The Cost of Victory

2 Samuel 5.1-5, 9-10

Then all the tribes of Israel came to David at Hebron, and said, “Look, we are your bone and flesh. For some time, while Saul was king over us, it was you who led out Israel and brought it in. The Lord said to you: It is you who shall be shepherd of my people Israel, you who shall be ruler over Israel.” So all the elders of Israel came to the king at Hebron; and King David made a covenant with them at Hebron before the Lord, and they anointed David king over Israel. David was thirty years old when he began to reign, and he reigned forty years. At Hebron he reigned over Judah seven years and six months; and at Jerusalem he reigned over all Israel and Judah thirty-three years. David occupied the stronghold, and named it the city of David. David built the city all around from the Millo inward. And David became greater and greater, for the Lord, the God of hosts, was with him.

Early in the morning on the 4th of July, a young woman and a group of friends made their way to Liberty Island where the Statue of Liberty looks out across the waters. Like countless people gathering to celebrate Independence Day, they looked like everybody else ready to enjoy the day. However, upon arrival, they quickly unfurled a banner over a railing near the base of the statue that said, “Abolish ICE!” and they boosted the young woman up onto the statue.

For nearly three hours she made her way around the statue while police attempted to bring her down. Whenever they got close she shouted out her intention, “I will stay here until all the children are released!”

But after three hours of evasion, the police eventually arrested her, and brought her down off of Lady Liberty.

A spokesperson for the protestors said the demonstration was thematically charged by the belief that Lady Liberty weeps over how the country is treating children and families at the border.

The main protestor, the young woman, was eventually identified and taken in to custody. She clearly violated a number of state and federal laws, and will be prosecuted in the not too distant future.

            So what will be the cost of her victory? Prison? Steep financial fines?

            And was she even victorious? What was she hoping to accomplish?

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All the tribes of Israel came together to speak with David. Echoing the profound words of their first ancestor “bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh,” they said, “Look, we are your bone and flesh. Saul was once king but you are the one who led Israel.” And they anointed David king. He was thirty years old.

After thirty years of serving the Lord, from striking down Goliath, to attending the needs of the mad king, to lamenting over his death, David finally became the king.

When you imagine David, what do you picture? Do you see the little shepherd boy with curly hair running through the fields? Do you think of David dancing before the Ark of the Covenant with nothing but a loincloth? Do you see the humble king walking among the people of God?

David is the de facto king figure of scripture. From this point forward he, even more than Moses, is the archetype for what it means to lead God’s people. Solomon will ask God to make him a leader like his father David, the prophets will remember the faithful times of David’s reign when looking out at idolatry. Even during the days of Jesus, the people of God will look for a new David to lead the revolt against the imperial power of Rome.

And we might like the version of David often handed to us: the Goliath killer, the lute player, the psalm scribers, the king who united Israel. But it all came with a cost.

            Every great victory leaves a loser in the ditch, and David is no exception.

I’ve brought this up before, but it’s helpful to know that someone like me does not pick the scriptures we use on Sunday morning at random. Years ago a group of ecumenical Christians compiled a three-year cycle of four readings for every Sunday called the revised common lectionary. It was designed to bring congregations through the great narrative of scripture without being constrained by the choice of the preacher.

Depending on the season we might spend weeks going through one of Paul’s letters, or we can jump around the psalter, or just follow the narrative of Jesus’ life from the gospel. Regardless of what we hear in church, it was almost always decided for us.

Today is no exception.

The Lectionary says that the Old Testament reading today should be 2 Samuel 5.1-5, 9-10. It’s a brilliant little vignette in David’s rise to the throne of Israel. But notice: there are three verses missing.

            Why?

Sometimes verses are omitted because we are brought to the conclusion of a story without being weighed down by superfluous details. Sometimes the narrative is interrupted and it makes logical sense to jump from one place to another.

But sometimes the lectionary omits verses because they are difficult to handle, they make people like you and me uncomfortable, and we don’t know what to do with them.

I don’t often ask you to do this, but I would like all of us to pick up a pew bible and turn to 2 Samuel 5 (OT page 218). We read earlier that all of the elders joined together, and they anointed David king. We read about how David was thirty years old when he began to reign. We read about how long he ruled. But before we jump to verse 9, where we learn he occupied Jerusalem, let’s read about what he had to do to achieve that victory…

6 – The king and his men marched to Jerusalem against the Jebusites, the inhabitants of the land, who said to David, “You will not come in here, even the blind and the lame will turn you back” – thinking, “David cannot come in here.”

7 – Nevertheless David took the stronghold of Zion, which is now the city of David.

8 – David had said on that day, “Whoever would strike down the Jebusites, let him get up the water shaft to attack the lame and the blind, those who David hates.” Therefore it is said, “The blind and the lame shall not come into the house.”

The Lectionary, which thousands of churches follow, omits those three verses. And those three verses completely change the emotional impact of the story. Because without those three verses all we learn about is David becoming king. And with the three verses, we learn what kind of king David would be.

            Victory comes with a cost.

David sent his warriors on a surprise attack into the city through the water shaft. However, they would not only sneak through to shock the enemy combatants, but David also ordered the massacre of the blind and the lame.

And after the carnage, they occupied the stronghold and named the place the city of David. A great and decisive victory for the people of God, one in which even the blind and lame were left bloodied in the streets.

Scripture is no joke my friends. In this crazy and bewildering assortment of poetry, prose, and pragmatism, we discover the incredible mountaintop moments of God’s glory, and the deep valleys of humanity’s shame.

It is said that the winners write the history books, and this is true. Where might we find the details from the Jebusites perspective? Where can we read about the plight of the blind and lame left to die in the city of David?

We can’t, because they lost.

And yet when we look back on the life of David, we know and remember that his first act as king from taking the city of Jerusalem and uniting the people called Israel. But if we follow the lectionary, we lose sight of how far he was willing to go to do so.

On Wednesday morning my family and I piled up our supplies in our Radio Flyer wagon and we made our way down to our neighborhood’s 4th of July parade. We sat in the limited shade with great anticipation as we heard the sirens and marching bands in the distance. And for more than an hour we cheered and celebrated as all sorts of people from the community walked past us in celebration of our country’s independence.

Hours later, we gathered with neighbors for a backyard barbeque and watched as our children splashed around in a kiddie pool. We exchanged stories of 4th of Julys past, and offered thoughts about future celebrations.

In the evening, I rocked my son to sleep with the faint smell of gunpowder wafting up from his hair, still holding on to the firework displays in our front yard, and the distant pops of fireworks echoed in his room.

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It was a great day, one for which I am grateful. I love living in this place we call the United States, for the freedoms I experience to worship the God I love, and to gather with people like you to do so.

            But throughout the sea of red, white, and blue, between hot dogs and hamburgers, surrounding the bright colors in the sky was the constant and ringing reminder: What price did we pay for this?

            Or, better put, what price did others pay for this?

This country, and our love of it, flirts very closely with what Jesus called idolatry. When the country we live in becomes more important than the God who created us, when the lights in the sky on the 4th of July shine brighter than the bread and cup on this table, when we care more about what’s happening in Washington DC than what’s happening in our local community, then we have a problem.

And part of the problem is that, like David, we forget the tremendous cost of our victory.

We don’t take the time to repent for the millions of lives that have been taken in order for us to form a more perfect union. We ignore the stories and plights of the native peoples from whom we stole this land. We dismiss the broken systems of racial inequality that are still very much manifest in ways that began when black and brown bodies were stolen and forced into slave labor. We overlook how women were, and still are, mistreated and disrespected for no reason other than their difference in genitalia.

What we have here, it’s pretty good. Better than most places in the world, if not the best. But it all came with a cost.

People matter. Regardless of whether they are blind or lame, native or immigrant, black or white, male or female, people matter.

And for David, some people didn’t matter.

David occupied the city Jerusalem with the bodies of his own people, by showing up in flesh and blood and bone – By sneaking through the water shaft to kill the blind and the lame.

Centuries ago, this country was occupied with bodies by those who showed up in flesh and blood and bone – By stealing land from those who were here before, by breaking the bones of those forced to work the land, by belittling those who bore the next generations in their wombs.

David occupied Jerusalem with violence, with the threats against the blood and bones of others. So too, America is occupied with violence, with threat against the blood and the bones of others.

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That same violence was present in the city of Jerusalem centuries after David stormed through the city, when the gathered people shouted the name of a different shepherd boy, though this time they demanded for him to be crucified on a cross. With every hammer and nail through his bones and flesh, echoes of the past, present, and future rang for everyone to hear. With his cross hanging high in the sky, all of the bodies whose blood rolled through the streets of Jerusalem, and every broken body that would pave the way for this country were also held high for all to see.

In Jesus we discover the true victory, a triumph that came at the cost of God’s own life. At this meal, in this bread and cup, we find the peace of Jesus that occupies us when we feast. In these pews, in the space between us filled by the Spirit, we experience the beginning of a new reality in which victory is defined not by violence, but by grace.

David is a far more complex character than we ever give him credit for, and America is far more complicit with the violence and brokenness of the world than we often remember, but that does not mean that both of them should be dismissed or broken down. We can still rejoice in the shepherd boy who united Israel, and we can still celebrate the country in which we live. But we cannot forget the cost of their victories, nor can we forget the blood that has been spilled in both of their names.

Because in Jesus’s life, death, and resurrection we encounter the end of sacrifices, the end of violence as a means by which we change the world. Jesus has already changed the world, Jesus occupied our place on the cross, and God is with us. Amen.

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Eucharist as Exodus

Exodus 12.1-14

The Lord said to Moses and Aaron in the land of Egypt: This month shall mark for you the beginning of months; it shall be the first month of the year for you. Tell the whole congregation of Israel that on the tenth of this month they are to take a lamb for each family, a lamb for each household. If a household is too small for a whole lamb, it shall join its closest neighbor in obtaining one; the lamb shall be divided in proportion to the number of people who eat of it. You lamb shall be without blemish, a year-old male; you make take it from the sheep or from the goats. You shall keep it until the fourteenth day of this month; then the whole assembled congregation of Israel shall slaughter it at twilight. They shall take some of the blood and put it on the two doorposts and the lintel of the house in which they eat it. They shall eat the lamb that same night; they shall eat it roasted over the fire with unleavened bread and bitter herbs. Do not eat any of it raw or boiled in water, but roasted over the fire, with its head, legs, and inner organs. You shall let none of it remain until the morning; anything that remains until the morning you shall burn. This is how you shall eat it: your loins girded, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand; and you shall eat it hurriedly. It is the Passover of the Lord. For I will pass through the land of Egypt that night, and I will strike down every firstborn in the land of Egypt, both human beings and animals; on all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgments: I am the Lord. The blood shall be a sign for you on the houses where you live: when I see the blood, I will pass over you, and no plague shall destroy you when I strike the land of Egypt. This shall be a day of remembrance for you. You shall celebrate it as a festival to the Lord; throughout your generations you shall observe it as a perpetual ordinance.

Death is inescapable. We know this to be true because we go to the funerals for the people we love. We know this to be true because we sit in church and listen to people like me talk about it. We know this to be true because just a few weeks ago we were walking around with ashes on our foreheads, and the words you are dust and to dust you shall return were stuck in our minds.

I talk about death a lot because it seems like the rest of the world is hell-bent on denying it. Movie stars and pop icons and even politicians do everything that can to ignore the inevitability of their own finitude; they’ll get the Botox, the facelift; they’ll even participate in culturally relevant memes like dabbing now, or planking a few years ago.

Even in church we like to deny death at times. That’s why far more people will be here on Easter than the rest of our Holy Week Services combined. But if Easter is all about new life, then why should we keep talking about death?

Here in the United States, millions of people gathered in churches like this one on Sunday for the Liturgy of the Palms. Christians, like us, lifted up their palm branches and said those all-too familiar words like “Hosanna!” and “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!” Here at St. John’s I tried my best to impart upon all of us the staggering nature of being able to shout “Hosanna!” on Sunday and “Crucify!” on Friday.

Maybe you were here and heard the gospel. Maybe you didn’t.

But by now I’m sure that most of us heard what happened in Egypt on Sunday. While we American-Christians sat comfortably in our khakis and color-coordinated cardigans, while we shook our nursery grown palm branches, two Coptic Christian churches in Egypt were bombed. Two men strapped explosives to their bodies, walked up to the respective altars, and detonated.

Dozens of people were murdered.

They died doing the same thing most of us were doing: worshipping the living God who rode into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey.

The only difference between them and us, is that they live in a world far more like Christ’s than we do.

What we’re doing here tonight is not a normal thing; it defies conventional wisdom. We could be anywhere doing anything, but instead we came to this place to share the Lord’s Supper. Being Christian is weird, it is strange, it is different. And in a lot of places, that’s enough to get you killed.

And so it was with the first disciples, who sat in a small room surrounded by their friends long ago. We are here tonight to remember what Jesus said and did in that room. The disciples were there that night to remember what God said and did on the first Passover.

The time had come to break free from the tyrannical and dictatorial rule of Egypt and to go to a strange new land. The Hebrew people were enslaved and worked to the death. And, as if that wasn’t enough, Pharaoh ordered the murder of every first-born male in every Hebrew family. Can you imagine the terror of the powers-that-be coming for your baby boy? But these were their lives, living under the shadow of subjugation.

And the time had come to break free.

God spoke to Moses and gave him explicit instructions on what to gather together, how to cook it, and even how to eat it. With specifics like an overly heavy cookbook, God laid out the plans for their deliverance: Every household shall cook and eat and lamb. Blood from the lamb shall be taken and adorned on the doorposts of the house where they eat it. You shall eat it hurriedly, with your loins girded, sandals on your feet, and staff in your hands. This will be the Passover, for the Lord will pass over the homes marked with blood and strike down every firstborn in Egypt, including the animals. But the blood shall be a sign, and nothing evil will come to you. You must remember this day every year, tell the story to your children, and your children’s children, for this is the day you will be delivered from slavery.

That’s the story the disciples gathered to remember. It’s a strange one, but they, like the generations before them, were a product of that story and it shaped everything about their lives.

And while they were sitting at the table, Jesus reached for a common loaf of bread; he gave thanks to God, and shared it with his friends. As they passed the bread around the table, Jesus said, “I am going to do a new thing, I am giving my body for you.”

And then, before the supper was over, Jesus took a cup, gave thanks to God, and shared it with his friends. As they passed the cup around the table, Jesus said, “This cup is my blood of the new covenant. I’m pouring out my blood for you, and for the world.”

In the frame of the blood of the lamb from the first Passover, Jesus poured out his blood as the Lamb of God.

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Whenever we share this meal, we like to talk about forgiveness; being forgiven by God for what we’ve done. And this is good, and right, and true. But the first Passover wasn’t about God forgiving the Hebrew people for anything they had done… Passover was about God making a way out of no way; it was about freedom from tyranny and slavery; it was about the journey to a strange new land.

The Hebrew people took blood from the lamb and it was a sign for them to be saved.

Jesus took the cup and told his friends that his blood was to be their freedom from a different form or slavery, far worse than any power in Egypt then, or now. Through the Lamb of God’s blood, we are freed from death.

While sitting at the table with his friends, it’s as if Jesus is telling them that when they see him hanging on the cross, they should see a door with blood. It’s as if Jesus is telling them that his sacrifice, his death, is our exodus.

It might not feel like it at times, like when we gather in the sanctuary for a funeral or when we turn on the news and see what’s happening in Egypt or Syria or any number of places, but death no longer holds any control over us. For centuries the Hebrew people remembered how God delivered them out of Egypt, and for centuries Christians have remembered how Jesus delivered us out of the slavery to sin and death.

            Jesus is our Passover Lamb.

His blood has been spilled in the cup at our table and it covers the doors of our souls.

Tonight, Coptic Christians in Egypt will gather in their churches to remember Jesus’ final night with his friends, just like we are. They will remember God delivering God’s people out of Egypt, and God delivering them out of the bondage of death.

And we might wonder: Why stay in Egypt? As Christians, why don’t they just leave and go to a place where they can worship without the threat of death? Why not come to a place like the United States where they can be free to worship how they please?

Perhaps they will stay because they’ve already had their exodus. They’ve already been delivered from the reign of death into a strange new land we call the Kingdom of God. Maybe they’ve been shaped by the knowledge and faith that Jesus is their Passover Lamb.

I don’t know what you’re wrestling with tonight, whether you’re feeling God’s presence or it’s been a long time since you’ve felt anything remotely holy. I don’t know what sins you need to confess, or who you need to seek reconciliation with. But what I do know is that this meal is the beginning of our exodus; it is our journey to a strange new land.

So come and see that the Lord is good, let this be a moment of remembrance, and look to the cross as a door covered with blood. Amen.

A Place At The Table – Maundy Thursday Homily on 1 Corinthians 11.23-26

1 Corinthians 11.23-26

For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you, that the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body that is for you. Do this is remembrance of me.” In the same way he took the cup also, after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.” For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

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After the worship service ended, a number of us were standing around and enjoying the fellowship when I overheard a grandson talking with his grandfather. The young boy looked puzzled about something when his grandfather finally inquired as to what had happened. “So let me get this straight, when we have communion, everybody is invited?” the boy asked. “Of course” answered the grandfather. “And did the pastor really say that when we do this we are eating Jesus’ body and drinking his blood?” The grandfather heisted for a moment but then confirmed the question. The boy stood silently for a moment, when all of the sudden a huge smile broke out on his face and he declared, “being a Christian is awesome!

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That, my friends, is sound sacramental theology.

How strange is it, when you take a step back, that for the last two thousand years Christians have been regularly gathering around Christ’s table to partake in his body and blood. We are invited up to the altar to consume Christ just as Christ offered himself to the disciples in their last meal together, and as he offered himself on the cross. This really is an awesome thing that we do, because in doing so we remember and act into the life of Christ, committing ourselves to discipleship here and now.

For years I worshipped with a family that could’ve come from a Norman Rockwell painting. They always sat together in church, the kids dutifully listened to the sermons, and they were regarded with respect by nearly everyone in the community. Everything about the family made them seem perfect, particularly when it came to their first born son. Having cerebral palsy meant he was pushed in his chair into the sanctuary every Sunday morning. His parents were responsible for feeding him, clothing him, and changing him. And though he sometimes gathered stares from others in the congregation, to the family, he was just like everyone else.

I used to love seeing them enter church, I loved how they involved all of their children in everything they did, regardless of differences. It wasn’t until years later that I learned why they started attending our church.

They were a military family, and were moved every few years. This meant that whenever they arrived in a new place they had to lay the foundations for new relationships and social connections. After every move they would begin by finding a local church and would start participating in its ministries. They had been attending their church for sometime, creating new bonds with fellow parishioners, when the church had a communion service for the first time in a while. The family, like all the others, gathered in the center aisle and made their way toward the altar. Each child went forward and received the body and blood, but when the father pushed his eldest son forward in his wheel chair the pastor refused to serve the young man communion. “If he cannot understand what this means, I will not serve him,” was the response from the minister. That was enough for the family to never reenter that church ever again.

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On Jesus’ final evening with his disciples they gathered in the upper room and shared bread and wine, Jesus’ body and blood. Ironically, this sacramental meal which was intended to celebrate the unity of Christians with their Lord and one another has become the source of such division within the church.

Just imagine for a moment, that final evening the disciples had with one another; they had  come so far together. From their humble beginnings, called from their fishing boats and families in Galilee, these ragtag disciples had followed their Lord all the way to Jerusalem. They were the least likely candidates for the kind of mission that God would accomplish in the world, yet they were the ones called and invited to a new life with Christ. Around that table sat fishermen and  tax collectors, men who had abandoned everything they knew for a life of uncertainty following the light of the world. Even Judas, the one who would betray him in a number of hours was invited to the table and was given the body and the blood.

There is a place at this table for you. 

It does not matter where you’re from, who you are, what you’ve done. It does not matter how strong or weak your faith is. It does not matter whether you understand what happens here or not. Surely the disciples did not understand that first time, or they would not have abandoned their Lord the next day as he mounted the hard wood of the cross. I stand on this side of the table, and not even I completely understand what happens in the Eucharist.

It is truly an awesome thing to share this meal because it is mysterious. Somehow, in gathering together, the Holy Spirit is poured down upon us and these gifts of bread and wine so that they become for us the body and blood of Christ.

But even more mysterious than what happens here at the table, is the fact that people like you and me are invited to it. That regardless of our failures and short-comings, in spite of our desertion of Jesus at different times in our lives, and precisely because of our lack of faith, Jesus meets us here at the table.

I have to agree with my young friend from church; being a Christian is awesome