This sermon was preached on March 4, 2018 for the Third Sunday in Lent at St. Aidan's, San Francisco. The texts for this sermon were: Exodus 20:1-17, 1 Corinthians 1:18-25, John 2:13-22, and Psalm 19.
It sounds weird to say looking back, but I never would have expected, given my upbringing and childhood church, that my way back into Christianity would have been through getting to know the person of Jesus Christ. What I love about Christianity, of course, is that there are so many ways in, so many ways God reaches out to those who feel far from divine love--through the Holy Spirit, the Scriptures, the warm welcome of a loving community. So I blame the brothers at Society of St. John the Evangelist in particular for setting me up with Jesus. The kind, gentle, black-robed Anglican monks of Cambridge have it out to introduce the world to the power of relationship with God through friendship with Jesus. This Lent, in particular, they’ve outdone themselves with a series of beautiful reflections on “Meeting Jesus in the Gospel of John.” Each time I sit to watch the daily video from a different brother, I am called back--back to Cambridge and the stone halls of the monastery, back to what made me fall in love with Jesus in the first place, back to that wild journey in the desert with God. Taking Lent as a deliberate time to walk with Jesus hasn’t been all nostalgia, however. It has also meant taking these forty days to hear the words and actions of Jesus in the Gospels as directed at me, confronting and unsettling me.
Today’s Gospel is one of the most striking images we see of Jesus--and it’s one of my favorites. Can I just say that I also love that it came up the day after our fundraiser and auction in the sanctuary! In all four Gospel accounts, we see Jesus driving the sellers out of the Temple, flipping over the tables of the moneychangers, and releasing chaos. We hear him denounce those who would make God’s house “a den of robbers” or “a marketplace.” We get to experience Jesus claiming the familiar, prophetic role of the radical reformer enacting holy anger on the institutions and structures that need to be changed. Familiar, because even though this act is cited as the reason for Jesus’s execution in Matthew and Luke, the cleansing of God’s temple is something numerous prophets have called for since the time of the establishment of the first temple in Jerusalem.
The Jewish elders in the Temple in John’s account don’t seem as surprised at Jesus’s action as they are at who is doing it. What they want to question is Jesus’ authority. “What sign can you show us for doing this?” What gives you the right? And it’s in John’s account that Jesus boldly proclaims that the temple is “my Father’s house.” His authority rests in the special relationship he holds with God. And as the passage goes on, another layer of his authority is revealed to us through the thoughts of the disciples. They realize, later, that Jesus claims authority as the one whose body will be broken and raised up. It is his body on the line.
Like many Americans, I have been searching for reasons to hope that this latest school shooting in Parkland, Florida will be the last. And the thing is something does feel different this time. A new cry has entered into the tired fray--the courageous voices of the youth all over this country who are transforming their grief into action, and their anger into hope. The teenagers of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High may not be flipping tables but they are flipping the script, challenging politicians to their faces, reclaiming the sanctity of their classrooms, and questioning the financial corruption that has gone unquestioned for far too long. And we are listening.
We are listening because the Floridian teenagers carry powerful moral authority, through relationship and in their bodies. It was their classmates, teachers, and friends who were massacred. And it is their bodies on the line in returning to school. We are listening, too, because the prophetic mantle the youth all around the country are taking up is a familiar one. It is the exasperated cry of the young people of color in Ferguson, MO. It is the echo of the chants of the young Vietnam War protesters. It is the fed-up, fired-up yearning of a generation who demands a better way, and has the moral authority to claim it.
I am listening, this Lent, because following Jesus demands this of me. So what gives me the right? Because, like the disciples, my relationship to Jesus, my commitment to applying his words to my own life, means I cannot remember Jesus’s actions in the temple and remain unmoved. In a profound way, then, this passage captures the first moment we see the disciples doing and being Christian in the Gospel of John. Sure, just before this passage, the disciples are called by Jesus directly and choose to become followers of Jesus. But being Christian, continuing that relationship in the time after the resurrection, requires us to do what we see the disciples doing here as they look back on Jesus’ actions in the temple. After everything has happened, after the cross and the resurrection, the disciples turn to each other and say, this is what he must have meant. Right? This is what he must have meant.
When I focus on my relationship to Jesus, much of my Christian experience becomes grappling with what Jesus must have meant, what Jesus’ words and actions mean for me and my life. And, like the disciples, I can’t do this on my own. That’s why I’m here. Church is what happens when we come together and turn to each other and say, this is what he must have meant, right? In the light of everything, of the cross, the resurrection, is this what he must have meant? Sometimes it feels uncomfortable, presumptive. And, what I love about this Church, the Episcopal Church, is that it is always an open question. But it is one we as Christians have the right, and the duty, to ask. And not just ask--to speak and act on the answers that come to us. Even if that means taking up the whip of cords, moving into the public square, the church, the schools, and demanding reform.
Approaching Jesus words and actions as if they have power and meaning for us and our lives, that is, choosing to be in relationship with Jesus, is what gives us the authority--and the responsibility--to stand up and speak out about the things we’ve come to know about God through Jesus. It means, for example, that when the head of the National Rifle Association declares that owning guns is a God-given American birthright, I have the responsibility to stand here and say: That is not the God I know and love. It means we, as a Christians have the obligation and the right to say: How dare you use the name of God in vain? And it means we also get to say, joyfully, lovingly: Listen, here is the God I know.
Embracing two standards of authority revealed in this Gospel also means not turning away when we hear the voice of God spoken by the threatened and subjugated. Paying attention when we see and hear Jesus in the people whose bodies our society puts on the line every day, the young black man, the soldier, the undocumented immigrant, and the public school teacher and their children.
When we recognize Jesus’ authority to speak because of his relationship with God, and because of his endangered position in his society, it gives us permission to recognize our own authority to speak about the God we love--and our obligation to listen to those who embody Jesus in this moment, in this city.
So here’s my prayer, today:
All-embracing God,
your presence extends far beyond the walls of this church and your voice is still speaking today, in creation, in each other, in our hearts.
This Lent, grant us the courage to take up all that being in relationship with you demands. Give us the words to speak out about what we’ve come to know about you and the strength to be confronted by the prophets of today.
We ask these things through your Son, who is still teaching us who you are,
Amen.
Today’s Gospel is one of the most striking images we see of Jesus--and it’s one of my favorites. Can I just say that I also love that it came up the day after our fundraiser and auction in the sanctuary! In all four Gospel accounts, we see Jesus driving the sellers out of the Temple, flipping over the tables of the moneychangers, and releasing chaos. We hear him denounce those who would make God’s house “a den of robbers” or “a marketplace.” We get to experience Jesus claiming the familiar, prophetic role of the radical reformer enacting holy anger on the institutions and structures that need to be changed. Familiar, because even though this act is cited as the reason for Jesus’s execution in Matthew and Luke, the cleansing of God’s temple is something numerous prophets have called for since the time of the establishment of the first temple in Jerusalem.
The Jewish elders in the Temple in John’s account don’t seem as surprised at Jesus’s action as they are at who is doing it. What they want to question is Jesus’ authority. “What sign can you show us for doing this?” What gives you the right? And it’s in John’s account that Jesus boldly proclaims that the temple is “my Father’s house.” His authority rests in the special relationship he holds with God. And as the passage goes on, another layer of his authority is revealed to us through the thoughts of the disciples. They realize, later, that Jesus claims authority as the one whose body will be broken and raised up. It is his body on the line.
Like many Americans, I have been searching for reasons to hope that this latest school shooting in Parkland, Florida will be the last. And the thing is something does feel different this time. A new cry has entered into the tired fray--the courageous voices of the youth all over this country who are transforming their grief into action, and their anger into hope. The teenagers of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High may not be flipping tables but they are flipping the script, challenging politicians to their faces, reclaiming the sanctity of their classrooms, and questioning the financial corruption that has gone unquestioned for far too long. And we are listening.
We are listening because the Floridian teenagers carry powerful moral authority, through relationship and in their bodies. It was their classmates, teachers, and friends who were massacred. And it is their bodies on the line in returning to school. We are listening, too, because the prophetic mantle the youth all around the country are taking up is a familiar one. It is the exasperated cry of the young people of color in Ferguson, MO. It is the echo of the chants of the young Vietnam War protesters. It is the fed-up, fired-up yearning of a generation who demands a better way, and has the moral authority to claim it.
I am listening, this Lent, because following Jesus demands this of me. So what gives me the right? Because, like the disciples, my relationship to Jesus, my commitment to applying his words to my own life, means I cannot remember Jesus’s actions in the temple and remain unmoved. In a profound way, then, this passage captures the first moment we see the disciples doing and being Christian in the Gospel of John. Sure, just before this passage, the disciples are called by Jesus directly and choose to become followers of Jesus. But being Christian, continuing that relationship in the time after the resurrection, requires us to do what we see the disciples doing here as they look back on Jesus’ actions in the temple. After everything has happened, after the cross and the resurrection, the disciples turn to each other and say, this is what he must have meant. Right? This is what he must have meant.
When I focus on my relationship to Jesus, much of my Christian experience becomes grappling with what Jesus must have meant, what Jesus’ words and actions mean for me and my life. And, like the disciples, I can’t do this on my own. That’s why I’m here. Church is what happens when we come together and turn to each other and say, this is what he must have meant, right? In the light of everything, of the cross, the resurrection, is this what he must have meant? Sometimes it feels uncomfortable, presumptive. And, what I love about this Church, the Episcopal Church, is that it is always an open question. But it is one we as Christians have the right, and the duty, to ask. And not just ask--to speak and act on the answers that come to us. Even if that means taking up the whip of cords, moving into the public square, the church, the schools, and demanding reform.
Approaching Jesus words and actions as if they have power and meaning for us and our lives, that is, choosing to be in relationship with Jesus, is what gives us the authority--and the responsibility--to stand up and speak out about the things we’ve come to know about God through Jesus. It means, for example, that when the head of the National Rifle Association declares that owning guns is a God-given American birthright, I have the responsibility to stand here and say: That is not the God I know and love. It means we, as a Christians have the obligation and the right to say: How dare you use the name of God in vain? And it means we also get to say, joyfully, lovingly: Listen, here is the God I know.
Embracing two standards of authority revealed in this Gospel also means not turning away when we hear the voice of God spoken by the threatened and subjugated. Paying attention when we see and hear Jesus in the people whose bodies our society puts on the line every day, the young black man, the soldier, the undocumented immigrant, and the public school teacher and their children.
When we recognize Jesus’ authority to speak because of his relationship with God, and because of his endangered position in his society, it gives us permission to recognize our own authority to speak about the God we love--and our obligation to listen to those who embody Jesus in this moment, in this city.
So here’s my prayer, today:
All-embracing God,
your presence extends far beyond the walls of this church and your voice is still speaking today, in creation, in each other, in our hearts.
This Lent, grant us the courage to take up all that being in relationship with you demands. Give us the words to speak out about what we’ve come to know about you and the strength to be confronted by the prophets of today.
We ask these things through your Son, who is still teaching us who you are,
Amen.
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