Sermon: With Authority

First Presbyterian Church

January 28, 2024, Epiphany 4B

Mark 1:21-28

 

With Authority

 

In academic circles there is a humor piece that makes the rounds on occasion, with a title like “Why God would never get tenure” or something similar.  What follows is a list of reasons that, while humorously slanted, could be seen through squinted eyes as more or less academically correct descriptions of events in the history of the church or the Bible.  For example, in publication-crazed academia, everyone would recognize the failure reflected in the first reason on the list: “He only had one publication.”  Even I had more than that.

Other reasons on the list include (in reference to that “one publication”) “it was in Hebrew,” “it wasn’t published in a refereed journal,” and “some even doubt he wrote it himself.”  Other more general jokes on the list include “the scientific community has had a hard time duplicating his results,” “some say he had his son teach the class,” and “although there were only 10 requirements, most students failed the tests.”  You get the idea.

One of those jokes, though, actually resonates with today’s gospel reading, just a little bit.  Of the “one publication” the critique observes that it “had no references,” or more clearly, “no footnotes.”  

If you remember your own degree-seeking days, or if you’ve lived the academic life to any degree, you understand about things like footnotes and a bibliography, or a “works cited” or “works consulted” list – a means by which someone writing an academic paper acknowledges the sources that fed his or her research, those scholars whose previous work made the current work possible.  That kind of acknowledgment isn’t completely different from the kind of teaching that was typical of rabbinical scholars or teachers in Jesus’s time.  The scholar, addressing a particular text, would carefully develop an argument from the studies done by scholars before him, carefully balancing the work of one scholar against the commentary of another, weighing distinct views against one another, and carefully acknowledging and crediting those scholars whose work he uses.  A modern scholar uses those footnotes and bibliographies to perform much the same function.

Keep this in mind when approaching the story in Mark’s gospel for today.  In this case Jesus has the opportunity to speak in the local synagogue in Capernaeum.  This was not unusual.  A teacher did not necessarily have to be a synagogue official to be invited to speak in the service.  What Jesus did with that opportunity, though, aroused plenty of attention.  

We are not privy to the specifics of what Jesus was teaching here.  Mark is not interested in our knowing this, for whatever reason.  What he wants us to know is that Jesus’s listeners were quick to know that his teaching was different, and dramatically, surprisingly so.  Jesus wasn’t using the verbal footnotes common to the scribal tradition; his teaching was, as the text puts it, “with authority!”

Somehow Jesus was teaching in a way that didn’t involve all those meticulous cross-references.  He taught “with authority.”  He taught as the One – the only One – who did not need to cite and cross-reference and footnote.  He taught not just as one “with authority,” but indeed as authority himself.  

What happens next in the story often steals the thunder here, distracting attention from what Mark presents first.  One thing to watch in this gospel is how often Mark uses the word “immediately," or some equivalent.  He's used it already several times in this chapter, and he uses it more than we see here.  In the NIV verse 23 is translated as beginning “just then,” but in the Greek it’s the same word – εὐθύς – that elsewhere is translated “immediately.”  “Immediately” there was in the synagogue a man with an unclean spirit, and he cried out… .  This isn’t a crazed uncontrollable person, as will show up in chapter five, wandering about the tombs and ranting and raving. This is a man sitting in the synagogue listening to Jesus teaching, with the “unclean spirit” within unable to bear the presence of Jesus.  The most striking thing about this scene is that while the many in the synagogue might have marveled at the authority of Jesus’s teaching, only this unclean spirit truly grasped just what that teaching, and that authority, meant.

It meant that “the usual” was no longer enough.  It meant that “the way things are” was no longer acceptable.  It meant that those things that destroy from within, those things that hold us prisoner or keep us in thrall to what corrodes and corrupts us, those things are no longer in charge.  

In fact, this miracle – the best thing to call it, even as uncomfortable as it makes us – actually takes us back a few verses, to the proclamation found in verse 15: 

The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.

 

This miracle – but more so, this authority, this teaching that is like no other teaching that anyone has heard – is indeed a sign of the kingdom of God come near.  That demons (or unclean spirits, or any of those things that would enslave and break human beings) cannot stand in the presence of Jesus, is indeed a sign of the kingdom of God come near.  

But notice something else about this scripture.  Aside from the man with the unclean spirit, how do the people in the synagogue react to what happens?  What is their reaction to Jesus’s teaching, or to the silencing and casting out of the unclean spirit?  Let’s go looking for adjectives and verbs here to see just what Mark is saying.

Well, the NRSV translation gives us “amazed” in verse 22 to describe the people’s reaction to Jesus’s teaching “with authority.”  By verse 27, they are all “amazed,” and chattering to one another.  Finally in verse 28 we find out that Jesus’s fame begins to spread all through Galilee, which at least suggests that those who heard and saw went out and told others what they heard and saw.

These are certainly evocative words that make it clear people are impressed in some way. But it seems there is something missing in them.  

Where is the rejoicing?  Where are the “hosanna”s or the “alleluia”s?  People are amazed and astounded, but are they glad?

This points to something we might want to take with us from this passage.  Again reaching back to verse 15, Jesus comes proclaiming that “the time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near.  Repent, and believe in the good news.”  We say that the church is commissioned to proclaim the “gospel,” the “good news.”  Taken by itself that sounds good, but let’s be honest; there aren’t many people who like the sound of repentance.  It makes a demand on us.  It says things aren’t just perfectly fine and hunky-dory the way we are.  It says things have to change – no, it says things are going to change.  And that’s a little scary, for a church in a transitional time, or maybe even more so for a nice stable thriving church. And if it scares us, why should we think that those outside the church are going to be particularly comforted by it? This whole coming near of the kingdom of God upsets the established order of things, and that’s not something that everyone welcomes.

The second point has to do with that “authority,” and it might be a particularly appropriate lesson for this day in which our church installs deacons and also elders to the session.  Some scholars have observed of this story that readers through the ages have made a mistake in interpreting the reference to Jesus’s authority as a slight or criticism against the teaching of the scribes of the temple.  No.  That can’t be the point we take away from this story.  How could the scribes do otherwise?  They are but human beings.  Jesus’s authority was bound to be different because of who he was. The very first verse of this gospel tells it straightaway: “the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”  The scribes could not possibly teach or advise or govern with that kind of authority any more than a contemporary academic or student can get away without citing their sources in their next paper.

And neither can we.  This is a lesson to remember for me, in my own ordination and vocation, as well as for those who are installed as deacons or elders today, and for those who are already serving, and for those who may serve in the future.  The authority of the deacons or session – indeed the authority of the church itself - rests in Christ alone.  It doesn’t come in titles or rituals or majority votes.  To the degree we claim authority in anything outside the head of the church, which is Jesus Christ – certainly to the degree we claim authority to rest in our own position or title – we are not followers of Jesus Christ.

This is the kind of thing that ought to speak with particular force to this church in this time, seeking the path forward with new pastoral leadership. This is the kind of thing that hopefully prompts us to get involved in that process, remembering that we are not seeking a new "boss"; we seek someone who knows who the "boss" is and acts accordingly.

To the degree we immerse ourselves in seeking the guidance of the Holy Spirit, we involve ourselves in studying and meditating upon scripture, we open our eyes to see where Christ would lead us to minister and to reach out both within this church and outside these walls in the community and world around us, then the coming near of the kingdom of God is good news indeed.  When we are grounded in the authority of Jesus, the Son of God, we are ready to hear and to follow where Jesus leads, to live as Jesus has already shown us how to live.  And then we are ready to be witnesses to what really is good news indeed.

For authority that will never be ours, Thanks be to God.  Amen.

 

Hymns (from Glory to God: The Presbyterian Hymnal); #15, All Creatures of Our God and King; #755, Alleluia! Laud and Blessing; #12, Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise

 

Sermon: The Heavens Torn Apart

Grace Presbyterian Church

January 7, 2024, Baptism of the Lord B

Genesis 1:1-5; Mark 1:4-5, 9-11

 

The Heavens Torn Apart

 

 

Does anything about this story from Mark sound familiar?

In truth there are several passages that might evoke something familiar from the Old Testament, or scripture we just heard during the season of Advent in particular. John the Baptist gets his own Sunday in Advent, and his wilderness-chic wardrobe might have touched off sparks of recognition. Maybe the image of the dove descending brought back memories of, say, the story of Noah’s Ark, and the dove that finally returned, letting Noah know that dry land was on its way.

In this case, though, I have in mind a particular image, found in a particular scripture from Isaiah that actually got preached about a month ago. Maybe it sounds just a little bit familiar? From the very beginning of Isaiah 64… 

“Oh, that you would tear open the heavens and come down…”

And there in today’s reading, verse 10:

“And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him.”

Honestly, it’s hard to believe Mark didn’t do that deliberately.

Of course, Isaiah had a much bigger display in mind. You might remember that the prophet spoke of mountains shaking, fire causing water to boil, enemies trembling, that kind of stuff. And of course, in Isaiah’s prophetic wish, the heavens-being-torn-open act was meant for all to see. Everybody was meant to be impressed and “scared straight,” so to speak, turning away from sin and rebellion to obedience to God.

That’s not quite how Mark’s account goes. In this case it seems Jesus is the only one who sees the heavens torn apart. Other gospels record the scene differently, but here the vision was apparently meant for Jesus alone. And of course, the Spirit “descending like a dove” probably wasn’t the follow-up Isaiah had in mind. Screaming like a hawk, perhaps, but a dove? Too peaceful-sounding, although doves actually don't sound all that peaceful if you catch them right.

Nonetheless, even this scene should give us pause. This was not a “safe” act for Jesus. Directly after this baptism Jesus would be driven out into the wilderness, to face temptation at the hands of the tempter himself (although we won't get to that reading until Lent). The course of Jesus’s ministry on earth was never going to be smooth, and Mark manages to make that clear just from this one image. “The heavens torn apart…”

In fact, this kind of imagery isn’t something Mark overdoes. The Greek word used here only appears one other time in this gospel, at the other end of it. In Mark 15:38, as Jesus hangs on the cross and dies, at that moment (we are told) that the curtain of the Temple was “torn in two.” The disruptive image of being “torn apart” returns at the end of Jesus’s ministry as it had appeared at its beginning.

Let’s be honest, it’s hard for us to think of baptism in this way. Nowadays, particularly in church traditions like ours, baptism often gets made “cute.” We have this cute little bowl of water, a child is baptized wearing a specially made and very cute baptism garment in many cases, … it’s just not the kind of picture that lends itself to images of the heavens torn apart. 

And yet, if we’re doing it right, this baptism can lead us places we don’t expect to go. If you’re lucky, it leads you to something manageable, like being ordained and then installed as an elder on your church’s session. Maybe even on the church's transition team.  And sometimes even a form of service like that can feel a little bit as though the heavens are least being ripped a little bit.

You might find yourself being led into far riskier and more challenging forms of service, whether it be in a pulpit or a mission field. You might find yourself put in a position of having to speak unpleasant truths among people who don’t want to hear them. You might find yourself, in the words of the PC(USA)’s A Brief Statement of Faith, called to “unmask idols in church and culture,” which never seems to go well for the one doing the unmasking. You might find yourself challenged to walk away from the comfortable and profitable, towards the challenging and impoverished to whom Jesus ministered. There’s no telling where that baptism might lead you. 

But baptism does come with its promises as well. You won’t find yourself abandoned. As a popular saying went in my younger days, “If you think God’s far away, guess who moved?” You won’t be left defenseless in the stormy and difficult times. You won’t be given up for lost or forsaken – not because baptism is some kind of magic talisman, but because the Jesus who took on baptism himself is faithful and unwilling to give us up, the ones whom he gave so much to redeem.

Remembering our baptism is obviously not meant to be a literal remembering for most of us; if you were baptized as an infant you are not expected to "remember" what happened on that occasion.  "Remembering our baptism," if anything, is about our need to remember the vows that were made for us, perhaps, and reaffirmed in our confirmation, or that we made ourselves if we were baptized as youth or adults. These things did not happen in isolation, but in the body of Christ represented by the church where that baptism took place. Parents who brought you forward before the congregation, trusting the pastor not to drop you or get water in your little baby eyes, the elder who spoke the words of the rite on behalf of that congregation, the pastor who performed the act "in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit"; we can remember that the baptism we experienced was done with and in the body of Christ, and marked us as belonging to that body. 

In either case, be aware that even now, your baptism may lead you somewhere you never expected, even if the heavens aren’t torn apart.

For the unexpected path from the baptismal font, Thanks be to God. Amen.

 

Hymns (from Glory to God: The Presbyterian Hymnal); #408, There's a Sweet, Sweet Spirit; #482, Baptized in Water; #480, Take Me to the Water

Sermon: All the World

First Presbyterian Church

January 6, 2024, Epiphany B

Matthew 2:1-12

 

All the World

 

 

I am working on a basic presumption this morning. I am assuming that no one in this congregation this morning has any ancestry that traces its roots back to first-century Judea. This is actually somewhat significant for a reason. While the Christmas story as is told in the gospel of Luke is the one that everybody knows, the one that is the basis for every Christmas pageant ever, and the one that Linus recites when Charlie Brown pleads for anyone to tell him what Christmas is all about, it is Matthew's account in the first two chapters of his gospel that takes the boundaries of this story beyond the boundaries of first-century Judea, a province of the Roman state called Palestine.

The world outside Judea enters into this story thanks to the Magi, represented by the three figures in this nativity who are adorned rather differently than the rest of this cast. Of course, we see from Matthew's account that these Magi did not, in fact, come to any stable; verse 11 makes clear that when they arrived, they entered a house, their own house as far as we know, with no mention of mangers or stables or any other such thing. Matthew's story needs to be understood on its own every now and then, not wedged into Luke's very different story.

These Magi, however many of them there were (again, there were three gifts but that doesn't necessarily mean there were three Magi bearing them), make a very long trip from somewhere in the east to get to Judea. Most scholarship reckons that they came either from Persia (modern-day Iran) or Babylon (modern-day Iraq), which gives you an idea of the length of this trip they made with nothing but their camels or their own feet. 

And about those gifts...

It has become something of a modern joke to mock the inappropriateness of these gifts for giving to a mother caring for a small child. Since we don't know how old Jesus was by the time the Magi got there, it would have been hard to know exactly what the child, maybe anywhere from infant to age two, would need. More to the point, though, is that these Magi first went to Jerusalem for a reason. 

Since they saw a sign in the stars that provoked them to go search for a child born "king of the Jews," but had nothing else to work with (remember, there weren't any angels giving them instructions), the only obvious place for them to seek s newborn king would have been a royal court. However weird gifts of frankincense and myrrh might sound to us non-royals (I don't think anybody would refuse a gift of gold), they would be regarded as perfectly appropriate gifts to a royal court, which is where these Magi would have expected to bestow such gifts in a mannered and well-scripted ceremony of exchange across national borders. 

The unexpected chaos at Herod's court sent these Magi off on a different path, with the star they had followed now behaving in very un-star-like fashion and "leading" them to Bethlehem and the house where Mary and Joseph and the child were. Probably they knew darn well, once they arrived, how odd their gifts were going to seem; but perhaps we should allow that those gifts might be overshadowed by what they did when they saw the child; they "bowed down and worshiped him," as Matthew describes in verse 11. These Magi from somewhere back east, not at all subject by human reckoning to a "king of the Jews" present or future, understood enough out of all the confusion they had caused and experienced to know that the only appropriate thing to do before this child was to bow down and worship. We could only hope and pray that we would have been so wise. 

For their reward, the Magi finally got their own angelic dream, warning them to avoid Herod on the way home - an instruction they were probably only too glad to accept. On the other hand, if they had harbored any desire to stay and worship this child further, this angelic instruction made that impossible; they had to get out of the way and not risk bringing any harm to this child. 

For all of this, the challenge for us to remember is that, for all practical purposes, these Magi are us, or at least as close to 'us' as there is in this story. All of those participating in Luke's accout are Judeans, practitioners of Judaism as much as the Holy Family was. 

These Magi come from, and one might argue on behalf of, the world outside Judea and the religion of Judea. They are, in many ways, the first signal that we get in any nativity narrative that the "Gentiles," the term we will commonly see throughout the New Testament for the non-Jewish world, are welcomed to come and worship this newborn king. This young "king of the Jews" turns out to be one who welcomes and calls in all peoples from all places to come and to follow. 

For the Magi and their journey for all the world, Thanks be to God. Amen.

 

Hymns (from Glory to God: The Presbyterian Hymnal unless otherwise indicated): #152, What Star Is This, with Beams So Bright; #147, The First Nowell, v. 3-6 only; #146, Gentle Mary Laid Her Child; #151, We Three Kings of Orient Are; #---, Open our eyes (insert); #150, As With Gladness Men of Old