The Call

Matthew 4:12-23        

Last weekend I watched a film with members of our session – a documentary about churches. There was one conversation that struck me as funny. One of the pastors interviewed described what his congregation was like whenever he suggested something new. He said if it wasn’t really different from what they were used to, they were usually willing to give it a try. And if it was different, well, then they would usually be willing to call a committee together to study it further, for a period of time. He seemed to think that was pretty good.

This was not a Presbyterian church, but it could have been, because Presbyterians are also fond of forming committees. We rely on committees to make decisions and get work done. Committees are a very “churchy” thing. Church people love committees. Presbyterians, in particular, love committees.

In fact, I have heard that when Presbyterians die and go to heaven, there we find a whole host of committees. We are given our assignments and then we get to work. Presbyterian heaven is full of committees. At least that’s what I’ve been told.

But looking at this passage from Matthew, where Jesus calls his disciples to come and follow him, do you notice what they don’t do?

They don’t form committees. They don’t hold any meetings.

They don’t make up an agenda. No one checks the Book of Order to see if there are any rules pertaining to this matter. No one makes a motion, or seconds one, and of course there are no votes. There is none of that good, decent, orderly stuff that gives us comfort and a sense of purpose. These guys don’t do committees. They just go.

I find it a bit alarming, don’t you? The way they seem to be willing to just drop everything and follow Jesus.

It’s something that all the disciples seem to have in common when Jesus calls. They drop their nets. They leave their fathers sitting in the boat. They walk away from their tax business, walk away from their home and family, walk away from the teacher they have been following. They don’t need to think about it. They don’t need to talk it over with one another. They don’t need to get to know Jesus better over a cup of coffee. They don’t need to sleep on it, pray over it, hear what the experts think, or put it to a vote. They just go.

It seems irrational – even irresponsible – to make a huge life-altering decision with such little deliberation. Yet, somehow, it seems to be essential that they do this very thing. Later in his ministry, we meet others who say they want to follow Jesus, but first they want to go home and take care of a few things. But that won’t cut it. Jesus doesn’t accept any excuses. You are either with him or you aren’t. Come now or don’t come at all.

There is no time for, “I’ll go follow Jesus next week.” There is no time for, “We need to research this before making a decision.” There is no time for anything else. Now is the time, and that’s it.

I wonder how they knew, in the moment, what was the right thing to do.

It was a tumultuous time in their world – a difficult time. This business of “follow me and I will make you fish for people” was not something they were familiar with. It wasn’t a common religious ritual of the day. And yet when they heard it they knew.

It was a difficult time; not too different from this time. Big changes in our world are leaving us wondering what it is we should be doing if we are faithfully following Jesus. These are times that leave us wondering where and how Jesus will lead us in this time and place.

And, most of all, wondering if we will be able, and willing, to follow.

Churches tend to be much like that one in the film – the one who approaches any new thing with suspicion, cautiously, slowly. We want to be good stewards, and that often means we want to be sure we don’t make a mistake. So we plan carefully. We don’t rush into things. And sometimes, we are so not-rushed, we appear to be stuck in place.

Over the past few months, I have been working with two congregations in our presbytery who are participating in a project called The Unglued Church. The project name comes from the observation that many churches these days seem to be stuck – unable to make the adaptations they need to make in order to be the church Jesus is calling them to be.

In this project, congregations are encouraged to first look at what they have and then what they can do. They take inventory of all their resources – monetary resources, material resources, human resources. And they take a look around at their neighborhood to see who their neighbors are, and what they need. They look at what they have and they look at what needs doing.

And then they try something.

The churches are encouraged to just try something, to “just do it” as Nike says. It doesn’t have to be the best idea, but just a good idea and a do-able idea.

Now, this is uncomfortable and uncharted territory for most congregations, because generally speaking, before we do something new we spend a lot of time planning. We form a committee. We schedule meetings. We discuss it. We gather information, and we discuss it some more. But in the Unglued Church Project they say, just do it. Don’t spend a lot of time planning it. Because then when you are finally ready to put your plan in action, the whole problem will have changed. When you’re finally ready to follow Jesus – well, the moment has passed. Do it now, or don’t do it at all.

I share this with you as someone who finds it all very challenging. I don’t rush into things – I never have. My comfort zone is “let’s make a committee and discuss it.” But rather than patting us on the back for being careful planners, here it seems like Jesus is telling us “don’t think – do.”

You have to be nimble, the Unglued Church Project says. So how do we do that – be nimble? How do we know what new thing to do? How do we know when to say yes and just go for it – and not look back?

How do we drop our nets and follow Jesus when he calls?

Matthew doesn’t tell us what was going on in the heads of those disciples who followed Jesus, and I wish he did. I would like to know what they thought. I would like to know what their lives were like before Jesus, what they were like before they dropped their nets and followed Jesus. But Matthew doesn’t tell us any of that, and so I don’t know. But here is something I do know.

If we are going to be able to follow Jesus when he calls us, we ought to be in the habit of listening. And not only that, but we ought to be expecting him to call us. Listening. Expecting. Anticipating the call that says, “Come and follow me.” And to not be so attached to our nets – or anything else we have, or are doing now – that we can’t let it go.

Listen for the call. And when it comes, follow.

Behold the Lamb

Isaiah 49:1-7       

John 1:29-42       

There is a new film on Netflix called The Two Popes. It’s a dramatization about the relationship between the Popes Benedict and Francis. Pope Benedict, who was elected after Pope John Paul died, and Pope Francis, who was elected after Benedict resigned. Or retired. Or quit. 

I’m not sure what to call it. It was something that has no precedent in modern history. Popes don’t usually resign – they die.

The film portrays how during the conclave when Benedict was elected, the cardinals were not initially all of one mind. Many wanted Francis instead. But Benedict eventually received the required number of votes and so that was it. Francis (although he wasn’t called Francis at that time. He was Jorge) went home to Argentina and continued serving as a cardinal.

Some years later, Francis, or Jorge, sent a letter to the Pope asking for permission to retire. He may have expected this to be a simple thing, handled through the mail. But much to his surprise he was summoned to see the pope. He didn’t know why.

These two men didn’t have a relationship at that time. They were very different and they had a lot of disagreements. There were many things Benedict did as pope that Jorge disagreed with, and this was a large part of the reason, according to the film, Jorge wanted to retire. He was no longer comfortable serving under this pope.

When he arrived at the pope’s summer residence he discovered that Benedict did not want him to retire. So they spent a few days together with Jorge trying to press the issue and Benedict changing the subject.

Eventually, he realized why Benedict was resisting the matter of his cardinal’s retirement when he disclosed to Jorge that he, Benedict, intended to retire. And he wanted Francis to succeed him. This wasn’t his choice, of course, but he had reasons to believe that Jorge would probably be elected. And would then become Pope Francis.

This is a story about calling – answering the call of God and then learning what that call will involve, what will be demanded of you. It’s always a matter of answering the call to “come and see.”

Neither of these men knew what would unfold for them. It’s possible that Benedict always dreamed of being pope. But he surely never dreamed that it would turn out as it did. He became embroiled in scandals – the sex abuse scandals that we all know about, and the Vatican financial scandals that were less sensational but very serious. And he was somewhat at a loss as to how to deal with these things.

In their conversations, they spoke about their spiritual lives and Benedict confessed a painful thing: he felt he was no longer hearing God speak to him. He no longer felt the Holy Spirit working in him – a very lonely feeling. He began to wonder what he should do. How could he be the Holy Father of the church if he no longer felt God was with him?

It was while he was trying to discern his way forward that he received the letter from Jorge, and only then felt he knew what God wanted him to do. 

You never really know where a call will take you.

In the story from John’s gospel, John the baptist’s disciples are with him when Jesus approaches. John says to his disciples, “Here is the Lamb of God.” And right then two of John’s disciples left John and followed Jesus.

Now, Lamb of God was not a title. There was no reason why John’s disciples would have recognized the term and knew what it meant. It’s actually an odd name for John to call Jesus. A lamb is meek, mild. Maybe not too smart or too strong. We don’t think of lambs as leaders, do we? We don’t envision ourselves following a lamb.

And for Israel there is one other thing: a lamb is a sacrifice.

This goes back to the book of Exodus. The story says that God visited ten plagues on the Egyptians to compel the Pharaoh to release the Israelites from their slavery. Frogs, locusts, boils, and so on. The final sacrifice being the death of the firstborn sons of Egypt. And so, the story goes, the Israelites were instructed to sacrifice a lamb, and then smear the blood of the lamb on the doorposts of their houses. When the angel of death saw the blood he would pass over that house, sparing them. This is remembered every year in the celebration of the Passover. 

And so all of Israel knows what a lamb represents – sacrifice.

Nonetheless, these two men, disciples of John, followed Jesus. They didn’t know anything about him and, I suppose, they didn’t really know why they were following him. He said to them, “Come and see.” And they did.  One of these two was Andrew, the brother of Simon. He went to his brother Simon and said to him, “Come – we have found the Messiah. And Simon went with him. 

And when they arrived, Jesus said to Simon, “You will be called Cephas,” which is translated Peter.

Peter, the one whom, it is believed, all the popes are spiritually descended from. 

Every single one of these men was called. And each one said yes to the call. “Yes” to “Come and see.”

Of course, it isn’t only popes that receive calls to serve God. Everyone who joins the church has received a call. Everyone who has been baptized has been called to come and see. That means you and me.

You don’t know, when you say yes to the call, where it will lead you. When I joined the Presbyterian Church, I certainly didn’t know that I would, within a couple of years, be called to serve as a Director of Christian Education for the congregation. And I sure did not know when I said yes to that call that God would soon be calling me to pastoral ministry. 

You know, one thing leads to another. But God always knows the plans God has for us. And often God gives us some pretty tall orders – Isaiah knew all about that. But God also equips us for the call, no matter what it is. God simply asks us to come and see, to trust enough for that.

This weekend we celebrate the life of the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, who answered the call of God, which took him to places he never would have imagined – and likely would not have chosen, left to his own devices. But he had faith enough to say yes, to come and see what it was. And the world is changed because of that. 

The world is a better place because of him. 

God called Martin to work for justice, to teach nonviolence as a way of life, and to lead with love.

And then God called him to be a sacrifice.

Perhaps this was necessary. I don’t know. But I am grateful that Martin answered his call and followed the Lord when he said, “Martin, come and see.” 

May we also do likewise.

Photo: Sukkoria, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

The Way to Love and Happiness

Matthew 3:13-17     

I was in my office one morning at the church I served as pastor when a couple of members walked in to see me. They had a dilemma they wanted me to resolve. Their granddaughter was getting married. She and her fiancé had a one-year-old son. The family wanted the child to be baptized. They also wanted her fiancé to be baptized.

The baby was easy, it would be done like any other ordinary baptism, in church during worship. The fiancé, however, was more of a problem. He was willing, basically because it was important to the family he was marrying into. But he was a big, tough guy, and felt it would be embarrassing to stand in front of the congregation and submit to having me splash him with water. So the family thought they could solve the problem by holding a private baptism for him. Just to get it done. Without embarrassing him. When can we do this, they wanted to know.

So often when we talk about baptism we are presented with teachable moments. The ways in which we understand – or misunderstand – baptism could fill a book, or many. On that day I explained to the family that we do not do private baptisms, because baptism is not a private ritual. It is an act of the community, where we welcome a new child of God into the covenant we all share with God. A baptism is as important to every single member of the church as it is to the one being baptized.

I also explained that I would not feel comfortable baptizing a grown man just because his in-laws wanted it for him; that there is a significant difference between parents bringing their child forward for baptism and these folks trying to do the same thing with their grown-up soon-to-be son-in-law. I think they understood. But on that day, sitting across from this particular family and hearing their dilemma, I was struck by one other thing: baptism is fundamentally a matter of making oneself vulnerable. It asks us to trust in ways we rarely do.

We do this thing called baptism because Jesus urged us to. But it all started with John, who had established himself out in the wilderness of Judea with a message of repentance. He drew people to him who were yearning for something they weren’t finding anywhere else. John invited them to turn themselves around, to take a new perspective on life.

Baptism was not a new thing that John invented, however. It was already at that time an ancient practice of Israel. The ritual bath – the mikvah – had its place. It was used by the priests who served in the temple, to purify themselves for service. It was, and still is, used by Orthodox Jewish women to purify themselves once a month. And it is a ritual that is part of conversion to Judaism.

But John was using it in a new way. He invited any and all of the children of Israel to come to the waters and turn their lives around. This was not a conversion to a new religion, nor was it a ritual purification as prescribed by the law of Moses. John was inviting them into something new and unknown.

And then Jesus came to him in the waters presenting himself to be immersed. Jesus has not begun his ministry yet, but John knew who he was. Luke tells the story about how John and Jesus were cousins. Their mothers, Mary and Elizabeth, lived in the same household for a while when they both were pregnant. John knows who Jesus is, and who he will be, and so he is surprised.

He has already been telling people about the one who is greater than he; “the one whose sandals I am not worthy of carrying,” John has said. And now this great one is asking John to carry his body down into the water and back out again. But why should Jesus submit to John? It should be the other way around.

Why should the Son of God, the King of the Universe, the Savior of the World, be surrendering himself so completely?

It is most peculiar. He comes alone. He doesn’t have an entourage of bodyguards and assistants, or even a friend to lean on. He comes alone, steps into the water, and puts himself in John’s hands – literally. In front of all these people.

He has not yet begun his ministry, but Jesus, in baptism, begins to show us the power of vulnerability.

You may be troubled by this. Because we know that vulnerability is not a good thing. To be vulnerable is to be at risk in some way. Those who lack adequate health care are vulnerable to illness. Those who lack housing are vulnerable to the elements. Those who suffer mental illness or addiction are vulnerable to anyone who would prey on them. The elderly are vulnerable and young children are vulnerable. No one wants to be vulnerable. We are afraid of being vulnerable.

Yet Jesus reveals to us its beauty.

Whether we like it or not, the truth is that we are all vulnerable – it’s the human condition. We are breakable. We can be hurt – physically and emotionally. But we learn to protect ourselves from these potential hurts, because we are afraid, of course, of such vulnerability.

A baby doesn’t yet know enough to be afraid of their vulnerability. Yes, they will instinctively close their eyes and mouth and nose when we slosh water over them in baptism. And they may cry out against this strange stuff happening to them. But they haven’t yet learned to be embarrassed about their helplessness. Their faces register surprise and delight and discomfort and all the feelings they are feeling when these strange things are happening to them. And isn’t there a certain beauty in that?

This week there was a story in the news about an 84-year-old man who has a terminal cancer diagnosis. As he reflected on his life, he felt satisfied, content. With family he loves, work that was purposeful, and a church that was central to his life. But one thing was missing. He had somehow never been baptized.

Everyone else in his family was, but somehow it bypassed him. I’ve known it to happen. If a family is going through a particularly difficult or busy time, it might be overlooked. And now, looking back over the entirety of his life, he felt like something important was missing.

He asked to be baptized – by immersion – no sprinkling would do it for him. But his body was weak and so many options were closed to him.

His caregivers and the chaplain found a way. They took him to a regional hospice center with a big walk-in tub with a built-in seat. They helped him in, then filled the tub with water. They said the familiar words, “You are baptized in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” He bent forward and immersed his face. The chaplain scooped up water and poured it over the back of his head. As he rose up from the water, they wiped his face for him.

And then they shampooed his hair. They oiled his skin all over and massaged his feet. He said, “that felt good.” And the staff and chaplains who cared so tenderly for his frail body said it filled their hearts with joy.

Isn’t it beautiful – this tender vulnerability?

It seems like we never willingly shed our armor and allow ourselves to be vulnerable. We would never willingly risk the pain, that might come our way if we shed our tough protective skins.

But Jesus shows us the power of vulnerability. Jesus reveals to us its beauty. Because it is only through vulnerability that we find the way to love and happiness.

Vulnerability is really not a bad word, after all.

It is the way we may draw near to God.

Photo: The baptismal font at Wicomico Presbyterian Church - a fine gathering place. 

Why Are They Here?

Matthew 2:1-12

I don’t know if you ever think about why the books of the Bible are ordered the way they are. But I can tell you one reason Matthew is first in the New Testament.

Matthew is first because– of all the gospels – it most clearly and directly links the story of Jesus with the prophets of the Old Testament. Matthew is constantly saying things like, “as it was written by the prophets,” and “this was to fulfill what had been spoken through the prophet.” Matthew connects all the dots. He tells us what we need to know.

Yet, as pedantic as Matthew is sometimes, he is also full of surprises at other times. Take the genealogy in Chapter 1.

To which you might say, “No thanks, I’m good. You can keep it.” Nobody reads the genealogies in the Bible. They’re boring. Nobody cares about all those names. But if you read through Matthew’s genealogy in Chapter 1, you will find some interesting things, I promise you.

“Abraham was the father of Isaac, and Isaac the father of Jacob, and Jacob the father of Judah and his brothers” – and on it goes. Typically, genealogies contain the names of the men in the line of descent – the patriarchs. And there are plenty of them in this list. So many that most readers probably don’t even notice that Matthew has thrown a few women in. Four, to be exact. And the women he chooses to bring to our attention – that is what’s most interesting. Who are they?

Tamar, the woman who posed as a harlot by the side of the road to ensnare Judah. Rahab, the prostitute in Jericho who let the spies of Israel hide in her boudoir. Ruth, the Moabite woman who hustled her way into the family of a prominent Bethlehem man. And the wife of Uriah, otherwise known as Bathsheba, who bore a son for King David while she was married to another man.

Some families want to shove the black sheep of the family tree into the back of the closet, but Matthew puts them right in the middle of the genealogy of Jesus the Christ. You have to wonder: Why are they here?

No sooner do we get past this strangeness than we arrive at the scene where “wise men” from the east come to pay homage to the newborn king.

It is another mystery, really, that Matthew decides to call these men wise. Maybe they are knowledgeable about the stars, but they are dangerously naïve about people. They waltz into the court of King Herod, one of the most paranoid and ruthlessly violent kings ever, to ask for directions. “Excuse me, do you know where we might find the newborn king of the Jews? Oh, you’re the king of the Jews? Well, we meant the new king.” What could possibly go wrong here?

At any rate, they manage to get directions, although why they needed them, I don’t know. That star seemed to be as reliable as Google maps. They found Jesus.  But I don’t doubt that by the time they did, everyone between Jerusalem and Bethlehem was talking about them. They were passing strange. They didn’t exactly fit in.

These men from Baghdad, or thereabout, were Magi – magicians. They looked different, they dressed different, they sounded different and acted different. Really, everything about them was different – scandalous and abhorrent to Israel. Yet, here they are with front row seats at the birth of the Jewish Messiah.

They were thoughtful enough to bring gifts – strange gifts, it must be said. I imagine Mary’s confused expression when they handed her their packages of Frankincense and Myrrh. She probably forced a smile on her face and said thank you, it’s just what we needed. Although she didn’t have to fake it when she saw the gold. That would come in handy. Even so, she must have wondered why they were there.

Do we wonder? Why are they here? We should.

We might discover that Matthew, in his unique way, is telling us something about who we are.

If you are someone who was carried into the church as a newborn babe like I was, then you probably think you have always known who you are, who your people are. If you first crossed the threshold of the church as an adult, then you know that you made a conscious, deliberate decision about who you are and who your people are.

But it is a risk of Christianity – or any particular religious identity – that we think of who we are in terms far too narrow. And too rigidly marked. Christians often define ourselves in opposition to everyone else in the world. We are not Muslim or Jewish or Hindu or Pagan or Buddhist or Atheist or anything else you can name. We are different from everyone else, we want to say. We are better than everyone else – we might want to say. We’re the ones who got it right, we think as we give ourselves a little pat on the back.

And it’s possible that some of the folks in Jesus’ family tree felt that way too. They were acutely aware of who they were not, and who was not one of them. So they gave the side eye to Rahab, that woman who let the Hebrew spies into her room. They turned to their sisters and tsked Ruth when she just showed up in Boaz’s fields all by herself. They gave Bathsheba the back of their hand when she tried to start up a conversation with them at the market.

And when those ridiculous Magi showed up in their turbans and colorful robes, people whispered and tittered about those crazy foreigners. Don’t even know where they’re going.

Yet here they are – these crazy foreigners. The welcoming committee as we open the New Testament. Let us show you the way, they say to us.

And they might point out to us that when he grew up Jesus told his disciples that they would have to go to the back of the line if they wanted to be his. That he was going to turn the order of the world upside down. Outsiders would be brought inside, and they would teach the insiders a few things worth knowing.

We call this the Epiphany, which means revelation. The moment when the light bulb goes on and we can see something we couldn’t see before. When these strange characters from out of town came to bow down before the baby Jesus, to show the world who he was and what he would do. He would shake things up and turn things upside down. He would open the gates, tear down the walls and let everybody in. Come to the table. I am the bread of life. I am the cup of salvation.

He would rock our world.

Epiphany, in the year 2020 – the year of perfect vision. Get ready to have your world rocked.