Worship and What Matters

John 2:13-22

The Passover of the Jews was near, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem.  In the temple he found people selling cattle, sheep and doves, and the money changers seated at their tables. Making a whip of cords, he drove all them out of the temple, both the sheep and the cattle. He also poured out the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables. He told those who were selling the doves, “Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!” His disciples remembered that it was written, “Zeal for your house will consume me.”

The Jews then said to him, “What sign can you show us for doing this?” Jesus answered them, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” The Jews then said, “This temple has been under construction for forty-six years, and will you raise it up in three days?” But he was speaking of the temple of his body.  After he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this; and they believed the scripture and the word that Jesus had spoken.

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I used the phrase “upset the apple cart” in last week’s sermon, in reference to all Jesus was about to say and do that would get him crucified and killed by the powers and principalities of the world around him. And today, we get the evidence of that, in what has euphemistically, kindly been called Jesus’ “cleansing of the temple.” Which sounds nicer, tidier than I think it actually was. This morning we are reminded that Jesus wasn’t all talk, as we hear about his most well-known public display of protest and disruption and righteous anger – flipping tables, brandishing whips, and making harsh proclamations and bold, brave promises about his own destruction.

And, the backstory of Jesus’ protest in the Temple is that the celebration of Passover was right around the corner and Jews from all over were traveling to Jerusalem to celebrate the holiday. Since animal sacrifice was such a crucial part of Jewish worship, and since it was really difficult to travel with animals, those who came – from out in the countryside into the big city had to buy the animals they were expected to sacrifice, once they got into Jerusalem. (It was difficult to get all of your luggage, all of the kids and your cattle, sheep, and doves, into a First Century mini-van.)

So, some like to point out that there is all kind of reason to believe the merchants in the temple were ripping off those who came to buy their animals, because it’s believed they made people use special currency, that they exchanged it unfairly, and that the animals were probably being sold for huge amounts of money, way above market value. (If you can remember the last time you bought a beer at a Major League Baseball game or an ice cream sandwich at Disney World, this sort of price-gouging is easy to imagine.) Still, it’s likely that none of this is the main thing Jesus was actually protesting that day in the Temple. It’s not nearly that complicated, really.

Jesus was protesting the very nature and practice of animal sacrifice in the first place, plain and simple.

Jesus was protesting the Jewish understanding that these practices of sacrifice – all of this keeping with the old ways and the old laws wasn’t the way to worship anymore. He was saying… proclaiming… promising that the kingdom of God had showed up in a new way – in Jesus, himself – and that the Son of God was what worship was all about, all of a sudden. Cattle, sheep and doves weren’t necessary and wouldn’t cut it anymore as far as sacrifices were concerned.

The short of the long is that Jesus is turning over tables and brandishing a whip and screaming at the top of his lungs – trying to make the point that God’s people needed to change the way they were doing things; change the way they were worshiping; change their focus on what matters in life as followers of the most-high God.

Does any of this ring a bell? Has any of this hit home yet as we gather in-person, in our proverbial Temple, for the first time in almost exactly one year? Has any of this hit home yet, as those of you out there, livestreaming our online worship from your couch or at your kitchen table with your coffee in-hand?

As we reflect on the last year of our lives – together, separately as a worshiping community – can we imagine that the ranting and raving and righteous anger of Jesus in the Temple might have something to say to us as God’s people, still – not just at Cross of Grace, but as God’s people, generally, all around the world?

Now, I don’t believe God, in Jesus, upset the apple cart of our life together as a worshiping community by way of the COVID-19 pandemic. But I do believe God wouldn’t mind if we learned a thing or two about the power and purpose and the practice of our life together because of what we’ve been trying to figure out since last March, and for the sake of whatever we have to learn going forward.

What I mean is, I wonder how much we are being called to prepare ourselves for things to be different going forward – and how and why we might be able to do that most faithfully.

I know that those of us here, wish we didn’t have to make reservations online, wish we didn’t have to limit our numbers, wish we could sing out-loud, wish we could share communion the old fashioned way.

Those of us online – as comfortable and cozy as it is to be at home – miss the power of being in our sacred space, miss the presence of our Partners in Mission, miss the sights and sounds and smells and spirit of gathering like we always have.

I, personally, loathe the notion that, since November, I haven’t been able to see who’s worshiping with us on the other side of the camera that’s now mounted on the back wall of our sanctuary. I find it equally frustrating that I can’t see the faces, the frowns, the smiles, or the expressions of those who are here, because all of that is safely concealed by these darn masks!

And I know there are Christians all over the place – and I imagine some in our own fellowship – who are as frustrated and even as angry as Jesus in the Temple over all of it.

But I think we get frustrated and angry about it – myself included – when we forget that, as much as we love it and as good as we are at it, worship isn’t the only, or even the most important thing about following Jesus. If we’re not loving each other, forgiving our enemies, giving our money, serving the world, and more, none of what we do on Sunday morning – in-person or online – means much. (God hates our solemn assemblies, after all, if they’re not accompanied by the work of justice. We heard that from the prophet Amos, once.)

So I think – as we reflect on the last year and even as we begin to see the proverbial light at the end of this pandemic tunnel – we might be hearing a call from Jesus today to shift our perspective some; to change our focus; to wonder just what will be different for God’s people going forward as we worship, learn, and serve the God who has sustained us until now.

And I always try to begin with gratitude. And I’m grateful that Cross of Gracers have been patient and kind and gracious about understanding that we’ve tried to be safe and faithful in all of this – and that loving our neighbors and caring for the most vulnerable among us has been the impetus behind the outdoor worship, the online worship, the masks, the physical distancing, and the other decisions we have and will continue to make, going forward.

I’m grateful that, because of all of the technology we’ve acquired or learned to use differently, we have connected and re-connected with handfuls of people online who would, otherwise, be strangers to the ministry of grace and good news we share. (I’m not sure we’ll ever do another wedding or funeral that doesn’t allow family and friends and loved-ones from around the country – from around the world, even – to participate online.)

And, of course, I’m grateful for the science and the vaccine and all the learning we’ve done this past year, which makes our gathering safer and possible and more likely as we keep moving forward with it all.

See, we have a beautiful place to call home at Cross of Grace. We’ve tried to refer to our temple as a “Center for Mission” since the day we first broke ground to build it. It is home for us. And it is a beautiful, safe, refuge in a million different ways. But we worship, first and foremost – and we are grounded by, first and foremost – and we are gifted with grace, first, foremost, and always – thanks to the temple that is Jesus Christ, the One who teaches us to love one another – and our enemies, too – to such an extent that we sacrifice some things every once in a while to make room for him in our lives and for the sake of the world. We don’t sacrifice cattle, sheep, and doves, anymore, thanks be to God...

But we have been – and will continue to be – called to sacrifice what is comfortable for us, so that others might be safe. (I have some ideas about that where our Food Pantry ministry is concerned. And it will require more than just donations and contributions on our part.)

We have been – and will continue to be – called to sacrifice what is familiar as we navigate some new territory where our life together is concerned. (I have some ideas about that, which will expand even our small groups and Bible Study ministries into online platforms and practices, even once we’re hosting them in-person.)

And we have been – and will continue to be – called to sacrifice our limited expectations of what God can do through us, in spite of our hardships, and in favor of a bigger, broader vision of what God’s church might look like going forward. (God’s vision has always been bigger and broader than what I can see or predict or plan for.)

So I confess, I’m not sure what all of this could mean, just yet, or exactly how we might be called to different ways of being God’s Church in the world. But we will do it well and faithfully and in service to God’s Kingdom, only when we remember that we do it with gratitude – first and foremost – for the sacrifice made by God, in Jesus Christ, who was destroyed and raised again, for our sake … and when our lives, as individuals and as a community, reflect that kind of selfless generosity, always for the sake of the world.

Amen

Come, See, and Be Seen

John 1:43-51

The next day Jesus decided to go to Galilee. He found Philip and said to him, “Follow me.” Now Philip was from Bethsaida, the city of Andrew and Peter.  Philip found Nathanael and said to him, “We have found the one of whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth.”  Nathanael said to him, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” Philip said to him, “Come and see.”

When Jesus saw Nathanael coming toward him, he said of him, “Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit!” Nathanael asked him, “Where did you get to know me?” Jesus answered, “I saw you under the fig tree before Philip called you.” Nathanael replied, “Rabbi, you are the Son of God! You are the King of Israel!” Jesus answered, “Do you believe because I told you that I saw you under the fig tree? You will see greater things than these.” And he said to him, “Very truly, I tell you, you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.”

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Last week, within the hour following worship, two people who know me pretty well (even better than I realize sometimes) texted me to ask if I was okay – that I seemed “off,” even angry during worship. As much as I hate to give off such a vibe when leading worship, I can’t say I was surprised. I blame part of it on this mask. My eyes don’t smile, dang it, and there’s not much I can do about that!

But the larger truth is that – as many of you know or can imagine – I’m feeling as overwhelmed about life in the world these days as the rest of you. And sometimes I forget that and don’t realize how it shows as much as I wish it didn’t. And it was a hard, holy, deeply meaningful thing to realize that two people who care about me could see me – even through the mask and over the internet – in that way. And that they cared enough to let me know what they saw.

And then I read about Jesus collecting disciples in John’s Gospel. And that constant command or invitation or double-dog-dare, whatever you want to call it: “Come and see.” And I thought differently about Nathanael this time around, because of it.

When Philip tells Nathanael to “come and see” this Jesus, Nathanael is like, “Yeah. Whatever. Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” (I imagine Nathanael rolling his eyes, stubbing out his 1st Century cigarette if there was such a thing, and reluctantly following his friend, even though there were 37 other things he’d rather be doing than going to meet some knucklehead from Nazareth.)

But I like Nathanael for that question and for his skepticism, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” And I think Jesus liked him for it, too. Because when Jesus approaches him he seems to applaud Nathanael for it. Jesus says, “Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit.” “Here’s a guy who isn’t afraid to say what he’s thinking.” “Here’s a guy who isn’t afraid to be suspicious – even about ‘the Lamb of God,’ or about the ‘one Moses and the prophets wrote so much about.’”

And when Nathanael wonders how in the world Jesus knows so much about him already, Jesus says that he saw him, sitting under a fig tree sometime before Philip introduced them.

And, no one knows exactly what Nathanael was doing or what made Jesus notice him sitting under some fig tree on that particular day. But it sure meant something to Nathanael that Jesus saw him there – really saw him, apparently. Maybe he was waiting for work or taking a lunch break. Maybe he was rehearsing a difficult conversation he needed to have with his parents or his wife or his kid. Maybe he was grieving a loss. Maybe he was praying for God to send him a sign of some kind. Maybe Nathanael wasn’t doing anything and just marveled at the notion that Jesus had seen and noticed and remembered him at all.

Whatever the case, “seeing” and “being seen” seem to matter to Jesus. And it mattered for Nathanael. And I think it matters to the rest of us, too. I know it mattered for me last Sunday after worship. We all want to know that we matter. That our words and our thoughts matter. That we’re not alone in this world. We all want to know that someone, somewhere cares enough about us to worry when we struggle and to celebrate when we succeed. To be seen and heard – really seen and heard – is to have our value and worth confirmed and to know we matter to someone other than ourselves.

So, it mattered terrifically for Nathanael to know – even in spite of his skepticism – that he had been seen by Jesus. It mattered so much that he followed that knucklehead from Nazareth and became his disciple because of it.

I heard someone this past week talking about what happened at our nation’s Capitol, in Washington, D.C., on January 6th – the violent, hate-filled, murderous riot or insurrection or attempted coup or terrorist attack, I mean. I’m still not sure what we’re supposed to call it. Maybe it was a little of all of those things.

Well, this pundit was talking about the likes of those who stormed the Capitol that day – and about what it is or was that inspired them to go to such crazed and ugly extremes. Without mention of voter fraud or election corruption or any political issue in particular, really, this guy suggested that somehow – over the course of the last four years – the President convinced a whole lot of rural, white, lower and middle-class Americans that he had “seen” them in a way that no one else had “seen” or “heard” or “cared” about them before.

He suggested that a particular demographic of our population had been – or was convinced they had been – ignored and dismissed and disregarded by the likes of Hollywood and the “mainstream media” and by politicians and political parties heretofore so that when Donald Trump seemed to “see” them, their allegiance to him became so complete and so total and so blind, so as to become dangerous and destructive and deadly, even – as we all saw it become a week-and-a-half ago, when these people – the rioters – were under the impression that no one was listening to their side of the story anymore.

And it made me think about something Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. is famous for having said once: that “a riot is the language of the unheard.” “Riot is the language of the unheard.” (It’s important to know that King wasn’t condoning or celebrating or advocating riot or violence in any way. And I’m certainly not, either. In fact, when King said that “a riot is the language of the unheard,” he was simply acknowledging the Truth of that while holding fast to his own commitment to remain non-violent at all costs as a man of God, as a follower of Jesus, and as a leader of the Civil Rights Movement in this country.)

So, I think there’s a lesson still to be learned from Martin Luther King, Jr. – and from Jesus and Nathanael in this morning’s Gospel – about the unsettled and unsettling times we’re living in. Because we have work to do – all of us – when it comes to seeing and hearing one another in our country these days … because I think we’ve stopped seeing and hearing one another in so many ways that matter and that could make a difference in all of this.

Obviously, those waving their Confederate flags and sporting their “Camp Auschwitz” hoodies need to “come and see” for themselves what oppression and injustice really look like. They need to stop and listen to the stories of their Black and Brown, Jewish and Muslim neighbors, just for starters.

Obviously, Democrats and Republicans need to “come and see” and hear and listen to the Truth that exists on both sides of the imaginary aisle we pretend separates us so much of the time.

Obviously, the mob mentality and violent uprisings that threaten our safety and disrupt our democracy need to be condemned and stopped and held accountable so that they no longer look like a reasonable solution for anyone to engage – no matter what it is they’re protesting.

And what seems obvious to me – but not to everyone, I realize – is that we also need to stop pretending it’s okay, or even preferred, to steer clear of hard conversations about politics and religion in order to keep polite company. It’s this kind of taboo, I think, that has allowed a disconnect between how we vote and how we behave and what we profess to believe, as Christians, in so many ways. (It is silence on the part of too many Christians – and this sort of caveat against discussing or mixing ‘politics and religion’ – that allows “Jesus 2020” banners to hang in such close proximity to a gallows and a noose during the same insurrection.)

And please know that I’m looking you. And I’m looking in the mirror, too.

Because those of us who think, pretend, and have convinced ourselves that we are above and beyond and better than all of this, might just need to crawl out from under our own fig trees, let ourselves be fully seen by Jesus for a change, and “come and see” for ourselves, again, what Jesus has been trying to show us all along:

The stuff of courage that speaks Truth to power, I mean.

The stuff of mercy and forgiveness, which makes room for the stuff of repentance…

Repentance which, when done faithfully and fully, implies confession and contrition and change…and that leads to the stuff of self-sacrifice and humility and the need to offer and to receive grace upon grace.

Because if and when we gather the courage to practice that kind of faith – to see one another and to let ourselves be seen – even in all of our cynical, skeptical, broken, and sinful ways (like Jesus saw Nathanael)…

If and when we dare to engage honest, faithful, vulnerable conversations about all of it … then something might change; then justice might be served; then hearts might soften; peace might win the day; and we might start following – more faithfully – the Jesus who died so that we might love one another – and love our enemies, too – in a whole new, life-giving, earth-shattering kind of way.

And then – then, then, then – we might see something like Jesus promised so long ago to Nathanael and those first disciples. We might see the heavens opening, and the angels of God ascending and descending, in our midst and upon the Son of Man; which is another way of saying, if you ask me, that things will be more “on earth as they are in heaven.”

Amen