Worthy

Sermon manuscript for Green Lake Church

Sabbath, January 17, 2015

Texts: 1 Kings 17:8-16, 2 Kings 5, Luke 4:16-22

Within just a few months from his first sermon, he was drawing crowds of thousands. Of course, it wasn't just his words. He was also working incredible feats of healing. Then Jesus visited his home town. On Sabbath, he went to synagogue, as was his custom. And as was the custom in synagogues of that time, the visitor—in this case the home-town-boy-made-it-big visitor—the visitor was invited to address the congregation.

The lectionary, that is the scheduled reading for the day, was a passage in Isaiah.

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,

he has anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor;

he has sent me to heal the brokenhearted,

to preach deliverance to the captives,

and recovering of sight to the blind,

to set at liberty them that are bruised,

To preach the year of God's favor.

Jesus handed the scroll bad to the attendant and sat down. (In that worship culture, a rabbi stood to read the Scripture, then sat to do his commentary.)

Jesus paused. The congregation waited eagerly. This was their own kid. He grew up here in Nazareth. He had been friends with their kids. Eaten dinner at their table. Now he was famous. People said he was an amazing preacher. They could hardly wait for him to start. This was exciting.

“Today,” Jesus said, “this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.”

That was nice. It was encouraging, reassuring. Jesus preached that the people of Nazareth were living in God's favor. The waiting time was over. God was pleased with them. The audience understood Jesus to be announcing the imminent end of Roman subjugation. Soon, very soon, the Messiah was going to appear and vanquish the forces of evil. God's people—that is the good Jews of Nazareth—were finally going to be vindicated before a skeptical world. They were going to be proved right. The remnant people of God—the despised, ignored, insignificant people of God—were going to be shown to be the REAL people of God.

You could feel enthusiasm and exuberance rippling through the congregation. It was a great sermon. Jesus had the people with him. Then he pulled a surprise.

“I know you will quote the proverb, Physician heal yourself. You are wondering why aren't you doing the same kinds of miracles here that rumors say you performed in Capernaum? You figure you are just as good as the people of Capernaum, how come God has seen fit to accomplish through me here the same kinds of miracles I performed in Capernaum.

It's a good question, but it obscures the greatest challenge confronting us today: Just who are God's people? We are all Jews, the children of Abraham, heirs of the promise of God. Yes, but what do you make of the story of the Widow of Zarephath?

Jesus then launched into a famous Bible story.

There once was an evil king named Ahab. He was married to an evil queen named Jezebel. Ahab and Jezebel were devotees of a false religion. They were ruthless in the use of eminent domain to take property from their citizens. They oppressed the poor.

The one lone voice that spoke in opposition to the evil king and queen was the Prophet Elijah. At one point God ordered the Prophet Elijah to announce to Ahab that there was going to be a ruinous drought as a punishment for all the wicked things Ahab and Jezebel were doing, especially their corruption of worship.

As the drought began to pinch the agriculture of the kingdom, the king attempted to find Elijah and arrest him. But he couldn't find him. Ahab even sent ambassadors to neighboring kingdoms looking for Elijah. No luck.

Where was Elijah? At first he was hiding in the wilderness, camping by a stream where he was fed miraculously by God. When the stream dried up God told him to go to Zarephath, a hamlet in the kingdom of Sidon north of Israel. There he was to find a widow and board with her and her son.

Elijah found Zarephath. He waited outside of town until the widow came out. He told her he would like to board with her. She regretfully refused. She was at that very moment gathering sticks so she could go home and bake the very last bit of flour she had in her house. After that she and her son would face starvation. The drought had driven the price of food far beyond her ability to pay. Food was so scarce that no one was giving anything to beggars. So, sorry. She could not give him any food.

“Look,” Elijah said, “I understand your predicament. But make my food first, then make food for yourself and your son. Because this is what God says—your flour bin will not go empty or your oil bottle dry until the famine is over.”

The woman had nothing to lose. If the wild man talking to her was a charlatan, and after she made food for him there was nothing left, oh well. She and her son would merely die one missed meal sooner. On the other hand, if the wild man really was a prophet and the promised miracle actually happened, it would be the salvation she had been praying for.

She made Elijah's food first, and somehow the flour stretched and the oil lasted. And they all lived happily ever after.

It was a wonderful story until Jesus applied its moral. Why did God send the prophet to the pagan town of Zarephath? Why did God trust a pagan woman to be the savior of the prophet? Why did God save a pagan widow from the famine?

What did all this say about Jewish specialness? What did it say about the flow of God's favor?

Jesus audience squirmed. This was not the sermon they were expecting. Jesus was not finished.

“Do you remember the story of Naaman?” he asked.

This story happened ten to twenty years after the story of widow. Naaman was the commander of the army of Syria, the nation just north of the Jewish kingdoms. His army frequently conducted raids into the kingdom of Israel chasing plunder—slaves, gold and silver and livestock. Then he was diagnosed with leprosy. This was worse than a death sentence. It was a horror. It was living death. There was no treatment. No cure.

So what does Naaman do? He heads south to Israel to request healing from Elisha—the successor of Elijah. The prophet healed him and sent him home. It is the only recorded healing of a leper during the time of the Jewish kings.

The audience understood Jesus' point, and they were furious. Jesus was arguing that God's favor was indiscriminately given to pagans and Jews alike. That was preposterous. It was wicked. It bordered on blasphemous. They charged the platform, grabbed Jesus and shoved him ahead of them toward the top of a precipice, planning to throw him off.

As they reached the precipice, Jesus exerted his magic power and released himself from the hands that were holding him. The crowd fell back and Jesus walked calmly back through the crowd to the house where they were expecting him for Sabbath dinner.

This story has forceful implications:

Most of us enjoy privilege of some kind. Many of us are Adventists. One of the deep historic convictions of our church is that we God's favorites. Just like the Jews. Just like the Catholics or Missouri Synod Lutherans or Church of Christ . . . and I could go on. Just like Muslims. Each group imagines that God's favor belongs us. Not to all those other people, but to us.

Jesus says otherwise.

Yes, God was present among the Jews. God blessed their worship and spoke through their prophets. Jesus did not deny God's presence among the Jews. He insisted it was also present elsewhere.

God was present in Jewish synagogues and among the huts of Zarephath and in the palaces of Damascus. Jesus' audience was deeply offended. When we understand the implications of what Jesus said, it may make us uncomfortable. It will certainly challenge our denominational pride.

Who is welcome at the heavenly table? If the commander of the army of Syria and the hopeless widow of Zarephath are welcome, who could not be welcome?

Today, we celebrate communion—the Lord's Supper.

There is a very long tradition in Christianity of using this occasion to ask haunting questions of worthiness. Who is worthy to eat the Lord's Supper? Who is worthy to receive the body and blood of our Lord? I know there are people here who find the communion service terrifying. They wonder, “Am I worthy? How can I be sure? What if instead of receiving a blessing I'm bringing a curse on myself?”

Jesus dismisses all these kinds of questions. There is no select group who has a unique welcome at the Lord's Table.

At the communion table, Jesus preaches the same message he preached in Nazareth: quit building imaginary castles of privilege in the air. Don't imagine yourself insiders in the castles of privilege or outsiders. Turn from visions of castles with walls and gates and focus your attention of the happy welcome God extends to all. Every category of worthiness is dissolved in the glory of divine light.

The Holy Supper is a festival celebrating God's extravagance, there is no human worthiness ticket required..

So come. And know that the more apparently unlikely your place at the table, the more delight God will take in seating you and serving you. We come with our flaws and our perfections, our glorious strengths and our disabilities. We come because we are welcomed and desired. Yes, even us.

Born again

Sermon manuscript (final) for Green Lake Church of Seventh-day Adventists

Communion Sabbath, September 27, 2014

Texts: Psalm 87 and Luke 3:23-38

There was a bear cub up a tree near Brooks Falls in Katmai National Park, and it was crying. It cried for hours, bawling, calling its mother. Mom did not show up. It's crying broke the heart of park rangers, but they have a strict hands-off policy. There was nothing they could do but observe.

Eventually the cub climbed down from the tree and began foraging for food.

This was not good. Bear cubs are very cute. People like to rescue bear cubs. Unfortunately, adult male bears are immune to the cuteness factor. Old males tend to see cute little cubs as dinner. And Katmai National Park is crawling with bears, including grumpy, hungry old males.

This particular cub was in a bad fix. His mother had been vigorously pursued by an amorous male. Eventually, she sent her cub up a tree and took off with the male bear. And never came back. The cub was doomed. With no mom, he was likely to be eaten by a male bear. Or if that didn't happen, he would starve to death come winter.

Then something miraculous happened. A mama bear named Holly took the orphan under her wing. Holly had a nine-month old cub of her own. She added the orphan cub to her family. When rangers first saw the orphan with Holly and her cub, they thought maybe she was just tolerating it. Then they saw Holly nursing both cubs. Since then they've observed Holly protect the cubs from old male bears. They've seen the two cubs sharing a fish together. The erstwhile orphan is an orphan no longer. He has been born again. He is now Holly's cub.

One of the richest treasures of Christian theology is this truth: we can be born again.

Our first birth gives us many treasures: a family name, a genetic inheritance, nationality, ethnicity. Birth determines or influences every aspect of our lives—whether we are tall or short, skinny or fat, smart or not so smart, rich or poor, musical or can't carry a tune, color blind or sensitive to colors.

When we are born again, none of this changes. We have the same family of origin, the same cousins, the same BMI. We can still sing . . . or not. We are still American or Canadian or Eritrean or Brazilian. We are still Scot or Alaskan or Southerner. We still take pride in our ethnic or national heritage. We will still open presents on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day depending on how it was done in the home we grew up in.

These elements of our identity that flow from our birth are treasures. Being born again does not erase them. Being born again does put them in their proper place. All of these identities become subordinate to our supreme identity as children of God.

Because we have been born again we recognize all of the rest of God's children as our brothers and sisters.

Republicans and Democrats have differing views on how to rank values in shaping legislation. And even when they agree on underlying values, they will frequently differ on the best approach to embodying those values in civic life. But as Christian Democrats and Christian Republicans, we see our political opponents as brothers and sisters. They are part of our family. We are part of their family. We see one another as dearly-loved children of God.

Similarly, when we have theological disputes, those who have been born again see the people with “wrong” views as dearly loved children of God. The status my opponents enjoy as children of God imposes on me the obligation to show them respect. To listen carefully to their arguments.

One of the fascinating aspects of the bear cub story is the interaction between the two cubs. According to rangers, the aggressive behavior of old male bears begins very early. Male cubs fight. They don't share. But in Holly's household they do. Holly's natural-born cub and the orphan have been observed sharing fish together. The generosity of Mama Bear has created a new kind of bear culture.

In the same way, as born again Christians, people adopted into the family of of God, we are called to mimic God in forming a new kind of human community, a community where people show to one another the same grace we have received from God.

Have you ever felt bereft? Have you been excluded, shunned? Parents are not perfect. Some dads are like old male bears. They are dangerous for their children. Some moms are like the delinquent mother bear in this story. They abandon their children or worse. It's not common, but it happens. Sometimes our parents fail us. Sometimes we who are parents fail.

When these things happen, when biological parents fail us, Christianity offers another path to the security of belonging to safe, secure family: We are born again. This new, secure identity is one of richest gifts of the ministry of Jesus.

God is like Holly, the mama bear, prowling Katmai National Park looking for orphan cubs to adopt, orphans to feed and protect and teach. God is looking for us. Holly looks dangerous. She is fully equipped with the massive claws and teeth that make brown bears such formidable carnivores. For a little orphan cub Holly's formidable teeth and claws and bulk are marks of her capacity to allow an orphan cub to be born again, to be a happy, secure member of a new family.

Years ago, my wife got a call from our daughter who was in eighth grade at the time. “Mom, there's a dog here that's been abandoned. She is sitting under a bush out by the street. She watches every car that goes by on the street or comes into the school drive. She pays no attention to any of the people. She just watches the cars. I think she's looking for the car that dumped her. She's been here all day.”

When Karin came to pick Shelley up after school, the dog was still there. Still intently watching every car. Karin was reluctant, but Shelley persuaded her they had to rescue the dog. They got the dog into the car and brought it home. She was well-mannered, but clearly not happy. They put up posters. They advertised on Craig's List. No response. No one claimed the dog.

So Gypsy lived with us.

It appeared to us the dog had been in a pretty rough environment. If I picked up the broom, the dog would run hide in the farthest corner she could find.

My purpose in picking up the broom was to sweep the floor.

But Gypsy, back in those early days when she had first arrived at our house, if she saw me pick up the broom, she would cower in the farthest corner she could find. The terror evoked by the broom diminished over time, but for years the mere sight of the broom would make her nervous.

Which means she experienced a lot of nervousness. Because at our house, with all the traffic—animal and human—in and out, our kitchen floor constantly needs sweeping. Every morning, the very first thing I do, before I sit down at the table before I eat anything, before I go outside, the first thing I do is sweep the floor, to make a welcome environment. I have no hostile intentions. Still, for years in the morning Gypsy would need to find a hiding place while I swept, lest I attack her with the broom.

But not any more. The other day I was sweeping the floor. Gypsy was lying in the middle of the floor. I swept closer and closer. She didn't move. Didn't lift her head. Barely opened one eye. I swept between her legs. She closed her eye. I swept along her back. She didn't stir.

The transformation was complete. She was at home. She knew the broom master. She had no fear.

Sometimes being born again is a magic moment of ecstatic transformation. In a moment our view of God and the world is radically renewed.

For most of us, however, being born again is like Gypsy's transformation. We live with God for a long time and through the years of living with God we come to a deep-seated confidence that the being in charge of sweeping the dirt out of the universe has only kindly intentions toward us. We are at home. We are beloved. We are no longer orphans. It takes a life time to become fully-assimilated members of the household of God. At home with God and with God's family. This is what it means to be born again.

In the New Testament we read that Jesus gave himself to humanity. And through Jesus, God, the Almighty, the King of Heaven, the Creator of Heaven and Earth, was present and giving as well.

Jesus dramatically epitomized this divine presence and kindly regard at the Last Supper with his disciples. He gave them bread and said, “This is my body.” He gave them wine, outflow from crushed grapes, and said, “This is my blood.” When we eat and drink, we are remembering the self-giving of Jesus, the self-giving of God. We are taking in the life of God and are pledging to pass it on.

Sharing Communion together is an affirmation that all of us are no longer orphans. We are at home in the household of God. We have been born again.

Bread

Preliminary manuscript for the sermon for Green Lake Church of Seventh-day Adventists

For July 5, 2014

Exodus 18:8-12, KJV or NKJV or RSV

Exodus 24:9-12

Matthew 26:26-30

Worship events for the day: Baptism and Communion.

Toward the end of the day this past Monday, I was starved. I had left Washington at nine p.m. Sunday night with my daughter, Bonnie, headed for Wyoming. She drove all night. I took over about five in the morning, and we continued our drive to Laramie, Wyoming. I didn't eat breakfast because I knew a full stomach would make me even more drowsy. Same for lunch. We nibbled along the way, some chips. A few cookies, nothing substantial. Finally, we arrived in Laramie, found Bonnie's new apartment and unloaded the truck. Bonnie and her roommate were discussing the placement of the couch when I announced with some intensity. I've got to go find some real food!

I invited the roommate to join us. She declined and said she was going to finish her workout which our arrival had interrupted. Bonnie and I headed out to the truck. We were just getting ready to pull out when the roommate ran out and said, “I've changed my mind. I'd like to come.” She climbed in and guided us to a great little vegetarian restaurant.

Eventually the food arrived. After the waiter had loaded our table, I said, “It's my custom to say a blessing over my food. Are you okay with that?” The roommate nodded. I bowed my head and said, “Lord God in Heaven. Thank you for this good food and nice place. Blessed this food and our conversation. In the name of Jesus, Amen.”

Then we ate. The girls both got salads which seemed woefully lacking in substance to me. I had something the menu called a black bean tamale pie. And we talked. About music and career dreams and grand philosophies of life. This was the first time Bonnie and the roommate had met. There was the carefulness of strangers getting acquainted. There was the ease of conversation over dinner.

For Bonnie and me, it was a rehearsal of family tradition. When I ordered the black bean tamale pie, Bonnie told her it roommate, “I could have predicted that. Growing up, he served us beans and rice all the time.” And I knew that she was recalling our Friday night parties—haystacks (for those not in the cognoscenti this means a taco salad—beans, salad, corn chips) and friends and music.

That black bean tamale pie did not just fill the hole in my stomach, it recalled thousands of shared meals, shared times of laughter and conversation. The roommate couldn't know it, but I suspect our dinner this past Monday evening was her initiation into the extended McLarty clan. She's part of our family now. She protested when I paid the check, but I dismissed her protest, saying, “I'm in the habit of adopting my kids' friends.”

This is the power of shared food. For Bonnie and me it was another enactment of our shared life. For the roommate, an initiation. A first step into a circle that stretches half the world around.

That dinner was a perfect picture of what we do in worship. We gather here to celebrate again and again and again, our shared life. And our worship is the perfect occasion for welcoming others—newly adopted daughters and sons of God. Newly met sisters and brothers.

Shared life costs something. It's worth the cost, of course. Still, it's smart to acknowledge it costs. Adopting my daughter's roommate cost me a few dollars on Monday night. Adopting each other here as brothers and sisters, parents and children costs us money and time and heart. And these precious connections are worth every bit of the expense.

Today, we baptized Jennifer Buyco. When I buried her under the water and lifted her again, my hands did not belong to me alone. They were your hands, too, and the hands of God. I was acting for all of us. In obedience to Jesus, we buried her old identity rooted in heredity, family of origin, education, ethnicity and even gender and raised her into a new identity—she is now, officially, part of the royalty of heaven.

The Book of Revelation paints an astonishing picture of Jesus' plan for his people—all of them, men and women, every race and nationality—are destined to sit on the throne of heaven and share in the rule of God.

When I raised Jennifer out of the water today, I was raising her as royalty in the kingdom of heaven. She and we share a family claim to the throne of heaven.

In a few minutes, we will share “The Lord's Supper” together.

This ritual flows from the supper Jesus shared with his inner circle on the last night before he was executed. Because of the intense emotions of that evening, we remember that single meal. I tend to think of it as a single event, an “only-once” happening. We remember the words Jesus spoke to his friends gathered around the table. He took a loaf of bread, broke it and handed it around, saying, “This is my body which is broken for you.” Then he passed the wine cup and said, “Drink from it all of you, this is my blood.”

We call it the Last Supper because it was “the last one.” Yes.

It was also a repetition. It was one in a three-year long series of shared suppers. Jesus and his disciples did life together. They ate together. When we take communion we are joining that tradition. We are joining that family. As members of the fellowship of Jesus, all of our meals are opportunities for reminding ourselves again of our privileges and responsibilities.

When we say a blessing over our food, we are renewing our participation in the heavenly family. Under the light of a blessing, a piece of toast and a glass of orange juice becomes communion. Dare I say it, even coffee and a donut, as meager nutrition as that is, becomes a point of connection with the heavenly family, if we are open to receive it.

Rituals teach us the hidden meaning of ordinary life. Communion teaches us that every meal carries the potential to connect us with heaven. Baptism teaches us that every passing through the waters—every morning shower—marks our entrance in a new life blessed by God.

Rituals reveal hidden meanings in the routines of our ordinary life. Baptism teaches us that every passing through the waters—every morning shower—marks our entrance in a new life blessed by God. Communion teaches us that every meal carries the potential to connect us with God and the family of God. Our worship here on Sabbath mornings, teaches us that God is present on earth, in Seattle, in music, in words, in art, and in the faces of ordinary people. Every worship service whispers to us, that we—you and I, ordinary disciples of Jesus—are the face of God for one another and the world.

So let us gather again at the table of the Lord and renew our connection with God and one another.

All Creatures of Our God and King

Sermon manuscript for Green Lake Church

Sabbath, January 4, 2014

We will share the Lord's Supper following the sermon.

Bible Readings for the day:

Praise the LORD! Praise the LORD from the heavens; Praise Him in the heights!

Praise Him, all His angels; Praise Him, all His hosts!

Praise Him, sun and moon; Praise Him, all you stars of light!

Praise Him, you heavens of heavens, And you waters above the heavens!

Let them praise the name of the LORD, For He commanded and they were created.

He also established them forever and ever; He made a decree which shall not pass away.

Praise the LORD from the earth, You great sea creatures and all the depths;

Fire and hail, snow and clouds; Stormy wind, fulfilling His word;

Mountains and all hills; Fruitful trees and all cedars;

Beasts and all cattle; Creeping things and flying fowl;

Kings of the earth and all peoples; Princes and all judges of the earth;

Both young men and maidens; Old men and children.

Let them praise the name of the LORD, For His name alone is exalted; His glory [is] above the earth and heaven. . . .

Praise the LORD!

Psalm 148. NKJV

What is the price of two sparrows--one copper coin? But not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it. And the very hairs on your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows. Matthew 10:29-31. NLT

Morning Hymn

All creatures of our God and King
Lift up your voice and with us sing,
Alleluia! Alleluia!
Thou burning sun with golden beam,
Thou silver moon with softer gleam!
Refrain
O praise Him! O praise Him!
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!
Thou rushing wind that art so strong
Ye clouds that sail in Heaven along,
O praise Him! Alleluia!
Thou rising moon, in praise rejoice,
Ye lights of evening, find a voice!
Refrain
Thou flowing water, pure and clear,
Make music for thy Lord to hear,
O praise Him! Alleluia!
Thou fire so masterful and bright,
That givest man both warmth and light.
Refrain
Dear mother earth, who day by day
Unfoldest blessings on our way,
O praise Him! Alleluia!
The flowers and fruits that in thee grow,
Let them His glory also show.
Refrain
And all ye men of tender heart,
Forgiving others, take your part,
O sing ye! Alleluia!
Ye who long pain and sorrow bear,
Praise God and on Him cast your care!
And thou most kind and gentle Death,
Waiting to hush our latest breath,
O praise Him! Alleluia!
Thou leadest home the child of God,
And Christ our Lord the way hath trod.
Refrain
Let all things their Creator bless,
And worship Him in humbleness,
O praise Him! Alleluia!
Praise, praise the Father, praise the Son,
And praise the Spirit, Three in One!
Refrain

Sermon

All creatures of our God and King
Lift up your voice and with us sing,
Alleluia! Alleluia!

Last Sunday Karin and I and kids and kids-in-law went to Paradise (not the afterlife, but the site on the south side of Mt. Rainier). It was a glorious day—blue sky, sunshine, no wind. Our six-month-old granddaughter was along. We snow shoed up to a high point with grand views to the south and west and shared lunch and hot chocolate together.

It was perfect.

Sometimes during pauses in our conversation we could hear sounds floating upward from the parking area and sledding hill. Laughter, squeals, the voices of kids and parents melding together across the distance. I walked away from our lunch site for a few minutes so I could fully enjoy the hymn—human creatures creating a bubbling, cheery sound track for the beauty of the place.

When we're surrounded by glorious scenery, it's easy to get caught up in the elation. It's not too hard to imagine all creation singing.

 The hymn writer, Francis of Assisi, captures this natural joy. He imagines himself singing, and his community singing, and the whole world singing. I can almost see him glancing around, looking for more voices to add to the choir. You and you, and you, too, lift up your voice and sing. We are having too much fun to keep it to ourselves. Sing alleluia with us!

At the heart of our faith is the conviction that the universe is suffused with joy. We come together in worship to taste together this truth. It lies at the heart of our singing.

The words of Francis' hymn echo the language of the Psalms. They find their ultimate expression in the visions of Revelation 4 and 5. There John pictures Paradise as a place of endless ecstasy. Joy enraptures every creature. The entire creation participates in a thunderous hallelujah chorus.

Day after day and night after night they keep on saying, "Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God, the Almighty--the one who always was, who is, and who is still to come."

I heard the voices of thousands and millions of angels around the throne and of the living beings and the elders. And they sang in a mighty chorus: "Worthy is the Lamb who was slaughtered--to receive power and riches and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and blessing."

And then I heard every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and in the sea. They sang:

“Blessing and honor and glory and power
belong to the one sitting on the throne
and to the Lamb forever and ever.” Revelation 4:8; 5:11-13.

When we sing together we are rehearsing for Paradise. We are tasting already the essence of God's vision for the future and his preference for now—endless joy.

All creatures of our God and King
Lift up your voice and with us sing,
Alleluia! Alleluia!

Come sing with us. Taste the joy that is found in singing Alleluia.

Today we will share together the Lord's Supper. We will eat little bits of bread and taste tiny cups of grape juice. As we eat and drink together, we remember Jesus. And we are glad.

We are glad that Jesus valued serving his friends more than life itself. We are the descendants of those friends and carry the same value for Jesus the first disciples did. Our life and hope and confidence is rooted in the story of Jesus who deliberately chose death that others could live—that we could live.
One of the inescapable implications of Jesus' death is that Jesus regarded his followers—and that includes us—as valuable as himself. We can take this a step further as Christians. God regards you as valuable as Jesus. Or to put it the other way around: Jesus is not more valuable than you. Not to God, anyway.

That's worth singing about. You are precious. Remember that when you place the ceremonial piece of bread in your mouth. Remember that when you sip from the ceremonial cup. If God allowed Jesus to die for you, then the necessary implication is that God regards that as a fair trade—Jesus for you. You are worth as much as Jesus—in the eyes of God.

The Lords' Supper invites us into another mystery—God with us.

Just as the bread and grape juice enter us, become us, and are translated into our actions, so Jesus, the Divine Son of God is in us. His life becomes our life. His life is translated into our actions.

Finally, sharing together this ceremonial meal reminds us of the preciousness of communion with the Risen Jesus. As Jesus enjoyed sharing table fellowship with his disciples, so God enjoys communion with humans today.This is the ultimate secret of our faith.

It is certainly true that Jesus calls us to a radical ethical vision. He calls us to cooperate with God in tending the world, in mending the world. We need to feed the hungry, share our extra shirts, heal the sick, bring relief and new hope to the oppressed. These are glorious duties, exalted responsibilities, difficult callings. They deserve our energy and wisdom. Yes!

Jesus also modeled and taught communion with God.

Jesus knew he was not carrying the weight of his ministry alone. He was working with God. When Jesus spent hours in prayer, he came away from his praying with a renewed sense of partnership with God. When Jesus spoke, he did so with a keen sense that he was speaking out of an intimate, personal connection with God. Jesus ethical challenges, his healing ministry, bold response to the "powers" of his day were suffused with the sense that we acting in concert with God.

This kind of intimate, personal connection is the deepest secret at the heart of our faith. Not all of us have experienced it. But some among us have. Some of the saints of Green Lake Church have heard the voice of God. Their lives have changed direction because of what they have heard. They live with a vital, lively awareness that they, like Jesus of long ago, are partners with God. They are companions with God. Their prayers are not words flung at the ceiling. Rather praying is communing with the divine.


When we share the Lord's Supper together, we come because we are family, not because of the quality of our individual communication with God, not because of the quality of our faith or the quality of our character. We come because the Master of the family has invited us all to be present.

When my six-month-old granddaughter settled in for lunch high on the side of Mt. Rainier last Sunday, obviously she was there by virtue of her membership in the family. She certainly did not climb there! But she was no less welcome because of her inability to walk.

When we share the Lord's Supper here today we owe a special debt of gratitude to those whose spiritual life is rich and sweet and confident. They are our seniors, our guides, our spark plugs. Jesus is pleased with the special gifts you bring to the table and pour into the life of God's family. And to you who struggle because God seems distant or unreal, we owe you a special debt, because your presence here helps to connect this holy family to the real world of humanity.

Wherever you are on the spectrum of spiritual experience, thank you for joining us this morning to sing alleluia. And welcome to the table of our Lord, to the feast that celebrates the value of people and the love of God.

After the Revolution

After the Revolution

Sermon manuscript for Green Lake Church of Seventh-day Adventists

Sabbath, July 6, 2013

Text: Matthew 26

Revolution, blowing things up, pulling down systems and despots is the easy part. Building something new and beautiful, shaping a just, compassionate community . . . that's hard. It is just that dream we keep alive every time we share the Lord's Supper.

It was just two days before the Jewish 4^th of July, their celebration of independence—the Passover. Passover remembered their escape from slavery, from bondage in Egypt. After 400 years of living as outsiders and then as slaves, God worked in a miraculous, fantastical way to grant them independence. That's what Passover remembered.

Passover was when Jewish people were most proud of their heritage. God had chosen them. God had been on their side. Because God had been on their side, they had been invincible. They became free people. The freedom had not lasted. In the days of Jesus, they were under the thumb of the Roman empire, dreaming of recovering their historic freedom. Some Jewish people imagined recovering their freedom in the usual way—war. Others, the more religious, dreamed of a another, grand intervention by God.

Passover fired these dreams. Passover celebrated the power of God to bend history to his will. And his will, as expressed through the prophets was for the eventual triumph of righteousness and the triumph of the Jewish nation. As the representatives of God, the Jewish people would become the aristocracy of the world. Jerusalem would become the capital of the world. The temple would become the destination of all spiritual pilgrimages. The Jewish king would be king of all nations, the king of kings. It was going to happen sometime soon. That was for sure.

For the followers of Jesus, these dreams centered on Jesus. He was the true king. His work of healing proved his goodness. His teaching and preaching proved his wisdom. Stories from his birth proved his pedigree and divine calling. It was just a matter of time before Jesus was established on the throne.

Passover was a big deal in Jerusalem. Tens of thousands of pilgrims from all around the Mediterranean world poured into the city. Jesus' followers were not immune to this excitement. They couldn't help wondering, would this Passover be the time? Would Jesus finally unveil his true identity?

In this atmosphere of excitement, Jesus sat his disciples down for an astounding announcement:

"As you know, Passover begins in two days, and the Son of Man will be handed over to be crucified." Matthew 26:2

This sounds like defeat, not victory. Matthew makes no comment on how the disciples responded to this announcement. It appears to have gone in one ear and out the other. It was simply unbelievable. After all the miracles Jesus had worked, they could not imagine any ordinary human force being able to trip him up. Other times when the authorities had tried to go after Jesus, it hadn't worked out for them. It would be the same this time. Jesus was too good, too wise, too powerful to fail.

Meanwhile, according to Matthew,

The leading priests and elders were meeting at the residence of Caiaphas, the high priest, plotting how to capture Jesus secretly and kill him. Matthew 26:3-4

Then curiously, Matthew adds this:

"But not during the Passover celebration," they agreed, "or the people may riot." Matthew 26:5

Jesus said, “Passover is coming and I will be handed over to be crucified.” The clerics who controlled the country said to one another, “Let's not do it during Passover. With the massive crowds in town, who knows what might happen.”

These contradictory perspectives echo a grand central theme of Matthew's gospel: Jesus' life and ministry moved according to a divine plan. The bad guys in the story become unwitting tools of heaven.

* * *

Jesus was invited to dinner.

While they were eating, a woman sneaked in the back door, came into the dining room and poured outrageously expensive perfume on Jesus' head.

The room full of men was scandalized. What a waste! The money spent on this perfume could have helped hundreds of poor people. Jesus interrupted the chatter.

“Why are you troubling this woman? She has done a beautiful thing to me. You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me. She has poured this perfume on me to prepare my body for burial. I tell you the truth, wherever this gospel is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will also be told in memory of her.” Matthew 26:10-13

Notice what Jesus does here. First he defends the woman. She is the outsider, the person with the least status in the room. She is doing her best to express affection, admiration, devotion. Objectively, her actions are not prudent, judicious, careful. They are extravagant, emotional, reckless. Still they come from a good heart and Jesus defends her. More than that he praises her.

She is the only person besides Jesus whose actions are explicitly declared to be part of the gospel.

How many times does Jesus have to defend people from the “good judgment” of his followers! This story invites us to hold lightly our wise, careful analysis of what is right and proper. Jesus does not need our help correcting people. He probably does not need our help keeping the riffraff out of the feast.

Secondly, Jesus connects this woman's act of warm affection with the reality of his death. There is no way for Jesus to finish his work without going through the horror of the crucifixion. But instead of magnifying the horror of the cross, Jesus surrounds it with astonishing warmth. Here just before he descends into the darkness of the black weekend, he claims her extravagant act of affection as a special preparation for his death.

In the very next verse we read about Judas. Judas sold out Jesus for thirty pieces of silver. But the horror of his betrayal is almost trivialized by the grandeur of this woman's affection. Jesus is wounded by Judas. He is healed by this woman.

The day after this dinner, Jesus sent two of his disciples into Jerusalem to prepare for the groups' celebration of Passover.

"As you go into the city," he told them, "you will see a certain man. Tell him, 'The Teacher says: My time has come, and I will eat the Passover meal with my disciples at your house.'" So the disciples did as Jesus told them and prepared the Passover meal there Matthew 26:;18-19

When it was evening, Jesus sat down at the table with the twelve disciples. While they were eating, he said, "I tell you the truth, one of you will betray me. Greatly distressed, each one asked in turn, "Am I the one, Lord?" He replied, "One of you who has just eaten from this bowl with me will betray me. For the Son of Man must die, as the Scriptures declared long ago. But how terrible it will be for the one who betrays him. It would be far better for that man if he had never been born!" Judas, the one who would betray him, also asked, "Rabbi, am I the one?" And Jesus told him, "You have said it." Matthew 26:20-25

The preparation for this Passover celebration was done at the explicit direction of Jesus. In his instructions, Jesus said nothing about checking the credentials of those who were going to participate. Going further, the way Matthew tells the story, Jesus clearly knew of Judas' treachery and still specifically welcomed him to the table.

What guidance does the Last Supper give us for dealing with the reality that among us are people who are imperfectly committed to the cause? Or maybe even sold out to the enemies of our cause? It is natural for us to want the church to perfectly reflect the character of Jesus. We want the church to be seen as noble, generous, wise, compassionate, principled, disciplined. It's a short step from this desire for the church to live up to our ideals to wishing some people would just go away.

Going all the way back to the Apostle Paul church leaders have occasionally imagined that the church would be better off without people who disagreed with those leaders. Not infrequently, zealous preachers within the Adventist Church have called for strenuous efforts to purge the church of riffraff. These dreams of a purged, pure church do not come from Jesus.

Jesus invited Judas to the table. Matthew makes it clear that this was not naivete on Jesus' part. Jesus knew the lethal potential in Judas. Jesus invited him anyway. Jesus included Judas in his invitation: “Take. Eat. This is my body broken for you. Take. Drink. This is my blood spilled for you.” Jesus included Judas at his table, in his community. Not because of who Judas was, but because that's who Jesus was.

Jesus did not stop with Judas. If Jesus had addressed only Judas' deficiencies, we might be tempted to imagine we could distinguish between the good people and the bad people. Good people like us should pray for bad people like Judas. Judas would be our project. We should love him. We could organize acts of compassion for people in the Judas category. We could structure our worship services to try to win them over. But we would be very clear that we were different from Judas. Unlike Judas, we have no plans to fail Jesus.

But Jesus did not stop with Judas. After supper, the group headed out together. As they were walking along, Jesus said,

"Tonight all of you will desert me. For the Scriptures say, 'God will strike the Shepherd, and the sheep of the flock will be scattered.' But after I have been raised from the dead, I will go ahead of you to Galilee and meet you there." Matthew 26:31-32.

It wasn't just Judas who was going to experience major fail. Sure, he was the only one with a deliberate plan to fail. But when push came to shove, the entire group was going to surprise themselves by abandoning Jesus.

This was simply not believable. Peter protested,

"Even if everyone else deserts you, I will never desert you."

Poor Peter. He didn't know himself. But it was okay. The failure would hurt. Yes. Peter would deeply regret it. Jesus would hate it. But Jesus explicitly announced his intention to reconnect with his disciples after their failure.

“After I have been raised from the dead, I will go ahead of you to Galilee and meet you there.”

They were with Jesus at his table before they failed. Jesus had already reserved their place at his table after their failure. And every time they gathered to share bread and wine, that is every meal, was to be a celebration of Jesus inclusion of us all.

Central to our worship as Christians is the celebration of the Lord's Supper. When we eat the bread and drink the wine, we are remembering our Lord's death until he comes. We are remembering that his death was not tragic in the deepest sense. It was not a failure. Surrounded by the failure of his friends and enemies, Jesus' death turned out to be a triumph. It created an eternal, universal welcome that we reaffirm and remember every time we eat his body and drink his blood.