In the Beginning was the Meal

Luke 24:1-31a.

. . . but these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them . . .

The women’s testimony about going to the tomb and not finding the body of Jesus—their testimony that Jesus is risen!—these are the words that the disciples of Jesus think are nonsense.

Their words seem to them an idle tale. . . an unlikely story . . . just plain nonsense. When you put someone in a tomb, that is that. Right? You don’t wait around for the person to reappear so you can take up where you left off. That’s nonsense.

These words seem an idle tale, because the disciples know what they know. They do not remember the words Jesus spoke to them while he was still with them. Well, I guess the women don’t blame them too much. For they had themselves gone to the tomb earlier on this day looking for Jesus’ dead body!

They arrived at the tomb with spices in their hands, and when they did not find his body, they were confused. They stood there puzzled. They did not as yet remember the words Jesus had spoken to them while he was still with them.

And then, while standing there in the empty tomb with spices in their hands, two men in white asked them why they were looking for the living among the dead. Why? Why are they looking for Jesus’ body? They are looking for his dead body because they watched him die.

“But, my dear Sisters,” the men said, “Jesus is not here; he is risen. Remember —remember—what he told you when he was still in Galilee: that the Son of man was destined to be handed over into the power of sinful men and be crucified, and rise again on the third day.” And with this gentle reminder, the women remembered—they remembered the words of Jesus.

But, the disciples to whom they tell these things—to them, their words seem an idle tale—an unlikely story—just plain nonsense. They do not remember the words of Jesus. Now, their story just might have ended right there. But, Luke tells us it did not.

Later on this same day, two of these same disciples are trudging their weary way down the seven dusty miles from the city of Jerusalem to the village of Emmaus. These two have been a part of the grand adventure of following Jesus. But, now, that is over, Jesus is dead, and they are walking back to their home. All of their hopes have proven empty.
They had hoped that he was the one who would set Israel free. But, with his death, their hope for freedom died also.

A stranger catches up to them on the road, a stranger with a face like all faces. This stranger is, of course, the Risen Jesus, the bright morning star of God’s new day, but in the dimness of their own discouragement, they do not know him.

When he asks them about their sadness, they are so absorbed in their sorrow that they cannot believe that he does not know all about what has happened in Jerusalem. So, they tell him about their experience over the last few days. They tell him about his own ministry and his death. They even tell him about the women’s idle tale—that unlikely story—that bit of nonsense about Jesus being raised from the dead.

Then Jesus engages them in his own story in the pages of the scriptures—starting with Moses and going through all the Prophets. And although their hearts are warmed by the telling, they still do not remember the words of Jesus that he spoke to them while he was with them.

Soon they come to the village that is their destination, but Jesus appears to be continuing his journey. So, they urge him to stay with them. “The day is almost over,” they say. “The day is almost over.” Oh, how little they know!

This day is Easter! It is the first day of God’s new creation. It is just the beginning of God’s new world. But, to these disheartened followers of Jesus, Easter has not come yet. It is just another Sunday afternoon—the first day of just another week like all other weeks—an endless string of days where nothing changes, everything goes on just as it is.

“The day is almost over,” they say, “Come eat with us, and rest, and be safe.” And so it is that the Risen Jesus sits down at table with them, and bread is placed before them. Just an ordinary loaf of bread baked this very day. And Jesus takes it up in his hands, before the eyes of the weary, hungry travelers. He dips the bread into the salt. And he gives thanks:

Baruch atah adonai Eloheinu melek ha-olam ha-mitzvah lehem mi-ha-eretz.

Blessed is the Lord our God, King of the universe, who causes bread to come forth from the earth.

Who causes bread to come forth from the earth—

And the Risen Jesus breaks the bread and he hands it to them.

—and the earth shifts on its axis— time stands still—and they remember his words—they remember the words of Jesus—those strange, mysterious words he spoke on that last night—

This is my body which is given for you; do this, and remember me.

And they remember— And the eyes of both of them open and they know—him.

Easter rises! He lives! It is the first day of God’s new creation. It is the beginning of God’s new world. And from Jesus’ own hand they receive the bread of its first meal. The meal that opens their eyes to know him who is life.

In the old world, the first meal was the moment when Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit. And the eyes of both of them were opened, and they knew that they were naked. The direct result of the eating of that first meal was new and unwelcomed knowledge—knowledge that led to death—to the expulsion from the garden of God’s presence and denied access to the tree of life.

Now, this other couple are at table in God’s new world. The direct result of the eating of this first meal is new, also; but it is greatly welcomed knowledge: And the eyes of both of them are opened and they know him. This is the meal that signifies that the long exile of the human race is over at last. At the entrance to the garden of God’s presence, the mighty winged cherubim have withdrawn with the fiery flashing sword, and the way is open at last to the tree of life. This is the ultimate redemption. This is the start of the new creation.

In the beginning was the meal—

Baruch atah adonai—

Blessed is the Lord our God, King of the Universe, who causes bread to come forth from the earth!

Amen!

My Own Cup of Gladness (or) In the Garden

This sermon is given to the glory of God
and in loving memory of my grandmother,
Josephine Victoria Bridge Wright
Whose favorite hymn was “In the Garden,”
and to the honor of St. Catherine of Alexandria.

Text: John 20:1-18.

It all began in a garden, you know. That is why I wake early and come to this garden. I come to remember.
Oh, look! A tiny wren has lighted upon the hedge, so near me.
Listen, how he lifts his chestnut colored throat and sings forth a string of grace notes. I cannot even write them down much less sing them.

For what, you might ask, does our winged friend sing his canter of praise?
Oh, perhaps, he sings for the early morning, for first-light,
Or, perhaps, he sings for the taste of the spider,
Or, perhaps, he sings for his small cup of life that he drinks from every day, for he knows it will refill.*

Today, however, I think he comes to remind me of my own cup of gladness. So, I invite you, too, to come to my garden and let me tell you why I sing my canter of praise—
Let me tell you a story, just as I told it on that first morning—just as I have told it every year since.
Come. Find a soft, grassy spot to sit down, and I will begin.

First, let me introduce myself—
My name is Mary. Mary, the Magdalene, they call me. I was there that day—that awful day when they crucified Jesus. I was there—standing near the cross—with Mary, his mother, and Mary, the wife of Clopas, and with the disciple Jesus loved.

We saw the soldiers when they divided his garments among themselves and cast lots for his tunic. And I heard Jesus speak his final words to his mother and to the beloved disciple. I was with them.

We saw Jesus die. We saw the soldier pierce his side. We were still there when two men came to take away his body. But, we did not know them. They had not come with us from Galilee. And we did not know where they were going to take him. And so, we were frightened. It was our place to prepare his body for burial. We were the ones who loved him. And this was the last act of love we could do for him. And they were going to take him away.

They insisted they knew Jesus, too, and they only wanted to care for him properly. The one called Joseph of Arimathea had a tomb of his own. He had spoken to Pilate, he said, and Pilate had given him permission to take Jesus there. We had no tomb. No proper place to take him. So what could we do?

By then, the hour was late. It was almost sunset and the sabbath was about to begin. Joseph became very troubled. Because, there would not be time for him to take Jesus far. Not all the way to his own tomb.

But, there was a garden near by. Near where Jesus was crucified. And in that garden, Joseph, and the other man called Nicodemus, found a new tomb—a tomb in which no one had yet been laid. And so, since this tomb was close, they took the body of Jesus and laid him there. They quickly bound him with linen cloths together with the spices Nicodemus had brought, myrrh and aloes, and they closed the tomb with a large stone, and they left him there in the garden.
After the sabbath, they said, they would return and take the body of Jesus to Joseph’s tomb. We saw all this—Mary, the mother of Jesus, and Mary, the wife of Clopas, and the beloved disciple—and I—Mary, the Magdalene. We saw where they laid him, and I marked the spot well. For, after the Sabbath, I, too, planned to return and follow them to Joseph’s tomb, and see where they took him.

It was only then that we went away. My heart was heavy in my chest, and I felt as if I could not breathe. The mingled smells of blood and spices and fresh linen followed us. It was suffocating. The one whom I loved was dead, and I wished it was me instead.

After the sabbath—on the first day of the week, early in the morning while it is still dark, long before first-light, I rise to go to the tomb, to the place where Joseph and Nicodemus had laid him. For I must be there when they come to take him away. I must follow them, so I can see where they lay him. I must hurry, and arrive there before they do. He is my life, he is my love.

The streets are dark as I step through my door, and unusually quiet for there to be so many people in the city for the festival. I hear only the occasional echo of some Roman soldier’s iron heels posting guard somewhere.

I hurry down the streets to the gate of the city that leads to the place where they crucified him. I must move quickly for I must be there when they come to take his body to Joseph’s tomb. I am helped by the descending path, but it is winding and dark. My thoughts are troubled. What if I cannot find the place?

The moon is only just passed full and should be shining from the west. It should light my path. But it must be covered by cloud, for I cannot see, and I fear I will stumble and fall. But I fear more that I will arrive too late if I do not hurry. I feel my way along, grasping at tree branches and bushes as I go. I have brought nothing with me, so as not to be hindered by a load. I move on. I must be almost there, I think.

Suddenly, the moon breaks free from the clouds, and its light falls upon the cave cut into the rock. My breath quickens and then stops. I gasp for air. For the stone has been taken away. The entrance is open.

Oh, no! Oh, no! I must be too late, I think. They have already taken him away and I do not know where they have taken him.

I turn and run. I run to find Simon Peter and the disciple Jesus loved. I run up the path I have just descended. The branches catch on my clothes and cut my face and arms. I taste blood on my lips, but I cannot stop now. I must find Peter and the beloved disciple. They will know what to do.

We must find Jesus. Where could they have taken him? Why did they come so early? Did they steal him away during the night? Maybe they are not who they said. Secret disciples of Jesus? That cannot be. My mind whirls—

They have stolen away the body of Jesus to give him to the dogs.
Perhaps, they have thrown him outside the city on the garbage heaps of Gehenna.
Maybe they have taken him to display him before the people—to mock him further.
Oh, my dear heart! Where are you? What have they done with you?

I run and I run. I run through the gate into the city. I run up the streets. I run to the door where Simon Peter and the disciples are staying. I bang on the door. I bang and I bang, harder and harder. Finally, Peter and the beloved disciple come to the door. I cannot breathe. I gasp out words like a dumb man trying to speak.
They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and I do not know where they have laid him.

And suddenly, they, too, are running, the beloved disciple going first, for he knows the way—he was there, he saw where those two men laid Jesus. Peter follows him. And I run behind Peter.

The beloved disciple arrives at the tomb first and he stoops at the entrance to look in. He sees the linen cloths that Joseph and Nicodemus had wrapped Jesus in, but he does not go inside the tomb.

Simon Peter then arrives and brushes past the beloved disciple. He goes immediately into the tomb. He was not with us on the night when the men laid Jesus there. So, now, he stands looking all about and he sees the linen cloths, too, and he sees the cloth that had been on Jesus’ face. It is folded and lies by itself.

Then, the beloved disciple goes into the tomb with Peter, and when he sees, he also believes that the men who laid Jesus there have taken him out of the tomb.

All this, they tell me many days later. But, on that morning, they just went away. They go back to their house, and leave me there all alone, not knowing what to do.

I stand outside the tomb all alone. Hot tears burn my eyes. Tears of anger. Tears of grief. Tears of confusion. Tears of pain. They have taken him away and I do not know where he is. I will never see him again. They have robbed me of this last thing I can do for him. How could they be so cruel?

I will never find them. I do not really even know who they are. They have taken him away. And I will never find him. I will never find him.

I stoop to look again at the place where I last saw him. It is still not yet first- light. The cave is dark and cold, and silent as death. But, that is where he was. I must look upon the place just once more.

I stoop. And through a blur of tears I open my eyes. A warm glow touches my face instead of the cold, and I see to my sudden surprise two men in white sitting where the body of Jesus had been, one at the head and one at the feet. They say to me, “Woman, why are you weeping?”

Can this be someone who will help me? I think. Is it the two men who were here before? Have they returned to take me to him? No, it is not them.
I say to the two men in white, They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.

My one glimmer of hope is gone. They do not know where he is. I will never find him. My eyes fill with tears. Tears of disappointment. Tears of dashed hope. Tears of despair. My shoulders slump. I am cast down. The heaviest of burdens has descended upon me.

I turn away from the tomb. First-light has now come. The trees and the bushes and the rocks are silhouetted against the gray air. And I see a shadowy figure—a man—standing near me. I think, perhaps, he is the gardener.

He says to me, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you seeking?”
My heart says,
I seek him whom my soul loves.
I sought him but found him not.
Have you seen him whom my soul loves?
(from the Song of Solomon)

But how would a gardener understand that, so I say to him, Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.

And He said to me, “Mary.”

He calls my name. He calls my name, and the dawn finally breaks. The sun shines bright and beautiful, and I see Jesus. I look full into his glorious face. I have found him whom my soul loves. My heart sings:

My beloved is radiant and ruddy,
The chiefest among ten thousand,
. . . . . . . . . .
Yea, he is altogether lovely.
This is my beloved and this is my friend.
(from the Song of Solomon)

Rabboni! My dearest Master! I say to him. I hold him, and never want to let him go.
“Do not cling to me, Mary,” he says.

And, then, I stand back. I look into his eyes and I see. I hear his voice, and I understand what he is saying to me. It is as when Moses stood before him at the burning bush and he said,
“’Do not come near; take off your sandals from your feet, for the place on which you stand is holy ground. I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.’ And Moses hid his face, for he was afraid to look at God. “

Yes, I, too, must step back.
For, I, too, stand on holy ground.
I, too, am looking into the face of God.

There will always be a special bond between us, I know. As with Moses, so with me—the flame that does not consume itself is the sign of God’s presence with me—but the holy remains the holy. There will always be a boundary between the divine and the human. A boundary I must not cross. I must let God be God.

“Do not cling to me, Mary,” he says. And I understand. I am not rejected as it may at first seem. To the contrary, I am commissioned.
Jesus says to me, “I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go to my brothers and sisters, and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God’.”

Go to my brothers and sisters and say to them . . .

Jesus spoke these words to me. Like Moses and the prophets of Israel, I, too, receive a commission. I am to be the mouthpiece of the Living Lord. I am bidden by my Lord to proclaim the Word of God on this most glorious of all mornings. I know immediately what I am to do. And so, I go.

I go, and I announce to them all,
I have seen the Lord—
and I say to them everything he has told me to say.

On that very first morning—
I came to the garden alone—
I came in search of the body of Jesus—
But, I found instead—the Living Lord!

Now, every morning, every morning, I wake early
For there is my own cup of gladness,
And at first light,
there’s that wren in the hedge, above me, with his
Blazing--glorious song!*

Amen.

*Adapted from a poem by Mary Oliver, The Wren from Carolina.

The Invitation

Text: Luke 13:1-9.

I may be an ordained Methodist minister today, but I grew up in the Baptist Church. That means I have heard a lot of altar calls. I’ve heard soft and gentle ones that touched my heart and brought tears to my eyes. I’ve heard harsh and scolding ones that shamed me. I’ve heard fire and brimstone ones that terrified me. I’ve heard pleading ones that disgusted me. I’ve heard promising ones that thrilled me. And I’ve heard inspiring ones that challenged me. Whatever kind of altar call you might name, I assure you, I have heard it.

There is one, though, that I always dread hearing. It’s possible you’ve heard it too. Picture the scene with me. The preacher has been preaching hard. Sweat glistens on his brow. It’s revival time, and he has just announced the closing hymn. The organist begins to play softly, “Ju-u-st as I am withou-u-t one plea.”

It’s then the preacher steps away from the pulpit, and moves down to the level of the congregation. His Bible is in his hand. He begins to speak—softly at first—he issues the invitation to come. But then, as he goes on, his voice begins to rise as the urgency of the moment overwhelms him.

“Come, come now,” says the preacher, “this could be your last chance. You may never have another opportunity to come, if you don’t come right now. For you have no guarantee of tomorrow. You could die this very night. You may not even make it home. You can’t be sure you will live beyond this very moment. So, come—come, right now!”

And sprinkled among these words, he paints images of the various horrific ways death might snatch you away before you can respond to his invitation. “Come, come,” the preacher probably says today, “while the window of opportunity is still open.”

Now, I’m not mocking altar calls—not even this one, for it is indeed true that life is precarious, life is fragile. No, I am not mocking. With all my heart I believe that the personal call of the gospel of Jesus Christ must be made to every child, and every woman and every man. (And I personally don’t think we Methodists do enough of it—but that’s fodder, I guess, for another sermon.)

What I do question, most of the time, is how that call is made. And I must confess that when I first looked at today’s text, I had to question whether or not Jesus himself was not capitalizing on the memory of recent horrors to stress the suddenness of death, and the unpredictability of life, in order to win converts. You could say that I have been made wary by the fear mongering that unashamed evangelists whip up after every natural and unnatural disaster.

But then, then, I had a second look at the text, and a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. And gradually, this text began to take on life—new life—and I changed my mind. I began to see things in a new way, and I became persuaded to adopt a different perspective. What Jesus is calling for in the text is what was happening to me. I was repenting.

For, you see, that is what repentance is: it is a changed mind, it is a new way of seeing things, it is being persuaded to adopt a different perspective. And I began to see that Jesus is not exploiting tragedy at all. He is, instead, calling us to stop thinking and seeing like the powers of this world, and begin thinking and seeing in kingdom terms.

In this text, Jesus challenges the way we think about the tragedies that occur in this present time—tragedies that snuff out peoples’ lives with little or no warning, and for no clearly apparent reason. Jesus makes it plain that we must not equate such tragedies with divine punishment. He does not blame the victims of such atrocities, whether or not, the calamity is one of state-sanctioned terror like Pilate’s act, or a random accident like the falling of a tower.

But, Jesus also makes it plain that we, who have, thus far, survived the hazards of the universe and human society, should not mistake our good fortune as evidence of God’s special blessing. When disasters come, those who die are no better or worse than those who escape death, and those who escape death are no better or worse than those who die.

Perhaps, in light of the recent catastrophes in Haiti and Chile, this text appearing in our lectionary right now is indeed timely. For these events themselves certainly impress upon us, better than any preacher’s words, the perils of our existence. And the sudden recognition of life’s fragility does give our lives an urgency they might not otherwise have.

But, Jesus wants to talk to us about repentance. He wants us to understand that the need for a change of mind, a new way of seeing, a different perspective, is a universal condition. It is a need that is shared by all, victims and survivors alike. And that need is urgent.

For when Jesus says twice, “unless you repent you will all perish,” he is not promising that the godless will be struck by an asteroid. Jesus is instead pointing us to the future, to the time of the coming rule of God over his creation, when this same creator God will set the world right once and for all. And he wants us to be a part of it.

Jesus’ words about repentance may sound scary at first, but Jesus’ outlook on repentance arcs toward joy. For, as he points us to the future, he is, at the same time, inviting us to share in God’s kingdom, and he is showing us the way.

We may be vulnerable creatures in this present time. And we definitely are. We can presume little, and we can do little to preserve ourselves from sudden tragedy or hardship. But that is not so when it comes to the future. We can preserve our lives against death in the future, for we can decide for life in God’s kingdom.

Jesus comes to us just as Joshua came to the Israelites.

“Choose you this day whom you will serve,” says the new Joshua, “whether the gods of this world who cannot give you life, or the God of grace—the God whose greatest joy it is to welcome you into his kingdom—the God who delights in raising the dead from their tombs. Choose death, or choose life. It is your decision. But I invite you to choose life.”

You see, that is the great mystery of the parable Jesus tells.

There was a man who had the right to decide for his own fig tree. No one else could make that decision for him. The vinedresser can only put the choice before him. The owner has to decide for himself whether he will choose death, or choose life, for his own fig tree. The owner has already decided on death, but the vinedresser invites him to consider another possibility. And now that he sees this other possibility, he must decide again. Death will it be, or life? Now, we are not told what the owner decides. The story ends there. Jesus leaves the story unfinished.

The story remains open as it remains open for all of us who hear Jesus’ invitation—his invitation to share in the joys of life in the Kingdom of God. It is left to each one of us to write our own ending.

Amen.

Another Fish Story

Text: Luke 5:1-11.

It would be better if Simon could tell you this story himself. After all, it is his story. He was there. He saw it. And who can tell a good fish story better than a fisherman anyway? Fishermen are probably the best storytellers in the world. And Simon was a fisherman! Indeed, he was a fisherman!

My Dad was a fisherman, too. And there was nothing he liked better that swapping yarns with other fishermen. It seems like to old anglers that every single fishing trip, every cast, every fish caught is a unique event unto itself and needs telling about. There’s one thing I learned listening to him is that nothing grows faster than a fish does from the time it bites the line until it gets away!

I would imagine that many times while Simon, and James and John, were following Jesus from place to place that they swapped tales with each other about their days out on the lake fishing. Surely, together, they had a vast repository of both legends and true-life experiences to draw from. They no doubt told their stories to the other disciples as well.

And when they started telling their stories about Jesus, I bet this story was one of their favorites to tell. Now, you consider—what would please a fisherman-disciple more than to tell a story about Jesus and a miraculous catch of fish—especially, if that story involved him, too?

Now, the way I heard the story was like this.

It seems that Simon, and James and John, are in the fishing business together. They are partners. Fishing is their livelihood. Simon provides one boat for their business, and the brothers, James and John, provide another.

On this particular morning, they come ashore with no catch. They have fished through the long night and have caught nothing. This is not good—for they have mouths to feed and taxes to pay to the Roman officials. They cannot afford a single night without a catch.

They come ashore tired and hungry and discouraged. They fear they will not have the means to meet their expenses. They need sleep, but their work is not yet done. You see, the nets must be washed and hung out to dry if they are to fish another night. So, they set about their tasks and begin washing the linen nets.

In the meantime, despite the early hour, Jesus is also on the lake shore. He is teaching a group of people the word of God. Simon, and James and John recognize the young Rabbi as the one who recently taught in the synagogue there in Capernaum, and visited in Simon’s home. At his word Simon’s mother-in-law had been healed of a fever.

So, the fishermen are pleased to see him, but they are not so pleased by the increasing number of listeners who are pressing in on where they are working. More and more come, until Jesus finally approaches Simon and asks him if he can use his boat as a kind of podium to better speak to the growing crowd. He wants to put out a little from the shore, so this means that Simon must also get in the boat and sit there with him while he teaches.

Jesus’ request seems modest enough, but it comes at a very inconvenient time for Simon. Simon has fished all night. He needs sleep, and he is hungry, and his work is not finished. The linen nets still must be washed, and must be allowed to dry before they can be used again. And volunteering his boat means it will be even more hours before this is done and Simon can sleep.

When Jesus’ teaching is finally done, Simon expects to get back to the business of his nets, but instead, he is surprised and shocked by what Jesus then directs him to do. “Take the boat out into the deep water, and let down your nets,” he says. Well, now Simon is faced with a more significant issue than trying to stay awake. He knows, like all Galilean fishermen know, that fishing out in the deep water during the day is foolhardy.

He also knows that by doing this he will be putting assets of his business—that is, the nets—at risk. Linen nets require washing and complete drying after each use. If this care is not taken, the nets weaken and rot, making them easy to break. And broken nets would cause their business to miss many nights of fishing until the nets can be mended.

Besides, more of his crew will be needed if he is in going out into the deep water. Fishing in the deep waters from Simon’s boat is done by a four-person team. So, he will need at least two more helpers. Assuming, that is, that Jesus himself will pitch in as the fourth fisherman. This will take more help from their yet unfinished chores.

You can see that Jesus’ direction creates quite a conflict in Simon, as it would in any Galilean fisherman. Every fiber in his being is saying, “This is not in my best interest. Only a fool would fish during the daytime in the deep waters. Only a fool would reload his nets when they are not yet fully dry. Only a fool would ask his exhausted helpers to go out again. Only a fool! Only a fool!”

But, Simon follows Jesus’ direction. I can’t explain it! He just does. Every practical, intelligent, sane reason says “NO!” But, at Jesus’ word, Simon goes on out into the deep waters with Jesus and a few of his helpers. He goes with the still-wet, fragile nets, and he lowers them into the deep waters in broad daylight and in full public view. Just like a fool for sure!

And then, the most unbelievable thing happens! The nets begin to fill, and they fill, and they fill, and they fill, with fish. Like the listeners increased and increased on the shore to hear the word of God, so the fish increase and increase and increase in the linen nets. A remarkable, miraculous catch of fish! The catch is so large that Simon’s fear begins to mount as the nets grow heavier and heavier. These never-fully-dried nets just may not be equal to the weight of the catch. What if they break?

Simon’s fear is justified, for the nets do indeed start to break with the immense size of the catch. So, Simon signals, and gets the attention of James and John and their helpers who are still on the shore. And they swiftly load the second boat and come to help. And they fill both boats with the catch, so much so that they begin to sink.

What a catch! What a catch!

This daytime catch is far more than many, many nights of good fishing! This daytime catch is so humongous, that it more than outweighs the sleep that has been lost, and the breakfast that has been missed, and the nets that have been put at risk. Yes, it is even worth Simon making himself a fool for.

What a catch! What a catch!

Well, I don’t know you what you think about this story. Maybe you think it’s just another fish story. But, one thing for sure is certain. After that, Simon left everything he had and followed Jesus. And so did James and John.

The Cup

Text: Mark 10:32-45

Anyone who knows me knows I love horses and horse racing. I’ve never been a jockey, of course, but one of the things I love about watching a horse race is watching a skilled jockey maneuver his horse in such a way as to get his horse in a ‘position’ to win a race. That’s called ‘jockeying’—‘jockeying for position.’
In horse racing ‘jockeying’ is a good thing. It is a skill that must be learned if a jockey is ever to master the art of racing. ‘Jockeying’ is also a positive term when it is applied to other sports, like soccer for instance. But it is not a positive term when it is applied to the serious business of discipleship and living faithfully in the kingdom of God.
‘Jockeying for position’ in this negative sense is exactly what James and John are doing as they follow Jesus to Jerusalem. Just moments after Jesus tells them for the third time that he is going to be mocked and spit upon and scourged and killed, they obliviously say to Jesus, Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.
And Jesus answers, What do you want me to do for you? And James and John say to him, Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.
James and John are ‘jockeying for positions’ of special dignity and high honor in the coming kingdom. It is their ambition to rule. They have no clue that this request is totally alien to the nature of the kingdom God intends for his world.
You know, it seems I’ve known thousands of these James and John characters in my life. I call them "Sons of Entitlement." They come in all sorts of shapes, forms, and color, male and female, short and tall. They appear in every walk of life. They are rather easy to dislike. For, you see, they patronize others they consider less than themselves. And they like to refer to persons they know in high places. They readily scoff at those they do not know, and so are not worth knowing.
These "sons of entitlement" are easy to spot in groups, for they are the ones who talk a lot—preventing others from speaking—and, in discussion groups of any kind, they pose questions that are more designed for entrapment than genuine attempts to learn.
They bristle at structure and deadlines—such things are for lesser persons. They are above regular attendance at anything—they have more pressing obligations, you see. Plus, they push really hard saying, "We want you to do for us whatever we ask of you." And this is not exactly a request, but more of a demand cloaked in arrogance.
Several years ago, when I was teaching religion in the University of South Carolina’s extension program, I had one such "son of entitlement" ask me during a final exam if he could write an essay on a topic of his own choosing, rather than on one of the choices I had provided. When I explained that such latitude would be unfair to everyone else in the course, he replied softly, "No one else has to know." Why was I not at all surprised sometime later when he confessed to me that he believed God was calling him to become a Bishop?
Oh, how prevalent these "sons of entitlement" are in the church!
It is indeed a good thing that the tradition saw fit to preserve our text for this morning. For it seems the disciples of Jesus—present day disciples included—are forever addicted to ways of thinking that are directly contrary to the mind of Jesus. And in this text James and John serve as a perfect illustration of how great a gap there is between the mind of Jesus and the minds of his disciples, both then and now.
James and John share with the other disciples the current Jewish idea of a future world order in which all nations will be subjected to God’s law, and in turn will be subjected to Israel, and the whole world will be ruled from Jerusalem. What James and John are asking is for places of highest responsibility, authority, and power, in this future world kingdom as Jesus’ number one assistants.
Jesus’ first response to their request is surprisingly gentle. He says, You do not know what you are asking. It is here that the gap between Jesus’ understanding and his disciples’ understanding of the kingdom begins to be evident.
You do not know what you are asking, Jesus tells James and John. In thinking of the new age, James and John, cannot conceive of any kind of order other than what now exists. The kingdom for them is the same old world with a new set of rulers. If only we Christians possessed the seats of power everything would be transformed. We would speedily put an end to the world’s evils.
This way of thinking has had its parallels among Christians in every age since the time of James and John right down to the present day. The way to change the world is from the top down, we think. If only Christians could hold the reins of power the world would be transformed.
But let me remind you that Jesus, from the very beginning of his ministry, was faced with that alternative, and he recognized in it a temptation to unfaithfulness. Power exerted from above, even by persons of purest character, can never produce the changes that are needed in the world.
This truth has been confirmed over and over by events in Christian history. Jesus knows what is in man’s heart, and he knows that, even for such a one as Peter or James or John, power has its corruptions. Power corrupts even the best of men. Even a man after God’s own heart like David abused his power when he became king.
Jesus knows that the world has to be transformed not from above—not from seats of power through those who rule—but from beneath by a ‘race of servant people’—a servant people who will take upon their shoulders, whatever the cost, the burdens of humankind.
The gap between Jesus’ understanding and his disciples’ understanding of the kingdom is made evident through Jesus’ words. To James’ and John’s request for seats from which to rule, Jesus says, You do not know what you are asking. And then he asks, Are you able to drink the cup that I drink?
The "cup" in scripture, and the wine within the "cup," is a common image for a person’s destiny. Like all images or symbols, this one, too, comes from a real-life custom. In the culture around the Mediterranean Sea, the head of the family fills the cups of all persons at the table. So, each person is expected then to accept and drink what the head of the family has given. The "cup" therefore in scripture came to represent the destiny in life which God assigns for each person.
Jesus was destined to be a servant, not just servant of God, but servant of every human life that touched his. Jesus accepted the ‘cup’ God poured out for him, and the servant-mission to which he was assigned led eventually to his death. This is not surprising. Conflict was bound to erupt, for such servants always pose a threat to the established order both in the church and in the world.
Jesus asks, Are you able to drink the cup that I drink? Jesus is asking James and John if they are able to share his servant-destiny even if it should cost them the same kind of suffering that he is to endure.
There is a common misinterpretation that Jesus’ ‘cup’ was meant only for him. This is convenient for Christians. It relieves them of all need to identify themselves in any way with the destiny of Jesus. This interpretation—that the Servant destiny was for him alone—is contrary to the mind of Jesus. Rather, in the mind of Jesus, the Servant destiny is to be shared by a growing community of disciples—a community that will indeed share to the full his mission, his spirit, and his sufferings.
Jesus did not invent this idea of a servant people. The scriptures are filled with a succession of persons who know themselves as servants of God. From Moses to Paul, we have an unbroken line of "servants of God."
The whole nature of the kingdom is transformed by this key word "servant." To participate in the coming of such a kingdom as Jesus envisioned it, is not to rule, as James and John requested, but to serve. And to serve in such a way that God is the one who rules.
What Jesus projected was a very different kind of community and a very different order of life from any that now exercise authority or lord it over others. But it shall not be so among you, says Jesus.
This is not just a pattern for a new religion where its members are characterized by mutual helpfulness and humility, and engage themselves in humanitarian projects. It is much more daring and revolutionary than that. Jesus’ intention is literally to turn the world’s order upside down.
The pattern of life that Jesus demonstrates among his disciples is to be the pattern of a new order in all the world—in business, in government, in law courts, in schools, in homes, and of course in religious institutions. Such servanthood demands the death of the self that is ambitious to rule.
In the image of the "cup," Jesus reveals the mystery of the Servant’s power to reach to the depths of the human problem and to overcome every last vestige of humanity’s resistance to God, and humanity’s passion to rule.
Come with me now to another scene. We have left the road to Jerusalem and come to an upper room in the city. There the disciples prepare the Passover meal. And when it was evening, Jesus comes with the twelve. And as they are at table eating, a ‘cup’ of wine is poured. Jesus takes the ‘cup’ and after he gives thanks, he offers it to them.
Jesus asks the twelve to share his ‘cup’ with him. He asks them to share his destiny.
James, John, are you able to relinquish your ambition to rule?
Are you able to abandon your dreams of power and fame?
James, John, are you able instead to share my servant-destiny?
Are you able to suffer and, if need be, to die in faithfulness to this vocation?
Down through the ages whenever we gather at the table, Jesus offers the ‘cup’ to men and women, boys and girls, rich and poor, kings and peasants, priests and laity, small and great. And still his question is—
Are you able to drink the cup that I drink?
Amen.

The Child

Text: Mark 9:30-37

I was driving down the interstate one day and a bumper sticker caught my attention. It said, "Start seeing motorcycles." I laughed a little in a smug sort of way and thought, "I didn’t know I wasn’t seeing motorcycles." Then that little voice inside my head—the one I know I better listen to—said, "That’s the whole point, Little Miss Peacock!" Well, that sat me back on my heels, and I began to think, "How do you begin to ‘see’ something that you didn’t know you weren’t seeing?" That’s the puzzle.
"How do you begin to ‘see’ something that you do not know you aren’t seeing?" Then, a few weeks later, I read this text.
Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem. He is on his way to his death on the cross. He is passing through Galilee with his disciples and he is teaching them about his death and resurrection. Jesus said to them a second time, The Son of Man is going to be delivered into the hands of men, and they will kill him. And when he is killed, after three days he will rise.
In other words, Jesus is saying to his disciples, "Start seeing my death and resurrection." Because he knows they have no clue about what it means to be the Messiah.The disciples simply do not "see."
They do not understand what Jesus is saying, and they are afraid to ask him to explain. Perhaps, they are afraid of looking "stupid" like so many of us—you know, when we will not speak up when there is something said that we do not understand. But, whatever the reason for their fear, they remain unable and unwilling—and maybe that’s the best word—unwilling—to understand the journey they are taking with Jesus. They really are clueless.
So, instead, they embark on a discussion about personal "greatness." That is all Mark says in the text. We, the readers, are spared a rehearsal of the disciples’ self-praise. But I shall not spare them. If they were arguing about which of them was the "greatest," it is easy enough to imagine how the conversation went.
For, you see, they are like students comparing their SAT scores. They are like athletes tallying up the points they have scored. They are like ministers discussing how many they worship each week—"we worship about 653 in both our services." They are like the executive who writes measurable amounts on a memo.
James and John have just been on the mount of transfiguration with Jesus, and so, they are freshly persuaded of their elite status. They say, "We saw Elijah and Moses talking with Jesus. When Jesus is King, one of us who will sit at Jesus’ right hand and the other at his left."
But, Peter is the one who has recently confessed Jesus as the Messiah, the King-to-be, and he is convinced his knowledge surpasses them all. He boasts, "I was the first to recognize who Jesus is. It is I who will advise Jesus on his strategy. Therefore, I am the one most prominent."
Simon, the Zealot, is filled with revolutionary zeal, and he is quick to fire back, "You may have recognized the Messiah first. But I am the Zealot. I will be the one chosen to lead the charge against the Romans when we take Jerusalem, and in victory, I am the one who will be honored by the King."
Matthew, the tax collector, is not going to be outdone. He prides himself on his powerful connections. He boast, "I am the one who knows all the right people in high places. When the time comes, I will be given the seat of honor."
And Judas, well Judas he just smugly waits until all have had their say and then he simply says, "I am the one who carries the purse. What does that tell you?"
Which of the disciples is the star pupil? Who is the "greatest?"
After a time, Jesus and the Twelve come to Capernaum beside the Sea of Galilee. Arriving at Capernaum brings Jesus and his disciples back home. They will rest here for a bit before going on to Judea. They enter a familiar household, and Jesus asks them, What were you arguing about on the way? But they are silent. They do not answer him.
Jesus knows, however, that they have been embroiled in a debate about their individual claims to "greatness." So, aware of their ignorance of God’s way, he summons them to a formal teaching session. He sits down, and then offers them a one-liner about radical reversal. He says—anyone who aspires to be number one, should seek to be last and should assume the role of a servant.
Jesus is not content to make his point solely with words. He then enacts his meaning symbolically. He takes a little child of the household into his arms. Now, this gesture may seem insignificant to us who are accustomed to taking little children into our arms. But, in the day of Jesus, such a gesture is a reversal of the prevailing values of that time concerning children. Children did not enjoy the central valuation then as they receive in our culture today.
In the Greco-Roman world, children were the least-valued members of society; they were considered not yet fully human. According to ancient laws children had no legal rights, but a father had the right brutally to punish, sell, pawn, expose, and even kill his own child. Newborns could be exposed—abandoned in a public place—where they would die, or be picked up by strangers and raised for profit as slaves, or prostitutes, or beggars.
The status and treatment of children by the Israelites was more positive. To the Israelite, children were considered a blessing from God, and exposure and infanticide were prohibited. Nevertheless, listen to a rabbi’s valuation about associating with children. He says, "Morning sleep and noon wine and children’s talk and sitting in meeting houses with ignorant people put a man out of the world." In other words, according to rabbinic wisdom association with children is unprofitable for those who wish to advance religiously.
This language echoes the culture’s view of children. To almost all adults, and certainly to adult male disciples focused on their alpha male teacher and their own pursuit of "greatness" as his followers, children were of no consequence. Children were invisible.
A perfect example of this is the disciples’ rebuke of those who were bringing little children to Jesus. Their action in this case demonstrates how, even among the Israelites, children were lowered in value and esteem to a position of insignificance both socially and religiously.
The child in this text serves as an example of the least-important member of society—one who is otherwise invisible. And for Jesus to embrace the child, to make himself a loving servant to such a one, is to fly in the face of rabbinic wisdom.
By embracing the child, one who actually has the status of last and lowest, who of all is least able to reward such attention, Jesus is demonstrating what it means to be great by being servant to all. To become a servant to the least significant member of society, to devote one’s time and attention to those who are least able to reward one for such service-—that is true "greatness."
Anyone who aspires to be number one, should seek to be last and should assume the role of a servant.
After this remarkable action of taking a child in his arms to illustrate real "greatness," Jesus goes on to make an even more remarkable statement:
Whoever receives one such child in my name receives me; and whoever receives me, receives not me, but him who sent me.
Jesus not only embraces the child, but by making this statement, he also identifies himself with the child. Jesus "sees" something the disciples do not even know they are not seeing. But, in what sense is Jesus identifying himself with the child?
I would like to suggest that Jesus identifies himself with the child in the context of his passion. Let us step back for a minute and I will try to explain what I mean.
Jesus is on his way and he is teaching his disciples: The Son of Man is going to be delivered into the hands of men, and they will kill him. And when he is killed, after three days he will rise again. Here, Jesus is identifying himself as a suffering, rejected figure.
In this description, Jesus likens himself to the child. Remember—the devaluing of children in the ancient world was expressed not only by social rejection, but, even more drastically, by exposure or infanticide at the hands of one’s own family. The fate of the child parallels the fate of Jesus.
By receiving the child, you receive me, he says, —receive the child, receive me. Jesus takes the child totally to himself. In this way, Jesus identifies himself with the small, the least, the lowest, the powerless, the abandoned, the exposed, the killed. I will be delivered into the hands of men, and they will kill me. The child represents Jesus.
Jesus assumed the status and the lot of the child in its cruelest form in order to fulfill the mission for which God sent him. In his passion, Jesus is like the child who is rejected and killed. But, the Twelve, who practice a different kind of "greatness" than his own, are ultimately unable to receive Jesus in his childlike role as the suffering, rejected Son of Man.
They do not "see" the child, and they do not even know that they are not "seeing." The consequence of their not seeing is that when Jesus enters his passion, they go away. One betrays him. Another denies him. They all scatter. In the end, they abandon him. They leave him exposed. And cruel men kill him.
Today, in our modern world with its distorted ideas of "greatness," God is still searching for a people who will stand in solidarity with the One who became as a child in order to do God’s work. Jesus made this kind of radical love central to his vision of what it means to attain "greatness" in the community of his disciples.
God is still searching for a people who will redefine "greatness" and status in terms of this vision of Jesus in order to do their work. Make no mistake, this is the vision that lies at the very heart of the church’s identity, and this is the test of the church’s claim to follow Jesus.
Disciples—start seeing Jesus.

The Song of a Pilgrim

Text: I Kings 8:46-51, Psalm 84

Have you ever been homesick? I mean really homesick? I don’t mean just missing someone you are away from, but the kind of homesick that so overwhelms you that you can’t do anything but think about home, and tears flow down your cheeks and you can’t stop them. You can’t eat or sleep and you ache inside and it won’t go away, and you think this is the worst pain you have ever felt, and no one else has ever felt what you’re feeling. That kind of homesick.
In my own experience I had never been homesick. I always loved going too much. It was exciting to me to see new places and meet new people. For me, that was the greatest of all adventures. My Dad was a U. S. Engineer during the war and we went from place to place. Oh, I never liked leaving friends behind, but that was always outweighed by the joy of thinking about the new adventure that was just around the corner.
My biggest dream while I was growing up was to become a foreign correspondent and travel the world over. "Far Away Places with Strange Sounding Names" was my theme song. I remember the words to this day:
Far away places with strange sounding names
Far away over the sea
Those far away places with strange sounding names
Are calling, calling me
Going to China or maybe Siam
I want to see for myself
Those far away places I've been reading about
In a book that I took from the shelf
I start getting restless whenever I hear
The whistles of a train
I pray for the day I can get under way
And look for those castles in Spain
Oh they call me a dreamer
Well maybe I am
But I know that I'm burning to see
Those far away places with strange sounding names
Calling, calling me
And besides, home was always "back there" and I could go home anytime I wanted. And then came "Hugo."
I was living in Atlanta going to school when Hugo hit. I was having the time of my life. I had not traveled the world over like I had dreamed, but in Atlanta the world came to me. What an adventure I was having. People from all over the world had converged there, and through them, every day was filled with new things to learn, new things to see, new things to understand. My mind was so stimulated that I think I floated around on Cloud Nine all the time. Oh, I missed my home and my family, but I was not homesick.
But that night of September the 21st, my world changed. All night long I walked the floor of my little apartment and watched through the long hours Hugo’s fierce winds and rain pound my home. All night long I heard the bell that stood in my son’s backyard tolling the death and destruction of what was, and what would be no more.
I saw the destruction of the Low Country for the first time from the air as the plane on which I was flying prepared to land. From that vantagepoint, our beloved trees appeared as tooth picks or matches someone had just dumped out on the floor. They lay this way and that, thousands of them. And after we landed and my husband took me about to see the remains of Hugo’s trail close up, we entered familiar places and neighborhoods and I did not know where I was.
I returned to Atlanta and to school, but I did not want to be there. I longed for home. For the first time in my life, I knew what real homesickness was. Home and family was all I could think about, it was all I longed for, it was all I ached for. And the tears would not stop flowing. I wept night and day. I wept tears of mourning for what we had all lost, tears of grief for what my family was suffering, and tears of guilt for not being there.
And so, my soul yearning, indeed fainting for home, I went about the tasks of attending lectures and writing papers and reading assignments like an empty shell of a person.
Today’s psalm expresses this kind of longing for home. We do not know the time and circumstances under which it was written. Some say it was composed during the time of David’s flight and exile from Jerusalem on account of Absalom’s rebellion. For it voices the language of a person who is sighing after the courts of God, but is, for some reason, barred from approaching them. David’s experience might very well have brought forth such an outpouring.
David mourned in those days, not only because of the deep mortification he felt at being driven from his throne, but also, because of his exile, he could not come before the Lord, as in times past. He therefore envied the very sparrow and the swallow that could take up a happy abode beneath the altars which his soul so longed to approach.
And doubtless, there was another feeling, which pressed upon him—and that is, that his own sin is what had driven him into exile. Thus, David felt not only the sorrow of not being able to approach God’s sanctuary, but this suffering was deeply increased by the guilt and shame that he had brought upon his own head.
Yes—this psalm might well have been written by David at such a time as was this.
Others say this psalm was composed during the time of the Israelites’ exile in Babylon. These exiles also longed for home and the courts of the Lord, but they were captives and could not return to the familiar places they loved. In exile, they remembered with great sorrow the pilgrim feasts when they went up from all over their land to worship at the temple of the Lord in Jerusalem. Their mourning too was deeply increased by the knowledge that their own sin had driven them away from their land.
By the rivers of Babylon
There we sat down and there we wept
When we remembered Zion—
How can we sing the Lord’s song
In a foreign land?
This they would cry.
It really doesn’t matter at what time or under what circumstances this psalm was written—it speaks for all of us who have ever experienced the depth of such a longing. The unidentified pilgrim in the psalm who longs to be in the presence of God could be any one of us, or all of us.
Spiritual longing is very much a part of the human experience. People everywhere have a deep hunger for God. St. Augustine described it as a heart that can find no rest, while Dietrich Bonhoeffer spoke of it as an inner distress—I hear my own soul tremble and heave, he said.
To appease their spiritual yearnings, many seekers turn to book publishers for relief. More "how-to" books, however, will never provide the kind of balm needed to soothe the pain of spiritual longing. As Psalm 84 tells us, such longing can only be satisfied in one place.
This unidentified pilgrim knows that all-human satisfaction and fulfillment lies in nearness to God. He considers how "blessed" are those—who dwell in the house of God—from the priests to the lowly birds. The poor, the powerless, and the lonely who find a home, as do the sparrows, "near God’s altars," will "sing" in the presence of the LORD.
Place and Presence also have an important role in the Christian tradition as they did for Israel. However, for Christians the yearning for God’s presence is not centered in a holy place, like the temple in Jerusalem, but in a holy "person"—the person in whom all the fullness of God is pleased to dwell (Col. 1:19). This Jesus of Nazareth, who declared to us the promises of God, now comes to us as the risen Christ. And those who, like the pilgrim, "long" for the presence of God will find peace and joy in Him.
To the pilgrim nothing is more desirable than to be in the presence of God. God’s presence is "life" to the believer. This presence is now with us in spirit, but one day we will behold the face of the LORD (Rev. 22:4). In that day the LORD will guide us to springs of the water of life and will wipe away every tear (Rev. 7:17), and there will be no more longing, for we, like the pilgrims to Zion, will finally be home.
Amen.

The Night Vision

Text: 2 Samuel 7:1-17.

David stands in the arched window in the upper chamber of his house. It is that brief span of time just before night settles upon the land. Supper has been eaten and the last of the wine quaffed. David’s eyes peer into the purple twilight, caressing every knoll of his city. In the valley below, a few remaining women gather water for their households. Their skirts stir as the night wind descends from the mountains. And David feels its chill on his own face. It is refreshing after the heat of the day.
Five miles to the south lies his native Bethlehem. David lifts his eyes in that direction. Right about now the shepherds will be leading their sheep into the safety of the fold. And he remembers. He remembers the heat of a day spent in the hills searching for green grass. He remembers the cold of a night spent in the protection of a cave. He remembers the touch of soft wool as each sheep passes beneath his hand. He remembers the smell of the fragrant oil that he has rubbed into the cut of a tiny lamb, or the bruise of his lead ram. He remembers the bleating of a ewe caught in the jaws of a lion, and he remembers the scent of warm blood after a kill.
A rush of wind startles him, and he notices that the shadows have deepened over his city. His eyes fall on a craggy hill with cavernous eyes that lies to the north. Those black eyes seem to be staring at him. A momentary chill sweeps down his back and he trembles.
Why these thoughts of his father’s sheep? Why this uneasiness, now that night is coming? It was not so during the day. The day had been filled with high emotion and much planning. He had determined that very day to build a great temple to house the ark of God.
As he sat in his fine palace of cedar, his thoughts had turned to the ark of God sitting out there in a tent. Suddenly, this seemed hardly an appropriate place for the awesome, powerful, glory of God to be. He looked about his own beautiful, spacious living quarters, and guilt flooded his soul. "Who am I to live in such a place while the ark of God lives in a tent?" he had thought.
So, he called Nathan, the prophet, and told him his idea. "I will build a grand palace for the ark of God." Nathan seemed pleased. He approved the plan, and for hours David’s mind filled with this glorious new dream. He pictured all the materials that must be gathered—gold and cedar and fine linens and acacia wood and great stones. God’s palace would be patterned after the tabernacle only on a grander scale and built with priceless materials. It would be altogether lovely. It would gleam from a choice mountaintop, and people from many nations would come to admire it.
David had felt exhilarated and had paced the floor making plans. But now, with the onset of night, his thoughts turn again and again to his father’s sheep, and he feels troubled. He will lie down and sleep it off, he thinks. He is just tired from the excitement of the day. Tomorrow he will continue with his new project.
About the same time, Nathan, too, is preparing for the night’s rest. He smiles. It has been a good day—a fruitful day. David’s plan is good. There is great excitement in the palace. Yes, God’s ark deserves a fine place to live. It should be as David has said. So, Nathan lies down, content. He looks forward to the days ahead. He is at peace, and he quickly drifts off to sleep.
And the night grows deep, and darkness fills the land. The thick darkness covers the valleys and the hills, and creeps silently in through the palace walls. Nathan suddenly wakes. He is aware of a heaviness in his room—a presence near him. He feels unsettled. Then, he hears the voice.
"Go and tell my servant David, ‘Thus says Yahweh, Would you build for me a house to sit in? I have not sat in a house since the days I brought up the people of Israel from Egypt to this day, but I have been walking in a tent and in an encampment. In all the places where I have walked with all the people of Israel, did I ever speak a word with any of the judges of Israel whom I commanded to shepherd my people Israel, saying, Why have you not built for me a house of cedar to sit in?’"
Nathan is more than amused by the picture God has painted for him. First, there is the disgruntled old sovereign sitting on a lavish throne in a lavish throne room twiddling his thumbs. Here Yahweh is like a caged lion. But, in the next scene, God is walking with his people Israel. He camps in their midst, but just for a night. Then, Yahweh folds up his tent the next morning and walks on. Everywhere Israel goes, God walks with them. Here, Yahweh is not a sitting God, but a walking God—a God on the move, a God alive and active—a God ever near to guide, to comfort, to heal, to sustain, to nurture.
Nathan immediately understands that God does not desire a lavish temple to sit about in. It is not God’s intent to sit. He is determined to continue walking with his people. Nathan also knows that building temples is not what God has called David to do. There must be something else in God’s heart that he desires for David, some other purpose for David to fulfill. But what could it be?
Then God speaks again.
"Thus, you shall say to my servant, David, ‘Thus says Yahweh of Hosts, I Myself took you from the pasture, from following the sheep, that you should be shepherd over my people Israel; and I have been with you wherever you went, and have cut off all your enemies from before you; and I will make for you a great name, like the name of the great ones of the earth.’"
"’And what’s more, I will appoint a place for my people Israel, and will plant them, that they may tabernacle in their own place, and be disturbed no more; and violent men shall afflict them no more, as formerly, from the time that I appointed judges over my people Israel; and I will give them rest from all their enemies.’"
"’And moreover, Yahweh declares to you David that Yahweh will build you a house . . . and your house and your kingdom shall be made sure forever before me; your throne shall be established forever.’"
Now, Nathan understands. Yes, there is something far more important in God’s heart than the building of a palace for Himself on the earth. Yes, God has a far higher purpose for David than that. The desire of God’s heart is for the well-being—the shalom—of his people. And God has raised up David for the sake of God’s people. The whole picture passes before Nathan.
God’s grand plan is that all the world be blessed. For this purpose God brought his people, the children of Israel, out of Egypt, out of the house of bondage, and brought them into this good land, so that through them the whole world might be blessed.
But, in all the years since the conquest of the good land, Israel is still not settled. In all this time, Israel has had no rest from its enemies. God’s people do not dwell securely. They are oppressed and afflicted by enemies round about them. They are harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. And God will not rest until God’s people have rest. God will not rest until God’s purposes for all creation are complete.
Nathan looks carefully at all that God has done for David, and he begins to see a parallel between what God has done for David and what God wants for his people. As God has brought David from the sheepfold, so God brought Israel out of Egypt. As God has walked with David wherever he went, so God walks with Israel wherever she goes.
As God has cut off all David’s enemies from before him, so God wants to cut off Israel’s enemies from before her. And, as God has given David a safe place to live, so God wants to give Israel a safe place to live. What God has done for David, God wants also to do for God’s people through David.
It is for this reason that God took David from the pasture, from following the sheep. Not to be a builder of temples, but to be shepherd over God’s people. Now, Nathan’s understanding is complete. At first light, he will go to David.
David stands in the same arched window. The red orb of the sun has not yet crested the hill to the east, but the city is already bathed in gold. As Nathan speaks, David remembers the day he was called from the sheepfold. "Samuel, the prophet, has come," the messenger said. "And he will not sit down to eat until you come. Your father says, ‘Hurry!’"
David remembers running from the pasture to his father’s house. He remembers standing before the prophet of God, and the weakness he felt in his legs. Suddenly, his knees had buckled, and before he could rise, he felt warm oil spill over his head, and his flesh quivered.
"Bethlehem is but five miles from Jerusalem," said David to Nathan, "But, it has been a long way from the sheepfold to this palace. Is that what God intended all along? Did Samuel anoint me to be prince in order to be a shepherd to his people?"
David looks at his hands. The hands that had once stroked his father’s sheep. The hands that had once rubbed oil into cuts and bruises. The hands that had once wrested baby lambs from the jaws of lions and bears. Could he do the same for God’s people? Could he nurture and heal and protect the people of God as he had once nurtured and healed and protected his father’s sheep?
Nathan sees David looking at his hands, and he knows what David is thinking. "Yes, David," he says, "You are not to be a king like the kings of the earth who lord it over their people, or a hireling who does not care for the sheep. You are to be a shepherd-king. Like a good shepherd, you will care enough for your own that you will lay down your life for them."
Thus says Yahweh, "I will save my flock, and they shall no longer be ravaged . . . they shall be secure on their soil . . . they shall no more be plunder for the nations, nor shall the animals of the land devour them, they shall live in safety, and no one will make them afraid . . . they shall know that I, Yahweh their God, is with them and that they, the house of Israel, are my people . . . I will set up over them one shepherd, my servant David, and he shall feed them: he shall feed them and be their shepherd."
David’s eyes look to the east to the rising sun as it ascends above the Mount of Olives, but he does not linger there. He turns to the south toward the fields of Bethlehem to the place where his thoughts had wandered again and again the night before. But now, instead of thinking of what once was, he peers into the far distant future. There in that tiny village where he was born, and where he tended his father’s sheep, a tiny babe will one day be born, and he will be called the Son of David. He, too, will be a Shepherd-King, and through him God will bless the world. His house and his kingdom shall be made sure forever. "For he must reign until he has put all enemies under his feet. And the last enemy that shall be destroyed is death."