There Was a Man Named John

 If this morning's gospel reading feels a little familiar to you, well, it should. Last week we read Mark 1:1-8. The first verse of Mark 1 is about Jesus: The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. But after that, the next seven verses are about John the Baptist. This week, we read from the first chapter of John's gospel. The first chapter of John is a lot longer than the first chapter of Mark—there's a lot going on in John 1, from an opening poem about the Word of God to the call of the first disciples. But once again we are reading a passage about John the Baptist. Now, many of you know that I use a list of readings for each week called the Revised Common Lectionary, which is put together by a large group of Christian preachers and scholars—not by me. And when I saw that this Advent two weeks in a row we would have readings about John the Baptist, I wondered why. I imagine some of you are wondering the same thing this morning: why two weeks on John the Baptist?

Waiting for Holiness

            Advent is a season for waiting. Nobody likes to wait. We’re impatient; the things we want, we want now, not later. Waiting just gets in the way. In fact, waiting is more than an inconvenience, more than just one of life’s little annoyances. Being told to wait can feel like a punishment, like you’re being deprived of something someone else has now, sooner than you have it. You go to the doctor; she has some concerns about your symptoms and orders a test. You have to wait a week to get your lab work done. Then a month to see your doctor again, who now says you need to see a specialist. Getting an appointment with the specialist takes another three months. It’s like your life has been put on hold; it almost feels like you’ve been sentenced to a prison term while time passes between tests and appointments.  All along you wonder, “What do I have to do to be first in line?” “Why do I have to wait so long?”

Knowing the Seasons

            Lace up your boots, pull up your work gloves, and strap on your crash helmets. It’s Advent, friends, and anything can happen in this season. Love and comfort, hope and joy, sure, they’ll show up. But so might fire and earthquakes, heavens ripping apart, angels appearing, and the Son of Man himself coming in glory and splendor. It’s Advent, friends, and anything can happen this season.

The Parable of the Talents

            The most important thing you need to know about the parable you just heard from Matthew’s gospel, the parable of the talents, is that the third servant, the one who buried his treasure in the ground, did exactly what he was supposed to do. In the ancient world, there was no federal insurance for banks. Investing money back then was an even bigger risk than it is today. And the safest, most reliable way to ensure you did not lose your money was to bury it. The servant who buried his master’s treasure didn’t just play it safe; he played it smart, and he played it right. His master had just given him a talent, the equivalent of at least fifteen years’ worth of wages, more money than most people would ever see at one time in those days. So he buries it, just like he’s supposed to do.

God on Our Terms

            A few weeks ago I heard a story on the radio about a young woman who has to be about the most committed environmentalist imaginable. She had visited her boyfriend’s family for a few days, where she was shocked to discover that his family did not compost their leftovers. She could not bring herself to put her food in the trash can, so she hid it for days. She was powerfully committed to making life better for the planet—but she refused to identify herself as an environmentalist. The journalist who interviewed this woman made a big deal about her age and the so-called millennial generation, but the situation was clearer and simpler than all that. This woman wanted to be an environmentalist on her own terms, and the name “environmentalist” was beyond her control. If she couldn’t control it, she didn’t want it.

The Jordan River

            Rivers make great barriers. Rivers are dangerous and unpredictable, deep here and shallow there, calm on the surface but swift just beneath. Rivers don’t just stand between one side and another. They try to carry off anyone who would cross them, catch them up in their currents and hasten them to the sea. They dare any would-be trespassers: just try to get past me! The Potomac River once divided this country into north and south. The Mississippi marks for us east and west. The Rio Grande tells us in or out. Yes, rivers make great barriers.

Discipleship Growth

            Two months ago, way back on August 25^th, we met Moses together for the first time. Some of us, naturally, had met Moses before, in Sunday School, maybe, or in our devotions, or from another preacher’s sermons. But August 25^th was the first time that you and I met him together. He was just a baby back then, a little child at the mercy of his dedicated mother and sister, a boy threatened by a vicious Pharaoh. Since then we’ve watched Moses’ life go by, scene after scene: at the burning bush, before the throne of Pharaoh, crossing through the Red Sea, receiving the manna, striking the rock, hearing the Ten Commandments, standing in the breach, and beholding God’s glory from the cleft of a rock. Now, at the last, we find ourselves saddened by Moses’ death, at the edge of the Promised Land.

Give to God the Things That Are God's

Preached By Lynn Davis, Lay Servant at Centre UMC

  

Today, the Lord put it on my heart to expound on the New Testament reading of Matthew 22:15-22. The question the Pharisees tried to use to entrap Jesus…..the question about paying taxes.

Standing in the Breach

            Think about this: Have you ever defied God? Have you ever looked at a circumstance and said to God, “No. You can’t do this. I won’t allow it.”? Would you even dare to do something like that?

We spend so much time in church learning to be reverent and deferential toward God that we can forget that there is more to faithful obedience than being God’s yes-man or yes-woman. We expect our faithful speech to be full of praise and gratitude and thanksgiving. In recent times we have become obsessed with saccharine faithfulness. We have praise and worship services that gloss over life’s difficulties. It’s headline news when a saint like Mother Teresa or a church leader like Pope Francis or Canterbury Archbishop Justin Welby admits to wrestling with God over daily struggles of faith and discipleship. Our prayers are full of chatter about thanking you so much God, and loving you so much God, and being so amazed at how wonderful you are God.

You Shall Not Bear False Witness Against Your Neighbor

            “You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.” It’s the ninth commandment, low enough on the list that it almost didn’t make the cut. It doesn’t have the prominence of “you shall have no other gods before me” or “remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.” “You shall not bear false witness” is not one of the two greatest commandments, according to Jesus. Despite this, or maybe because of it, after number six, “you shall not murder,” number nine has probably suffered the most at the hands of people looking for technicalities, backdoor exits, and loopholes. “You shall not bear false witness” really boils down to “you shall not lie,” which is how God puts it at other points in the Pentateuch. And that’s exactly where the problems begin for us, because we are all really good liars. We lie all the time. “How’s this dress look on me?” Lie. “What do you think of my new haircut?” Lie. “How much did you spend at the… grocery store, ballgame, bar, last night?” Lie. “Can you make it to my dinner party this Friday?” Lie.

Strike the Rock

            Two years ago I was in the mountains of Western Maryland for a week of vacation at my family’s stomping grounds just west of Deep Creek, near Oakland. My mom’s family is all from out that way, and we’ve made annual pilgrimages since I was a kid, but it was my first time back in years. A lot was familiar; the eighty-year-old cabins hadn’t changed much. Some things, however, were different. The biggest difference that I remember was stepping out to take in the mountain landscape and seeing, about 10 miles away, gigantic wind mills cluttering the skyline. New construction for cleaner energy. They were huge, and they were ugly.

The Sabbath Economy

            It’s a bit surprising, isn’t it? The people of Israel, God’s chosen people, have been out of Egypt for less than two months. Already they’re complaining. Already they’ve forgotten the agony and hardships of life under Pharaoh. Instead of celebrating God’s deliverance, they’re dreaming of life back in Egypt—as if the supposedly plentiful bread they ate by the fleshpots somehow balanced the back-breaking labor they endured.

Take Me to the Water

            The sea is a dangerous foe in the eyes of Scripture. It is the swirling, chaotic waters of the sea that God brings under control at the beginning of creation in Genesis 1. The sea brings forth life according to God’s command, but that life includes the fearful beast Leviathan in Job and the whale that swallows Jonah and holds him in its belly for three days. To cross the sea is to make an uncertain voyage to a distant land, to be cut off from the good and certain shores of Israel. Yet for whatever reason, the path of the Hebrew people fleeing from Egypt leads them right up to the edge of the sea. It didn’t have to be this way. The exodus takes place three thousand years before the Suez Canal was built. There were land routes that would have completely avoided the sea. Nonetheless, for whatever reason, the Hebrew people find themselves at a dead end: the sea on one side, and the Egyptian army closing in on the other.

Funeral Sermon for Bertha Rohrback

*Note: This sermon was preached on September 8, 2014, at the Service of Death and Resurrection for Bertha (Bert) Rohrback. Bert was a longtime member of Centre UMC, and she left an important legacy of love for her church. The texts for the service were Psalm 139:1-18, Psalm 23, and John 11:17-44.

 

            “I come to the end, I am still with you.” These are the words that conclude this morning’s reading from Psalm 139. “I come to the end, I am still with you,” says the Psalmist, after a beautiful meditation on God’s presence. Where could I go to flee from your presence, O God? No matter where I go nor where I could go, you will always be there, O God.

The Passover Lamb

            As we journey through the Old Testament this summer and fall, we’re really getting the highlights reel version of the story: key moments rather than intense details. A week ago we encountered Moses at the Burning Bush, face to face with the Living God. This week we have skipped all the way to the Passover. A lot has happened in Egypt since last week’s reading from Exodus 3. Moses and his brother Aaron have confronted Pharaoh again and again, pleading and demanding that Pharaoh let the Israelites go. Nine plagues—water turned to blood, frogs, gnats, flies, diseased livestock, sores, thunder and hail, locusts, and darkness—have tormented Egypt, but Pharaoh has not been swayed. He has toyed with Moses and Aaron, pretending sometimes to respond to their complaints and changing his mind just as they thought they had tasted freedom. But Pharaoh’s heart was hard, and he refused to listen to Moses or to the Lord. The Lord’s deliverance will come without the cooperation of Pharaoh.

The LORD

            Moses enters the desert to find food for his father-in-law’s sheep. Instead, he comes face to face with the Living God, the Lord. A flame catches Moses’ eye, a bush on fire but not consumed. Moses alters his path, turns aside to see this bush, this fire. Moses is willing to let God interrupt his plans. And God does not remain silent; he speaks to Moses. God reveals himself to Moses and tells Moses he knows what’s going on in Egypt. “I have observed the misery of my people.” Even more: “I have heard their cry.” More still: “I have come down to deliver them.” And then: “You, Moses, I’m sending you.”

What Counts and What Matters

            When you focus only on what counts, you’ll end up losing track of what really matters. That’s the lesson Pharaoh learns, the hard way, in Exodus 1 and 2, our Old Testament reading for this morning. Years have passed since Joseph, the great prince adviser of Egypt, died. Once welcomed with open arms, the Israelites, or the Hebrews, have become a nuisance to the Egyptian monarchy. Pharaoh, a new Pharaoh, fears the Israelites. There’s no reason to fear them—they’ve done nothing, as far as we can tell, but live peaceably in Egypt. Like every other Pharaoh, Egyptian or not, this new king invents a problem so that he can satisfy his bloodlust.

The Tears of Joseph

            The scene is tense. The sons of Jacob stand before the throne of Egypt’s most powerful prince. They are tired and hungry—they are desperate. Already they have been before this throne and sent away. Now their youngest brother, Benjamin, has been detained and accused of stealing the prince’s silver. If they had anyplace else to turn, they would have done so, but they are poor, and they need this prince’s help. Their family will starve without it.

Brother Joseph

Starting today, and for most of the next fourteen weeks or so, our sermons here at Centre are going to be based on the Old Testament lesson. We are going to pay careful attention to God’s covenant love with Israel, starting this morning with Joseph and continuing through the birth of Moses and the Exodus to the entry into the Promised Land under Joshua. Along with the story of the life of Jesus Christ, this long story is the core story of our Christian faith.

You Give Them Something to Eat

            In the middle of the lush fields and summer green of Forest Hill, the desert can seem a long way off. The closest desert, as far as I can tell, is somewhere out west, Texas, maybe, or New Mexico or Colorado. Here it’s easy to forget what deserts are like—or to pretend that they don’t exist.

All In

            This week is the last of our parables from the garden, from the kingdom of heaven, the kingdom of God. Two weeks ago we heard the parable of the sower; last week it was the parable of the weeds among the wheat. This week we have five short parables, about a mustard seed, yeast, treasure, a pearl, and catching fish. All of these parables, from today and from the past two weeks, lead up to next Sunday’s gospel reading, which is not a parable but one of Jesus’ great miracles. Stay tuned.

God of the Seeds

            This week we continue with parables from Jesus of the garden, of the kingdom of God, the kingdom of heaven. Last week we heard the parable of the sower and were reminded of God’s extravagant love for the world. Our love has limits and boundaries; God’s has none. God in Christ is the one who sows; we are not. This is what we heard last week.

            Now, with this week’s parable, we run into a problem: weeds. When you have a farmer as careless as the sower from last week’s parable, a farmer who doesn’t plow but just throws his seeds to the wind, you’re bound to get weeds. And, sure enough, weeds do show up in the garden this week. Lots of weeds. Big weeds. Big problem.

The Sower

Last week we heard from the Song of Solomon, or the Song of Songs, about the love God has for us. God calls us into a garden that he has prepared for us, a garden of fruits and flowers, a garden of life and intimacy with him: Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away! We might think of the kingdom of God as that garden, the place where God calls us and meets us. The kingdom of God is not just about heaven, of course. The kingdom of God is here, now, already breaking in, already changing lives, already setting the universe on the course of redemption and resurrection. God’s salvation and love is for all that God has created.

            This week, and for the next few weeks, we listen to parables from Jesus about life in the garden. And these parables, just like the Song of Solomon, can only be understood if we accept one fundamental truth about the Bible: the Bible is about God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The Bible is not about me; the Bible is not about you. The Bible is about God—the Lord.

The Voice of Love

The voice of my beloved! Look, he comes, leaping upon the mountains, bounding over the hills. My beloved is like a gazelle or a young stag. Look, there he stands behind our wall, gazing in at the windows, looking through the lattice.

            For every one of us gathered here this morning, love has a voice. The voice of love is more than a sound. It is not just something we hear and recognize. Love’s voice speaks to our hearts as much as to our ears. The voice of love is the voice of intimacy and of gentleness, the voice of caresses and of tears, the voice of caring and of concern. It is the voice we know more than any other in the whole world. For Isaac, in our reading from Genesis this morning, the voice of love was Rebekah’s voice, the voice of the woman Isaac loved more than any other, the woman who comforted him after his mother’s death. For some of us here this morning, love’s voice is the voice of the one seated next to us right now, or maybe the voice of one just across the room. For others of us, love’s voice has gone quiet; it is a voice not heard for far too long. Still, all of us, I think, know love’s voice. We know the voice of the one we love, of the friend, or the parent, or the spouse—of the one we call beloved. For every one of us gathered here this morning, love has a voice.