“Believing is Seeing”
John 20:19-31
Rev. Désirée H. Gold
St. Mark’s United Church of Christ, Baltimore, MD
Sunday, 30 March, 2008
Second Sunday of Easter
----
 My Easter tulip is still blooming in the dining room window. Its red flowers cheer me up every time I walk past it. The pink hyacinth, however, is another story. I had to bring it outside because its wonderful scent was giving me a sore throat. It survived the chilly evenings we had this past week, but then it fell off the porch...twice. The blooms are still pretty, but it looks rather bedraggled in its pot now -- no longer the glorious Easter flower it was just a week ago.
The fate of my Easter flowers is kind of a metaphor for what is known as “low Sunday” in the church. Last week our pews were overflowing. This morning, not so much. Last week we had children gloriously interrupting my words with their holy chatter. This week we’re back to unnatural silence. Last week we had live music. This morning, we’re back to the cds. Last week our church was filled with the aforementioned tulips and hyacinths. This morning our allergies might be better but our sanctuary isn’t quite so cheery.
Traditionally the lectionary -- the calendar of scriptures we read from Sunday to Sunday -- has been treated this way too. Last Sunday we had the disciples’ discovery of the empty tomb. When Mary Magdalene recognizes the risen Jesus, she cries, “I have seen the Lord!” On Easter Sunday we focus on the empty tomb and on her proclamation. This Sunday, not so much. Today we hear the story referred to throughout the ages as “Doubting Thomas.” While the good disciples believed that it was Jesus who stood before them the moment they saw him, that bad old Thomas needed proof! How dare he?! We live in a world that we expect to be logical and rational -- we get upset when it isn’t. Nonetheless, the name “doubting Thomas” has stuck. The disciple got such a bad name that there is now a dictionary entry under “doubting Thomas”: “an incredulous or habitually doubtful person.”1 We immediately condemn Thomas when we read this scripture, because there is a tradition of condemning Thomas. We fall into the old rut: Easter Sunday is happy, but this Sunday Jesus must deal with that awful doubter. We forget to actually look at the scripture. As is often the case, we follow the tradition. After all, centuries of teaching -- in this case, that Thomas was an evil twin -- are hard to beat.
I ask you, difficult though I know it is, to set aside your foreknowledge of this story and to actually look at the scripture itself. First, notice that Thomas was not present when the other disciples saw and believed. We’re not told where he is. There is no indication from the scripture itself that he was off messing around while the faithful disciples were at Christ’s side. We are simply told that Thomas was not there at the time. Sometimes it’s easier to believe things when you are in a group of people. It’s the old peer pressure effect -- well, maybe not peer pressure, exactly, but you have the encouragement of your friends to believe this strange thing that is being presented to you. “They all rejoiced when they saw him.” Thomas, on the other hand, was on his own when it came to believing. Sure, the other disciples were around when he approached Jesus, but he was alone in his discovery. He wasn’t discovering Jesus’ risen presence together with friends: “Hey, look! Is it really him? Could it be? Nah, that doesn’t make any sense. He died. ...But wait, it sure looks like him! It is him!!!” Thomas, on the other hand, had to come to the conclusion by himself. The other disciples could tell him what they had seen, but he was seeing it for the first time on his own.
Tradition also tells us that Thomas actually did stick his finger into the holes in Jesus’ hand and side. When I searched for artwork that depicted this Biblical scene almost all of it -- from the Middle Ages to the present -- showed Thomas actually sticking his finger in the holes, as Jesus invited him to do. Look at the scripture again. We are not actually told that Thomas did stick his finger into the holes. “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” We are told only that Jesus invited him to do so, and immediately Thomas said, “My Lord and my God!”
Maybe Thomas did put his finger into Jesus’ side and hands, as all the artwork shows, but the scripture doesn’t say that. Let’s consider then, that he didn’t. Doesn’t that change the story? As the scripture has it, Thomas believed the moment Jesus invited him to touch his wounds. It was the invitation, then, and not the wounds themselves, that made Thomas believe. Here was his friend, his teacher, his Lord, his God -- a man he loved who had been in the tomb only moments before, it seemed. Who can blame Thomas for not believing that it was the same man standing in front of him now? But Jesus understood. Jesus loved him. And Jesus, his dear friend, was willing to allow Thomas to put his finger into those wounds that had caused him, Jesus, to endure such great suffering. Sure, the wounds might not have hurt anymore (we don’t know that from the scripture, though). Still, they were the signs of his tremendous humiliation and suffering. Jesus gave permission to touch those bloody holes anyway.
We are all familiar with the phrase “seeing is believing.” Just as the phrase “doubting Thomas” has become a colloquialism, so has “seeing is believing.” We have these two contradictory phrases as part of our lexicon, and we believe both of them: Thomas was bad because of his disbelief, but we won’t believe things until we see them. We condemn Thomas while maintaining our own skepticism. We have, thus, declared that Thomas had to see the wounds on Jesus’ hand and side before he would believe.
The suggestion I have given that Thomas may not, in fact, have touched or even seen those wounds changes things, however. (Jesus’ comment “Blessed are those who believe without seeing” is not spoken to Thomas directly in the text.) When Jesus invited Thomas to touch him in a most intimate way -- to touch the places where his body had been ravaged by violence -- Thomas believed. And it was because he believed that he was able to see those wounds -- at least in his mind’s eye -- and thus to visualize the suffering and the risen body of his Lord.
Last Sunday I asked you to suspend your disbelief, to set aside your sorrow and accept the Easter miracle as is. I suppose today I am asking you to do the same. Many stories in our Bible are hard to believe if we think about them logically, rationally. I am asking you to believe in their truth anyway.
Like Thomas, we weren’t there the moment that Jesus revealed himself to the other disciples. Of course, Thomas was eventually given the opportunity to meet Jesus face-to-face, a chance that we may never have, at least not in this lifetime. But in order for him to see, Thomas first had to believe. Thomas first had to trust that such a bizarre thing could be true. He had to set aside his horrific grief and come to the ridiculous conclusion that the friend he had seen nailed to a tree might actually be alive.
As I acknowledged last Sunday, our belief in the Resurrection of Christ will not mean that all our troubles will suddenly disappear. But we are called to accept these miracles anyway. Jesus is inviting us, too, to touch his wounds, to realize that this joy we see in his disciples’ cries came only after the painful, humiliating, awful experience of his Crucifixion. Jesus, too, knew horrendous suffering, and he has the gruesome wounds to prove it. Jesus, our Lord and our Messiah, hurt just as much, if not more, than any of us. Let us find comfort in the suffering that he so willingly shares with us. Now let us pray.
1 Merriam-Webster Online, http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/doubting%20thomas, accessed 03/30/08.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Sermon 03/23/08 Easter Sunday (John 20:1-18)
“A Tale of Nonsensical Joy”
John 20:1-18
Rev. Désirée H. Gold
St. Mark’s United Church of Christ, Baltimore, MD
Sunday, 23 March, 2008
Easter Sunday
---
The year 1999 was horrible for me -- the worst year of my life to date. Crisis was followed by calamity. Calamity was followed by tragedy. Tragedy was followed by horror. And so it went. Most of these events were life-changing, not just little problems here and there. When my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer that fall, I laughed. I literally laughed out loud. The fact that I would have to deal with yet another major crisis was simply too ridiculous. All I had left was hysterical laughter.
I am, of course, eternally grateful that my mother survived her cancer and that she is now healthy and happy. I realize, however, that many people are not so lucky.
There are many, many crises besides the scourge of cancer too, and I faced a number of them in 1999. Although 2007 was certainly better than that year, it wasn’t a perfect year. I watched a close friend struggle with the diagnosis of chronic illness. I felt helpless as my sister faced financial difficulties. I ached in those tense days after my best friend’s daughter was born two months premature.
I know many of you have had a hard year too. Several of you have spoken to me about personal difficulties -- heartache, health problems, hunger. We have all been shaken by events around our world: Violence in Baltimore City and elsewhere. The war in Iraq and political unrest in far too many places. The bitter debates that too often occur in campaigns for public office. The fears of an impending economic recession.
We have felt helpless in these personal and worldly struggles. We have been frustrated at the inability to help a family member or to create world peace. We have been saddened or angered by the departure or death of someone we love, and by the violence we see on our city streets. We have ached -- physically, emotionally, spiritually -- as we faced our own illness or the illness of someone we love.
When times get really, really hard like this -- when we experience so much pain that we laugh at the next crisis that comes our way -- it is hard to find hope. It is hard to have faith in God when it seems that our lives -- or the lives of those we love -- are falling apart. We know that not every story has a happy ending. People die of cancer. People we love leave us. Addiction to alcohol and other drugs claims the well-being of many. Chronic illness hurts. Nations are still at war, there are still homeless and hungry people everywhere, the world seems to be going to hell in a handbasket. We live inside Good Friday -- betrayal, desertion, death. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?!”
Then along comes Easter. Easter, with its message tremendous joy, its miracle of love. Jesus, whose death we lamented just two days ago, emerges from the tomb and appears to his most beloved disciple, Mary Magdalene. “I have seen the Lord!” she proclaims. Her unthinkable grief is transformed into unthinkable joy. ...And for more than two thousand years Christ’s followers have celebrated his Resurrection from the dead.
In our churches, Easter Sunday is the most festive worship service of the year -- even more so than Christmas Eve. We pull out all the stops -- at St. Mark’s we have added the blessed gift of live music! Our church is filled with flowers. We put on our very best clothes -- I recently saw two flower-covered Easter bonnets in an antique store and was tempted to buy one and wear it on Easter morning. We will participate in a special communion service this morning -- one that focuses more on the Resurrection than the crucifixion. Oh, and did I mention that we have live music?! We’re pulling out all the stops, going crazy with our Easter celebration.
So, how do we reconcile this? How can we reconcile the pain we know in life with the miracle we celebrate on Easter morning? How can we open our hearts to the hope of Christ’s Resurrection when we spend a lot of our time worrying, grieving, wondering where God is? We want to have faith in Easter -- beyond trusting that we will get to eat chocolate bunnies and colored Easter eggs -- but how do we have faith when we have been crying out to God the rest of the year?
There is no easy answer to this. Even as we cry with Mary, “I have seen the Lord!” -- even as we raise our voices with the glorious words of “Christ the Lord is risen today!” -- we know that the Resurrection of Jesus will not mean an immediate end to all our problems. Most of us have experienced enough Easter mornings to realize that after we leave this place life will still be hard. We are not yet in Paradise.
With these things in mind -- the juxtaposition of Christ’s Resurrection with our own continued suffering -- I wish I could tell you that if you only have faith in this miracle nothing bad will ever happen to you again. But we know that’s not true. The most faithful people, who pray until they are blue in the face, can still experience tragedy, and that doesn’t mean that they didn’t have enough faith or that their prayers were not heard by God. It simply means that we are human beings living on planet Earth, and God is present with us in suffering but does not always keep it from happening. The possible reasons for this are another sermon for another day. For now, let’s just deal with this Easter dilemma.
The simplest answer, I believe, is to take the Easter miracle at face value. No matter how many times I hear the Good Friday scriptures, they still seem real to me, and they still hurt. No matter how many times I hear the story of Mary arriving at Jesus’ tomb, only to find it empty, I cannot make sense of it, and I’m not alone in that. Theologians have argued for millennia about the possible logistics of the Resurrection, and they haven’t come up with much. Despite that, Christians come back to celebrate it year after year, and just as I grieve Christ’s death every year, I am overjoyed at his Resurrection. Even when our own lives do not seem at all miraculous, many of us feel a certain sense of excitement when we hear, for the umpteenth time, that Mary Magdalene has come to the tomb to mourn but found her beloved Jesus alive and well.
Let us, then, accept the Easter miracle for what it is. Just as we are able to be happy for other people when we, ourselves, are unhappy, we can rejoice for those who found Jesus raised on that first Easter morning. The Easter story is more than just something that happened to other people, though. It is our story. Whether or not we are able to feel the presence of God right now, we can turn to the scriptures and at least hear the story. Even if we’re not sure anyone hears our prayers, we can keep praying. Sometimes, even going through the motions can be worshipful.
Finding the strength to hear this most hopeful of all stories, even when we find little cause for hope in our day-to-day lives, can draw us closer to the God whose presence we may question. Jesus was raised from the dead! Halleluiah! Yes, we are still faced with the troubles of human existence, but for this one moment let us rejoice in Mary’s discovery on that first Easter Day.
When we are able to give thanks for a miracle that makes so little sense, we just might begin to allow hope to seep into those other dark places in our hearts. This is not a bad model for living. Yes, for many of us life will be pretty hard. That said, most of us will have little triumphs in the midst of the hard stuff. Use the example of the Easter miracle to find strength to give thanks for all the little miracles that take place for you. When you see the smile on the face of your child or grandchild, be thankful for that. When you get a phone call from an old friend, be thankful for that. When you spend one more day sober, be thankful for that. When you don’t ache quite as much today as you did yesterday, be thankful for that.
Even if you are not sure where or even if God is right now, hear the story of the Easter miracle and drink in the hope. It might not hit you right now, but you may be able to rejoice later. Be thankful for the community of St. Mark’s. Be thankful that you’re alive and here this morning. Find hope, find gratitude in these little things. People, why are you weeping? Take a moment to stop your tears and hear the hope in this story that makes so little sense but contains so much truth.
Now let us pray.
John 20:1-18
Rev. Désirée H. Gold
St. Mark’s United Church of Christ, Baltimore, MD
Sunday, 23 March, 2008
Easter Sunday
---
The year 1999 was horrible for me -- the worst year of my life to date. Crisis was followed by calamity. Calamity was followed by tragedy. Tragedy was followed by horror. And so it went. Most of these events were life-changing, not just little problems here and there. When my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer that fall, I laughed. I literally laughed out loud. The fact that I would have to deal with yet another major crisis was simply too ridiculous. All I had left was hysterical laughter.
I am, of course, eternally grateful that my mother survived her cancer and that she is now healthy and happy. I realize, however, that many people are not so lucky.
There are many, many crises besides the scourge of cancer too, and I faced a number of them in 1999. Although 2007 was certainly better than that year, it wasn’t a perfect year. I watched a close friend struggle with the diagnosis of chronic illness. I felt helpless as my sister faced financial difficulties. I ached in those tense days after my best friend’s daughter was born two months premature.
I know many of you have had a hard year too. Several of you have spoken to me about personal difficulties -- heartache, health problems, hunger. We have all been shaken by events around our world: Violence in Baltimore City and elsewhere. The war in Iraq and political unrest in far too many places. The bitter debates that too often occur in campaigns for public office. The fears of an impending economic recession.
We have felt helpless in these personal and worldly struggles. We have been frustrated at the inability to help a family member or to create world peace. We have been saddened or angered by the departure or death of someone we love, and by the violence we see on our city streets. We have ached -- physically, emotionally, spiritually -- as we faced our own illness or the illness of someone we love.
When times get really, really hard like this -- when we experience so much pain that we laugh at the next crisis that comes our way -- it is hard to find hope. It is hard to have faith in God when it seems that our lives -- or the lives of those we love -- are falling apart. We know that not every story has a happy ending. People die of cancer. People we love leave us. Addiction to alcohol and other drugs claims the well-being of many. Chronic illness hurts. Nations are still at war, there are still homeless and hungry people everywhere, the world seems to be going to hell in a handbasket. We live inside Good Friday -- betrayal, desertion, death. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?!”
Then along comes Easter. Easter, with its message tremendous joy, its miracle of love. Jesus, whose death we lamented just two days ago, emerges from the tomb and appears to his most beloved disciple, Mary Magdalene. “I have seen the Lord!” she proclaims. Her unthinkable grief is transformed into unthinkable joy. ...And for more than two thousand years Christ’s followers have celebrated his Resurrection from the dead.
In our churches, Easter Sunday is the most festive worship service of the year -- even more so than Christmas Eve. We pull out all the stops -- at St. Mark’s we have added the blessed gift of live music! Our church is filled with flowers. We put on our very best clothes -- I recently saw two flower-covered Easter bonnets in an antique store and was tempted to buy one and wear it on Easter morning. We will participate in a special communion service this morning -- one that focuses more on the Resurrection than the crucifixion. Oh, and did I mention that we have live music?! We’re pulling out all the stops, going crazy with our Easter celebration.
So, how do we reconcile this? How can we reconcile the pain we know in life with the miracle we celebrate on Easter morning? How can we open our hearts to the hope of Christ’s Resurrection when we spend a lot of our time worrying, grieving, wondering where God is? We want to have faith in Easter -- beyond trusting that we will get to eat chocolate bunnies and colored Easter eggs -- but how do we have faith when we have been crying out to God the rest of the year?
There is no easy answer to this. Even as we cry with Mary, “I have seen the Lord!” -- even as we raise our voices with the glorious words of “Christ the Lord is risen today!” -- we know that the Resurrection of Jesus will not mean an immediate end to all our problems. Most of us have experienced enough Easter mornings to realize that after we leave this place life will still be hard. We are not yet in Paradise.
With these things in mind -- the juxtaposition of Christ’s Resurrection with our own continued suffering -- I wish I could tell you that if you only have faith in this miracle nothing bad will ever happen to you again. But we know that’s not true. The most faithful people, who pray until they are blue in the face, can still experience tragedy, and that doesn’t mean that they didn’t have enough faith or that their prayers were not heard by God. It simply means that we are human beings living on planet Earth, and God is present with us in suffering but does not always keep it from happening. The possible reasons for this are another sermon for another day. For now, let’s just deal with this Easter dilemma.
The simplest answer, I believe, is to take the Easter miracle at face value. No matter how many times I hear the Good Friday scriptures, they still seem real to me, and they still hurt. No matter how many times I hear the story of Mary arriving at Jesus’ tomb, only to find it empty, I cannot make sense of it, and I’m not alone in that. Theologians have argued for millennia about the possible logistics of the Resurrection, and they haven’t come up with much. Despite that, Christians come back to celebrate it year after year, and just as I grieve Christ’s death every year, I am overjoyed at his Resurrection. Even when our own lives do not seem at all miraculous, many of us feel a certain sense of excitement when we hear, for the umpteenth time, that Mary Magdalene has come to the tomb to mourn but found her beloved Jesus alive and well.
Let us, then, accept the Easter miracle for what it is. Just as we are able to be happy for other people when we, ourselves, are unhappy, we can rejoice for those who found Jesus raised on that first Easter morning. The Easter story is more than just something that happened to other people, though. It is our story. Whether or not we are able to feel the presence of God right now, we can turn to the scriptures and at least hear the story. Even if we’re not sure anyone hears our prayers, we can keep praying. Sometimes, even going through the motions can be worshipful.
Finding the strength to hear this most hopeful of all stories, even when we find little cause for hope in our day-to-day lives, can draw us closer to the God whose presence we may question. Jesus was raised from the dead! Halleluiah! Yes, we are still faced with the troubles of human existence, but for this one moment let us rejoice in Mary’s discovery on that first Easter Day.
When we are able to give thanks for a miracle that makes so little sense, we just might begin to allow hope to seep into those other dark places in our hearts. This is not a bad model for living. Yes, for many of us life will be pretty hard. That said, most of us will have little triumphs in the midst of the hard stuff. Use the example of the Easter miracle to find strength to give thanks for all the little miracles that take place for you. When you see the smile on the face of your child or grandchild, be thankful for that. When you get a phone call from an old friend, be thankful for that. When you spend one more day sober, be thankful for that. When you don’t ache quite as much today as you did yesterday, be thankful for that.
Even if you are not sure where or even if God is right now, hear the story of the Easter miracle and drink in the hope. It might not hit you right now, but you may be able to rejoice later. Be thankful for the community of St. Mark’s. Be thankful that you’re alive and here this morning. Find hope, find gratitude in these little things. People, why are you weeping? Take a moment to stop your tears and hear the hope in this story that makes so little sense but contains so much truth.
Now let us pray.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Sermon 03/16/08 Palm Sunday (Matthew 21:1-11)
“An Ominous Journey”
Matthew 21:1-11
Rev. Désirée H. Gold
St. Mark’s United Church of Christ, Baltimore, MD
Sunday, 16 March, 2008
Palm/Passion Sunday
---
 When I was a student at Eden Seminary, we had chapel services three times during the week. On Mondays and Wednesdays the services were brief -- a few prayers, hymns, and a short homily, usually given by a senior seminary student. But Thursday chapel included communion, offering, and sometimes other “special” or creative worship experiences.
During my three years at Eden, my favorite chapel service of the year was always Maundy Thursday, during Holy Week. In addition to the regular sermon, communion, etc., Maundy Thursday included a special foot washing service. Members of the congregation, which included students, professors, and others connected to the seminary, were invited to come forward, sit down on a chair at the front of the chapel, and have their feet washed and dried by the professor leading that day’s service. It was a tremendously solemn and powerful event, and I loved the symbolism of servanthood, modeled after Jesus’ washing of his disciples’ feet at the Last Supper. Although my seminary professors faced nothing as grim as impending death, the image of these authority figures being willing to bend down at the feet of their students and wash them was beautiful and meaningful to me. For me this was the real beginning of Holy Week -- this celebration and remembrance of the servanthood of Christ, the lesson so prevalent in all of Jesus’ ministry, that “the last shall be first.” This is the message of Holy Week for me -- and the very Gospel itself.
Instead of this solemn model of servanthood, today we, like most churches, are beginning Holy Week with a bang! “Palm Sunday,” as we have come to know it, has become not only Jesus’ triumphal entrance into Jerusalem but also our own entry into Holy Week -- the week leading up to Jesus’ death. Although only the gospel of Mark includes the waving of palms by the people as Jesus rode into the city (look at our Gospel of Matthew text again: no palms), today we wave our palm branches as we sing triumphant songs about the King of Glory being welcomed into Jerusalem with wonder and rejoicing. In the rock opera “Jesus Christ Superstar,” this scene is portrayed by a raucous crowd singing and dancing, thronging Jesus as he tries to make his way into the city. We, too, shout our loud “Hosannas”!
Many churches I have attended, including the church I pastored in Sacramento, celebrated Palm Sunday as just that: Palm Sunday. We focused on Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem and the veneration of him as Lord. If one didn’t know a great deal about the church or the scriptures we follow, and were to attend Holy Week services only on this Sunday and next -- Palm Sunday and Easter -- one would think that we Christians were an awfully happy-go-lucky bunch! We shout and sing, we decorate our churches with palm branches in an obvious celebration of this man named Jesus. Then next Sunday, we will sing another batch of joyous tunes, flowers will grace the church with their scent and beauty, we will wear our very Sunday best, and everything will be happy again. “Boy, those Christians sure are a joyful bunch!” any outsider would think. Their confusion would be understandable. Even for more seasoned Christians, including myself, the jolt from Palm Sunday to Easter seems odd. Here we are celebrating a Jesus who seems alive and well, and next Sunday we will celebrate a Jesus who has somehow died but is now Risen! Doesn’t it seem a little incongruous?
Here at St. Mark’s we use today to focus not just on Jesus being cheered by his followers but also on the darkness that will fall later this week: his Passion, or death on a cross. Many churches have started doing this: combining the celebration of Palm Sunday with the gloom of Good Friday. This change was made in large part because people would skip the other services during Holy Week and would do what I have just described: go directly from the celebration of Palm Sunday to the joy of Easter. If one skips the Last Supper, Jesus’ betrayal, arrest, and crucifixion, Holy Week becomes shallow. However, even today’s raucous “Palm Sunday” scriptures are not all they’re cracked up to be. Is Jesus really basking in the glory? Or is something else going on?
When we really look at the “Palm Sunday” story, we realize that it is, in fact, filled with contradictions -- maybe not within the text itself but in our imagination of the story. First, there are the cries of “Hosanna!” These cries, which were written into a cheerful shout in “Jesus Christ Superstar” and seem to us to be interchangeable with “Hallelujah!,” in fact mean something different than a simple “Hurray!” “Hosanna,” when translated properly, means “save now.” “Save me now!” Is this some happy cheer cried out in excitement that some guy named Jesus is coming into town? Or is it, instead, the cry of a joyous-for-the-moment (maybe), but desperate people?
What about Jesus’ manner of entry into the city? Most people of his time would have walked into Jerusalem, so it seems rather grand that he rides into town on a donkey he has commandeered from a local. But, a donkey?! Wouldn’t one expect a person worthy of such triumphalism to ride, like a knight in shining armor, on a snow-white steed or something? Instead, a donkey. A humble donkey. Clearly, this is not a regular king of any sort.
And what about that word “humble” itself? The Bible that you have in front of you translates the quote from Zechariah this way: "Tell the daughter of Zion, ‘Look, your king is coming to you, humble, and mounted on a donkey, and on a colt, the foal of a donkey’" (Zechariah 9:9). Many Bibles use a similar translation. However, a more accurate translation would say, “your king is coming to you, gentle, and mounted on a donkey.” So, not only is this “triumphant king” riding a donkey; he is a gentle man. How many gentle kings do you know from the history books?!
This triumphant scene, that we have so often pictured as an innumerable crowd cheering and rowdily waving their branches at this glorious Messiah? Was it really the party we have imagined it to be? Jesus was not “glorious” in the traditional sense, so the “crowd” -- which was likely smaller than we tend to picture it -- was celebrating something strange: a gentle man, riding into town on a lowly donkey. And they were not shouting, “Hurray! Praise be!” They were crying, “Save me!”
Our knowledge of Palm Sunday is further changed when we realize that Holy Week is not just one big party between today and Easter. Here at St. Mark’s we will rocket from Palm Sunday to Passion Sunday in the same worship service. In a few minutes we will hear the story of Jesus’ betrayal, arrest, and crucifixion. But even by rapidly going from Palm Sunday to Good Friday in one day, we miss out on a few things. The week is full with the rest of the story of our Christian faith: Maundy Thursday, when we recall the Last Supper, where Jesus offered his body and his blood, washed the feet of his disciples, and modeled holy servanthood. Good Friday, when the Jesus we celebrate as triumphant King and Risen Lord, died in an extraordinarily humiliating manner. By worshiping on Good Friday, later this week -- by focusing an entire worship service on the darkest moment of our Christian faith -- I believe that we can crawl more deeply into the meaning of Holy Week. Only then, after a week chock full of tension and sadness, will the glory of Easter come, and our ability to truly be grateful for it.
So, don’t be a Sunday morning Christian. If you can, attend services throughout the week. Come to our Maundy Thursday gathering. We won’t wash each other’s feet, but we will share a meal, worship, and pray together. Come to our Good Friday service too. Yes, we will hear again the story of Jesus’ death on a cross, but it is something we really need to hear if we are to appreciate the Resurrection.
Even if you are unable to attend church before next Sunday, do what Christians have been doing for nearly two thousand years. Read the scriptures. Recall Jesus’ Passion in your own way. Leave the party for a little while...and pray.
Now let us pray.
Matthew 21:1-11
Rev. Désirée H. Gold
St. Mark’s United Church of Christ, Baltimore, MD
Sunday, 16 March, 2008
Palm/Passion Sunday
---
 When I was a student at Eden Seminary, we had chapel services three times during the week. On Mondays and Wednesdays the services were brief -- a few prayers, hymns, and a short homily, usually given by a senior seminary student. But Thursday chapel included communion, offering, and sometimes other “special” or creative worship experiences.
During my three years at Eden, my favorite chapel service of the year was always Maundy Thursday, during Holy Week. In addition to the regular sermon, communion, etc., Maundy Thursday included a special foot washing service. Members of the congregation, which included students, professors, and others connected to the seminary, were invited to come forward, sit down on a chair at the front of the chapel, and have their feet washed and dried by the professor leading that day’s service. It was a tremendously solemn and powerful event, and I loved the symbolism of servanthood, modeled after Jesus’ washing of his disciples’ feet at the Last Supper. Although my seminary professors faced nothing as grim as impending death, the image of these authority figures being willing to bend down at the feet of their students and wash them was beautiful and meaningful to me. For me this was the real beginning of Holy Week -- this celebration and remembrance of the servanthood of Christ, the lesson so prevalent in all of Jesus’ ministry, that “the last shall be first.” This is the message of Holy Week for me -- and the very Gospel itself.
Instead of this solemn model of servanthood, today we, like most churches, are beginning Holy Week with a bang! “Palm Sunday,” as we have come to know it, has become not only Jesus’ triumphal entrance into Jerusalem but also our own entry into Holy Week -- the week leading up to Jesus’ death. Although only the gospel of Mark includes the waving of palms by the people as Jesus rode into the city (look at our Gospel of Matthew text again: no palms), today we wave our palm branches as we sing triumphant songs about the King of Glory being welcomed into Jerusalem with wonder and rejoicing. In the rock opera “Jesus Christ Superstar,” this scene is portrayed by a raucous crowd singing and dancing, thronging Jesus as he tries to make his way into the city. We, too, shout our loud “Hosannas”!
Many churches I have attended, including the church I pastored in Sacramento, celebrated Palm Sunday as just that: Palm Sunday. We focused on Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem and the veneration of him as Lord. If one didn’t know a great deal about the church or the scriptures we follow, and were to attend Holy Week services only on this Sunday and next -- Palm Sunday and Easter -- one would think that we Christians were an awfully happy-go-lucky bunch! We shout and sing, we decorate our churches with palm branches in an obvious celebration of this man named Jesus. Then next Sunday, we will sing another batch of joyous tunes, flowers will grace the church with their scent and beauty, we will wear our very Sunday best, and everything will be happy again. “Boy, those Christians sure are a joyful bunch!” any outsider would think. Their confusion would be understandable. Even for more seasoned Christians, including myself, the jolt from Palm Sunday to Easter seems odd. Here we are celebrating a Jesus who seems alive and well, and next Sunday we will celebrate a Jesus who has somehow died but is now Risen! Doesn’t it seem a little incongruous?
Here at St. Mark’s we use today to focus not just on Jesus being cheered by his followers but also on the darkness that will fall later this week: his Passion, or death on a cross. Many churches have started doing this: combining the celebration of Palm Sunday with the gloom of Good Friday. This change was made in large part because people would skip the other services during Holy Week and would do what I have just described: go directly from the celebration of Palm Sunday to the joy of Easter. If one skips the Last Supper, Jesus’ betrayal, arrest, and crucifixion, Holy Week becomes shallow. However, even today’s raucous “Palm Sunday” scriptures are not all they’re cracked up to be. Is Jesus really basking in the glory? Or is something else going on?
When we really look at the “Palm Sunday” story, we realize that it is, in fact, filled with contradictions -- maybe not within the text itself but in our imagination of the story. First, there are the cries of “Hosanna!” These cries, which were written into a cheerful shout in “Jesus Christ Superstar” and seem to us to be interchangeable with “Hallelujah!,” in fact mean something different than a simple “Hurray!” “Hosanna,” when translated properly, means “save now.” “Save me now!” Is this some happy cheer cried out in excitement that some guy named Jesus is coming into town? Or is it, instead, the cry of a joyous-for-the-moment (maybe), but desperate people?
What about Jesus’ manner of entry into the city? Most people of his time would have walked into Jerusalem, so it seems rather grand that he rides into town on a donkey he has commandeered from a local. But, a donkey?! Wouldn’t one expect a person worthy of such triumphalism to ride, like a knight in shining armor, on a snow-white steed or something? Instead, a donkey. A humble donkey. Clearly, this is not a regular king of any sort.
And what about that word “humble” itself? The Bible that you have in front of you translates the quote from Zechariah this way: "Tell the daughter of Zion, ‘Look, your king is coming to you, humble, and mounted on a donkey, and on a colt, the foal of a donkey’" (Zechariah 9:9). Many Bibles use a similar translation. However, a more accurate translation would say, “your king is coming to you, gentle, and mounted on a donkey.” So, not only is this “triumphant king” riding a donkey; he is a gentle man. How many gentle kings do you know from the history books?!
This triumphant scene, that we have so often pictured as an innumerable crowd cheering and rowdily waving their branches at this glorious Messiah? Was it really the party we have imagined it to be? Jesus was not “glorious” in the traditional sense, so the “crowd” -- which was likely smaller than we tend to picture it -- was celebrating something strange: a gentle man, riding into town on a lowly donkey. And they were not shouting, “Hurray! Praise be!” They were crying, “Save me!”
Our knowledge of Palm Sunday is further changed when we realize that Holy Week is not just one big party between today and Easter. Here at St. Mark’s we will rocket from Palm Sunday to Passion Sunday in the same worship service. In a few minutes we will hear the story of Jesus’ betrayal, arrest, and crucifixion. But even by rapidly going from Palm Sunday to Good Friday in one day, we miss out on a few things. The week is full with the rest of the story of our Christian faith: Maundy Thursday, when we recall the Last Supper, where Jesus offered his body and his blood, washed the feet of his disciples, and modeled holy servanthood. Good Friday, when the Jesus we celebrate as triumphant King and Risen Lord, died in an extraordinarily humiliating manner. By worshiping on Good Friday, later this week -- by focusing an entire worship service on the darkest moment of our Christian faith -- I believe that we can crawl more deeply into the meaning of Holy Week. Only then, after a week chock full of tension and sadness, will the glory of Easter come, and our ability to truly be grateful for it.
So, don’t be a Sunday morning Christian. If you can, attend services throughout the week. Come to our Maundy Thursday gathering. We won’t wash each other’s feet, but we will share a meal, worship, and pray together. Come to our Good Friday service too. Yes, we will hear again the story of Jesus’ death on a cross, but it is something we really need to hear if we are to appreciate the Resurrection.
Even if you are unable to attend church before next Sunday, do what Christians have been doing for nearly two thousand years. Read the scriptures. Recall Jesus’ Passion in your own way. Leave the party for a little while...and pray.
Now let us pray.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Sermon 03/09/08 (Ezekiel 37:1-14; John 11:1-45)
“Wanted: Dead yet Alive”
Ezekiel 37:1-14; John 11:1-45
Rev. Désirée H. Gold
St. Mark’s United Church of Christ, Baltimore, MD
Sunday, 9 March, 2008
Fifth Sunday in Lent
 This is a rather spooky story to me. “The hand...came upon me, and he brought me out...and set me down in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me all around them; there were very many lying in the valley, and they were very dry. He said to me, ‘Mortal, can these bones live?’”
...When you remove “the Lord” from this scripture, it sounds more like a scene from a horror flick or a science fiction movie. ...And it gets worse! As we well know, the bones come alive! Now, it’s a downright zombie tale! One biblical commentator even refers to the eventually flesh-covered bones as “an array of zombies.”
In my opinion, this is one of the weirdest scriptures in our Bible -- albeit, one of the most beautiful, but I’ll get to that later. I’m not saying that our Bible has to be filled with logic and rationality. It’s not. ...But dry bones suddenly coming to life in the middle of an otherwise empty valley?!
My sister-in-law, Melissa, has a master’s degree in forensic anthropology. That means that when she was in school she spent her days studying bones, most of which had come from crime scenes. Not all of the bones she studied were “very dry,” like the ones about which we have heard today. In fact, among her more gruesome tasks, Melissa sometimes had to remove the flesh from the bones before she studied them. Then came the meticulous work of looking at the bones themselves. And no, her job wasn’t quite like the breezy work you see on “CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.” Sure, there’s a lot of fancy technology available to help with some of the forensic work. But most of her time was spent very painstakingly looking at the bones, arranging them, trying to figure out what happened to them, and to the body to which they once belonged.
In short, Melissa knows a lot about bones. She dealt with the more macabre, and yes, sometimes gruesome, end of bone study. By the time the bones came to her, the breath had long since left them. But that is just the point. Melissa never saw the bones she studied suddenly grow sinews and flesh and then come to life! They were always the way Ezekiel first found them: very much dead. They were always Lazarus before Jesus arrived. Without breath.
So, how is it that the dry bones of the valley -- and the “sleeping” Lazarus did rise up, suddenly filled with new life? Clearly, this is not meant to be a story about logic. If my well-studied sister-in-law were to come upon a field of dry bones and see the bones suddenly grow flesh and become breathing beings again, she would have absolutely no scientific explanation for the occurrence. She would be just as baffled (and probably scared half to death) as the rest of us. So, science and logic are not the aims here. What is the prophet reaching for?
It is first important to note the explanation that God gives to the prophet: “Mortal, these bones are the whole house of Israel. They say, ‘Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely.’” So, the context is the people of the Exile, the Israelite tribes who had been exiled and dispersed, separated from their home in Israel. The raising up of their bones is a sign of hope from God, pointing to the eventual reunification of the tribes and an end to the Diaspora. The Israelites of Ezekiel’s time would have seen his prophesy as a sign that God/Yahweh was with them, even in their separation from one another.
Now we know the original context in which he wrote. This is always important when we are dealing with our scriptures, which were written in a time and place far from our own experience. But can these “weird” scriptures, written for a specific time many centuries ago, for a specific people, and in a specific place, continue to have meaning for more modern people? Can some “spooky” story about dry bones in a barren valley have meaning for us?
We know that this was a story of hope to the ancient Israelites, and perhaps we, too, can find hope in a story of new life springing forth “from the ashes,” as it were. It is perhaps easiest to draw a conclusion between the plight of Ezekiel’s time and the plight of modern Jews following the Holocaust. They themselves made this connection in their effort to create a modern Israel in the late 1940’s. Regardless of your political views on the current conflict in Israel/Palestine, the need many Jews felt to have a “homeland,” where they would be safe from centuries of persecution is understandable. Once we begin that modern analogy, it is possible to see many analogies between Ezekiel’s prophesy of renewal and our own contexts. I recall visiting a mass grave in St. Petersburg, Russia in 1992, left over from the death and destruction of WWII. I can imagine the family members of the numerous deceased picturing a scene like the one in Ezekiel’s prophesy: although the dead themselves would not be raised from their grave, the survivors could find hope in the new life that would spring forth in generations to come. Any people in the midst of war can live in the hope that the gruesomeness of death will eventually be followed by new breath, new life. Spring will follow the winter of dry bones. But for those of us who have not known, or do not currently know, the lifelessness of a war zone, the words of Ezekiel can have metaphorical meaning also.
We are now nearing the end of the season of Lent, a season which, to some, is seen as merely the dark season that leads to the Cross. I know several laypeople, and some ministers too, who have never liked Lent because it’s too “gloomy.” They see only the valley of dry bones. But remember something: behind the shadow of the Cross, there is always the light of the Resurrection. Yes, it is important to remember Jesus’ suffering on Good Friday. But it is also important to see this season as a time of special prayer and commitment...and as a time that leads not only to the Cross, but also to the Resurrection. Not only to those gloomy, spooky, “dry bones,” but also to the miracle of new life. So, during the remainder of this season of Lent, let God breathe some new life into those “dry bones” of yours. Let the Holy Spirit overtake you as you pray. See this “valley of the shadow of death” -- Jesus’ death, our own dark moments -- as Ezekiel would have seen it: just a temporary step along the way. Remember Jesus’ nonchalance about the death of Lazarus. This valley of dry bones will live.
Now let us pray.
Ezekiel 37:1-14; John 11:1-45
Rev. Désirée H. Gold
St. Mark’s United Church of Christ, Baltimore, MD
Sunday, 9 March, 2008
Fifth Sunday in Lent
 This is a rather spooky story to me. “The hand...came upon me, and he brought me out...and set me down in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me all around them; there were very many lying in the valley, and they were very dry. He said to me, ‘Mortal, can these bones live?’”
...When you remove “the Lord” from this scripture, it sounds more like a scene from a horror flick or a science fiction movie. ...And it gets worse! As we well know, the bones come alive! Now, it’s a downright zombie tale! One biblical commentator even refers to the eventually flesh-covered bones as “an array of zombies.”
In my opinion, this is one of the weirdest scriptures in our Bible -- albeit, one of the most beautiful, but I’ll get to that later. I’m not saying that our Bible has to be filled with logic and rationality. It’s not. ...But dry bones suddenly coming to life in the middle of an otherwise empty valley?!
My sister-in-law, Melissa, has a master’s degree in forensic anthropology. That means that when she was in school she spent her days studying bones, most of which had come from crime scenes. Not all of the bones she studied were “very dry,” like the ones about which we have heard today. In fact, among her more gruesome tasks, Melissa sometimes had to remove the flesh from the bones before she studied them. Then came the meticulous work of looking at the bones themselves. And no, her job wasn’t quite like the breezy work you see on “CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.” Sure, there’s a lot of fancy technology available to help with some of the forensic work. But most of her time was spent very painstakingly looking at the bones, arranging them, trying to figure out what happened to them, and to the body to which they once belonged.
In short, Melissa knows a lot about bones. She dealt with the more macabre, and yes, sometimes gruesome, end of bone study. By the time the bones came to her, the breath had long since left them. But that is just the point. Melissa never saw the bones she studied suddenly grow sinews and flesh and then come to life! They were always the way Ezekiel first found them: very much dead. They were always Lazarus before Jesus arrived. Without breath.
So, how is it that the dry bones of the valley -- and the “sleeping” Lazarus did rise up, suddenly filled with new life? Clearly, this is not meant to be a story about logic. If my well-studied sister-in-law were to come upon a field of dry bones and see the bones suddenly grow flesh and become breathing beings again, she would have absolutely no scientific explanation for the occurrence. She would be just as baffled (and probably scared half to death) as the rest of us. So, science and logic are not the aims here. What is the prophet reaching for?
It is first important to note the explanation that God gives to the prophet: “Mortal, these bones are the whole house of Israel. They say, ‘Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely.’” So, the context is the people of the Exile, the Israelite tribes who had been exiled and dispersed, separated from their home in Israel. The raising up of their bones is a sign of hope from God, pointing to the eventual reunification of the tribes and an end to the Diaspora. The Israelites of Ezekiel’s time would have seen his prophesy as a sign that God/Yahweh was with them, even in their separation from one another.
Now we know the original context in which he wrote. This is always important when we are dealing with our scriptures, which were written in a time and place far from our own experience. But can these “weird” scriptures, written for a specific time many centuries ago, for a specific people, and in a specific place, continue to have meaning for more modern people? Can some “spooky” story about dry bones in a barren valley have meaning for us?
We know that this was a story of hope to the ancient Israelites, and perhaps we, too, can find hope in a story of new life springing forth “from the ashes,” as it were. It is perhaps easiest to draw a conclusion between the plight of Ezekiel’s time and the plight of modern Jews following the Holocaust. They themselves made this connection in their effort to create a modern Israel in the late 1940’s. Regardless of your political views on the current conflict in Israel/Palestine, the need many Jews felt to have a “homeland,” where they would be safe from centuries of persecution is understandable. Once we begin that modern analogy, it is possible to see many analogies between Ezekiel’s prophesy of renewal and our own contexts. I recall visiting a mass grave in St. Petersburg, Russia in 1992, left over from the death and destruction of WWII. I can imagine the family members of the numerous deceased picturing a scene like the one in Ezekiel’s prophesy: although the dead themselves would not be raised from their grave, the survivors could find hope in the new life that would spring forth in generations to come. Any people in the midst of war can live in the hope that the gruesomeness of death will eventually be followed by new breath, new life. Spring will follow the winter of dry bones. But for those of us who have not known, or do not currently know, the lifelessness of a war zone, the words of Ezekiel can have metaphorical meaning also.
We are now nearing the end of the season of Lent, a season which, to some, is seen as merely the dark season that leads to the Cross. I know several laypeople, and some ministers too, who have never liked Lent because it’s too “gloomy.” They see only the valley of dry bones. But remember something: behind the shadow of the Cross, there is always the light of the Resurrection. Yes, it is important to remember Jesus’ suffering on Good Friday. But it is also important to see this season as a time of special prayer and commitment...and as a time that leads not only to the Cross, but also to the Resurrection. Not only to those gloomy, spooky, “dry bones,” but also to the miracle of new life. So, during the remainder of this season of Lent, let God breathe some new life into those “dry bones” of yours. Let the Holy Spirit overtake you as you pray. See this “valley of the shadow of death” -- Jesus’ death, our own dark moments -- as Ezekiel would have seen it: just a temporary step along the way. Remember Jesus’ nonchalance about the death of Lazarus. This valley of dry bones will live.
Now let us pray.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Sermon 03/02/08 (John 9:1-41)
“Healing with Mud Pies and Spit Balls”
John 9:1-41
Rev. Désirée H. Gold
St. Mark’s United Church of Christ, Baltimore, MD
Sunday, 2 March, 2008
Fourth Sunday in Lent
 Our scriptures are rarely just what they seem to be. We become so accustomed to the stories that we have “known” since childhood -- Noah’s ark evokes a joyful picture on a Sunday School wall; Jesus allowing the little ones to come to him reminds us of cheerful songs about Jesus “loving all the children of the world.” And this morning’s Gospel lesson gets lumped into a whole list of healing miracles -- proof for us that Jesus is really great! But is this story about Jesus healing a blind man really as uncomplicated as all that? We know already, from the simplest reading of the story, that things aren’t just hunky-dory for the man once he gains his sight. He faces harsh questioning from those around him -- no one seems to rejoice in this miraculous healing. But that is not the only sign of trouble in this message from the Gospel of John.
First, consider the healing miracle itself. What would it actually be like to suddenly be healed of a disability you have had your entire life? In the movie “At First Sight,” Val Kilmer plays a man who has been blind since childhood. At the insistence of his girlfriend, he undergoes an experimental surgery to restore his sight. The girlfriend is tremendously excited -- and feels her boyfriend should be too -- about the possibilities that sight will add to his life. But rather than a smooth and wonderful transition into the seeing world, when the bandages come off the first glimpses of light and sight are absolutely terrifying for Kilmer’s character. He has no idea what things look like! Things we take for granted, such as the shape and look of a soda can, are completely foreign to a man who has become well-adapted to the world of the blind. Visual shapes mean little to a man who has seen with his hands for so long. Vision is actually blindness to him.
Although the blind man from this morning’s gospel faces social problems after his healing, his physical transition to the seeing world is apparently seamless. Jesus made a mud pie with his own spit, rubbed the mud on the guy’s eyes, and poof! suddenly he could see! Granted, this is a miracle story, so maybe the man experienced none of the difficulties that the blind man of the film had when he regained his sight. Perhaps it really was that easy. “Oh, thanks, Jesus! I can see now!” Besides, the lesson from John leans strongly toward the metaphorical: “Jesus said, ‘I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind.’” That said, I still want to know what it was like for the blind man in those first few moments, days, months of vision.
My difficulty in grasping the apparent ease with which the blind man transitioned into the world of sight is one thing. But I have a deeper difficulty with this well-known story. Frankly, there is something I just don’t like about it. Yes, this is a story from our Holy Scriptures, and yes, I generally find great meaning and poetry in the Gospel of John. But there is something that troubles me about this gospel, and it is played out in a prominent way in this story.
Notice, if you will, the way in which “the Jews” are referred to in the story. (1) “The Jews did not believe;” (2) “His parents said this because they were afraid of the Jews; for the Jews had already agreed that anyone who confessed Jesus to be the Messiah would be put out of the synagogue.” The Pharisees do not get much better recommendation: (1) “Some of the Pharisees said, ‘This man is not from God, for he does not observe the sabbath’;” (2) “Some of the Pharisees near him heard this and said to him, ‘Surely we are not blind, are we?’” Those referred to as “the Jews” are portrayed as frightening, unbelieving, and harsh. The Pharisees are seen as accusatory, yet some readily “admit” their own blindness. Neither are painted in a positive light.
The funny thing is, Jesus, himself, was Jewish, and the blind man may have been too. Indeed, in the earliest days after Jesus’ death, before “Christianity” was a separate religion, it was merely considered a subset of Judaism. Therefore, when the author of John’s gospel refers to the “frightening, unbelieving” Jews, he is clearly referring to some other Jews, besides Jesus. And what of “the Pharisees”? When I was growing up, I thought that the Pharisees were “the bad guys,” because they were portrayed as legalistic and against Jesus. In truth, they were simply a scholarly group of Jews who were known for their adherence to Jewish law.
Yes, we know that the author of John’s gospel does not really mean that all Jews are bad, or that the Pharisees are a particularly virulent sect of Judaism. But that doesn’t change history. In his book _Constantine’s Sword: The Church and the Jews_, Catholic author James Carroll reveals a frightening statistic. He tells the story of a college professor who routinely asked his students what religion Jesus was. Some students answered “Catholic,” most answered “Christian.” Only “a distinct minority” answer that Jesus was Jewish.1 Although these were young students, most of them were not stupid or otherwise ignorant. I remember being shocked when I learned, at around the age of 13, that Jesus was a Jew! A friend of mine indicates similar shock when learning this fact. Some people never realize that Jesus was not, in fact, the “first Christian.” And this failure to consider that Jesus was a Jew his entire life has had some drastic consequences in history. The tendency to take the scriptures as we have them in front of us today -- scriptures containing phrases like, “His parents said this because they were afraid of the Jews” -- at face value, as “gospel truth,” if you will, has sown the seeds of anti-Judaism and anti-Semitism, and helped those seeds to flourish. Regardless of how the author of John meant his condemnation of “the Jews,” the scriptures have been interpreted for centuries as “proof” that “Jews” are below Christians. That fact is never more clear than during the season of Lent, as we approach the Cross. Although the notion is slowly changing, for centuries “the Jews” were blamed for Jesus’ death -- an idea not surprising when one reads some of the lines of John’s gospel, in particular.
Is it blasphemous to be questioning the very words of our Bible? I firmly believe that it is not. I cannot find Gospel, or good news, in words that have led to centuries of anti-Semitism, because I cannot believe in a God who condemns the Judaism with which God made a covenant before Jesus came along. Therefore, I must question. I must search for Gospel deeper within the text. I can believe in the healing miracle, but I cannot believe in the prejudice that has arisen from scriptures like the one we heard this morning. Biblical scholar John Dominic Crossan writes,
"For Christians the New Testament texts and the gospel accounts are inspired by God. But divine inspiration necessarily comes through a human heart and a mortal mind, through personal prejudice and communal interpretation, through fear, dislike, and hate as well as through faith, hope, and charity."2
The Bible was not written for us to just soak in at face value. If such were so, theologians would not have spent millennia studying just to understand little bits of it. As a human of faith, I, too, must question. I must study. I must wonder, “Is this how things really were?” When we do not question, we risk complacency. We risk the possibility of thinking, “O, when the author of John speaks of ‘the Jews’ here, he is speaking about all Jewish people, just as I know them today.” We risk the carelessness of inching toward intolerance. We risk the ease of not loving over the difficulty of loving neighbor. We risk the very meaning of our faith. And that is simply not worth it to me.
Now let us pray.
1 James Carroll, Constantine’s Sword: The Church and the Jews (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2001), 71.
2 John Dominic Crossan, Who Killed Jesus?: Exposing the Roots of Anti-Semitism in the Gospel Story of the Death of Jesus (San Francisco: Harper Collins, 1995), 152.
John 9:1-41
Rev. Désirée H. Gold
St. Mark’s United Church of Christ, Baltimore, MD
Sunday, 2 March, 2008
Fourth Sunday in Lent
 Our scriptures are rarely just what they seem to be. We become so accustomed to the stories that we have “known” since childhood -- Noah’s ark evokes a joyful picture on a Sunday School wall; Jesus allowing the little ones to come to him reminds us of cheerful songs about Jesus “loving all the children of the world.” And this morning’s Gospel lesson gets lumped into a whole list of healing miracles -- proof for us that Jesus is really great! But is this story about Jesus healing a blind man really as uncomplicated as all that? We know already, from the simplest reading of the story, that things aren’t just hunky-dory for the man once he gains his sight. He faces harsh questioning from those around him -- no one seems to rejoice in this miraculous healing. But that is not the only sign of trouble in this message from the Gospel of John.
First, consider the healing miracle itself. What would it actually be like to suddenly be healed of a disability you have had your entire life? In the movie “At First Sight,” Val Kilmer plays a man who has been blind since childhood. At the insistence of his girlfriend, he undergoes an experimental surgery to restore his sight. The girlfriend is tremendously excited -- and feels her boyfriend should be too -- about the possibilities that sight will add to his life. But rather than a smooth and wonderful transition into the seeing world, when the bandages come off the first glimpses of light and sight are absolutely terrifying for Kilmer’s character. He has no idea what things look like! Things we take for granted, such as the shape and look of a soda can, are completely foreign to a man who has become well-adapted to the world of the blind. Visual shapes mean little to a man who has seen with his hands for so long. Vision is actually blindness to him.
Although the blind man from this morning’s gospel faces social problems after his healing, his physical transition to the seeing world is apparently seamless. Jesus made a mud pie with his own spit, rubbed the mud on the guy’s eyes, and poof! suddenly he could see! Granted, this is a miracle story, so maybe the man experienced none of the difficulties that the blind man of the film had when he regained his sight. Perhaps it really was that easy. “Oh, thanks, Jesus! I can see now!” Besides, the lesson from John leans strongly toward the metaphorical: “Jesus said, ‘I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind.’” That said, I still want to know what it was like for the blind man in those first few moments, days, months of vision.
My difficulty in grasping the apparent ease with which the blind man transitioned into the world of sight is one thing. But I have a deeper difficulty with this well-known story. Frankly, there is something I just don’t like about it. Yes, this is a story from our Holy Scriptures, and yes, I generally find great meaning and poetry in the Gospel of John. But there is something that troubles me about this gospel, and it is played out in a prominent way in this story.
Notice, if you will, the way in which “the Jews” are referred to in the story. (1) “The Jews did not believe;” (2) “His parents said this because they were afraid of the Jews; for the Jews had already agreed that anyone who confessed Jesus to be the Messiah would be put out of the synagogue.” The Pharisees do not get much better recommendation: (1) “Some of the Pharisees said, ‘This man is not from God, for he does not observe the sabbath’;” (2) “Some of the Pharisees near him heard this and said to him, ‘Surely we are not blind, are we?’” Those referred to as “the Jews” are portrayed as frightening, unbelieving, and harsh. The Pharisees are seen as accusatory, yet some readily “admit” their own blindness. Neither are painted in a positive light.
The funny thing is, Jesus, himself, was Jewish, and the blind man may have been too. Indeed, in the earliest days after Jesus’ death, before “Christianity” was a separate religion, it was merely considered a subset of Judaism. Therefore, when the author of John’s gospel refers to the “frightening, unbelieving” Jews, he is clearly referring to some other Jews, besides Jesus. And what of “the Pharisees”? When I was growing up, I thought that the Pharisees were “the bad guys,” because they were portrayed as legalistic and against Jesus. In truth, they were simply a scholarly group of Jews who were known for their adherence to Jewish law.
Yes, we know that the author of John’s gospel does not really mean that all Jews are bad, or that the Pharisees are a particularly virulent sect of Judaism. But that doesn’t change history. In his book _Constantine’s Sword: The Church and the Jews_, Catholic author James Carroll reveals a frightening statistic. He tells the story of a college professor who routinely asked his students what religion Jesus was. Some students answered “Catholic,” most answered “Christian.” Only “a distinct minority” answer that Jesus was Jewish.1 Although these were young students, most of them were not stupid or otherwise ignorant. I remember being shocked when I learned, at around the age of 13, that Jesus was a Jew! A friend of mine indicates similar shock when learning this fact. Some people never realize that Jesus was not, in fact, the “first Christian.” And this failure to consider that Jesus was a Jew his entire life has had some drastic consequences in history. The tendency to take the scriptures as we have them in front of us today -- scriptures containing phrases like, “His parents said this because they were afraid of the Jews” -- at face value, as “gospel truth,” if you will, has sown the seeds of anti-Judaism and anti-Semitism, and helped those seeds to flourish. Regardless of how the author of John meant his condemnation of “the Jews,” the scriptures have been interpreted for centuries as “proof” that “Jews” are below Christians. That fact is never more clear than during the season of Lent, as we approach the Cross. Although the notion is slowly changing, for centuries “the Jews” were blamed for Jesus’ death -- an idea not surprising when one reads some of the lines of John’s gospel, in particular.
Is it blasphemous to be questioning the very words of our Bible? I firmly believe that it is not. I cannot find Gospel, or good news, in words that have led to centuries of anti-Semitism, because I cannot believe in a God who condemns the Judaism with which God made a covenant before Jesus came along. Therefore, I must question. I must search for Gospel deeper within the text. I can believe in the healing miracle, but I cannot believe in the prejudice that has arisen from scriptures like the one we heard this morning. Biblical scholar John Dominic Crossan writes,
"For Christians the New Testament texts and the gospel accounts are inspired by God. But divine inspiration necessarily comes through a human heart and a mortal mind, through personal prejudice and communal interpretation, through fear, dislike, and hate as well as through faith, hope, and charity."2
The Bible was not written for us to just soak in at face value. If such were so, theologians would not have spent millennia studying just to understand little bits of it. As a human of faith, I, too, must question. I must study. I must wonder, “Is this how things really were?” When we do not question, we risk complacency. We risk the possibility of thinking, “O, when the author of John speaks of ‘the Jews’ here, he is speaking about all Jewish people, just as I know them today.” We risk the carelessness of inching toward intolerance. We risk the ease of not loving over the difficulty of loving neighbor. We risk the very meaning of our faith. And that is simply not worth it to me.
Now let us pray.
1 James Carroll, Constantine’s Sword: The Church and the Jews (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2001), 71.
2 John Dominic Crossan, Who Killed Jesus?: Exposing the Roots of Anti-Semitism in the Gospel Story of the Death of Jesus (San Francisco: Harper Collins, 1995), 152.
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