Perceptions from a Pewboy

For most of my childhood and youth, there were three pets in my house. Or, perhaps more accurately, for most of my childhood and youth, there were three pets that permitted the rest of us to dwell in their domain. One dog and two cats. The dog’s name was Jiggers. He was part Toy Terrier and part Pekingese. One of the cats was Siamese. Her name was Wing Wong. The other cat, Muffy, was a tabby.

Jiggers. Muffy. and Wing Wong. It still feels very natural to me to say their names.

The three animals got along pretty well. In fact, they would even sample one another’s food periodically. But every once in a while, if Jiggers the dog became a bit too aggressive in his playtime with the cats, one of the cats would turn toward him and hiss. Whenever that happened, Jiggers, the mighty dog, the fearsome hound, would turn around and run away with his tail between his legs.

No matter how many times it happened, that moment would always fascinate me. It seemed humorously and ridiculously out of order. Dogs were supposed to scare cats. It wasn’t supposed to be the other way around.

We tend to pay particular attention in those moments, don’t we—those moments in which things are out of order? When a cat chases a dog out of a room, we chuckle at the role reversal. When a young child puts her hands on her hips and corrects a parent—“Mommie, you shouldn’t be saying that bad word”—we find humor in the transfer of authority. When a student corrects a teacher’s mistake—“Uh, Mrs. Smith, the correct answer is 14 not 16”—the entire class enjoys the sudden pedagogical shift. We tend to pay uncommonly close attention during those moments in which things and relationships seem to be out of order.

Perhaps that is why the story of Jesus’ baptism has always captured my attention in a very particular fashion. Perhaps I’m intrigued by the story because it places before us a situation that is clearly out of order. Jesus, the Son of God, the incarnation of God’s very heart, comes to John (commonly known as John the Baptist) in order to be baptized in the river Jordan.

According to the Gospel of Matthew’s description of the event (which has always been my favorite description, even though it is not a part of this year’s lectionary), John himself senses that Jesus’ presence before him is out of order. After all, the baptism that John offered was a baptism of repentance, meaning that people would come to him for baptism only when they were ready to turn away from their sin. Why would Jesus, God’s messiah, God’s chosen one, connect himself to such a blatantly human practice?

It is interesting that, in Matthew’s Gospel (Matthew 3:13-17), we are told that John would have prevented Jesus from being baptized: “No, Jesus, this is wrong. This is out of order. This isn’t how it should be. You are God’s Messiah. You are God’s Christ. YOU should be baptizing ME, not the other way around.”

Jesus’ response is significant. “John, let it be this way. Let it be out of order. Because my baptism will fulfill all righteousness.”

What does Jesus mean by that, do you think? “My baptism will fulfill all righteousness.”

In Matthew’s Gospel, righteousness normally means accomplishing the will of God. Therefore, when Jesus says that his baptism will fulfill all righteousness, he may very well be telling John that his baptism will accomplish or bring to fruition God’s perfect will. And why would it be God’s will for Jesus to be baptized? Perhaps because, by allowing himself to be baptized, Jesus creates a public solidarity and oneness with the very people he came into the world to save. By allowing himself to be baptized, in other words, Jesus is making clear to John and the people that he is willing to enter the very same water that they are occupying. He is willing to connect himself to human sin through the water of baptism.

Is God pleased with this moment of baptism? Apparently so. I say that because, during the baptism, something happens. Something supernatural. Something revelatory. Jesus discerns that the heavens have opened. Jesus discerns that God’s Holy Spirit has descended upon him and anointed him. And Jesus discerns the voice of God, whispering a parental word of affirmation: “This is my beloved Son with whom I am well pleased.”

I wonder how many parents have thought the same kind of thing during the baptism of their son or daughter? “This is my beloved child with whom I am well pleased.”

It is an out of order moment. John the Baptist knows that. But according to Jesus, it is God’s will for him to subordinate himself to the water of John’s ministry. “John let it be this way, let it be out of order. Because my baptism will fulfill all righteousness. My baptism will accomplish the will of God. My baptism will make tangible the incarnational solidarity with the Divine that my ministry represents.”

I invite you to consider a possibility. Consider the possibility that we, like John the Baptist, actually have the wherewithal to baptize Jesus all over again. This, of course, is not an effort on my part to minimize or distort the foundational baptism that only Jesus can offer. But perhaps the baptism that we experience in Christ is first received from him and then offered back to him in response.

As people who carry on with the ministry of John, preparing the way for Jesus’ coming and heralding his arrival, perhaps we, like John, actually have the spiritual capacity to offer back to Jesus the ministry of baptism. Only, instead of baptizing Jesus with water as John did, perhaps we have the opportunity to baptize Jesus with the outpouring of our ministry and our discipleship.

Nineteen years ago, I officiated at my very first adult baptism. The one baptized was a 67-year-old woman who had been a woman of faith for many years. Somehow, however, she had missed the sacrament of baptism. Her parents had not pursued baptism for her when she was an infant, and, although she had come to a rich and vibrant faith in Christ, she had simply put off the sacrament. In fact she had put it off for so long that people stopped asking her about it. But it never stopped troubling her that she had not experienced the baptismal water.

And so, at the age of 67, Lottie Cavanaugh came under the water of baptism, and I had the honor of officiating.

Following that worship service, I asked Lottie what she was going to do now that she was a baptized believer. This was her response: “Jesus baptized me with his grace,” she said, “and now I’m going to baptize him right back.”

“Lottie, I’m not sure what you mean by that. What do you mean you’re going to ‘baptize Jesus right back?’”

“That’s how I look at it,” she said. “It’s like this: I look at my life as a pitcher of water. And what I’m telling you is that I want to pour that pitcher all over Jesus so that he can be drenched with my outpoured life.”

Lottie was a bit of a poet—and perhaps a bit of a sacramental theologian.

If I truly believed that I have the wherewithal to baptize the Lord Jesus afresh with the spiritual water of my outpoured love and compassion and mercy, I wonder how it would impact the way I treat people. I wonder how it would change the way I looked upon my possessions and my financial resources. I wonder how it would affect the way I worship and commune with other believers. I wonder how it would deepen the way I live out my discipleship.

It seems out of order, doesn’t it, that we would have the opportunity to baptize Jesus (the very One who baptizes us in grace)? And yet, as John discovered, such an “out of order” experience may very well be a portion of the fulfillment of all righteousness.

In recent days, much attention has been given to Disney’s purchase of Marvel Comics for a cool four billion dollars. While I am not devoid of interest in that transaction, I have been giving far more attention recently to a smaller comic book company called Image Comics. More specifically, I have been reading and re-reading a trade paperback from Image Comics entitled “American Jesus.”

Penned by an award-winning Scottish comic book writer named Mark Millar, “American Jesus” represents a compelling effort to re-frame the narrative of Jesus’ return (second coming) as the story of a seemingly ordinary twelve-year-old boy named Jodie Christianson who begins to perform small miracles, followed by larger ones.

As Jodie’s adolescence continues to unfold, he finds his heart consistently drawn to the possibility that his life has a divine origin and an eschatological purpose. As he learns more about Scripture and christological doctrine, he begins to attach a specific narrative to his personal ontology: specifically, he begins to believe that he is the returned Christ, the incarnation of divinity whose life is to usher in the completion of God’s kingdom.

At first, Jodie is worried about his own mental health. Fearing that he is on a dangerous road to psychosis, he attempts to talk himself out of his delusions of messianic grandeur: “If I really were Christ, why wouldn’t I know about it more definitively? Why would God keep me in the dark until now? It can’t be true.”

Jodie’s convictions begin to change, however, when he finds himself in the center of some bona fide miracles: inexplicable “A’s” on exams, healings, supernatural deliverance from disaster, and even a Lazarus-like resurrection. Once Jodie accepts the fact that he is the source of these miracles, he is left with no choice but to consider the possibility that he is the Christ of whom Scripture speaks.

The British press describes “American Jesus” as “Spider Man meets the book of Revelation.” The magazine SFX describes it as “Harry Potter for Christian fundamentalists.” Both descriptions, I think, are attempts to acknowledge the significance of the nexus between christological narrative and comic book storytelling. It is yet another example of comic books functioning as the cultural hieroglyphics of an increasingly postliterate people.

It is worth noting that, in true postmodern fashion, “American Jesus” frames the Second Coming, not in the institutional church and its pageantry, but in the mundane social network of a small American town (another instance of Bethlehem over Jerusalem, I suppose). Throughout the story, Millar gives frequent expression to the postmodern distrust of institutions (even institutions as blatantly religious as the church). In fact, in “American Jesus,” the church attempts to subvert and rationalize Jodie’s messianic claims. Instead of exploring the mystery in its midst, the church looks to embrace every possible explanation except for the spiritual one. It doesn’t take a brilliant theologian to read between the lines of this not-so-subtle illumination of what Millar perceives to be the spiritual dullness and theological myopia of the contemporary church.

Another ecclesiastical indictment is to be found in Jodie’s relationship with his priest, Father Tom O’Higgins, a weary soul for whom the Mass has lost its meaning. Father O’Higgins attempts to silence Jodie, not because of some malevolent agenda, but simply because Jodie’s claims force him to come to grips with his own agnosticism. (Interestingly, thanks to Peter Gross’ creative artwork in the comic, Father O’Higgins is always painted in muted colors compared to the brightness of the non-ecclesiastical characters. His face is as gray as his faith is.)

In what I consider to be one of the more interesting conversations in the comic, Jodie and Father O’Higgins’ relationship comes to a head:

Jodie: Why can’t you just accept the simplest explanation of what’s happening here, Father?

Jodie: When did you stop believing, Father?

It is a troubling portrait that “American Jesus” offers. It is a portrait of a world in which people have rejected the church, not because the church has believed too much, but because the church has believed far too little. It is a critique that deserves the attention of anyone who wishes to take seriously the church’s continuing ministry. Should you read it, be warned: “American Jesus” is replete with profanity, vulgarity, and unpleasant images. But, then again, that is the world into which Jesus was sent.

On the other hand, I find myself strangely encouraged by “American Jesus.” It offers compelling evidence that, while interest in the organized church has taken some serious hits in recent years, a passionate interest in Jesus is still somewhere very close to the heart of the human pilgrimage.

As I purchased “American Jesus,” the vendor at the comic book store asked me a question as he took note of my purchase: “You’re not one of those Jesus freaks, are you?”

“Actually,” I said, “I suppose that I am.”

“Good,” he said. “Me too.”

Then Jesus looked up at his disciples and said: ‘Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you, revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven; for that is what their ancestors did to the prophets. But woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation. Woe to you who are full now, for you will be hungry. Woe to you who are laughing now, for you will mourn and weep. Woe to you when all speak well of you, for that is what their ancestors did to the false prophets.’ (Luke 6:20-26)

This is a portion of Jesus’ teaching that has come to be called “the Beatitudes.” The word “beatitude” is a derivative of a Latin word that means “blessing,” or, more specifically, “extreme and abundant blessing.” The word “beatitude” became connected to this scripture because, in it, Jesus utilizes the vocabulary of blessing: “BLESSED are you who are poor…”

Of course, what makes this portion of Scripture so unsettling and even scandalous is who it is that Jesus describes as being blessed.

I suspect that the world in which Jesus lived was similar to our world in the matter of defining blessedness. Our ideas of blessedness tend to be formed and driven by a network of presuppositions emerging from what might be called our common sense. Common sense, for example, tells us that it is unpleasant to be poor. Therefore, we quickly arrive at the common sense conclusion that being blessed means a enjoying a condition of wealth and privilege.

Common sense tells us that it is unpleasant to be hungry. Therefore, we quickly formulate the common sense idea that being blessed means having every one of our appetites satisfied the moment they demand to be satisfied.

Common sense tells us that it is unpleasant to weep, or to be hated or reviled because of our faith. Therefore, we quickly manufacture the conviction that blessedness must mean the opposite of such unpleasant realities.

The result of such thinking, of course, is a popular definition of blessedness that I would suspect was the same in Jesus’ day as it is in ours. Blessedness equals wealth and privilege. Blessedness equals a condition that is comfortable and happy and unchallenged.

It is precisely these notions that Jesus challenges in the Beatitudes, and he does so by shattering the people’s presuppositions concerning who is truly blessed in the kingdom of God. Is it the wealthy folks who are blessed in the kingdom of God? “No,” Jesus says. “In fact, woe to you who are wealthy, but blessed are the poor.”

“What?! Wait a minute, Jesus! That goes against what we know to be the economics of blessedness!”

Is it the well-fed who are blessed in the kingdom of God? “No,” Jesus says. “In fact , woe to you whose stomachs are full now, but blessed are the hungry.”

“What?! Back up, Jesus! You had us, then you lost us!”

Is it the happy and the laughing who are blessed in the kingdom of God? “No,” Jesus says. “In fact, woe to you who are laughing now, but blessed are those who weep.”

“OK, now you’ve gone too far!”

Is it the comfortable and the safe and the well-protected who are blessed in the kingdom of God? “No,” Jesus says. “In fact, woe to you who are well-treated now, but blessed are those who are hated and reviled for my sake.”

“Jesus, you’re turning everything upside down!”

Therein, I suppose, is the nature of the Kingdom that God inaugurated through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. It is a Kingdom in which everything is turned upside down (or, more appropriately, right side up). The kingdom of God, to put it another way, is Jesus Christ, shaking up the world and transfiguring the way things are done and conceptualized, in such a way that the world begins to reflect more vibrantly the heart of the One who created it.

If the Beatitudes tell us anything, they tell us that it is impossible to live in the kingdom of God without being reborn into a new way of living and a new way of looking at the world. In the kingdom of the world, the poor, the hungry, and the persecuted are ignored or, at best, pitied. But in the kingdom of God, they are the blessed ones.

Please do not misunderstand the nature of Jesus’ teaching in the Beatitudes. He is not glorifying poverty or human brokenness. He understands, far better than we do, the pain and the heartbreak of these conditions. But perhaps Jesus’ point is that, in the kingdom of God, the poor, the disenfranchised, and the broken are blessed in a very particular sense precisely because they know how desperate and needy they are.

Many of us, after all, live in the illusion of being in control. By contrast, the poor, the disenfranchised, and the broken understand daily their need for salvation and deliverance. Many of us live in the illusion of self-reliance, believing that we have no need for a savior. By contrast, the poor, the disenfranchised and the broken are often fully and eagerly prepared to receive the salvation and wholeness that the kingdom of God makes possible. Many of us have become so dull and desensitized in our places of privilege that we might not even recognize the kingdom when it is right in front of us. By contrast, a desperate, persecuted, and needy soul is often far more attentive and available to the nuances of God’s grace.

After all is said that can be said about the Beatitudes, perhaps Jesus is telling us that the poor and broken have something on us. They have the potential to be more receptive to God’s transformational power than we are, because, quite simply, God is all that they have. For many of us, God is nothing more than a weekend hobby that we accommodate whenever it fits into our busy schedule. In that sense, the poor and the broken may very well be more abundantly blessed than we are simply because they have a greater potential for living in the abundant joy and hope that always accompany a heartfelt reliance on God.

It is most certainly true that we tend to sentimentalize the Beatitudes in our contemporary churches. We tend to put them on church banners. “Isn’t that nice? Jesus is saying something sweet about poor and weeping people.” But the Beatitudes are not to be sentimentalized. Quite the contrary, in fact. We would do well to tremble a bit as we read them. They announce nothing less than the world-altering reality of the Kingdom of God. And none of the other radical teachings of Jesus (like the urgency of loving our enemies and taking up our cross) will make any sense to us unless we first embrace the foundational truth that the Beatitudes make clear—the truth that Jesus is ushering in a new world order.

Have you ever noticed how much of our culture’s music, and literature, and cinema revolves around the issue of reconciliation or potential reconciliation?

That word, reconciliation, is an important word. It is a derivative of a Latin word which means a bringing together of parties that had been alienated or separated.

The Beatles made a musical career out of the subject. Early on, it was “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” which illuminates what is perhaps the most common human symbol for reconciliation—the holding of hands.

Then came songs like “Help:”

When I was younger so much younger than today
I never needed anybody’s help in any way
But now those days are gone and I’m not so self-assured
Now I find I’ve changed my mind and opened up the doors.

Opened up the doors to what? Reconciliation, of course—the condition of being rejoined to those human souls from whom we have allowed ourselves become alienated.

Or how about “Yesterday:”

Why she had to go, I don’t know, she wouldn’t say
I said, something wrong, now I long for yesterday

What is that song but a nostalgic yearning to be reconciled—specifically, a yeaning to be reconciled to a past from which the singer feels strangely alienated. Am I pushing it too far when I say that the yearning of “Yesterday” is a yearning for that “long and winding road that leads to your door?” And what is behind that door? The most important thing of all: reconciliation with a loved one.

The Beatles, you see, made a musical career out of the subjects of reconciliation and potential reconciliation. But they are not alone in that regard. Artists have been addressing the issue of reconciliation for a long time.

Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet” has survived the test of time because of the way in which it makes possible a reconciliation of two lovers and then distorts that reconciliation through a tragic miscommunication and misunderstanding. Harper Lee’s “To Kill a Mockingbird” focuses on the painful absence of reconciliation between the races and the social classes. The entire “Star Wars” narrative is built upon Anakin Skywalker’s journey toward reconciliation with his true self and Luke Skywalker’s desperation to be reconciled to his wayward father. And do we really believe that “Titanic” would have made nearly 2 billion dollars worldwide if it had only been a movie about a sinking ship?! What made the movie so compelling to watch was the relationship between Jack and Rose and the way in which that relationship moved from awkwardness to love to alienation to reconciliation.

The themes of reconciliation and potential reconciliation seem to be somewhere close to the heart of human artistic expression, and one might ask why that is. Why is it that the themes of reconciliation and potential reconciliation are so vastly prevalent in our music and in our literature and in our cinema? I’m not sure I have a definitive answer to that question, but I do have a hunch. My hunch is that the themes of reconciliation and potential reconciliation are as popular as they are because all of us have a sense that we are living in some kind of an alienated condition.

We might not describe it that way very often. We might not even know the right words with which to articulate it. But my hunch is that every single one of us, somewhere in the depths of our soul, has a sense that we are living in an alienated condition—a condition in which we are somehow separated from something or someone important. In the midst of that condition, all of us are somehow yearning for reconciliation. We are yearning, in other words, to be brought back together with that important person or thing from whom or from which we are separated.

As a result, when we encounter the theme of reconciliation or potential reconciliation in a song or in a book or in a movie, it seems perfectly natural to us. Because all of us, in one way or another, are alienated from something or someone and are yearning for the kind of reconciliation that will bring us back home so that we might be in right relationship with the person or thing from whom or from which we are separated.

In his letter to the Roman church, Paul addresses what must surely be considered the separation that undergirds all other separations and the alienation that undergirds all other alienations. I am speaking, of course, of humankind’s alienation from God, and humankind’s separation from right relationship with God, both of which are resultant of the reality of human sin and relentless rebellion against God’s design:

For if while we were enemies, we were reconciled to God through the death of his Son, much more surely, having been reconciled, will we be saved by his life. (Romans 5:10)

It is indeed compelling that Paul, in his eagerness to emphasize the severity of our alienation from God, does not hesitate to use the imagery of two adversarial parties—“enemies,” in fact. It is Paul’s stark reminder to us that, because of our sin and our fondness for it, we find ourselves on the wrong side of a spiritual chasm that we, on our own, are not able to bridge.

The good news—no, the remarkable news—that we are given in this scripture, is that God, through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, has provided the means of reconciliation that we could not provide. The language of Scripture is this: while we were enemies (in other words, God didn’t wait until we had our act together), we were reconciled to God through the death of his Son.

Please do not count on me to explain all of this to you in scientific detail. I can’t. God’s methodology concerning the cross travels well beyond the boundaries of my comprehension. But, somehow—and, by the way, I have become greatly enamored of that word “somehow” in my own personal theology of the cross—SOMEHOW, when Christ suffered and died on the cross, God was mystically and redemptively at work in that happening, transforming it into an occasion of radical reconciliation between a perfectly holy God and an alienated humankind. SOMEHOW, because Jesus was who he was, he gathered into himself on the cross everything that was keeping us away from God, thereby delivering us from the burden of sin; thereby incarnating for us the unfathomable love of God; and thereby making possible the reconciled relationship with God that we, on our own merits, could never generate.

When Paul tells us that “we have been reconciled to God by the death of his Son,” he is placing before us a concept that, in many ways, serves as a theological common denominator in atonement theology. No matter what theory of the atonement we embrace, we ultimately find ourselves bumping up against the biblical truth of a God who stubbornly refuses to allow the reality of sin to separate us from a relationship with the One who breathed life into our lungs, the One who will settle for nothing less than intimacy with us.

On this Good Friday, I am meditating upon the cross and the reconciliation that it represents. As I look upon the cross, I cannot help but think of the God that it reveals to us: A God who traveled “the long and winding road” to human flesh in order to bring to humankind the radical “help” that we so desperately needed, thereby communicating to us how deeply he wants to hold our hand and how abundantly he wants to restore us to the “yesterday” of a reconciled relationship.

Citizenship is no small matter, is it? Our identity and privileges depend largely upon it. The parameters of our living are often dictated by it.

Perhaps it comes as no great surprise, then, that in the third chapter of the New Testament letter to the Philippians, the Apostle Paul utilizes the metaphor of citizenship to describe the reality of God’s salvation in Jesus Christ. Citizenship, after all, was as important to the people of 1st Century Palestine as it is to us, especially given the reality of the Roman Empire. Being able to establish one’s citizenship under Roman rule often meant the difference between life and death.

Therefore, given the considerable weight of the issue of citizenship, the Apostle Paul utilizes the issue as a metaphorical window through which to view the experience of God’s salvation offered to humankind through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. “For many live as enemies of the cross of Christ,” are the words of the 18th verse of the third chapter of Philippians. “Their end is destruction, their god is their belly, and their minds are set on earthly things.”

The Apostle then goes on to articulate what I consider to be one of Scripture’s most compelling expressions of our salvation in Christ: “Our citizenship is in heaven,” Paul writes. “It is from there that we are expecting a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our humiliation into glory.”

It is a biblical moment that makes clear to us that part of our salvation in Christ is a spiritual repatriation. Have you spent any time with that word before—“repatriation”? It is a word often used in political or legal conversations. The word itself, however, literally means returning to one’s homeland or going back to one’s native territory. In fact, the literal meaning of the word in Latin is precisely that: “Re,” which in Latin means “back”; and “patria,” which means “native land”. “Re-patria” means “going back to one’s native land.”

The proclamation of Philippians 3 makes clear to us that part of the salvation that God has offered to us in Jesus Christ is a spiritual repatriation, a return to our spiritual homeland, which is the kingdom of heaven.

What is the kingdom of heaven? People who know me well probably get tired of hearing me talk about it. The kingdom of heaven is not a geographical realm, defended by military and driven by a particular nation’s political ideology. Rather, the kingdom of heaven is the condition inaugurated through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. It is the realm of discipleship and transformed living, the boundaries of which are not nationalistic but rather christological and pneumatological. As a twelve-year-old acquaintance of mine once phrased it, the kingdom of heaven exists “wherever Jesus is living in people’s hearts and shining in people’s lives.”

To be saved by Jesus, then, is to claim a different primary citizenship. Grateful as we are for our nation and the freedoms that it affords to us, our primary citizenship (and, by implication, our primary means of identification) is to be found in a different kingdom, the ethics, priorities, and blessings of which are vastly different than any other kingdom that this world has to offer.

In one of the churches that I served, there was a man who had spent his entire adult life in the military. He had served his country bravely and faithfully. But privately, he frequently talked with me about the sadness of his vocation—the guilt he felt over ending the lives of others in combat, the pain he felt over the horrific memories of war that he could not jettison from his thoughts, the tension that he often experienced between carrying a weapon and carrying the cross. He was a faithful Christ-follower, but he was also a faithful soldier, and sometimes he felt as though he were a part of two worlds. One day he put it this way: “I’ve defended my country,” he said, “because I felt that I had to. But I’m so grateful that my first allegiance is to a kingdom that doesn’t have to be defended with guns and bombs.”

“That’s the kingdom that Jesus brought me into when I was 14 years old,” he said, “and that’s the kingdom in which I’m going to live forever.”

I knew in that moment that I was speaking to a soldier who understood the nature of his primary citizenship.

In my twenty years of pastoral ministry, I have officiated at 197 weddings. That averages out to be about 10 weddings a year. I know the wedding liturgy like the back of my hand. In fact, one time, I was dreaming that I was officiating at a wedding, and when I woke up, I actually was! My experience tells me that, in the cultural hoopla that often surrounds the contemporary wedding, it is becoming increasingly more difficult to maintain a spirit of worshipful and Christ-centered integrity in the process of planning and facilitating a service of Holy Matrimony.

But whenever I am tempted to lose my belief in the sanctity of weddings, I normally spend some time in the second chapter of John’s Gospel. I do this because, in that particular chapter, Jesus finds himself at a wedding. His presence there is a powerful reminder to me that Jesus must have believed that weddings were worth attending and celebrating. His presence at that wedding reminds me that I can ill afford to become so cynical that I lose sight of the sacred marital covenant that lies beneath all the layers of cultural distortion.

The wedding at which we find Jesus is not a celebrity wedding. It is not the wedding of a dignitary or a social bigwig. Rather, it is a small town wedding, filled with small town people. The small town in question is Cana of Galilee. Jesus is there. So is his mother, Mary, and so are his disciples. The fact that all of them were invited leads us to believe that perhaps the bride or groom is a relative of Jesus’ family, or at the very least a close family friend. At any rate, everyone is celebrating—and yes, no matter how hard the faithful United Methodist or Baptist might try to avoid this detail, wine was involved in the celebration. Not drunkenness. Scripture speaks against that. But we cannot deny the fact the celebration of a first century Palestinian wedding included the enjoyment of wine. That detail, of course, makes the crisis of John 2 all the more compelling, and that crisis is this: They run out of wine at the wedding celebration.

Were there more guests than they had anticipated? Were people consuming at a faster rate than they had calculated? Did somebody forget a case of Kendall Jackson down at the state store? We don’t know. All we do know is the celebration is still going on, and there is no more wine to be found.

There’s a panic—much like the panic that would occur at a Steeler tailgating party if the supply of Iron City ran out. Mary, the mother of Jesus, somehow gets pulled into the panic. Maybe someone in the wedding party pulled her aside and said, “Look, we have a little problem here. We’re out of wine. So we thought maybe you could talk to Jesus. We don’t know if it will do any good, but we figure that anyone whose baptism inspires the heavens to open could probably put together a few jugs of cabernet!”

Mary says to Jesus, in true, motherly, passive-aggressive fashion: “They have no wine.”

(Translation: “Jesus, do something!”)

Jesus response is interesting: “Woman,” he says, “what concern is this to you and me?” Don’t assume that there is annoyance or disrespect in Jesus’ words. What Jesus is really asking is a reasonable question: “Woman, is this really something that should concern us? I’m not sure that this is something significant enough for us to panic over. It’s just wine, for goodness sake. What does this have to do with us?” Then Jesus adds this phrase: “My hour has not yet come.” What does he mean by that? Does he mean that the time for miracles has not yet come? Does he mean that the time for revealing his glory has not come? We’re not certain. But it is clear that Jesus’ first inclination here is not to do anything that is going to draw attention to his miracle-working power. He senses that the time is not yet right for that, that the conditions are not yet conducive to people being receptive to what he might have to offer.

Mary, not receiving the response for which she had been hoping, walks off, but not before offering one final word of instruction to the servants who were standing nearby: “Do whatever he tells you,” she says to the servants.

(Translation: “Just in case he changes his mind about doing something to help our wine situation, follow his instructions, no matter how strange they might seem.”)

(Further translation: “Even if Jesus asks you to stand on your head and whistle, do it.”)

We are not told about Jesus’ thought process over the next few minutes of the story. But he must have been thinking about something that inspired him to change his mind. Perhaps it occurred to him how much of a social embarrassment it would be to the bride and groom to run out of wine at their own wedding. Or perhaps he sensed that people would lose their focus on the celebration and start griping about what they didn’t have. Or perhaps Jesus simply had a hankering for a good pinot noir! Whatever his reasoning, Jesus decides to do something significant. He instructs the servants to fill the jars with water, which they do. He then instructs them to give some of that water to the chief steward to try, which they also do. When the steward drinks the water, his tastebuds, along with the tingle in his throat, tell him a mysterious truth: The water was water no longer. Somehow, the water had become very good wine. Problem solved. Crisis averted. Miracle rendered.

This is Jesus’ first recorded miracle in John’s gospel. Part of what I appreciate about the miracle is that it is relatively insignificant and small in the larger scheme of things, especially when compared to some of Jesus’ other miracles. After all, compared to healing a leper, or making a lame man to walk, or blind man to see, or compared to causing Lazarus to walk out of the grave, what’s a little bit of wine at a wedding?

But therein, I think, is part of the revelation. The story tells us that it doesn’t have to be something monumental in order for Jesus to pay attention to it. It simply has to be something close to the human heart. Jesus cares about the things that mean something to us. Think about the significance of that. The God of the Universe becomes incarnate in a Jesus who pays attention even to the small things. People’s feelings. People’s dignity. People’s pain. People’s embarrassment over not ordering enough wine for the wedding. Jesus cares about those things.

He might have said to his mother, “Woman, does this small thing really concern me?” But he eventually answers his own question in the affirmative. “Yes, as a matter of fact, this small thing DOES concern me. And I’m going to do something about it.” In a world in which we are often made to feel anonymous and unknown, as though we are little more than a social security number, tonight we are blessed with a story that reminds us that Jesus is different than the world. Jesus is attentive to the small things like people’s feelings and their wedding celebrations. In that sense, maybe this first miracle is just as important as all the rest, but in a different kind of way.

This was the title of my Christmas Eve sermon this year: “Bing, Bowie, and a Baby in a Manger.” Allow me to explain.

Back in the 1970’s, I spent a good portion of my December watching all of the Christmas specials that the three major networks televised throughout the season. There were the children’s Christmas specials: Rudolph, Frosty, the Grinch, and Charlie Brown. Everyone knows about those. But there were also the family Christmas specials that were hosted by a variety of celebrities.

If you are not old enough to have experienced the 1970’s, this may be a bit difficult for you to understand. But the cultural and social climate of the 1970s created an environment that made it possible for nearly half of the celebrities in Hollywood to host a televised Christmas special. For example, on December 8th, NBC might televise the “Dean Martin Christmas Special,” featuring special guests Sammy Davis Jr. and Raquel Welch. On December 12th, ABC might televise the “Perry Como Christmas Special,” featuring special guests Jim Nabors and Rosemary Clooney. On December 16th, CBS might televise the “Andy Williams Christmas Special,” featuring special guests Lena Horne and the Osmond Brothers.

Bob Hope hosted a Christmas special. So did Johnny Cash. So did John Denver. So did Sonny and Cher. My goodness, back in 1978, even R2D2 and C3P0 hosted their very own Christmas special! These Christmas specials were all about the same. There were Christmas songs, performed amidst holiday settings, that were as colorful as they were cheesy. There were holiday skits that were maudlin enough to tug at the audience’s vulnerable heartstrings. And normally, every special concluded with the host and all of the guests singing one of the “night songs”—either “Silent Night,” or “O Holy Night,” thereby bringing the entire production to a poignant closure.

The king of the celebrity Christmas specials was none other than Bing Crosby. In the 1960’s and 70’s, Bing Crosby hosted 15 Christmas specials, the last of which was televised in 1977, shortly after Bing’s death. The most noteworthy thing about Bing Crosby’s final Christmas special is that it featured a guest appearance by David Bowie, the eccentric and somewhat androgynous rock star who was at the height of his popularity in 1977. Bowie’s appearance on Bing’s Christmas special was no doubt an intentional effort on the part of network executives to bridge the cultural and generational gaps that were developing between older and younger members of the television audience.

The most remembered segment of that 1977 Christmas special was a duet between Bing Crosby and David Bowie. The duet was preceded by a carefully choreographed skit that went something like this: The doorbell rings. Bing Crosby answers it, only to find David Bowie at his door. David Bowie explains that he’s a neighbor living down the road and that he needs a piano so that he can practice his music. Bing Crosby invites David Bowie into the house, they exchange pleasant conversation about their families and the celebration of Christmas, then they make their way over to the piano, upon which happens to be a lovely Christmas duet: Little Drummer Boy/Peace on Earth. They sing it together.

It was a significant moment of television history that many people continue to describe as the bridging of a chasm that had never before been bridged—specifically, the chasm between the world of the classic crooners and the world of rock and roll. Bing represented the big band era. Bowie represented loud guitars, crashing drums, and cryptic lyrics. Bing represented cardigan sweaters. Bowie represented tight pants and make-up. Bing represented “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas.” Bowie represented “Ground Control to Major Tom.” Bing and Bowie, in other words, represented two entirely different worlds that were so different from one another and so often alienated from one another that it had come to be believed that there could be no common ground between them.

And yet, in a simple moment of Christmas music, the worlds of Bing and Bowie intersected in a way that was as significant as it was poignant. A simple Christmas duet became a cultural bridge between two worlds that were thought to be irreconcilable.

Perhaps part of the reason why Bing and Bowie’s duet is on my heart at Christmastime is that I find it to be a good metaphor for the kind of bridge-building that took place on that first Christmas night, 2000 years ago. I say that because, when we dare to look beneath all of the romanticized notions that we might have of the Christmas event, when we dare to travel beyond our sanitized nativity sets and our comfortable Christmas carols, what we find in the Christmas story is a God who brought together two worlds that were thought to be irreconcilable. Think about it this way: Bing and Bowie bridged the alienated worlds of crooners and rock and roll stars with a single duet. Far more impressive, however, is the way in which the God of the Ages bridged the alienated worlds of divinity and humanity with the birth of a single child.

That, after all, is the mind-boggling good news of the Christmas story, isn’t it? Somehow—and that word “somehow” is the right vocabulary to employ here, if we are going to maintain an appropriate sense of wonderment—somehow, in the mystery of gracious divinity, the God of the Ages traveled from eternity to the present moment; somehow, the God of the ages traveled from a heavenly throne to a Bethlehem manger; somehow, the God of the Ages traveled from divine accoutrements to human skin.

Why? Why would God make that kind of trip? Well, that question is answered in a single verse of Scripture, a verse that many Christians memorize when they are very young: “For God so LOVED the world, that he gave his only Son.”

Why would God make the trip from divine accoutrements to human skin? Scripture would have us to believe that God made the trip Because God loves us that much. “In fact,” God proclaims “I love you so much that I am willing to become the bridge. I am willing to come to you in Christ, because I know that you cannot come to me. And I refuse to allow your sin to keep us apart. I refuse to allow the alienation of your disobedience to prevent us from being in right relationship. Therefore, I will become flesh, thereby bridging the chasm between us that you on your own are not able to bridge.”

Back in 1977, Bing and Bowie built a bridge between alienated musical worlds by singing an unexpected duet. 2000 years ago, the God of the Ages built an infinitely more significant bridge between divinity and humanity by wrapping himself up in human flesh, thereby making possible a redemptive duet of salvation, sung by both the angels of heaven and the children of earth. I’m still celebrating that good news as I make ready to enter into a new calendar year.

I confess that I am somewhat of a sentimental fool when it comes to Christmas cartoons and Christmas movies. Tara and I own a good number of them on DVD and watch them every year around this time. One of the things that I have noticed about many of the best known Christmas cartoons and movies is the way in which they often revolve around expectations that are either shattered or, if not shattered, then radically redirected.

In “A Charlie Brown Christmas”, for example, Charlie Brown expects to be despised and humiliated when his sickly Christmas tree bows under the weight of a single ornament. But his expectations are radically redirected when he discovers that the other children have decorated his tree in such a way that the tree becomes something beautiful.

Charlie Brown expected failure. What he found was an unexpected success.

When Bob Cratchit arrives at the offices of Scrooge and Marley on the day after Christmas, he expects to find the same parsimonious and abrasive Ebenezer Scrooge that had been there every other day. But Bob Cratchit’s expectations are radically redirected when he discovers that Ebenezer Scrooge has had a conversion experience, one that inspires him to raise Bob Cratchit’s salary.

Bob Cratchit expected the same old Scrooge. What he found was an unexpected new man.

When the Grinch steals all the presents and decorations from Whoville, he expects all the who’s down in whoville to cancel Christmas. But his expectations are radically redirected when he realizes that the who’s down in Whoville are singing all the louder on Christmas Day.

The grinch expected sadness. What he found was unexpected joy.

In it’s a wonderful life, George Bailey expects to be arrested when he arrives at his home. But his expectations are radically redirected when he realizes that his friends have collected money on his behalf. George Bailey expected imprisonment. What he found was unexpected friendship.

And in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, Clark W. Griswold expects his 25,000 imported Italian twinkle lights to light up. But his expectations are radically redirected when, with the entire family standing on his front lawn, he plugs in the lights and nothing happens.

Clark W. Griswold expected bright lights. What he found was darkness.

So many of the best known Christmas cartoons and movies, you see, revolve around expectations that are shattered, or, if not shattered, radically redirected. Maybe that should come as no surprise to us. Because, after all, the story at the heart of Christmas, is a story that also revolves around redirected expectations. My hunch is that thousands of people in first century Palestine expected their messiah to manifest himself as an heroic military leader or as a radiantly majestic monarch. But their expectations were radically redirected when the Messiah arrived as an infant in swaddling clothes. Some were expecting a General or a King to come out of the messianic arrival. What they found was a vulnerable child.

A portion of Christmas music with which I am familiar puts it this way:

Some were expecting, some were expecting a militant Lord.
Who came with an army and ruled with a sword.
And some were expecting, some were expecting a dazzling array
Of bright lights and banquets and brilliant displays.
But God chose the silence, God chose the silence of a Bethlehem night
When he gave us himself, and he gave us his light.

I am thankful for a God who is not limited by the boundaries of our often myopic expectations.

Is there a song in your heart these days?

Although I do not have any hard statistics to support what I am about to write, my sense is that Christmas is the most musical season of the year. The world about us may offer other occasions for music throughout the year, but those occasions tend to involve only selected groups of people in isolated places. During the Christmas season, however, it seems that the majority of the population chooses to sing—or at least to listen to the singing of others.

This reality can hardly be described as a surprise. The Christmas good news, after all—the coming of a Savior—is far too glorious to be confined to the spoken word. Rather, the good news of Christmas demands the rhythm, poetry, and vibrancy of our richest and most diverse music. Only the tones, chords, and melodies of music can give adequate expression to the mystery and miracle at the heart of our Christmas celebration.

I wonder if the angels sang when they communicated with the shepherds on that first Christmas night? I wonder if the shepherds hummed a tune of praise as they walked back to their flocks after seeing the Christ child? I wonder if Mary and Joseph sang some sort of lullaby to their baby boy? It wouldn’t surprise me if they had. It was the kind of night that called for music.

This is Christ the King weekend in the Christian tradition. Although “Christ the King” is frequently ignored because of its proximity to the culture’s celebration of Thanksgiving, it is nevertheless an important yearly affirmation and celebration of the Lordship and universal Kingship of Jesus Christ. Given the fact that our nation just elected a new president, Christ the King weekend has about it a particular sense of urgency this year. On Christ the King weekend, the church celebrates the fact that, no matter who is in the White House, the Lord Jesus Christ still occupies the most important office of all.

During this year’s Christ the King weekend, the song “Come Be Our King” will be part of my church’s liturgy at all three of our weekend worship services. The lyrics of that song have become a personal prayer for me in recent days:

Yours is the throne of eternity. Come fill the throne of our heart.

Yours is a kingdom of righteousness. Come now your reign to impart.

Chorus: Come, Lord Jesus, reign in us. King of Glory, reign in us.

Be the Monarch of our mind. Be the Sovereign of our soul.
Bring your Lordship into our lives. Come be our King. Come be our King.

You are the Lord of creation. Come now your people to raise.
You govern with wisdom unspeakable. Come wear the crown of our praise. (chorus)

Truth, grace, and love are your politics. Holiness covers your throne

Now be enthroned in your people. Come now and make us your own. (chorus)

I pray that all of you will experience this often-overlooked weekend in the Christian year as a unique opportunity to reflect upon the peculiar royalty of the One we follow. He is the Lord of Creation and the Savior of the world. He is the supreme and only ruler of a Kingdom that he himself established through his life, death, and resurrection. He is a monarch whose reign is eternal (meaning that he never has to campaign, thank God—and he never has to be re-elected!).

In short, on Christ the King weekend, we remember that the Kingdom of God is not a democracy but a monarchy, one that will stand long after all the other kingdoms of this world have fallen.

The question that I find myself pondering, however, is a question that relocates my focus from the cosmic significance of Jesus’ kingship to its personal implications. The question to which I am making reference is this: Although Jesus is the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords, am I allowing him to occupy the throne of my heart? In other words, am I allowing the Lord Jesus to hold governance over every segment of my living, so that my entire life bears consistent witness to the ongoing reality of his kingdom?

Indeed, come, Lord Jesus, reign in us. King of Glory, reign in us.