The Sixth Sunday of Easter [Year C] - May 9, 2010 (John 14:23-29 and Revelation 21:10, 22--22:5)

What’s the best kind of “good-bye”?

There are, of course, many schools of thought on this issue. When we had both of our daughters in day-care in Pittsburgh, the teachers of their respective classes told us the best goodbye was a quick one, no matter how much their bawling tugged at our heartstrings. “Don’t linger,” they’d instruct us sternly, “just a quick kiss, tell them you love them, and then turn around and walk out confidently. It’s better for them that way.”

Sure it is. I remember that on most days, as soon as we’d turn to leave, they’d start crying and running behind us with their arms spread open. But, inevitably, the teachers were correct. The more we dragged our goodbye out, the more insistently our daughters would plead for us not to leave, or to take them with us wherever we were going. And then it became more difficult for us to get out the door.

It could be said that, for Jesus, the best goodbye is one that is dragged out. For the better part of five chapters in John’s gospel, Jesus lingers in the presence of his disciples as he prepares for his departure. In one sense, Jesus is preparing them for his departure to the cross, the day of his death. But, in another sense, he is also preparing them for his departure to God the Father after his ascension. At the time, of course, none of this makes sense to the disciples because they could never fully know beforehand the unprecedented events of Good Friday and Easter. To them, it just sounds like Jesus is going somewhere mysterious that they can’t yet go, and instead of just getting on with it, saying “I love you,” and walking out confidently, he drags it out. In fact, it often sounds during his long goodbye that he changes his mind and that he won’t actually be leaving, or that he’ll come back very shortly. All of it is a bit confusing, and, like our childcare providers told us, this leads to more pleading and questioning from the disciples, the ones who are being left behind.

In the portion of Jesus’ goodbye speech that we have today, Jesus is responding to Judas, who asks him, “Lord, how is it that you will reveal yourself to us and not to the world?” (For those of you keeping track, this is not the Judas who betrays Jesus. This is another follower named Judas, a non-betraying Judas. I bet he was very insistent on making that distinction clear to everyone after Easter, don’t you? He probably became known as “Not That Judas.”) In any case, this Judas is wondering how Jesus is able to say that he will be able to reveal himself in his absence to his community of followers without also revealing himself in some grand way to the whole world.

From the beginning of his ministry, his disciples had expected that the Messiah, when he came, would give some type of impressive, majestic display of his glory. They were looking for some unmistakable sign of God’s glory and power, and they had been looking for that to be revealed in Jesus. Well, they’re almost to the end here and they really haven’t seen one yet. Surely—Not That Judas seems to think—the grand, magnificent display that Jesus will use to reveal himself after he is gone will be something that the whole world will acknowledge, too? Judas and the others apparently expect that Jesus will do something dazzling for them or to them that will stand out, something that will make a signal as clear as day to them and everyone else that God is present and mighty and glorious, like a fireworks display in the night sky.

Not exactly, replies Jesus. In the interim, in the time when Jesus goes to his Father and is not seen by his disciples—in the time after the crucifixion and then again after his ascension—Jesus will be revealed in the life of the community but not in ways that will always be clear to everyone else. It will not always be clear to everyone because it will involve their own life together. Jesus will reveal himself to them not through something dazzling he does on their behalf but through how they keep his word and love him. Risen, he will dwell with them as they carry out his words, as they embody for each other his selfless love as they recall the glory of his cross and seek to reflect it into the world. He will reveal himself, shall we say, not in the manner of fireworks, something to gaze at passively, but, rather, in the ember of peace glowing in their hearts, something to stoke and tend and nurture.

And it is his peace, in fact, that he leaves with them to tend and nurture. It was customary in those times to part company with the word “shalom,” a Hebrew word of both greeting and farewell that essentially meant “Peace.” Yet here Jesus declares this is no ordinary shalom that he is uttering. His peace is not resigned or complacent. His peace will be undergirded by the eternal love of the cross. His peace, when lived out, will put them at odds with the world, occasionally, calling them to witness to the power of the resurrection. The peace that Jesus gives is never an invitation to escape the world, or to fear the impact that God’s word will have on the world. It is, rather, an invitation to engage the world, to embrace it in love and forgiveness more fearlessly, more confidently, more hopefully. Jesus may be lingering in his farewell here in his final hours before the cross, but he is impressing upon his followers the need for them to carry on with his peace. In their active forms of love, in their steady desire to implement his teachings, he will somehow come to dwell with them.

A few weeks ago I came across a story about a man in England known as the pothole gardener. A 33-year-old amateur gardener by the name of Steve Wheen has taken to planting flowers in the potholes in London’s streets. As a cyclist, the man had become frustrated with the danger they presented, and had grown weary of the fact the city never seemed to patch them. So, instead of ignoring them, he took to using them as tiny flower beds, preferring to use low plants with “bright, colorful flowers in the hope that motorists will see his gardens and avoid them" (“The Man Who Plants Flowers in Potholes,” in www.metro.co.uk, by Joel White, April 21, 2010).

As you can imagine, fruits of his labors don’t last long. Most fall victim to the traffic within a few hours or days. The longest any of his gardens has lasted is three weeks. But he keeps on planting, making a point, but also bringing beauty—even peace—into some of the most broken and overlooked of places. The pothole does not give as the world gives, you might say, which often selects only well-groomed yards with out-of-the-way plots for growing flowers. Those are no less needed or beautiful, of course, but there is something confidently graceful about sowing the seeds of cheer in potholes.

It would appear to be an image for Jesus’ community to emulate in the time after he leaves us, even that turns out to be only temporary. Granting forgiveness in situations that would otherwise call for a grudge. Speaking a word of hope into occasions that seem otherwise desparate. Encouraging love when the world wants to issue hate. Embodying Jesus’ peace—the peace of the cross, the peace of victory in love—when the world wants to resort to war or, perhaps just as bad, surrender and escapism. We are emboldened to do this even in situations that would appear to everyone else to be a waste of time…perhaps especially in situations that would appear to everyone else to be a waste of time.

And in case all this seems like too tall an order, Jesus gives us one last promise: we will not be alone. He will send an Advocate, a Counselor, a Master Gardener known as God’s Holy Spirit. The Spirit will empower us to keep things going in Jesus’ apparent absence. The Spirit will keep us together. He will remind us of who Christ is and what he means to us. He will bestow on us gifts for spreading and keeping Christ’s word. He will be that flame that re-ignites the ember of Christ's peace in our hearts.  In fact, the Holy Spirit will be so real, so present, that it will almost seem like Jesus himself has not really left us. Like Jesus did throughout his life, death, and resurrection, the Advocate will provide us with the words and the confidence to live out Jesus’ peace in the midst of the world.

These are perhaps the most hope-filled words in Jesus’ long farewell: that God will love us and Jesus and the Father will come to dwell with us. There is the clear message, woven throughout Jesus’ goodbye, that it is not really final. In other words, while the Holy Spirit is staying with us, urging us to tend to Jesus’ peace and keep his words, it is all a foretaste of the time Jesus and the Father will come again to us, will meet us and claim us forever.

So the best type of “goodbye,” whether dragged out or short and sweet, is the type of goodbye that actually prepares us for a grand “Hello, again.” The best goodbye is one that assures us with the reality that the bitter end has not really an end, that beyond this separation we now feel there is a promise of some time just out of reach for us, when God will fulfill his word for all his creation. It is the vision of a world renewed, where the city of God will have no need of sun or moon to shine, because the glory of God will be its light, and its lamp will be the Lamb. His servants will worship him, and his name will be on their foreheads. Nothing accursed or unclean will be there—not a pothole to be seen!—for everything will be re-paved and the streets of God will flow with the water of life.

The best goodbye, it turns out, is one that prepares us to look and to work towards that great and glorious day when Christ will rule all in all.

So, in the meantime, I suspect you find yourselves a pothole and get to planting.



Thanks be to God!





The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

photo of flowers from www.thepotholegardener.com

The Second Sunday of Easter [Year C] - April 11, 2010 (John 20:19-31)

A family in our congregation with two young children told me the story of a conversation that occurred over breakfast in their house one morning. This was late October, and the children’s placemats on the kitchen table were decorated with the ABC’s of Hallowe’en: skeletons, ghosts, jack-o-lanterns, and the like. The older of the two children, a second-grader, was apparently looking over the ABC’s one by one and eventually came to the letter “Z,” which stood for “zombie.” She could pronounce the word, but she had never heard of the term. Inquisitively, she asked, “Mommy, what’s a zombie?”
“Well,” said the mother, no doubt trying to come up with a definition that would be descriptive and direct, but also not too graphic. “Well, a zombie is a person who’s come back from the dead,” she said.

And then, without missing a beat, the three-year old chimed in and said, “Like Jesus!”

It has been tough getting a handle on Jesus’ resurrection from the start. We know that the risen Jesus is not a zombie—and to even breathe the words together seems like blasphemy—but what exactly did happen after the disciples went to the tomb and found his body was no longer there? What exactly was he? Was he something to be feared? Even his closest disciples were confronted with these very questions, and they don’t all at once make peace with them and know what the risen Christ is or means. We see them struggle not only with confusion and fright, but also with the lack of belief. And in their own experiences with the risen Jesus we see an example of the world coming to grips with the fact that, in the resurrection of Jesus, God has done a radically new thing and broken death’s hold on creation.

On the evening of this astounding, unprecedented event, they are not found joyously dancing around in the streets, giving uproarious thanks for Jesus’ triumph over the grave. They are, rather, to be found locked inside their old meeting place because they were afraid—afraid because of how the leading religious authorities might persecute them with this information. While they are in seclusion, Jesus comes into the room via the locked doors and stands among them. Whether the doors are opened for him or whether he is able in his resurrected state to pass through them is not clear, but what is clear is that his disciples do not immediately seem to recognize him. He passes into the room seemingly unnoticed. It is not until he speaks his peace and shows them the scars in his hands and side that they realize he is with them. As it turns out, getting a handle on the resurrection was tough, even at the start. The risen Christ was not simply a person come back from the dead. He was himself, but somehow different. He was a new creation. The resurrection had changed him, but he was still noticeable by certain identifiable features.

Notice, for example, how things change once they see his wounds. They rejoice! In John’s account of Jesus’ resurrection, joy does not enter the Easter picture until the marks of his death on the cross are shown. That which reveals Jesus as their Lord—and provides the occasion for joy—is nothing other than the tangible signs of his love for them. His risen body—while certainly a bit mysterious—is not a figment of their imagination, just as God’s desire to save and deliver from sin is no figment, either. The marks where the nails have been are what link him unmistakably to them and prove, in their eyes, that God’s new creation is real.

Then, since it seems like the disciples might not have gotten it the first time, Jesus repeats himself: “Peace be with you.” He bestows upon them the Holy Spirit, which will enable them to live as a tangible body in the world, working out the rigors of forgiveness and spreading the good news of Jesus’ resurrection. But, as it turns out, there is still some work to be done in dealing with this astounding piece of news. Thomas was not there that first night. He did not see what the rest of them saw, and so he is not convinced. He must place his hands in those scars they probably tell him about. Then he will be convinced and have a better handle on who this risen Jesus is. Has God really broken the cycle of death and sin by raising up the one who was crucified? For Thomas, and for the others, faith in this will come by sight. When, a week later, Thomas has the opportunity to see his risen Lord he immediately proclaims him, “My Lord and my God!” It is the most profound pronouncement of Jesus’ identity made anywhere in John’s gospel and yet he still is known primarily as “Doubting Thomas.”

In her poem, “To Know Him Risen,” contemporary poet Luci Shaw asks a series of probing questions trying to understand how she might gain a handle on the resurrection. In fact, the entire poem is made up of nothing but a barrage of questions, one after another—questions anyone might ask about this singular event—and she doesn’t include a response of any type. She asks, for example,

“Can I touch him through the cliché crust
of lilies, stained glass, sunrise services?
…Must I be Thomas, belligerent in doubt,
hesitant, tentative, convinced, humbled, loved,
and there?
Must sight sustain belief?” (in Polishing the Petoskey Stone, Regent College Publishing, 1990, p92)

Shaw’s poem of questions underscores the fact knowing Jesus risen is something different from knowing him as a man stuck in history. We don’t need to be locked in that room with the disciples that first night to sense the confusion and doubt that lingers in the air regarding this stupendous claim. In fact, it may even be more difficult for us to sustain this faith because we lack the ability to plunge our hands into his scars. We don’t need to be reminded that we were not there. Like Thomas during that first week, we must base the majority of our faith on what others saw and heard and felt.

Let it be said that we have very good reason to trust all these accounts of Jesus’ resurrection: other, independent accounts of what happened those fateful three days in Jerusalem began to spread around the Mediterranean at about the same time, all with a remarkable degree of agreement. Furthermore, the astounding growth of the fledgling church in a philosophical and religious environment that was by all accounts hostile to it attests to the presence of the risen Christ and his Holy Spirit. Yet, at the same time, we do not see him risen in the same way those earliest apostles did. In some ways, it is more difficult to “get a handle” on him.

What I’ve always appreciated so much about this post-resurrection account in John is that it shows God’s gentleness with our struggles to grasp what has happened in Jesus. It shows God’s patience—at least for now—even with our unbelief. This story does not paint a picture of a bunch of disciples standing around afterwards with all the questions answered and all the definitions figured out. It reveals a community that hears something incredible has happened, but it doesn’t whitewash the part about the doubt. It shows their initial lack of belief, their grasping at the questions.

And then there’s the issue that we always pay so much attention to what they’re doing…even in this silly sermon. What about Jesus? What is Jesus doing in this story? Is he hammering his good news down their throats? Is he chastising or shaming those who are slow to come to faith? Does he ostracize Thomas for his resistance to believe? Is he coming up with pat answers to soothe their bewilderment? No. Rather, we see a Jesus who graciously offers himself, who repeats himself when necessary, who presents his wounds of love again and again. It is worth noting that nowhere does John tell us that Thomas actually touched Jesus’ wounds. It is simply Jesus’ offer for him to do so that leads Thomas from doubt to faith, and from faith to worship.

Which makes me wonder: how do we, as the community of the risen Lord, deal with lack of faith? How do we treat those who stand incredulous at the risen Jesus’ Lordship? Do we tend to look down on them because they haven’t arrived at the same conclusions about Jesus and God that we have, and in the same amount of time? Are they simple objects of our evangelism efforts, or people with whom we need to build loving relationship with so that faith may eventually enter the picture? Do we practice Jesus’ trademark peace and forgiveness, and then offer them the chance to touch their hands into our woundedness?

Do we allow questions, or do we stamp out any kind of dialogue that will open up a place for the Spirit to blow and bring faith? For it is often those, like Thomas, who struggle the most with incredulity, who eventually become the ones who praise Jesus most whole-heartedly.

We may not always have the exact words to articulate our experiences with the risen Lord, a descriptive and direct definition of what happened those first hours after the empty tomb. Truth be told, I bet most of us slide all along that Thomas-like continuum throughout our lives—where we doubt, then trust, then fall down in praise-filled faith. We may not always grasp the fullness of this mystery, but I do hope we always grasp its joy. Those wounds are for us, and by the by, we have come to trust the risen Jesus as Lord…that, as the psalmist declares, “there are glad songs of victory in the tents of the righteous. The right hand of the Lord has done valiantly!”

He has done many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. You know about some of them. “Blessed are those who have not seen, and yet have come to believe.”

Christ is risen! He is risen, indeed! Alleluia!



Thanks be to God!



The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

(image: The Incredulity of Saint Thomas, Caravaggio, 1601-02)

Maundy Thursday - April 1, 2010 (John 13:1-17; 31b-35)

“What kind of mark is it going to leave?”

It’s just one of the many questions we ask when, for example, we’re confronted with the injury from an accident or perhaps the incision from a surgical procedure.

“What kind of mark is it going to leave?” we wonder in horror as we view the elaborate crayon designs a child has scribble-scrabbled across the wall or the coffee table.

“What kind of mark is it going to leave?” we ask ourselves as we consider the ramifications of a heated argument, or the falling apart of a marriage, or the untimely death of a loved one. In our more clear-thinking moments we consider the possible long-range implications of any number of events—both good and bad—as they happen to and around us. Although the acute, immediate effects of an event may not linger very long—like the pain of an operation or the turmoil of a tragedy—we know there might also be long-term consequences, like the ripples that form as a pebble is dropped in a pond.

The question reaches further applying to far more than particular events. “What kind of mark am I going to leave?” becomes a question by which we might take stock of our whole lives. “What kind of mark will I make on this planet? On the lives of those who love me? On the lives of those who come after me?” In other words, “What about me will ‘stay on’ in some way after I’m gone?”

It surely seems to be something Jesus is considering as he gathers for his final meal with his disciples on the night before his death. He does not come right out and say that such a heavy question is on his mind, but why else would he get up from the meal, tie his robe around his waist like a slave, and stoop to wash his disciples’ feet? Why else would he disrupt the flow of the austere Passover Seder and illustrate his new commandment with such a profoundly humiliating act? Jesus full well knows that his hour has come to depart from this world and go to the Father. It is almost finished. He has loved his own right up until the end. He is no doubt wondering, “What kind of impression will I make—can I make—on this small gathering?”

It is an altogether appropriate choice of occasion for Jesus to be wondering about his mark. The Passover itself was a meal of a “mark.” The crimson blood of a freshly-slaughtered lamb marked on the door lintel of Jesus’ ancient ancestors in Egypt signaled them for deliverance from slavery. And the act of eating the Passover meal was, you could say, a mark. No other event or celebration defined Jesus’ Jewish people as a community more than the Passover did. For generations it was observed as a perpetual ordinance. “Who were these people?” the world would ask. What was their mark? They were the ones who gathered for this meal, a statement of God’s mighty act of redemption.

So, in the context of this sacred legacy-molding meal, Jesus stoops down to wash the dirty feet of his disciples. He is trying to leave a new mark on them—a new commandment for them—and, in the process, leave his own mark about who he is and what God’s love is like.

It’s not simply that foot-washing is a humbling act, dirty work in an age when society’s chief mode of transportation is barefoot walking on sandy streets. Foot-washing is a slave’s job. It is fit only for someone who really doesn’t have status in the household, or in all of society, for that matter. And so when Jesus, the Teacher and Lord stoops to perform it, then how more fitting is it for the Teacher and Lord’s disciples to take part in it? How more fitting is it for his followers to humble themselves before each other and tend to the acts of service that build up community? The acts of foot-washing are those that remind us not to take ourselves too seriously, not to exalt ourselves too high in relation to our neighbor. They are the tasks of love that bind the disciples together in humility. When they are willing to be acquainted with the gritty toe-jam of their fellow brothers and sisters, the world will take heed. There is an inherent witness involved when Jesus’ followers learn to remove their robes of distinction and learn to serve the basic needs of the neighbor. It all helps to illustrate this new commandment that they love one another the way he has loved them.

This is what will stay on after Jesus is crucified. This is the mark Jesus will leave on them. “Who are these people?” the world will sometimes ask. What will be their mark? They are the ones who love each other.

The dean of one of our ELCA seminaries tells of an experience she had not too long ago as a part of a delegation of the Lutheran World Federation to rural Africa. In reaching a very remote part of Africa, Lutheran World Federation workers spent time in a village where they brought medicine, drilled wells, improved sanitation, provided caring ministry, and helped people rebuild their lives after years of drought and disease. A couple of years later, this seminary dean was a part of another Lutheran World Federation delegation that made its way through the same area en route to an even more remote region. The villagers came and lined the road with cheers and celebration. The delegation workers were confused by the response. They got out of their caravan of trucks and greeted the people, wondering what was the reason for all this joy. The villagers thanked the workers for rescuing them earlier, for bringing new life to their village by tending to their most basic, human needs.

As the villagers expressed their thanks, the LWF delegation workers explained that they were not, in fact, the workers who had done the work in their area. One of the village leaders said, “Yes, you are the workers who were here.” The delegation leader insisted that not one of the current workers had ever been in that village to do anything. At that point, the village leader took a group of the workers to the side of one of the trucks and said, pointing to the Luther seal, with the cross in the center of the heart, “Yes, it was you. You are the people of the seal. You are the ones.”

People of the seal, people of his mark. Those who pass the cup and break his bread remember that they are engaged in loving each other, that they are committed to humble service. They are the ones who have Jesus’ love placed at the center of their hearts and, like their Master, stoop to place their hands at the feet of their brothers and sisters. I first heard this story as an example of the church’s love for others, but such a love can only be borne out of a community that has practiced true charity for each other. People will see and know.

Jesus’ mark of love and service, however, will not stop at foot-washing. As his response to Peter’s protest suggests, there is more to come. For this meal of deliverance, this commandment of love—these precious final hours establishing a new covenant—are really a build-up to the hours upon the cross. That is where Jesus will really claim his destiny and glory, and he’ll do it by laying it all aside. The cross is where Jesus will secure his place as king by dying as a nobody. The cross is where he stoops to the level of death to clean the ugly feet of the entire universe, and in the end, the marks for which Jesus will be better known will be the ugly marks our sins leave on his hands.

So, then, will this foot-washing-lesson turn out to amount to anything? Will the sharing of the bread and the wine have its intended effect? In the aftermath of such a tumultuous turn of events, what will be the mark that Jesus leaves behind—on us, on the tragedy-torn villages throughout the world.?

As it turns out, he is still leaving it. In a miracle that only God can explain, the meal that was to serve as his final chance to make his mark becomes the event that will allow him to continue washing, to continue feeding his people with forgiveness and deliverance. Whenever this community gathers to pass the cup and loaf, Jesus will not merely be remembered, as if as if that had been is the end, as if he had his one chance to “strut and fret his hour upon the stage and then [be] heard no more" (Macbeth, Act V, scene v).  No, he will be present with them. Risen, he will enter their lives once again, stoop to serve, and empower them to do so in his name. Risen, he will still be with them, bearing the marks of their sin.

No need to worry, then, about how he will “stay on” after he is gone, for he will never really be leaving. Therefore it will not be entirely up to us to carry on his legacy, because he will be with us. “Where charity and love prevail, there God is ever found" (Latin hymn, 9th century, ELW #359) He is present with us, loving us right up to the end. And, thanks to Good Friday, beyond.

So, on this night of deliverance, as we take our Lord’s body and blood into our very hands, let us again ask ourselves: “What kind of mark are we going to make?” As our little caravan of gospel workers threads its way through the remote corners of each individual life, let us consider his living legacy being born again in us. And as we take the feet of each other, let the cross be at the center of our hearts, for we are people of the seal. We are people of his love.



Thanks be to God!




The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

The Fifth Sunday in Lent [Year C] - March 21, 2010 (Philippians 3:4b-14 and John 12:1-8)

It’s quite a fashionable thing nowadays to have something called a “Bucket List.” Popularized by the movie from a couple of years ago by the same name, starring Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson as two patients with terminal medical diagnoses, a bucket list is a list of accomplishments one would like to achieve before, well, kicking the bucket. In the movie, the main characters—one of whom is very wealthy—become acquaintances as roommates in the hospital after they’ve learned they will both die within the year from cancer. Throwing caution to the wind, the two then embark on the adventure of their lives, methodically ticking off their bucket list items: skydiving, scaling a Himalayan mountain peak, going on a lion safari in Africa, climbing the Pyramids, and so on. Some of the items on their bucket list are not so far-flung, and include commonplace everyday nuggets, like “help a complete stranger for the common good,” and “laugh till I cry.” It’s an interesting, if not flawed, notion: that a meaningful, fulfilling life can somehow be made up of a string of special accomplishments, that the aim of life is to rack up personal or even altruistic triumphs. The film touches on that tension a bit, but even the touching finale still finds its way revolving around items on the characters’ bucket list.


Whether or not the movie is to blame, I’ve heard more people make mention of their own bucket list. I’ve even fancied a few ideas for myself, experiences I’d like to rack up if I ever have the opportunity. Yet, for all the items I’ve heard—and even considered—for a bucket list, I must admit I’ve never come across the one mentioned by Paul in his letter to the Philippians. And perhaps I should. There, situated in the heart of his letter to his beloved congregation in Philippi, he writes, as if it is the key to a wholesome life, “I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death.”

In a way, it’s his sole “bucket list” item: “to know Christ and the power of his resurrection,” to “share in his sufferings.” It doesn’t exactly make for something to boast about. After all, what kind of exotic adventures could that produce? Who has any great scrapbook photos or slides to show of “knowing Christ and the power of his resurrection”? Yet, for Paul, it is the aim of life. It is that path—knowing Christ and the power of his resurrection—which is greater than any Himalayan mountain-climb or opportunity to jump out of an airplane and yell “Bonzai!”

To be sure, Paul has not compiled a list of things he’d like to do before he dies, but it is clear that he has struggled to define his life by a list of his own achievements. He names them, one-by-one, in his correspondence with the Philippians, and it is a list that would make any first-century Christian or Jew jealous. He hails from one of the most illustrious and law-abiding pedigrees. His claims about his heritage and even his circumcision all serve to paint the picture of someone whose been doing all the right things since the very beginning. He’s gotten his degrees, proceeding through the ranks of rigorous credentialing to become a Pharisee. He’s even made a name for himself in the cause of persecuting the church. In the eyes of most anyone in the ancient Mediterranean world, man, he’s just about done it all!

Yet, it is all nothing, he says—“rubbish”—compared to the surpassing value of knowing Christ his Lord. None of those accomplishments, none of those feathers in his cap, none of that former status is going to provide him the essence of a fulfilled life now that he has come to understand the value that his faith provides. Knowing and being known by Christ is something so great and so deep and so extraordinary that it makes him want to forget what lies behind him and only press on to venture further in faith.

In a culture that preaches the virtues of building a resume, of making the varsity team, of getting accepted into a top-ranked program, of having it all look well-put-together, it is important for people of faith to be reminded that knowing Christ and the power of his resurrection is really the focus of our lives. He is of surpassing value to us because he has demonstrated by his life, death, and resurrection that we are of surpassing value to him. Knowing Christ and the power of his resurrection and sharing in his sufferings means having a share in the love that eventually turns the world upside down. Knowing Christ and the power of his resurrection means in any given moment, in any given place, no matter how dark, no matter how ordinary, lies an opportunity to bring glory to God.

That is what is happening with Mary’s devotion in the gospel text. Even her jar of expensive perfume, which could be used for any number of things, becomes oriented towards Christ and who he is. Jesus has just raised her brother from the dead. The smell everyone has likely had on their mind is the stench for which they braced themselves when Jesus called Lazarus out of the tomb. As Mary anoints Jesus’ feet, the whole room is overtaken with the beautiful smell, and the motive of her action it becomes unmistakable: she understands the surpassing value of Jesus. She is sharing in his suffering. To put Paul’s words in her mouth, she is wanting to know the power of his resurrection, because she understands he has come to die and bring salvation to all.

It goes without saying that we all have ways we share in Christ’s suffering and seize those opportunities to model the power of the resurrection. The quilts against your back, the health kits for Haiti relief, the precious hours you put into handbell practice…all are examples of cracking open that expensive jar of perfume, of what Paul calls “straining forward to what lies ahead in Christ.” In doing so, we begin to realize that all other possible achievements and accomplishments pale in comparison to our baptism, to the fact that the Creator of heaven and earth who will eventually bring all the universe under his authority loves us and has redeemed us and made us his. In seeking to know Christ, we realize this gathering this morning—the words we hear in Scripture and the sacraments we behold—is the most formative event of our week. And that’s not because we can go home and check off “going to church” off some list of achievements, but because here we hear and are reminded that our life is not really our own. We don’t need any “experiences” to make our life complete because Christ has already done that and he calls us to press on, to share in his sufferings and know the power of his resurrection another day—to pour out all of our lives for him and not leave any left over.

Truth be told, it was completely unlike any tapestry I’d ever seen. As one of the arts and craft activities at the Seventh Day retreat last weekend, the 5th- and 6th-grade students of our synod assembled a giant patchwork quilt, not too unlike the ones you see draped across our pews this morning. Each participant had been given one cloth square to decorate with markers, and, upon completion, those squares were tied together with small ribbons. That, in and of itself, was nothing out-of-the-ordinary. It was beautiful and colorful and creative—and it hung nicely as a backdrop—but we’ve all seen plenty of quilts or tapestries that are beautiful and colorful and creative. What was so striking about the production of this one last weekend, however, was that the young participants had been learning about Jesus’ command to love our enemies and to pray for those who persecute us. One of the topics of the retreat was “Who does Jesus teach,” and we had been asked to reflect on the fact that Jesus teaches everyone—righteous and unrighteous alike—and that his followers are engaged in loving the world in the way Jesus did, which often entails reaching out to those who seek to do us harm. To make their portion of the tapestry, asked to draw a picture of someone they perceive to be an enemy—someone they are in conflict with whom they might not imagine Jesus teaching. “Oh, my,” I thought to myself, “don’t the craft leaders know they’re asking us to pour out a good bit of our precious perfume?”

Taken individually, each little square did not seem very remarkable, but stitched together and hung as a backdrop for our final worship, they had quite an effect. There in front of us, like an oversized parament, was a piece of cloth decorated with a hodge-podge of stick figures and multi-colored faces depicting playground bullies, classroom tormenters, unfair siblings, back-stabbing friends. As we worshiped, we were stared at a tapestry of the people who were difficult for us to know how to love and communicate with, a visual prayer for those we often have a hard time seeing as “loved by God.”

Could you imagine, for example, if we made one of those tapestries and hung it behind the large cross on the wall behind our altar, so that every Sunday as we sang our hymns, we’d have a visual prayer of all the faces of those with whom Christ came to reconcile us, all those who are being called, along with us, to share in his sufferings? Talk about knowing Christ and the power of his resurrection! Talk about sharing in his sufferings! Talk about filling the whole room with the aroma of love! Even the thought of such sight, added together with all the other offerings of our lives, would send a clear message to ourselves and to the world that we are pressing forward in faith, seeking to know the man of surpassing value. It would send the message that we are moving forward with Paul’s one-item bucket list! Bonzai!



Thanks be to God!




The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

"The Calculus of Forgiveness" - March 10, 2010 (Matthew 18:15-22)

[Speaker enters sanctuary down the center aisle, wearing college-themed hoodie or sweatshirt and blue jeans, carrying a backpack. At the center of the chancel sits a school desk, the kind with the desk part attached to the chair. Speaker sits in the chair and pulls a notebook with the word “Calculus” on it.]


Maybe it was a mistake to sign up for this professor. It’s very likely I could fail. Of all the calculus professors I’d heard about on campus, this one was supposedly the best. As an instructor, he has a reputation for being very demanding, with a good grasp on the material he is teaching. However, he is also one of the most unpopular instructors. For, out of all the calculus and advanced math professors here at the university, he is the only one who offers no partial credit on assignments or exams. Not even a little bit. That is, if the final answer at the end of your four-page solution is wrong—even by a small fraction—he counts the entire problem as wrong.

[face the “front of the class” and act as if responding to a role call]

For those of you who have been lucky enough to escape the purgatory that is calculus, you must know that receiving partial credit is often the only hope of passing a calculus class. Like I said, solutions to problems can go on for pages. It’s not like arithmetic—two-plus-two equals-four, and there you have it. Here, one little misplaced negative sign or one small misstep early on in the process can completely skew the final result. Every step of your logic can be correct and well-thought-out, but the final answer can still be wrong.

Other professors will look at the process you used to answer a problem and grade you on that, overlooking the fact that the end product is off. Other professors will give your thought and intent the benefit of the doubt, saying, “well, up until this point, your solution was on-track,” and reward you for it. In other words, you can take an entire test and still pass without ever getting an answer technically right.

[pause and face the front for a few seconds, as if listening to the instructor]

But this professor doesn’t allow that. He is adamant. He sees no point in partial credit, and it is not uncommon for an entire section of his class to receive a failing grade for the semester. This is not gracious, at least in the eyes of most students, but I’m going to give him a try, anyway.

I suppose I should introduce myself at some point. I’m Peter, college student.  Willing disciple of the academy, going for that degree. My fellow classmates know me as the one who speaks out a lot and gets myself into trouble with some of the questions I ask. Even though it might be foolish for me to be taking calculus from this professor, I suppose I’m drawn to him because something tells me that only someone with truly firm and complete grasp of how to communicate the subject matter can demand such a high standard from his students.

You know, in that sense, calculus is a lot like the business of forgiveness, which I understand is your focus during Lent. It, too, involves grueling work. Like a math problem that goes on and on for pages in search of an undetermined figure, forgiving someone is often a lengthy process striving toward and end result you won’t know until you get there. That’s one of the more frustrating aspects of it. You often have to keep working and working at it and at some point you might even think forgiving someone and re-establishing trust is an unsolvable problem.

Forgiveness can be very complicated. At one point in speaking with his disciples, Jesus lays out quite an extensive, multi-step pattern for how to address sin and brokenness between fellow believers. You begin by going to the offending party alone and address the situation that way. If that doesn’t lead to apology and reconciliation, then you bring a few witnesses along with you the next time. If that still doesn’t help, the larger community gets a say in negotiating the details of the facts and emotions involved. That’s, of course, where it can really get tricky, but the effort of the community in reaching out is powerful. In the end, if the offender still is not regained, Jesus surprises us with the conclusion that “such a person shall be to you like a tax collector or a sinner.” Well, we all know how Jesus treats tax collectors and sinners. Never saw that answer coming!

No matter what occurs, however, Jesus promises that he will be present on the side of whomever is honestly seeking reconciliation. “Where two or three are gathered in my name,” he says, “I am there with them.” That would be gathered in the name of forgiveness. All of this is surrounded in prayer of hearts that are earnestly seeking to do their Father’s will.

Let me tell you: calculus requires an awful lot of prayer, too. Especially in the high standards of this professor’s class.

[pause, as if taking notes]

By the way, a freak accident occurred in the city last week that came up in class. At one of the local malls where a lot of people shop, the parking deck collapsed unexpectedly in the middle of the wee morning hours. For no reason at all the thing just pancaked, each floor of concrete and steel dropping to the next one below it. Thankfully, no one was injured because it happened at such an ungodly hour, but if it had occurred during peak shopping hours, there is no telling how many people could have been killed.

As you can imagine, mall officials and contractors were all over the news, trying to explain the catastrophe. We came in for class the next day and do you know what our calculus professor said? He said, “I bet the engineer who designed that parking garage got partial credit in his calculus class.”

As it turns out, there’s no partial credit in forgiveness, either. Jesus has high standards, too, and he means to hold us to it. The standards for its practice must be high because the stakes are also high. The option, I suppose, is to live in a world that collapses like a parking deck under the weight of everyone’s sin and under the stress of everyone’s pursuit of revenge for every wrong done. The standards are high because if the community who follows Jesus can’t dedicate itself to practice complete forgiveness, then the world will just opt for the partial-credit versions it already has.

When Peter, my biblical namesake, wants specifics and asks Jesus if seven attempts at forgiveness is enough, Jesus sets his standards even higher. Like a master math professor, Jesus comes up with an even more terrific number, saying not just seven times, but 70 times that amount.

Well, you and I could calculate 70 times 7. It’s 490. Talk about an easy calculation! But that’s not the point of that number Jesus gives. You see, 70 times 7 is an ancient biblical way of saying “always,” or “the perfect amount,” or “until it’s done. And then some.” Jesus actually reaches into a story in the Old Testament to come up with that outlandish number. There’s a story in Genesis where a man named Lamech pronounces vengeance not seven-fold, but seventy-seven fold, or seventy-fold times seven. He is really forceful about it, as if this mode of eye-for-seventy-seven-eyes will rule his world.

Jesus’ response to Peter, then, is like the kingdom of heaven’s antidote to an unlimited system of revenge. How many times do we forgive our brother or sister? Until the problem is solved. Unlimited, if that’s the case. We put our energy in the vulnerability of forgiveness rather than the power of revenge. We always remain open—truly open—to the fact that God will bring about reconciliation between two or more parties. That doesn’t mean we lay down at the foot of our abusers and enable their harmful behavior. It doesn’t mean we let people walk all over us, but it does mean we take seriously that revenge-seeking and being utterly closed to a future of hope and reconciliation is not an option for those who follow Jesus.

It is something we are compelled to do, you see, because we are part of the Forgiving One. By virtue of our baptism, we’re all in this calculus class section, you might say. We have literally been made a part of his body here on earth, and the practice of forgiveness is the very blood that courses through its veins. He forgives, so we forgive. And there is no partial credit to it. Thankfully, the Spirit is given to aid us in the pursuit of these seemingly incalculable solutions.

Like I said earlier, only someone with a clear and complete grasp of the subject matter could hold us to such a high standard. I think Jesus pretty much proved that on the cross. There’s nothing really “partial” about that event. It may not sound like grace the first times we hear it—to have a professor who will demand so much from us—but it is.

It really is grace. It is grace to be involved in this world-changing force. Costly, incalculable grace. Grace that we first receive.

[pause and listen to front of class again, as if it’s about to come to a close. Begin putting book into backpack.]

Well, I suppose I’ve probably talked too long already. Class is about over, and he’s already handed out homework. As demanding as it is, I’m thankful for another opportunity to learn at the foot of the master, I presume you could say. Another chance, ears open and pencil ready, leaning forward to hear what he might say. Thankful for another day to have my own errors corrected, my own misperceptions of this calculus straightened out.

[leaving chancel, pausing to speak:]

Just like it’s another day to be forgiven. Yeah, that's it: forgiven. One more time.

But who’s counting?

[exit]

The Second Sunday in Lent [Year C] - February 28, 2010 (Luke 13:31-35)

I never suspected that as a father I would wind up learning how to make so many animal sounds. Our young daughters naturally love to hear the noises different creatures make and, with increasing frequency these days, love to traipse around the house, pretending to be the animals, themselves. I am often drawn in and requested to mimic the roar of a lion or the trumpet of an elephant. When she’s guarding her snack from me, our three-year-old Clare will often fend me off with the fierce growl of a “mean bear,” as she calls it. Laura, our one-year old, can pant just like a dog. We expand our farmyard and jungle onomatopoeia on a monthly basis: we’ve got cats that meow, frogs that ribbit, and giraffes that chew. (Since every picture of a giraffe our daughters have ever seen shows the animal chomping on a mouthful of leaves, our girls have decided that a giraffe says >chew<, an idea that was only reinforced during our visit last summer to the Richmond zoo which affords its visitors with the singular if not slimy opportunity to feed giraffes from the palm of one’s hand.)


I suppose that if Jesus were to show up at our house one day, he’d cluck like a hen. At least, that’s what we could assume from the comments he makes outside Jerusalem, which we hear about in today’s gospel reading. It’s interesting: in all of the New Testament, Jesus compares himself to an animal only once. Although there are several times, specifically in John’s gospel, when he is referred to by others as “the Lamb of God,” and there is a reference to him as the “Lion of Judah” in Revelation, the only time he reaches into the animal kingdom and pulls out a metaphor for himself is this instance in Luke’s gospel, and he chooses a mother hen. We might expect the choice of something more extraordinary or rare, an animal that we would automatically associate with bravery or divinity, yet it is this run-of-the-mill resident of the local farm with which he identifies. It is the maternal, feminine image of a chicken—and a chicken with babies, no less—he chooses to describe his relationship toward Jerusalem, the city toward which he is travelling with his disciples.

Having spent the entirety of my life in the suburbs or the city, I’ve never had the chance to see this barnyard phenomenon. YouTube, which I scoured this week for visual examples, produced nothing satisfying. Apparently a hen, in most cases, will watch over and protect any chick from an egg it incubates. Supposedly at the first sight of danger—a hawk soaring overhead or a fox prowling in the pen—the momma chicken opens her wings and the chicks all come scurrying for shelter underneath. Then she drops her wings again, pulling every one of them in close. And there they remain until the threat has subsided. This survival mechanism serves two purposes: it both protects them from predators and keeps the chicks warm at the same time. According to what I’ve read, the hen is even prepared to offer her own life for the sake of her babies, should it come to that point.

I don’t know at what point the chicks outgrow their mother’s wingspan, or at what point they don’t feel the need to run their for shelter anymore, but this act of seeking shelter and warmth against their mother’s breast is how the each generation of chickens is reared And mother hens never seem to lose the habit. There are even some varieties of hen out there who will welcome into their broods a chick that they haven’t hatched, as if they are the foster moms of the whole coop, poultry parents with such a strong instinct for nurturing that they’re concerned for the preservation of every little baby in the farmyard.

Well, this is how Jesus understands himself in relation to God’s people, which is symbolized by that city that embodies and epitomizes the character and hope of a whole nation, Jerusalem. He stands on some road in Galilee, face firmly set on going there. Speaking from God’s own point of view, he laments the fact that, while he has lifted his wings on occasion, the chicks never come scurrying to him for shelter. He stands in the place many former prophets had stood, looking longingly at a people who had, time and time again, forsaken their role to live as a beacon of justice and compassion for themselves and others. God had given them so much, guided them through so many years, and yet they routinely wanted to go their own way, pursuing others’ ideas of greatness and power.

Considering Jerusalem’s track record for receiving prophets who suggested they repent and turn around from those ideas, it was dangerous for a prophet to enter the city. What’s more, some foxes have been prowling in those parts, and yet the residents of Jerusalem don’t seem to be concerned about their safety. With Pilate in charge, justice has been corrupted and the Roman occupiers have been allowed to tax and enslave. Yet, when Pharisees come to warn Jesus away from Galilee for fear of what Herod might do to him there, Jesus displays that fierce impulse of nurture. He loves God’s people, and despite Herod’s threats, his ministry of healing and casting out demons will not be deterred. He cares for God’s people, and no amount of prowling and snarling from Herod or any other fox will prevent Jesus from responding to their needs of preservation. And so he clucks and raises his wings—on that day, the day after, and all the way into Jerusalem—hoping they’ll recognize the sign and run underneath.

The issue is that for chicks, this is an instinctive response. Their response to their momma’s opened wings is, in a certain sense, pre-determined. They can’t help it. The wings go up, the hen clucks or gives some signal, and they are compelled by biological reflex to go underneath.

Those who live in Jerusalem, on the other hand, don’t operate on instinct. Those who have been created in the image of God, and set loose on the planet to roam at large—free-range chickens that we are—have will. We, like the folks of Jerusalem, have reason and knowledge at hand, flawed though those tools may be. We will, given the chance, often bite the hand that feeds us. We will, given the chance, kill the person who could save us. The wings go up, the signal is given, and we will still choose to press our luck right underneath the nose of the foxes and hawks that could eat us alive. We press our luck, living as though we have no need of the comfort of a faith community, living as though we can outgrow God’s nurture that is offered in the common prayer life of a congregation. We run the other way, suspicious that Scripture and the sacraments offer a false comfort and that a truer, better life lies elsewhere.

Worse yet, we will seek shelter under the shadow of any other substitute momma out there but the one who we’re created to. Free of that instinct to see Jesus as the one, true, loving mother hen—his words driven by nothing more than love and desire for our preservation—we are enticed with the temptation to find ultimate protection and warmth in just about any other relationship—with our education, our careers, our wealth, our friends, our passions.
And yet, we do occasionally glimpse signs of something like an instinctive response to Jesus as guardian. The blip in church attendance and involvement after 9/11 suggested, perhaps, that people sensed a need for togetherness and shelter against the the fear of forces that we perceive as deeply harmful. I have also heard some in the church make the prediction that the current economic downturn might, for whatever reason, lead some folks back to God and their faith communities for hope and support.

Yet, as encouraging as these trends may be, and as nice as it would be to have it a little more crowded under the wings, I’m not sure we should put our hope in them. Jerusalem, too, had a on-again, off-again relationship with God. The fact is that as long as we live, God’s desire to gather and nurture, is almost matched by our desire to wander and reject.

It would be easy for me at this point to decry and bemoan the statistics that show a steady, if not steep, decline in church membership and worship attendance not just in our own denomination, but in our nation as a whole. It would be easy for me to lecture about the lack of compassion we often show, the missed opportunities for mission and outreach, the dysfunction of the church, etc. etc., but to do so would really serve no purpose but to make people feel guilty (or self-righteous) and get you to look away from my own reluctance and forgetfulness about running to the eternal care of Jesus when I’m in need, which is constant.

After all, Jesus doesn’t do all that much lecturing anyway. He does preach and teach, but his ministry is built on healing, casting out demons, actions and words of compassion that are tantamount to lifting his wings and doing whatever he needs to get us realize it’s actually safe and warm under there.

It was my turn to lead chapel in Epiphany’s nursery school this week. Outfitted with photos of chickens and hens, I took this image to the three-year-olds and four-year-olds chicks on-site. I showed them the photos and asked them what a mommy chicken would do if a fox broke into the pen and sensed her chicks were in danger. Their responses, as you can imagine, were like a children’s sermon on steroids. One child suggested the hen would run tell the farmer the babies are in trouble. Another one was convinced that the hen would herd her chicks into the chicken coop and lock the door. A lot of them proposed that the hen would peck the fox to death, or, at least peck him away. Fierce chickens!

What I noticed is that every child knew the instinct of motherly protection. They knew the love of a momma. But not one of them ever supposed she’d protect them by actually taking them under her wing, putting her own life in danger, out in the open. And, truth be told, I wouldn’t have either.

So it is, even with Momma Jesus. There’s just know way we could guess that this would be the way he’d save us yet. There’s just know what that we could figure out, to deduce that he will hold back on the lecturing and really just spread those wings, spread those mighty arms, and take us in. Even on that day when we acclaim him as our king and shout hosanna (“God, save us!”), we would never suspect he’d go to this length, that it would come to that point.  From the streets of Jerusalem, and into the wayward avenues of our own lives, this man will raise his own arms—on the cross—and lay down his life…out in the open.

So, practice your animal noises, if you must. Trumpet, oink, bark, growl, and ribbit. But, above all, listen for those words of love and practice running for shelter. Practice snuggling in tight. His wings are still open.



Thanks be to God!



The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

The Transfiguration of Our Lord [Year C] - February 14, 2010 (Luke 9:28-36 [37-43])

I have this hunch that the story of Jesus’ transfiguration strikes listeners of today as extremely bizarre. Maybe I’m just projecting my own impressions onto everyone else, but I’ve often wondered how we make sense of this account that is attested by three of the four gospel writers. Jesus goes to the top of a mountain with a few of his friends. Then, strangely, his appearance changes, his clothes start glowing crazy white and then two ancient figures from Israel’s history suddenly appear and hold a conversation with him. Before they know it, a cloud descends, out of which a voice is heard to say, “This is my Son, my Chosen! Listen to him!” And then, as soon as that last word is spoken—poof!—Jesus is left alone.


I mean, let’s be honest: this is not an ordinary day in the life of Jesus of Nazareth. This is not, by contrast, Jesus at a wedding reception, or eating in a house with his disciples. Modern ears can make sense of so many parts of Jesus’ story. The nativity, even with all the angels and the shepherds, is familiar to us. We hear, with considerable ease, Jesus’ teachings and parables. They include references and images that we know from our own life experiences: fishing…sowing seeds in a garden…dysfunctional family relationships. Even events like his baptism and his miracles and healings don’t seem altogether too other-worldly and ethereal. We can get a handle on them. We can, in some sense, “relate” to them.

But Jesus’ transfiguration is another story. It’s too short on the details our modern, scientific minds would like to know and too long on mystery—details like, how exactly did his features change? Or, how was he different after this metamorphosis? A hazy account of Jesus’ convening with two of Israel’s most famous prophets is jarringly out of place in the life of a man who hangs out with some of the earthiest people around, and who frequents some of the most common places around. This ascent into the clouds is just not something that happens to regular human beings, which is what we come to understand that Jesus is: One of us. Flesh and blood. God as human.

One of the reasons, perhaps, that this transfiguration account is so remote to modern ears is that we are not as familiar with Moses and Elijah as earlier congregations, and certainly not as familiar as Jesus’ disciples. Here were two figures who loomed large over the Jewish and early Christian mindset. Moses, Elijah, and their individual stories factored some way into the faith and even identity of each and every Jewish person. They were the big guns, the holy head honchos of the Hebrew faith.

The most contemporary thing I might compare this to would be like being on the field, playing in the Super Bowl with Drew Brees as your quarterback, and then looking up in the huddle to see him discussing his next play with Terry Bradshaw and Joe Montana. The association made between Jesus and these two figures would have made a profound statement about his identity and about which direction his life was going to take.

What’s more, Luke tells us the three of them are discussing his upcoming departure. Interestingly, the word in the Greek is “exodus”: Moses, Elijah, and Jesus are speaking of his exodus, “which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.” Just prior to this trip up the mountain, Jesus had made the first prediction about his suffering, death, and resurrection. Referring to that event, then, as an exodus would have rung even more clearly in the ears of earlier audiences, for that is what Moses was known for. Moses had led his people in their deliverance from captivity in Egypt through the Red Sea and the wilderness of the Sinai to the freedom of the Holy Land. Now Jesus comes to lead God’s people out of captivity through the wilderness of death. It will be an exodus to true freedom.

All of these aspects of the Transfiguration, including the cloud that becomes like a veil to the disciples and the voice that thunders from inside like the words from an ancient prophet—things that may seem mysterious and peculiar to you and me—would have had a profound effect on those who first heard about this day in the life of Jesus of Nazareth.

It appears from our text that they do. Peter, James, and John are terrified as they enter the cloud. Peter, amazed at Jesus’ glory, is likely reminded further of the Feast of Tabernacles, the yearly festival during which the Hebrews commemorated the Exodus by constructing makeshift dwellings, or tabernacles, like the ones that had sheltered them in the wilderness. He doesn’t even understand what he’s saying, but he senses how good it is for them to be there and see this transfiguration, but, at least for now, they come down the mountain. There is, after all, an exodus ahead.

And, as they come down that mountain, they run into a man whose only son is overtaken by a demon. As they come down that mountain, they are confronted with the needs of the people, As they come down that mountain, they come face to face with their own failures as disciples, their own powerlessness over the true wilderness of the human experience.

It seems to me that as difficult as it may be for people like us to make sense of this particular transfiguration event, we do have plenty of similar situations in the wilderness of our own lives. In fact, I wonder how often Eagle Eyrie, the Baptist retreat center outside of Lynchburg that serves as the location for our Synod’s youth events, is thought of as Virginia’s own mount of Transfiguration. Several times a year, youth and adults from all over Virginia trek to the top of the hill for a closer encounter with God. Those of us who make the trip often claim to experience while we’re there a deeper understanding of who Jesus is and why he matters. I notice that it is difficult for many youth to leave the sense of intimacy of faith they receive there. I know that, as I read this account, I recognize quite a few sensations I, myself, have at Eagle Eyrie: a trancelike state of sleepiness; stammering and stuttering incomprehensibly with exhaustion; and an inability to articulate exactly what we saw and heard to those who weren’t there.

Our synod youth events, our congregational worship, our pilgrimages of faith and wonder bring us, in some sense, closer to God. We, like the disciples, experience wonder, amazement, an out-of-the-ordinary encounter with faith. Yet for all the excitement and terror that the transfiguration brings, the exodus of faith cannot be continued until they come back down. For all the glory we glimpse on those mountaintop, the glory we will really need to see is that which happens when Jesus confronts the demons in the valley, when Jesus confronts the demons of all on the cross. For all the thrill we get from gazing at Jesus in these moments of grandeur, the truly crucial part of our faith will come when Jesus graciously looks at us, and, in doing so, heals us.

It happens that today, February 14, 2010, is the twentieth anniversary of the most distant photograph of earth ever taken, higher than any mountain view.  On this day in 1990, the spacecraft Voyager 1 rotated in its orbit and clicked its shutter to make one final a snapshot of our solar system from almost 4 billion miles away before it disappeared into the vastness of the universe. Did you say “cheese”? The resulting image has become iconic, and I bet most of you have seen it somewhere before in either books or in movies, or on television. Very different from the famous photograph taken by early space voyages that showed earth as a large round ball of swirling blue, white, and green, the photo taken by Voyager 1 showed just how vast the universe is in comparison to our planet. The photo has been titled “The Pale Blue Dot,” named so because, in it, earth is barely distinguishable among a dizzying number of other tiny flecks as a pale blue dot.

For many who have seen it, the picture of the pale blue dot is humbling, disorienting, and incomprehensible. They are, in a sense, transfigured by what it reveals: that the surrounding universe is so gargantuan and we occupy but a microscopic speck. To them it says we are nothing special, perhaps…just one dot among many, the vista of some remote deity.

For us, I reckon the snapshot could hearken our minds back to our Lord’s Transfiguration when the disciples saw briefly what God’s ultimate glory was like before he resumed his journey back down the mountain to look on us with compassion. For us, it can remind us that an experience with God’s love and glory, though breathtaking and powerful, is not really complete until viewed from the vantage point of the cross, from the vantage point of the boy who is freed from his demon. For us, the distance from that spacecraft to earth is but a fraction of the voyage God undertakes from the top of that mountain.  For the sight of the pale blue dot communicates nothing about the fun of a snow day, or about the smile of a Valentine, or about the joy of holding a newborn baby, or about the suffering of war and torture, or struggling with demons, or the loneliness of grief. But places like that is precisely where Jesus’ exodus will take him. Places like that are on that journey from the splendor of God’s Son on the mountaintop.  Jesus is the true Voyager, going the distance in our direction.

And one day—we are promised—when his new creation is finished, we will once again glimpse him in that splendor from that land of eternal freedom. The veil will be removed from everyone’s eyes and the image of who God is and who we really are in relation to him will be revealed, once and for all. Transformed by his glory, we will share communion with all those who’ve travelled human footsteps before us and after us. I suppose, on some level, that seems incomprehensible, too. From here in the valley on this pale blue dot, it’s mighty hard to grasp. Yet it is true. Just as sure as the words are spoken and the bread is held in our hands, and just as sure as he stands risen Easter morning, it is true.

Let’s listen, then, to the Chosen. He is true.



The Reverend Phillip W. Martin, Jr.

(image: The Transfiguration, Pietro Perugino, 1498)