Witness, Acts 17:22-31

May 29, 2011

Highlands UMC, Denver

Acts 17:16-34

Note: The assigned lectionary text is Acts 17:22-31, but I feel the verses before and after add helpful context to Paul's message, so I included those in the reading as well.

This all took place a long time ago,

in a galaxy far, far away…

Okay, it was actually on this planet,

but sometimes the stories in the Bible
feel so distant from the reality we know
that they might as well have taken place
in a whole other universe. Right?

It’s hard for some of us to imagine a culture
where everyone is religious,
no one has heard of Jesus of Nazareth,
and it was against the law to promote foreign gods.

In today’s reading, I imagine I am not the only one
who struggles with some of Paul’s message:

I am inclined to affirm, not judge,
religious traditions other than my own.

I’m uncomfortable with the idea
that God has planned out the times and places
for all nations –

we live in a world where borders change
and people emigrate all the time,

and nations regularly inflict violence on one another
over the idea that one group has a God-given right
to live in a land that belonged to a different group
for centuries.

And while I agree with Paul that God is not “needy”

or psychologically dependent on human service or praise,

I believe that God is deeply relational,
and that God’s purposes are accomplished
only with human cooperation.

Finally, I’m skeptical about the concept
of an appointed day of judgment,
and frankly, I’m surprised that the only time in this speech
that Paul refers to Jesus
is as the one who will judge humanity

and who has been resurrected as proof of that.

There’s a lot about Paul’s sermon
that doesn’t make much sense to me.

And at the same time,
there are some aspects of this story
that I really appreciate,
and that still ring true
nearly 2000 years later.

First-century Athens is a pluralistic context,
as is true of 21^st-century American society.

People follow many different spiritual paths,
today as then,
and there is room for them to coexist
more or less peacefully.

The people of Athens are intellectually curious,
interested in learning and discussing all the latest ideas.

And they’re spiritual seekers,
open to the likelihood that there is more to the Divine
than has yet been revealed to them,
offering a shrine even to the God they don’t yet know.

They value poets and philosophers,

and Paul acknowledges the wisdom of these writers
who are neither Jewish nor Christ-followers,

but who have nevertheless expressed truths

that Paul affirms as valid theological statements.

I love that God is described as the Creator of all,

“the One who gives everyone life, breath—everything”

and “the One who is not really far from any of us—
the One in whom we live and move and have our being.”

These phrases are among some of the most beautiful, generative, and perhaps some of the most universal claims
that Paul is described as making.

Whole theological systems have emerged from reflection

on the idea that “we live and move and have our being”
in our creating, life-giving God.

It takes a bit of reading between the lines,
but I appreciate that Paul presents the God of Israel
as God of the whole earth.

God is not nationalistic, says Paul,
but above and beyond national boundaries.

And of course,
when Paul quotes an Athenian poet as saying,
‘We too are God’s children,’

what is most striking to me is that word “too.”

We’re used to hearing this idea,
which is repeated many times in the Hebrew Bible.

But to hear the phrasing coming from the lines

of an unknown Greek poet,
responding to who knows what original statement,
there is a sense of defensiveness

or urgency

about being included in the family of God
along with whoever is already sure of their status.

But perhaps what I appreciate most in today’s reading
is Paul’s approach to sharing his faith
with the people of Athens.

First of all, we know he’s not shy.

His boldness in preaching the Gospel

gets him in trouble on several occasions,

and I admire people who are willing to take those kinds of risks

to stand up for what they believe in.

But what’s really striking about this particular sermon,

preached in front of the Council of the Areopagus—

the Latin name of which translates to Mars Hill—

is how carefully he tailors his message

to his audience.

Now, you may know from other readings,
but Paul is a Jew,
a member of the community of Pharisees,
someone well-versed in Jewish law and tradition,

and strictly observant of all that God required.

But when he’s invited—or possibly dragged…

maybe even arrested? we’re not really sure—

and called to give an account of his teaching,
he doesn’t start with Abraham and Moses and Elijah.

He doesn’t start with the passages in Isaiah
that speak of the coming anointed king, the messiah,

who will redeem the people of Israel
and initiate God’s reign on earth.

He starts with the people he’s speaking to,
what he has observed about them,

the spiritual needs and passions
he wants to affirm in them,

and then connects those with the story he knows.

Still, he doesn’t focus in on where he comes from,

but stays with what makes sense to them:

The God who created the world and all that is in it,

the nature of God,

the nearness of God,
the relationship of God to all people,

and finally,
the response that God asks.

The content of what Paul says?

I have to do at least half a dozen theological

and cultural translations in my head
to affirm or agree with most of his message.

But you know what?

He wasn’t speaking to me, to us,

to 21^st century North American Christians

living in a city called Denver.

Paul was a bright man,
and he wrote many wonderful, God-inspired,
Holy-Spirit-led things,
as well as some that seem a little less Spirit-given,

but he was mortal.

He was formed by the time and place in which he lived.
Sure, he learned to adapt,
to “become all things to all people”
in order to share the Gospel with them,

but that just points all the more to the fact

that no single message,

no single messenger,

can effectively communicate in all times and places.

Which is why the Bible is not enough
for introducing people to the God revealed in Jesus Christ.

Now, I know this is going to make some of you
a little uncomfortable,
because this is a church that affirms pluralism,
that does not teach that people must accept Jesus
as their personal Lord and Savior
in order to receive God’s love or mercy.

Stay with me, because I still believe
that there are many paths to God,

and that God is not contained to my religion alone.

But I am also convinced
that we who follow Jesus

are called to bear witness to our faith.

First, let me be clear about what I am not saying:

I am not saying that you need to stand on a street corner
shouting “Repent! Judgment day is coming!”

The Christians who believe everyone else is going to hell
have turned a lot of people off
by telling them just that.

When I was in college,
my campus minister used to say,
“I don’t believe anyone really gets to heaven

just by having the hell scared out of them.”

I am also not saying that you need to go door-to-door,

trying to convert people to Christianity.

That’s called proselytizing,
trying to make people believe the way you do,
and in this neighborhood especially, I’m pretty sure
it would be not just ineffective, but disastrous.

Everyone is on their own spiritual journey,
and while I wouldn’t say that every path is equally valid,
because some are truly harmful,
either to the individual, their family,
women, the environment, or whomever,
but giving the same sales pitch to each person
doesn’t take into account the variations
in their experience, interests, needs,
or readiness for something new.

And I am not saying
that you need to be able to prove anything

or even convince anybody

who doesn’t want to be convinced.

In some of Paul’s letters,

he engages in the practice of apologetics,

a kind of reasoned defense of faith,

usually based on Scripture and logic.

In today’s world, our understanding of science,

psychology, sociology, and history

have changed dramatically from Paul’s time.

There are still many who feel called
to the work of apologetics today,

but I don’t know how much success they have
at reaching those who are not already Christ-followers.

What I am saying
is that if our faith has any meaning for us,

it is worth sharing in some way with others.

When you think about a witness called to testify in court,

they are not asked to prove
a complicated logical argument,

or to scare the jury into submission,

or even to convince the judge of a particular view.

The witness is called to speak about

what they personally have seen and heard:

what they have experienced firsthand.

When you bear witness to your faith,

all you need to do is speak honestly

about what difference a relationship with God
makes in your life.

Why you come to church on Sunday

instead of sleeping in,
or going to brunch with friends,

or hiking in the mountains.

[And I know you sometimes make those other choices too,
but if you show up here at least some of the time,
there must be a reason.]

How you live, the quality of your relationships,
your character and integrity and generosity,
may all testify to something good at work in you—

like St. Francis said, “Preach the Gospel at all times,
and if necessary, use words”—

but if someone asks why you do what you do,
I think it’s helpful to have thought about the question,
to know what the “good news” is to you.

For me, the Gospel first began to make a difference in my life
when I was in high school.

I didn’t attend worship regularly,
preferring to care for the toddlers in the nursery,
but I still considered myself  a Christian,
someone who believed in God and Jesus.

What I particularly remember was one day at school
when I was struggling with some difficult friendships,
feeling betrayed and left out,
suddenly realizing,
“Jesus went through this—on a much bigger scale—
when Judas betrayed him and Peter denied him
and all the disciples fell asleep in the garden,

so he knows what this feels like.”

I wasn’t really raised in the tradition of
“a personal relationship with Jesus,”

turning to Christ in prayer in difficult and joyful times,

so that was kind of where the thought ended,
but it made a difference to me in that moment
to know that I was not alone,
that not only did God care about me in an abstract way,
but that Jesus had actually gone through
what I was going through.

Another time my faith made a difference
was my freshman year in college.
I was already active in the United Methodist campus ministry,
and I attend the United Methodist Student Forum,
a gathering of hundreds of students from across the country,
Memorial Day weekend, fifteen years ago.

I was still very much figuring out what I believed
about many different things,
but I attended a gathering of students
who called themselves “MoSAIC,”

Methodist Students for an All-Inclusive Church.

The focus was on the welcome and affirmation
of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered people,
and though I wasn’t sure yet where I stood on the issue,
I listened to people’s stories
and thought a lot about what I heard.

A few weeks after I returned home for the summer,
the MoSAIC leaders sent out an email
to all who had attended the meeting,
inviting us to further action and involvement.

The email ended with a poem called “Fear,”
by Joy Harjo, a Native American poet,
a poem about giving fear back to those who instilled it,
about not being afraid any more,
about releasing fear and being loved,
about claiming life in all its fullness.

It was a poem I had written a paper on
just that spring semester.
And I experienced that email message
as God nudging me,
whispering to me,
“Give back your fear,
your fear of those who are different from you,
your fear of being wrong,
and join this movement for life and love and justice.”

Now, when you think about “witness,”

maybe you think of the 1986 movie with Harrison Ford,
or the Witness Protection Program.

Both of those suggest that being a witness

carries a certain amount of risk.

And unlike the Witness Protection Program,

we church leaders cannot guarantee
that you will not experience some consequences
of talking about your experience.

Because telling your story,
and how you understand it as part of God’s story,
is a powerful thing—

for you, and for those listening.

Just ask anyone in a 12-step recovery program.

It can help you to know and name who you are.

It can help others to find hope.

It can remind all of us
that we are not alone.

Because while some may see Christianity
as just one more vendor
in the spiritual marketplace,
offering religious goods and services
in competition with other religions,
I believe our faith is more about an invitation to relationship
with the living God revealed in Jesus Christ.

When I think about the dating world,

it can be a good thing to meet and get to know
several different potential partners.
But just as most of us hope for one person
to whom we can commit deeply,
in the same way, choosing one faith tradition
can give us a depth of grounding,
a rootedness, and an intimacy with God
that brings with it a new kind of freedom:

the freedom to trust God for the results of our actions.

So that when we do bear witness to our faith,
when we are open with others
about why we give regularly to the church
and to those who are in need,
when we are clear about why we show up here on Sunday
why we speak out for justice and compassion,
and how our lives are formed
and transformed
by the God revealed in Jesus Christ,
we don’t have to worry
about whether we convince
or convert that person.

We can trust that the One
in whom we live and move and have our being
is also at work in the life of our neighbor,

drawing them ever closer
to the Source and Sustainer of life.

And if this whole question of religion
is more about relationship
than consuming goods and services,
then who shares the message
is as important as what the message is.

I think that’s why those printed evangelism tracts
aren’t particularly effective.

They’re one-size-fits-all.

When we witness to our faith,

we share how our story
is connected to God’s story.

And it makes a difference who we are as the storytellers,

as well as when, where, and to whom we’re speaking.

Knowing the person we’re speaking to,
what they value, where they’ve been,
what they hope and long for,
how they struggle and when they celebrate,
gives us the opportunity to speak more meaningfully
about how they, too, are part of God’s story.

I want to leave you with some words of wisdom

from a nun named Carol Francis Jegen,
of the Sisters of Charity of the Blessed Virgin Mary:

“As a human being, Jesus was limited in many ways.

He lived on this earth in a certain culture
for a certain period of time.

In his great compassionate love
Jesus really needs us to carry on his work
of bringing about the reign of God’s love
in every culture and in every period of history.”

Much of that work requires our actions,
our energy, our resources, our intentionality
and integrity in relationships and labor.

But part of the work
of bringing about the reign of God’s love
is telling what we have seen and heard,

proclaiming this good news,
boldly or humbly,
carefully and meaningfully,
so that others have the opportunity to understand
how their story
is part of God’s story,
and so all may know
what a difference it makes

to draw near and get to know

the Unknown God. 

May it be so for you and for me.

Amen.

Nic at Night, John 3:1-17

March 20, 2011
Highlands UMC
John 3:1-17

The Gospel of John sometimes reads like
the United Methodist Book of Discipline
crossed with Shakespeare –
like a committee whose membership changed over the years
and continually revisited what had been written down before,
was charged with explaining who Jesus was and is,
and then every other chapter
they got the really wordy member of the group
to write down some long, drawn-out soliloquy
with philosophical and mystical implications.
I mean, who knows,
it’s possible that’s how it happened.

Today’s text is like that:
I must have read it a hundred times this week,
just to try to get a handle on what it’s about,
and I still feel like it’s about 6 different things.
Maybe more.

And then, in the midst of a monologue,
Jesus speaks the words that millions have seized on
as the essence of the gospel,
the good news that “God so loved the world,”
and that eternal life is available
by believing in the only-begotten one.

Some of you, I know,
find that verse meaningful and comforting.
Others, perhaps many others,
get kind of squirmy or irritable
when you hear or see references to John 3:16,
maybe because of what it says,
but probably more so because of how it’s been used.

I hope you brought your theological waders,
because it might get a little deep in here today,
and more than a little messy.

So last week we kicked off Lent (as usual)
with Jesus going into the desert to face his temptations. 
This year, the bulk of Lent – weeks 2, 3, 4, 5 –
brings us stories from the Fourth Gospel
about people who encounter Jesus in different settings,
and the various ways they respond to him:
from Nicodemus in the dead of night
to the outcast Samaritan woman
at the well in the middle of the day;
on to the Pharisees wanting answers
about the man born blind
and finally Mary and Martha in their grief
over their brother Lazarus’s death.
Each of these stories –
and the following conversations and monologues by Jesus –
can be seen as answering the question,
What does it mean to meet Jesus,
to know him truly,
to embrace the way he reveals God’s work in the world,
into our lives? 
Of the characters in these stories,
Nicodemus is neither the most villainous
nor the most saintly.

He is unusual in that he comes to Jesus by night.
Not much else happens by night in the gospels,
until we get to the garden of Gethsemane,
where the crowd, led by Judas,
comes to arrest Jesus while he’s praying…

One of the preachers whose comments I read
in preparing to preach this week
describes the scene as Gospel noir –
Just like in those old movies,
it’s a dark & stormy night,
and Jesus is just getting home from a long day
teaching and performing signs and wonders.
Nicodemus is waiting in an alley doorway,
fedora lowered and trenchcoat collar raised.
As Jesus reaches the door of the house where he’s staying,
Nic steps out of the shadows to offer a seemingly casual
but coded
observation:
“You seem to be a stand-up guy,
a teacher who has come from God;
maybe you’re the kind of man
who should be part of the organization I represent.” 

“You don’t know the half of it,” replies Jesus. 
“The organization I’m part of
requires a whole other set of qualifications than yours.
First of all, that you start from scratch.
Not just as an apprentice scholar or teacher’s assistant,
but as an infant, being born all over again.” 

“What are you talking about?
You think grown men like us get second chances?
You trying to say we get to crawl
back inside our mother’s bodies
and come out brand-spankin’-new?
Not likely.”

Okay, I’m throwing some interpretation onto the dialogue here,
because to read it straight makes it sound like
Jesus answers a question Nicodemus didn’t ask,
and then doesn’t answer the questions he does ask.
Which, now that I think about it,
actually does kind of sound like Jesus.

And we can’t tell from the text
exactly why Nicodemus has waited until darkness
to approach Jesus;
perhaps he’s afraid of what other members of the Sanhedrin,
the council of leaders, would think
if they saw him associating with the upstart from Nazareth;
perhaps he doesn’t want anyone to know
that he doesn’t have everything all figured out,
and is still asking questions;
perhaps he is trying to gather dirt on Jesus
to trip him up later in public,
or maybe he just can’t get these questions out of his head
and goes to see the famous Rabbi
when his racing thoughts won’t let him sleep.
The timing doesn’t reflect very well on him;
in this Gospel, including the 4 verses
right after the end of today’s reading,
Jesus uses light and darkness as symbols
of those whose lives are in tune with God’s intention,
on the one hand,
and those who are at cross-purposes with God.
Nicodemus does show up twice more in this Gospel,
both times more or less as an ally of Jesus,
but not quite as a wholehearted disciple,
or someone who “gets” who Jesus is.
He seems to be a man stuck on the fence,
hesitant, uncertain, weighing the possibilities,
full of questions, trying to figure things out
without saying anything too definitive
or controversial.
Maybe he’s a little like you and me.

And although the words themselves don’t seem to connect,
I have to believe that Jesus is not pulling off
a total non-sequitur
when he responds to Nicodemus’s compliment
with an obscure statement on what it takes
to see the kingdom of God.

The language Jesus uses,
about being born from above, or born again –
both are legitimate meanings of the Greek word
anothen –
is confusing to Nicodemus,
and perhaps all too familiar to us 2000 years later.
It is a phrase that doesn’t make much sense
the first time you hear it, out of context;
but today it is a catchphrase
for a certain branch of Christianity,
the criterion, according to some,
to know who’s in
and who’s out.
Those who call themselves “born-again Christians,”
or at least those who claim to speak for them,
are often the same ones who lift up verses 16 and following
to explain why everyone needs Jesus
to avoid eternal damnation.
Some claim the name “evangelical,” others “fundamentalist,”
while others might not care for the labels,
but know they are included
and others are excluded.

Over the past month,
there has been a theological firestorm in cyberspace,
as a prominent evangelical leader,
one Rob Bell, pastor of Mars Hill Church,
announced the release of his new book,
called Love Wins: A Book About Heaven, Hell,
and the Fate of Every Person Who Ever Lived.
And the people who thought he was one of them,
people who call themselves evangelicals,
conservatives, Bible-believing, born-again Christians,
are calling him a heretic.
Because he implies that there might be some people in heaven
that Christians don’t expect to see there.
Because he suggests that God loves
not just the worthy, not just the baptized,
not just the linear, logical, literal, or law-abiding,
not just the church-attending, Bible-reading,
educated, successful, middle-class American Christians,
but the world
the whole entire world
and what’s more,
that it isn’t up to us to say who gets into heaven or not,
it’s up to God.

Well, we could have a whole other discussion on heaven,
on what happens after death,
but I think some of you have lunch plans!
But it’s very interesting to me
that the act of saying,
“We humans don’t know who’s in and who’s out,
so we should leave that whole question to God,
who by the way, loves everyone,”
has provoked such a reaction,
such a widespread response of,
“You’re wrong.
We do know who’s in and who’s out,
and by questioning the rules,
you are now out.”

So let’s come back to Nicodemus
and his midnight chat with Jesus.

Did you know that at night,
when there’s very little light,
the reason you can’t see much color
is that the “cone photoreceptors” in your eyes,
which are responsible for distinguishing
the different wavelengths of visible light
that create color perception,
don’t function very well,
and the monochromatic “rod” receptors take over.
So, in the darkness,
pretty much everything seems black and white.
Houses, people,
old TV shows,
theological questions—
you name it,
it’s harder to see the complexities that make up
the beauty of our world
when we come at something
without enough light.

It’s not clear what Nicodemus believes,
or what relationship he ends up having with Jesus,
if any,
but it seems to me
that asking questions is a good place to start.
If we don’t ask, we don’t learn as much.
And yes, we risk looking foolish,
or getting an answer (or non-answer)
we didn’t really want,
but it’s at least the start of a journey.
And when Jesus responds to the questions
by saying, “Are you a teacher, and yet you don’t understand?”
I have to admit,
I find myself shrugging and nodding sheepishly
along with Nicodemus.

But what I think I hear Jesus saying is,
“The Spirit blows where it chooses,
and you don’t know its origin or destination –
and nor can you control it.
Entering God’s kin’dom,
the reign of God’s love, the life abundant,
the heavenly realm just the other side of the veil,
doesn’t require being a teacher with all the answers.
You have to be born of the Spirit,
and guess what?
You don’t get to control that either.
God loves the world.
Not just Israel,
not just the ones who follow all the rules,
but this same world that seems hell-bent
on opposing God’s will for love and justice and mercy.”

In the same story that some have used
to say, “Answer this question
so we know whether you’re in or out,”
Jesus seems to be saying,
“It’s not about knowing who’s in and who’s out!”
Jesus’ mission isn’t about judgment and condemnation,
it’s about bringing more light
to the human race,
light enough to see the image of God
in our sisters and brothers,
light enough to distinguish more than black and white,
light enough to see all the colors of the rainbow,
all the nuances of story and parable and metaphor,
all the possibilities of relationship
with God and with our neighbor,
all the ways in which we are all included
in the circle of God’s love.

And what does it take for that to happen for each of us?
We have to be born again.
Born anew.
Born from above,
by water – the waters of physical birth,
the waters of baptism –
and the Spirit.
But I don’t think that’s a one-time deal,
like a lightning strike you have to sit around
waiting for it to happen to you,
and then you can check it off your list.
Although some of us experience flashes of insight,
moments of assurance,
perhaps even the feeling of having your heart
strangely warmed,
as John Wesley did,
I think even John Wesley would say
that the new birth is part of a continual, lifelong process.

Because it turns out that in this gospel,
the phrase “eternal life”
doesn’t mean “unending life after death”;
it doesn’t seem to be about
“where you go when you die,”
but it is about participating in God’s abundant life
here and now –
bringing God’s kin’dom to reality,
bringing heaven to earth.
That’s why we have to be born from above,
to begin our spiritual lives at the beginning—
to open ourselves to relationship with the Holy,
to say yes to God’s grace.
I love this definition of grace from Richard Heitzenrater,
a Wesley scholar from Duke Divinity School:
“'Grace is what God is doing
at the depths of your life
by the power of the Holy Spirit.'

Being born from above
is letting the Holy Spirit do
what God wants done
at the depths of our life."*
We don’t have to understand that logically
to say yes to the invitation.
We don’t have to know
whether others have already gotten there,
or threaten them with eternal torment
to invite them to join us in the grand adventure.
We only have to look to the one
who dedicated his life to proclaiming the love of God
who was lifted up in shame and punishment
only to reveal that the kingdom of God,
life eternal and abundant,
the power of God’s love at work in the world
is greater than all the powers of fear and death
that hold us captive.

If you have caught even a glimpse
of the kingdom of God,
you have already been born from above.
If you long to find a chance to start over,
if you have more questions than answers,
if you are seeking a connection
with the God who loves and seeks to save this world,
you have come to the right place.
God will meet you here –
and not only here,
but throughout your whole crazy,
beautiful life,
to work within you,
to bring about the new birth,
to draw you into the light of the kin’dom.
May it be so for you and for me.
Amen.