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

If Snow Were Ashes

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

“Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven.

“So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

“And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

“And whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

 If snow were ashes…

That’s been my working title for this sermon, since Indiana and so much of our country started to receive warning upon warning that ‘winter was coming’ over the last week or so. And that it was going to show up all at once… winter… in Indiana at least. Piles and piles of snow we hadn’t seen yet, this year, until the middle of February when it all showed up at once. And that it would hit places like Texas, too, where they aren’t so used to or prepared or able to handle what came with such weight and depth and cold.

If snow were ashes…

But that working title really hit home for me yesterday, when the first wave of all that snow had arrived, as predicted, and I did my annual dusting off of the snow blower. You know that machine that gets packed away in the Spring, parked in the far reaches of the mini-barn, until Fall rolls around and I make space for it in the garage where it sits and waits for winter and cold and snow high and heavy enough to earn its keep.

Along with the annual dusting off of the snow blower comes the annual testing of my patience when the thing doesn’t start as it should. And the annual frustration I feel as I check the oil and wonder about the spark plug and pull that rope until I break a sweat. And then the shame … oh the shame is real … for knowing, every year … every God-blessed year … that I should have started the thing a time or two or twelve since last time I used it … and probably changed the oil … and apparently used different, better gas, according to the guy at the hardware store.

If snow were ashes…

Then comes the crow I eat (whatever that means) as I recruit my boys to help me shovel – back-breaking work this time around – and as I hear the sounds of happy snow blowers, starting up without fail, in garages and driveways all around me, over the clear, driven snow. And as I watch those driveways get cleared with efficiency and ease – just as it should be when one owns such a piece of snow blowing equipment. Oh, and the mix of shame and deep gratitude for the kind neighbor who comes to our aid by snow-blowing out the biggest, heaviest piles of it all just after the city plow does a drive-by in the middle of our work and blocks the end of our driveway again.

If snow were ashes…

I say that because I think a lot of us – me included – treat the sin and death these ashes represent for us with about as much respect, regard and preparation as I treat my snow blower and the prospect of snow. I mean, I think we avoid and dodge and deny the inevitability of our sin, our shame, and our ultimate demise to the point that it catches us off-guard and finds us unprepared and leaves us frustrated and ashamed and afraid, even, too much of the time.

Which is so much of what Ash Wednesday and the season of Lent are meant to be for us: a reckoning for our brokenness and sin; a reminder that the winter of our dying will, indeed, come; and an invitation to do something – to live differently – because of it; and with hope that someone – God, in Jesus, to be specific – has and will get us out of this mess, to redeem all of it for our sake and for the sake of the world.

So what would we, could we, should we do, if snow were ashes?

Let’s stop denying that death will come – and indeed is on the way – for every one of us. Let’s stop denying the Sin that besets us as individuals and as disciples and as a people… as God’s Church in the world.

We’ve had enough, too many, reminders of that death and our Sins since our last Ash Wednesday worship a year ago have we not?

When we last shared and received our ashes in 2020, the pandemic wasn’t being called a pandemic yet. We thought it might be something like the flu and we tried to convince ourselves of that for quite a while. Too long, probably. 485,000+ deaths in the U.S. and almost 2 million more deaths worldwide later, this death is impossible to deny. (If snow were ashes…)

Last Ash Wednesday we’d never heard of George Floyd or Breonna Taylor or Ahmaud Arbery; we didn’t know who Rayshard Brooks or Daniel Prude or Casey Goodson were, either. Too many of us still keep the truth and the ugliness of the deadly racism that infects our country hidden away in the back of the mini-barn until it rears its ugly head, like it did on the steps of the US Capitol, for instance. (If snow were ashes…) 

Last Ash Wednesday, cancer and chemotherapy and radiation were things I wondered and worried and prayed about for all of you and for so many others. But it all moved into my house this summer, fast and furious, like a blizzard you might say, and things have changed for our family because of it. And, I know, the same is true for so many … some disease, some diagnosis, some treatment – or worse – find us all, eventually… (If snow were ashes…)

And this is how Sin and death come together so much of the time for us – like something we know is there; like something that could happen; like something that will, eventually happen; like something we can choose to put off or deny or pretend away. But something that looms, nonetheless. And lingers for those of us who are left behind.

So what to do? – if snow were ashes or ashes were snow, or whatever – dumped so predictably, yet by surprise in so many ways.

These ashes we wear on our foreheads and these words we hear from Jesus and the promises we read in Scripture remind us that we need not fear the sin and death that send us running and reeling, dodging and denying so much of the time.

Instead, in the midst of it all, we’re called to tend our faith. We practice our piety, faithfully and quietly – not before others, in order to be seen by them. We give our offering without expecting applause or accolades for being generous. We pray, we fast, we worship, we learn, we serve.

And there’s more. We love our enemies and we pray for those who persecute us. We love the Lord our God with all of our hearts, minds, souls, and strength. And we love our neighbors as ourselves, too – which means even more than blowing snow for the knucklehead next door, truth be told. It means recognizing that our enemies are our neighbors a lot of the time. And that Jesus died and was raised for the whole lot of us.

And we do all of this, not because we have to but because we get to. And we do all of this imperfectly, tending to our faith, I mean, like the broken, sinful, dying children that we are. But we do it with gratitude, with gusto, and with as much faith as we can find – even if that faith is too small to see or to be seen some days.

And we live this way, with hope, in spite of these ashes and all they represent, because it is by way of ashes … dust … and even death that God does God’s best work, remember.

God looks forward to repairing what is so broken in our lives and in this world.

God has plans to redeem the ashes and the soot of our sinfulness.

God promises to breathe life into the dust and dirt of our dying.

Because if snow were ashes or ashes were snow, today reminds us that none of that lasts forever. It will all melt away, in the end, thanks to the grace we know in Jesus. And Spring will come, in God’s sweet time.

Amen