitterly ironic.
“Away with this man,” they all shout together. Get him out of our sight. Kill him! Give us Barabbas! Give us the other Jesus! We would rather have Jesus the terrorist, the cloak and dagger man, a dangerous animal roaming among us than this Jesus of Nazareth, this want-to-be Messiah. We choose the familiar evil we know instead of the good we do not.
It says a lot about human choices, this greatest tragic story ever told. Are they always as bad as this? Sometimes no. But sometime yes—especially when we consider the evil clowns we sometimes choose to rule us, rejecting good and decent women and men, left and right, because they are too tame and boring. What the crowd wants is excitement, glamour, bling, and too often they will choose a braggart, and later regret their choice when it is too late to unmake it. And some few people will go on clinging to their bad decisions simply because they cannot bear to admit that they have been mistaken. It seems as if the harshest, most deluded and prejudiced voices shout the loudest and the longest.
They did that day, and those voices prevailed. Choosing Jesus of Nazareth over the other choices life has on offer has never easy, beloved. And it would have been impossible if Jesus had not died to make it otherwise. A crowd is overwhelming force. We are herd animals, beloved. If we imagine ourselves standing among them, the best we can hope for is that we would have kept silent. And that is what the story of Jesus’ trial and death should do—reduce us to silence. Today is not a time for words, but a time to look at Jesus and consider that it was our bad decisions that caused his death. Time and again we have chosen others instead of him. And we would continue to do so, but his Cross offers us a better choice. His Spirit gives us power to stand up against the crowd. And his resurrection gives us the courage we need to get up on our hind legs and lead a better life.

Simon Says Luke 22:31-32

Jesus says, “Simon, Simon! Listen! Satan has received permission to test all of you, to separate the good from the bad, as a farmer separates the wheat from the chaff. But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith will not fail.  And when you turn back to me, you must strengthen your brothers.”

It is often the case that those who do best at high school–the star athletes and the homecoming queens–who are the ones who have the hardest time dealing with what life has to throw at them later on.  They are confused by failure and resentful of what others, with less brilliant beginnings, take in stride.  Among the lessons that came easily to them, they failed to learn the most difficult and important lesson of all–the lesson of endurance and compassion for themselves and others.

Early success is not always a blessing in later life. You need to take a bitter taste of frustration before you can deal successfully with the mixture of sorrow and sweetness that is existence in  this world.  Because even our failures have a purpose, beloved.  They keep us from thinking too highly of ourselves, first of all. And then they make us compassionate with those who are as weak as we are.

In our Gospel lesson, Simon Peter stands at the threshold of his life’s greatest test.  It is a test of loyalty and courage.  But think how different the story would have been if he had resisted the temptation to deny Jesus three times before the rooster crows (verse 34). Think how his courage and fortitude would have lifted Simon Peter above the ranks of ordinary people and made him more than just a saint, but an angel.

But he fails at the crucial moment, and he does so repeatedly–much to his chagrin, but much to our good and the good of the other disciples.  Because what good is the example of an angel to lesser beings?  What good is a priest who does not feel compassion for his people/ What good is a rock that cannot be shaped with an iron hammer?  What good would brave and faithful Peter have been to us who are often faithless and cowardly? None.

The truth is that the story of Peter lifts up the difference between Jesus and ourselves, between his perfect faithfulness and our brand of faith, which is weak and contingent upon the circumstances in which we find ourselves.  Simon Peter expresses his ultimate loyalty to Jesus, “Lord, I am ready to go to prison with you and to die with you” (verse 33).

So Simon says, but Peter’s actual conduct was nothing like that.  At the sticking point he waffled, as we often do.  He denied, as we, by our word and actions, by what we have done and what we have failed to do, deny that we are disciples of the Crucified One.  But then he wept and repented, as we repent.  And he was able, out of his own failure and cowardice, to strengthen, gather and lead the other disciples, who ran and hid when Jesus was arrested, into the infant church.  So it is  Peter’s failure as much as his faith that is the rock upon which the church was founded.

And so we need to accept our failures for what they are–nothing to be proud of, heaven knows, but the way our faith is hardened and our hearts are softened. And as the method by which God, the good farmer, separates what is kingdom-worthy in us, from what is empty chaff.

Contentment in Christ. Philippians 4:11

It’s a learning process–not something that comes at all naturally to us.  What comes naturally is dissatisfaction–a restless, visceral voice that is constantly whispering:  There must be more than just this.  There must be something missing.  By nature we think that satisfaction comes from somewhere outside ourselves, from something that we can acquire.  If only I had more, I would be content.

It takes the grace of the Holy Spirit to teach us how to be content with what we have. Paul says he knows from experience “what it is to have little” and “what it is to have plenty.” But life in the Spirit has taught him that “plenty” and “little” mean nothing, because of the overwhelming awareness of the crucified and risen Christ that overshadows everything else.  Things happen but nothing else matters.

Paul has found “the secret” of what my mother called “divine detachment,” which should be the goal of all of us who do our best to follow Jesus.  Detachment does not mean that issues of wealth and poverty are unimportant.  On the practical level, justice should be our daily concern.  But in our own hearts and minds, we need to get to the place where having and not having do not consume our thought and energy.  What is important is God, the still centers of our lives, not ourselves.

And that kind of detachment yields amazing strength.  So St. Paul says with supreme confidence: “I can do all things through him who strengthens me” (verse 13).  I am all right, he tells those in the church in Philippi who are concerned about his welfare.  And more than just all right, I am strong and at peace because in Christ I am indifferent to anything that could make me otherwise.

Spy Wednesday

Luke 22:3-6

“Then Satan entered into Judas called Iscariot, who was one of the twelve disciples.  So Judas went off and spoke with the chief priests and the officers of the Temple guard about how he could betray Jesus to them.  They were pleased and offered to pay him money.  Judas agreed to it and started looking for a good chance to hand Jesus over to them without the people knowing about it.”

In the old calendar this day of Holy Week is called Spy Wednesday.  It is the day on which we are invited to consider Judas’ s search for a way to betray Jesus to his enemies.  It has indeed all the elements of a soft cover spy story.  Greed.  Perfidy. A double agent.  Everything is done in the darkness in back alleys, whispering corners and dimly lit rooms.  All it lacks is a believable motive for Judas’ betrayal.

We cannot read Luke’s account without wondering with the evangelist–What got into him?  It wasn’t a chance occurrence.  A momentary slip.  It was a premediated thing he did–planned over time.  But why?  Luke supplies an answer–“Satan entered into Judas called Iscariot.”  It is his conventional way of saying that the act was completely irrational and totally evil.  It does not answer the question–Why?  The evangelist also suggests that it was done for money.  But the sum Judas received was so niggling that money alone cannot be the whole reason.  There must be something more, some dark delusion, something buried so deeply in the soul of the betrayer that we cannot hope to reach it.

What we can reach is the truth of this sad and sordid story for our own lives.  Because the treachery of Judas stands for all those smaller betrayals that we have made.  Judas’ betrayal stands as a paradigm of all our unfaithfulness.  It is different from them only because it is so much greater.  Because we also have betrayed the Savior.

When we look back from the perspective time gives us we wonder–Why did I do that?  What got into me?  Did I do it for some momentary pleasure? ?Did I do it out of anger or wounded pride? Did I do it because it was simply easier than not to?  The truth is there is no complete answer because betrayal comes to us as naturally as breathing.  We betray because we are betrayers–like Peter and Paul, all the saints and poor Judas together with the rest of humanity.

Some modern people would like to rescue Judas from condemnation of the Gospels, excuse his action as a mistake, or even turn him into the anti-hero of the passion story.  But to dismiss the plain facts of the story is to take on the role of God, who alone gives forgiveness, that forgiveness which he offers to every human being.  Our betrayals only serve to make that forgiveness more amazing.  But as for Judas, the evangelist Luke stands in awe of such depravity and he has Jesus say, “The Son of Man will die as God has decided, but how terrible for that man who betrays him” (verse 22).  To try to make Judas’ betrayal less terrible is simply an underhanded way to excuse our own unfaithfulness.

If there is hop for any of us–Judas included–it is in God’s overwhelming love, shonw on the cross for which forgiveness flows unstinting.  As Judas the villain shows us the worst that we can be, so Jesus the hero, armed with an invincible faith, takes the first step down the descending staircase into the basement of existence, which he plumbed so that we do not have to.  We are invited to look at our betrayals in the dark light that his Cross casts over our lives and somberly rejoice that love covers them all.