MUMC Sermon-04/09/2006

This sermon was preceded by readings and a Cantata recounting the passion of Jesus.

Words fail. Whatever I might say in these brief moments, the power of this day lies in the story itself. I’m not sure why it never seems to lose its power, but it never does.

I remember a few years ago sitting with a woman who wandered into church for the first time in many years. She was seriously contemplating a move to New York and surprised herself by feeling the need to enter a church to contemplate the monumental professional and personal step she was about to take. It happened to be Palm Sunday.

Later she reported being overwhelmed by the music, allowing that it had penetrated her soul eliciting emotions that she had not previously identified until she experienced them in her pew. She knew then that there was something to this story, something powerful, something so jarring that it compelled her to return once she had actually moved to New York. She had a holy disturbance that Palm Sunday, and it was this story that moved her to explore it.

“The problem is, I’m not very religious,” she said. “I have a problem with Jesus. I wish I could just take all his teachings, his ethical principles, and apply them to my life without having to focus on him and his story. But I just can’t. Something about the story won’t let me do that.” After hearing the story, she was moved to express her emotions in prayer, something she couldn’t remember doing since she was a girl. On the other hand, she was very troubled by what this might mean.

Does anyone here identify with her? Do you feel that you’re not very religious, that you have a Jesus problem and wish we could reduce the story to his teachings and ethical principles? Yet you find yourself here today, listening again to this story, perhaps even moved by it, and in the process become aware once more that separating the man, the story, and the teaching is more difficult to do than you might wish.

What is it about this story? I confessed to the woman in my office that she wasn’t the only one with a Jesus problem. Jesus had a Jesus problem, meaning that he was never the point of his own teaching, others made him the point. I also told her that Jesus wasn’t very religious, if by religious she meant a pious believer in a traditional sort of way. He was more revolutionary then that. As a matter of fact, the first charge against him in the story we read and sang was that he interpreted the traditional, orthodox faith in an untraditional, unorthodox way. His way of seeing the world, his way of speaking about God, offended others to the point that he attracted great controversy and hostility.

And he still does. Two thousand years after his death he is still tremendously controversial. You may have read about the fact that just this week scholars released the translation of a third century text called the Gospel of Judas that sheds new light on Jesus’ death and his relationship with the man who has gone down in history as the greatest traitor of all time. In the Gospel of Judas, Jesus doesn’t feel betrayed by Judas at all; actually, he’s the one who put Judas up to the task. This isn’t news in theological circles for scholars have long speculated that this was a possibility. What is news is that there is now evidence that a group of early Christians, actually believed that this was so and that they actually saw Judas, not as a traitor, but as the most faithful of the disciples who delivers Jesus into the hands of the Romans as an act of obedience to his teacher and master.

But does this change the story? Does it invite further controversy? I don’t think so. I welcome the new lens by which to consider this story and find comfort in the fact that even the earliest Christians were not of one voice and mind on these matters. I also welcome the opportunity to take Judas more seriously, rather than constantly using him as the scapegoat he has become. Yet, as far as I’m concerned, this new discovery does little to change the story, even though it makes it more interesting. The essential story is still the same, and it’s that story (not Judas’ role in it) that moves us and disturbs us at the same time. Don’t forget that when Jesus entered Jerusalem the crowds that welcomed him with palms and garments and chants of victory fit for a king, this group of people who initiated a spontaneous parade did not represent the mainstream of society. They weren’t the leaders, the movers and shakers, the ones who were comfortable and successful and religiously content. The story is far more disturbing than that.

The people who welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem on that first Palm Sunday were the ones most invested in his message of transformation; they were the ones most interested in hearing about a God of the poor, a God whose kingdom included them, a God who was no respecter of boundaries such as class, status, and power. Jesus’ message resonated with them, and that is what I believe is the most disturbing part of this story. Jesus is leading a peasant revolt challenging both religious and government leaders, and no matter how much we try to tame him and his message the story remains the same. It wasn’t clear who Jesus offended more — the religious leaders who worried about his radical interpretation of the faith or the government officials concerned about a potential uprising threatening their power. He offended those we would think he would have an affinity with, and welcomed those we prefer to quietly ignore. And this is part of what makes Jesus such an enigma, a mystery.

Have you found that whenever you have attempted a mature, loving relationship, it creates a series of problems, not the least of which is coming to terms with the great mystery of the one you love? Doesn’t this relationship, paradoxically, actually seem to grow in mystery the closer you come? And, though you are deeply grateful for the loving, doesn’t it make demands of you? Doesn’t it change you, sculpt you, in ways that are painful and joyful all at once?[1]

The closer I get to Jesus the more mysterious he becomes and the less I find that I’m able to tame him or even to separate his message and teachings from his person. And I thank God for that, for as the mystery grows I find myself drawn closer and closer to Jesus. I find his revolution of love more challenging, more demanding and more compelling. And I discover that I have less definitive claims to make about him. Instead I feel drawn to simply stand at the foot of the cross in awe and wonder at the mystery of the love that hung there.

At the end of the day, in light of the fact that he died for love, there is very little to say and much to respond to. As he took his final breaths, realizing that his love of God and neighbor led him to this end, Jesus uttered those fateful final words, “It is finished!” And words fail. What more can we say but, “Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord!”

[1] Stephen P. Bauman in a sermon preached at Christ Church, NYC. 20 March 2005.