Tag: hell

Seeing Clearly in a Violent World

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Lent, Sermons Year ALeave a comment

John 9:1-41

Our gospel lesson today speaks about a kind of blindness that has nothing to do with our eyes but has everything to do with how we see God.

Jesus and his disciples encounter a man who has been blind from birth. He sits beside the road like so many people society has learned not to see. He is not asked his name. He is not asked his story. Instead, he becomes a theological puzzle. The disciples look at him and ask a question that has echoed through centuries of religion: “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

Do you hear the assumption beneath that question?

If something is wrong, someone must be to blame.
If someone is suffering, God must be punishing them.
If tragedy occurs, it must somehow be deserved.

The disciples are not asking how to help the man, how to love the man. They are asking how to explain him. And that, my friends, is one of the oldest forms of spiritual blindness.

Because when we cannot see God clearly, we begin to see one others through the lens of judgment. We categorize people. We label. We decide who is worthy and who is not. We divide the world into the righteous and the sinners, the blessed and the cursed, those who matter, and those we can write off.

But Jesus refuses the premise of their question. He says, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned.”

In other words: You’re asking the wrong question!

The blindness in this story is not just in the eyes of the man sitting beside the road. The deeper blindness is in the religious imagination that believes God would punish a child before he was even born.

The truth is: that’s exactly how many of us were taught to see God.

The truth is: that’s exactly how some of us were taught to see God, a God who created a heaven for some and hell for others—a divine sorting system separating the saved from the damned. We were also told God knows all, past, present, and future. That means God created some people, all the while knowing, they would be tortured in hell for all of eternity.

And somewhere along the way, the fear of God instead of the love of God, became the engine of our faith.

Today, we are grateful to have Brian Recker with us, whose work explores how that fear has shaped Christian belief and practice for generations. And how when fear shapes our theology, it inevitably shapes our ethics.

Because if God condemns, we learn to condemn. If God divides humanity into insiders and outsiders, we feel justified doing the same. If God punishes people, then punishment itself begins to look holy. And if God punishes people eternally, then taking the life of another can start to look holy too.

Over time, that vision of God begins to justify things we might otherwise resist.

It rationalized stealing this land we enjoy.

It justified slavery.
It defended segregation.
It condemns LGBTQ people as beyond God’s love.

And it whispers that violence, war, and domination are acceptable tools in the hands of those who believe they are on God’s side.

Fear does not just distort our picture of God. It distorts how we see one other. And it doesn’t save us from hell. It unleashes hell on earth.

The good news is that Jesus reveals a very different vision of God. He doesn’t argue theology with the disciples. He doesn’t stand above them looking down on them, violently lashing out at them.

He bends down to the ground. He kneels in the dirt. He spits in the dust and makes mud that he places on the man’s eyes, telling him to go wash in the Pool of Siloam.

It’s a strange miracle of mud, spit, and dust. But it’s the same dust from which the book of Genesis says humanity was first formed. It’s almost as if Jesus is re-creating this man’s sight from the very soil of creation itself.

And when the man washes, suddenly he can see. But here’s the irony: the man who had been blind can now see clearly; but the religious authorities, those who believe they understand God the best, cannot.

They interrogate the man. They question his parents. They debate whether the miracle could possibly have happened. And finally, when the healed man refuses to abandon the truth of what he has experienced, they throw him out. Because when love disrupts a theology built on fear, the system is threatened.

Sometimes it’s easier to deny a miracle than to change our picture of God.

During my time in New Orleans planting a new expression of church, a movement that we called, “Just Love Your Neighbor,” I also served as an “as needed” or “PRN” hospice chaplain, like I do now.

I had a Jewish patient who had been married to a Christian for over 50 years.

After his death, his wife asked me to preach his funeral service. When I asked why she didn’t want to ask her pastor, she responded: “I am afraid that he might insinuate my husband is in Hell because he is not a Christian, and I know you will not do that.”

After the funeral, she started participating in our new movement, giving her time and her dollars, while remaining a member of her church.

Over time, she opened up about the frustration that was leading her to reject the things that she was being taught in her church.

One day, she said something like: “I was always taught that God loved me. But I was also taught that if I didn’t believe the right things, particularly about Jesus, God would send me to hell forever. But I think I am beginning to realize: that’s not love; that’s a threat.”

She paused for a moment and then said quietly, “I don’t think I’ve ever actually met the God Jesus talked about.”

That widow was not rejecting her church. She was rejecting her church’s distorted image of God. She was rejecting a God who looked suspiciously like our fears.

And she’s not alone.

There are countless people, here in this city, who are walking away from church, not because they’ve rejected the love of God, but because they cannot reconcile that love with the threat of eternal punishment.

Sometimes, the people some say have lost their faith, or doubt their faith, are actually the ones who see God the most clearly.

And the ones who are the most certain, those who say they see clearly, the ones we hear saying “The Bible is clear…,” are actually the ones who are the most blind.

And this blindness doesn’t only affect individual lives. But it shapes the entire world.

Right now, we are witnessing what happens when this blindness goes unchallenged. Missiles continue to cross the skies of the Middle East, and this week we learned that one of them, fired by our own country, struck a school in Iran, killing children as they sat in their classroom. Children at their desks. Children with books open in front of them. Children who woke up that morning expecting an ordinary day at school and instead became casualties of war.

No child should ever have to die because adults could not find another way.

If we can hear that story and not feel something break inside us, then perhaps the blindness Jesus speaks about has reached deeper into our hearts than we realize.

Because no matter which flag flies over the missile launcher, the God Jesus revealed is not the author of bombs that fall on children.

And yet, the language of righteousness still fills the air.

Every nation says God is on their side.
Every government says the violence is necessary.
Every military claims the destruction is justified.

But when we look through the eyes of Jesus, we begin to see something different.

We see children in classrooms who never chose this war.

We see parents praying the same desperate prayer on every side of every border: “O God, let my child live!”

And if we can see that, if we truly allow ourselves to see it, then we must ask an uncomfortable question: How did a faith centered on the Prince of Peace become so comfortable blessing violence?

Part of the answer is in the way we imagine God. For when we believe in a God who punishes, violence begins to look like divine justice.

But when we see the God revealed in Jesus, the God who heals instead of harms, who forgives instead of retaliates, who tells us to love even our enemies, then war begins to look less like righteousness and more like the tragic consequence of humanity still struggling to see clearly.

At the end of the story, Jesus finds the man who has been cast out by the religious authorities. And the man does something remarkable. He believes. Not in a doctrine. Not in a system. But in the love of the one who healed him. He trusts the love he encountered. And that is the heart of this story.

The miracle is not simply that a blind man gains sight. The deeper miracle is that Jesus reveals what God actually looks like.

A God who does not stand far away diagnosing sin. But a God who kneels in the dust beside human suffering. A God who touches our wounded places without hesitation. A God who sees us completely, and loves us anyway, unconditionally, unreservedly, and does all that God can do to recreate, restore, and resurrect.

When we begin to see God that way, something inside us changes. Shame begins to loosen its grip. Hatred begins to lose its power. The walls between “us” and “them” begin to crumble. And the people we once feared begin to look like neighbors again.

Near the end of the story, Jesus says something haunting: “I came into this world so that those who do not see may see, and those who think they see may become blind.”—Reminding us that the greatest spiritual danger is not doubt. It is certainty. Especially certainty about a God who violently condemns anyone before they were born.

But the good news of the gospel is that Jesus is still opening eyes, still kneeling in the dirt of our world, still touching wounded lives, and still inviting us to wash away the old stories that told us God was against us.

And when our eyes finally open, we may discover something astonishing. The God we feared was never really there. And the God who is there has been loving us all along.

Later today, Brian will help us explore what it means to move beyond a faith driven by fear of hell toward a spirituality rooted in love. And that journey, from fear to love, is exactly the journey this gospel story invites us to take.

The man healed by Jesus ends this story with a simple testimony: “One thing I do know: I was blind, but now I see.”

That may be the most honest confession any of us can make. Because faith is not about having every answer. It’s about learning to see. Seeing the love that is God more clearly. Seeing our neighbors more compassionately. Seeing our enemies more humanly. And seeing the world as Jesus sees it: a world filled with beloved people; a world worth healing; a world where love, not fear, has the final word.

And when we finally see that clearly enough, we may find ourselves saying with the man in the story: “One thing I do know, I was blind, but now I see!”

Amen.

Woe to Selfish Religion

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Sermons Year CLeave a comment

Amos 6:1, 4–7; Luke 16:19–31

If you missed it, some Christians spent the first part of last week preparing for “the Rapture” which was supposed to have happened on Tuesday. Videos were posted of excited believers talking about getting their affairs in order, sharing their plans for their property and pets, in the event that they get swept up in the sky to meet Jesus, leaving all non-believers on earth to suffer tribulation.

This wild belief we call “the rapture” didn’t come from any responsible interpretation of scripture, but from a vision of a young Scottish woman named Margaret McDonald who, in 1830, dreamed about people flying away to heaven to escape hell on earth. Her dream was shaped by preachers who taught that the world’s problems were just too great, too hard, too much for human beings to solve.

That dream later made its way into the Scofield Study Bible, then into movies and novels like The Late Great Planet Earth and the Left Behind series, and of course, into pulpits across America. Though based on a gross misreading of scripture, it is often preached as gospel truth, terrifying folks into “getting saved.”

Before I was baptized when I was eleven, I remember lying awake worried I’d wake up to find that my parents had been raptured away, leaving me behind to raise my little brother and sister. However, I did take some comfort thinking that since Nana and Granddaddy didn’t go to church, and granddaddy drank beer, maybe they’d still be around to take care of us.

Another teaching that haunted me as a child came from Jesus’ parable of “the Rich Man and Lazarus.” I can still see myself on those hard wooden pews as preachers painted vivid pictures of the flames of hell. If I didn’t “get saved,” they said I would one day gaze into heaven from my eternal home in hell, begging for a sip of water.

The message was clear: unless I walked down that aisle, I would either die and suffer forever in hell, or be left behind after the rapture to suffer the tribulation.

Notice what both teachings did. By telling us that faith was about escaping suffering, they took all the focus off addressing the suffering and pain of this world. They made us forget that Jesus actually taught us to live a way of love that relieves suffering here and now. They drained away any responsibility we might have to work in our broken world for justice, peace, and mercy.

And maybe that was the point, the whole scheme all along. Because following Jesus is not easy. Following Jesus means helping people like Lazarus. Following Jesus means always standing in solidarity with the poor and marginalized. Following Jesus means challenging systems of greed and injustice that keep some people feasting while others starve. And that is much harder than saying a quick prayer to escape hell.

But the gospel was never intended to be an easy way out. The gospel has never been about escaping suffering. On the contrary, the gospel has always been about suffering with and for the poor, because it is good news for the poor. It is liberation for the oppressed. It is God’s vision of justice, mercy, and peace on earth. It is repenting from fear, selfishness, and greed to embrace love, selflessness, and generosity.

Let’s return to the parable. An unnamed rich man dressed in purple feasted every day. At his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, longing for crumbs. Even the dogs showed him more compassion than the rich man.

When both die, Lazarus is carried into Abraham’s bosom while the rich man suffers torment. But notice that, even then, the rich man doesn’t repent. He still treats Lazarus as a servant: “Send him to me with some water.” “Send him to warn my brothers.” He never once says, “I am sorry for ignoring Lazarus. I am sorry for building a gate to shut him out. I am sorry I closed my eyes to his suffering.”

There is no repentance. Only entitlement.

And Abraham’s reply is devastating: “They have Moses and the prophets. If they will not listen to them, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.”

That’s the tragedy of this parable. It’s not simply about torment after death. It’s about the refusal to listen and to change. People can hear the prophets, even witness resurrection, yet still cling to greed and selfishness. People can be easily brainwashed into thinking that faith is about saving themselves, not about transforming the world.

And so today, many have been brainwashed by preachers, politicians, and propaganda machines into believing the gospel has nothing to do with loving Lazarus at the gate, nothing to do with compassion for immigrants, nothing to do with healthcare, housing, or hunger, nothing to do with injustice. “Just say the ‘sinners’ prayer,’ secure your ticket, and let your neighbor take care of himself.”

But Jesus says otherwise.

Through this parable, Jesus is giving the same warning Amos gave centuries before:

“Woe to those at ease in Zion. Woe to those who lounge on ivory couches, who eat lambs from the flock, who drink wine by the bowlful, and anoint themselves with the finest oils, but are not grieved over the ruin of the nation.”

Amos saw people living in luxury while their neighbors suffered. Jesus saw it too: a rich man feasting while Lazarus starved at his gate. Both are indictments of those who refuse to listen and change.

And this is not just ancient history. This is us.

Today, we live in a society where billionaires launch rockets into space while children go to bed hungry. Wine is consumed by the bowlful while communities like Flint and Jackson are poisoned by contaminated water. People recline on ivory couches while their neighbors suffer.

And today, we see friends, neighbors, even family so brainwashed by lies that nothing can change their minds. Someone could shoot a man on Fifth Avenue, and they still wouldn’t change.

Behind the gates of fascism today is Lazarus. Lazarus is our LGBTQ neighbor under attack by lawmakers and preachers who twist scripture into a weapon.

Lazarus is the immigrant locked in detention centers, or drowned at sea, while politicians build careers on cruelty.

Lazarus is the scientist and teacher defunded and mocked so that ignorance can rule.

Lazarus is the journalist, librarian, or truth-teller threatened for speaking up.

Lazarus is the Black and brown neighbor targeted by violence and mass incarceration.

Lazarus is the Palestinian neighbor starving in the rubble of Gaza.

Lazarus is always the poor—always—while the rich anoint themselves with oil.

And churches are complicit by clinging to a false gospel of escape-from-it-all.

Preach healthcare as a human right and you’ll be told, “That’s socialism.”

Preach feeding the hungry and you’ll hear, “That’s enabling laziness.”

Preach racial justice and they’ll say, “That’s too political.”

They’ll say anything to avoid listening and changing. “Just focus on getting people ready for eternity!” they’ll say.

But Jesus says: that’s not the gospel. The gospel is about loving Lazarus at the gate. The gospel is not about escaping hell. The gospel is about making life less hellish now. The gospel is about God’s kingdom coming on earth as it is in heaven.

And let’s be honest: being told you are wrong is tough to hear. It’s hard to confront our comfort, our privilege, and our complicity. It’s hard to admit, “I was wrong. I shut my gate. I ignored Lazarus.”

But that’s the hard and narrow way of the gospel. The good news is not escape from this world. The good news is that God is redeeming this world, and invites us to hear that news, to repent and to join. The good news is that Jesus has already crossed the great chasm to bring heaven’s love into earth’s suffering. The good news is that resurrection is real, that life can triumph over death, love over hate, justice over greed.

The gospel is more demanding than the sermons that once terrified us, but it’s also more beautiful. For it’s not about fear. It’s about love. It’s not about escape. It is about engagement.

It is about getting up from our couches of comfort and walking out to the gate where Lazarus is lying. It is about opening the gate wide and saying, “You are not left behind. You are not forgotten. You are my neighbor, and I am called to liberate you, to love you.”

The gospel calls us to open the gates of our churches, not just for Sunday worship but for Monday mercy and Tuesday justice, everyday peace-making. The gospel calls us to open the gates of our politics, our budgets, our neighborhoods, so that the poor are lifted, the hungry are fed, the sick are cared for, the oppressed are liberated.

This is not charity. This is not pity. This is gospel. This is resurrection life breaking into a world addicted to death and people addicted to an easy way out.

Our scripture lessons present us with a choice. Will we sit behind our gates, pretending nothing can change? Or will we rise to the call of Amos, of Jesus, of the resurrection itself?

The world is aching today for a church that will live the gospel. The world is waiting for Christians who will trade their rapture charts for justice marches, their escape plans for solidarity plans, and their fear of hell for the hard work of making life less hellish for Lazarus at the gate.

The Spirit of God is calling us right now to repent of selfish religion and embrace liberating love. To turn from the false gospel of escape and to embrace the true gospel of engagement.

The Spirit is pleading with us to listen. Listen to Moses and the prophets. Listen to Amos crying out from the marketplace. Listen to Jesus telling of Lazarus at the gate. Listen to resurrection itself”

“Don’t harden your hearts! Don’t cling to selfish religion! Don’t mistake fear for faith!”

For there’s no problem in the world too great, too hard, or too much for the disciples of the Christ!

Because here’s the promise: if we choose love, if we listen, if we take Lazarus’ hand at the gate, we will find God already there, already at work, already making all things new.

So, disciples of Christ:

Let’s open the gate!

Let’s step through the fear!

Let’s take Lazarus’ hand!

And let’s walk together into God’s new creation!

For the good news is this:

God is making all things new.

And God is calling us, here and now, to join in that work.

Amen.

Pastoral Prayer

God of all nations and peoples,

we gather today with hearts full of both gratitude and grief.

We give thanks for life, for breath, for the gift of community.

We give thanks for beauty—in the turning of the seasons,

in the laughter of children, in the resilience of your people.

Yet, we also bring to you our burdens.

We pray for those who are sick and struggling,

for those who carry heavy grief,

for those living with fear, with hunger, with loneliness.

We pray for communities torn apart by violence and war,

for families separated by borders,

for the earth groaning under fire, flood, and storm.

God, we confess how easy it is to turn away from pain,

to shield our eyes from suffering,

to harden our hearts to injustice.

But you have called us to love our neighbors as ourselves.

You have called us to seek justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with you.

So today, O Lord, give us the courage to see as you see,

to love as you love, to live as your children, bound together in one human family.

Where there is despair, make us bearers of hope.

Where there is hatred, make us instruments of peace.

Where there is apathy, stir us to act with compassion.

We offer all our prayers—spoken and unspoken—in the name of the One who came that we might have life, and have it abundantly,

Amen.

Pastoral Prayer

God of all nations and peoples,

we gather today with hearts full of both gratitude and grief.

We give thanks for life, for breath, for the gift of community.

We give thanks for beauty—in the turning of the seasons,

in the laughter of children, in the resilience of your people.

Yet, we also bring to you our burdens.

We pray for those who are sick and struggling,

for those who carry heavy grief,

for those living with fear, with hunger, with loneliness.

We pray for communities torn apart by violence and war,

for families separated by borders,

for the earth groaning under fire, flood, and storm.

God, we confess how easy it is to turn away from pain,

to shield our eyes from suffering,

to harden our hearts to injustice.

But you have called us to love our neighbors as ourselves.

You have called us to seek justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with you.

So today, O Lord, give us the courage to see as you see,

to love as you love, to live as your children, bound together in one human family.

Where there is despair, make us bearers of hope.

Where there is hatred, make us instruments of peace.

Where there is apathy, stir us to act with compassion.

We offer all our prayers—spoken and unspoken—in the name of the One who came that we might have life, and have it abundantly, Amen. 

Invitation to Communion

Beloved, this table is not a table of ivory and luxury—it is the table of Christ.
Here, there is no rich man and poor man, no gate to divide us, no crumbs and banquets—only bread broken for all, only a cup poured out for all.

At this table, Lazarus is lifted up, the hungry are filled, and the comfortable are called to share.

Here we taste a different kind of feast—the feast of God’s justice, the feast of Christ’s love, the feast that anticipates the kingdom where none are excluded.

Come, not because you want to be fed, but because God calls you to be transformed.

Come, for all are welcome.

Invitation to the Offering

In the parable, the rich man ignored Lazarus at his gate. At this moment, Lazarus is still at our gate—in our neighborhoods, in our city, in our world.

Our offering is not a transaction. It is an act of resistance. It says we will not be numb. We will not pass by. We will not close our eyes to suffering.
Through our gifts, we choose to see Lazarus, to love Lazarus, to stand with Lazarus.

Let us give, then, not from ease or obligation, but from compassion, solidarity, and joy in God’s vision of justice.

Benediction

Go forth, people of God,
not with a gospel of escape,
but with the good news of engagement.
Go forth, to open the gates,
to love Lazarus at the threshold,
to stand with the poor, the silenced, and the oppressed.
Go forth, to listen to Moses and the prophets,
to follow Jesus in the way of love,
to live resurrection life in a world addicted to death.
And as you go,
may the God who makes all things new
strengthen you,
the Christ who crossed the great chasm walk beside you,
and the Spirit who will not be silenced empower you—
today, tomorrow, and forevermore. Amen.

Why the Risen Christ Ate a Piece of Fish

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn EasterLeave a comment

fish1

Luke 24:36-53 NRSV

I often wonder what people mean when they say they are “spiritual.”  I hear people say: “I am not religious, but I am a very ‘spiritual’ person.”  “I don’t attend church, but I am quite ‘spiritual.’”

As a Christian, I sometimes find this odd as not even the risen Christ seemed to be all that spiritual. In fact, as our scripture lesson points out, the gospel writes, especially Luke, seem to go almost out of their way to point out the very physical, not spiritual, nature of the risen Lord.

Luke points out that Jesus asked the disciples to touch him and see that he had flesh and bones; not some spirit or ghost.  Jesus showed his disciples his hands and his feet which were scarred from his crucifixion. And then to still prove that he was there in the flesh and not in some spiritual form, he asked the disciples for something to eat. Then they give him a a piece of broiled fish that he eats in their presence.

The question that I want us to ask together this morning is: What is Luke trying to tell us by giving us this unusual and somewhat strange presentation of Jesus to the disciples? Why does the risen Christ eat broiled fish?

I have heard some preachers say that Luke was giving us a clue of what heaven is going to be like and what we will be like when we, like Jesus, are resurrected.

When I was growing up, my home church had a week of revival every August.  We had services Sunday Night through Friday night and we would always conclude the revival with a fish fry on Saturday.  Six long nights: 30 minutes of singing, one hour of preaching, and then thirty more minutes of altar call. I remember that these annual revival services used to scare me to death. The guest preachers would come into town and preach that heaven or hell was right around the corner and we better get ready. Although I’d never feared going to hell, as a nine, ten, eleven year old, going to heaven was not a place I wanted to visit anytime soon.

I used to hate going to revivals. On top of being frightening, it was hot, had to dress up, wear a tie, for six long nights, two hours a night. The only thing that got me through the week, and I suspect a few others, was the big, delicious fish fry that awaited us on Saturday.

Every year, without exception, preachers would come and scare me with their heaven-or-hell-is-right-around-the-corner sermons.  However, I remember that one preacher preached a particular sermon that made me feel a lot better about going to heaven. It was Friday night, and bless his heart, he was trying to connect the revival service with the fish fry that everyone was looking forward to the next day. He said that one of the most appropriate things we can do at the end of these services is to have a fish fry. He said, “After all, most all of Jesus disciples were fishermen. It also seems like Jesus himself liked to fish. And when we all get to heaven at the resurrection, we are all going to sit down with Jesus and eat fish, because after he was resurrected, Jesus ate some fish with his disciples.”

I wanted to shout, “Amen!”  Because that preacher answered one of those tough theological questions that no one could answer for me, a question that was more important than where did God come from and who was Cain’s wife: “Are we going to be able to eat in heaven?”  For all of us who live to eat instead of eat to live, this was good news. The answer is yes. We are going to be able to eat fish. For someone who loves seafood, it took the fear of dying right away.

I love this idea; however, I believe Luke is trying to tell us something more. I believe the fact that Luke tells us that Jesus offered his physical body for examination and eats fish in the disciples’ presence, tell us something very important about who the risen Christ is and who we are called to be as Christians.

First of all, Luke wants us to know that the risen Christ is in fact the same Jesus who died. The Christ the disciples saw was the same Jesus who suffered and died a horrible, degrading death on a cross. We need to get this for the risen Christ’s identification with the suffering Jesus is critical, not just for sound theology, but for defining the nature of the Christian life and who we are to be as Christians.

If the risen Christ the disciples now follow is not the same as the Jesus who suffered and died, then the Christian life takes on forms of spirituality that are without suffering for others, without a cross, without any concern for the suffering of this world. If the risen Christ is not the Jesus who died, then our eyes would be focused only on heavenly matters and not on the problems of this world.

Even Paul, who makes few references to the historical Jesus, insisted in his letters on joining crucifixion with resurrection. Paul always proclaimed “Christ crucified.”  The risen Lord that we worship has nail scars in his hands and on his feet. Thus, Luke points out that Jesus said, “See my hands and my feet.” The empty tomb is directly tied to the cross. The wonderful message of Easter is forever joined to the suffering of Good Friday.  To follow the risen Christ is to follow the one who bore the cross.

Ok, preacher, I get that, but what does that really mean to us and how should that affect the way we should live as Christians?  Here it goes:

I think it is perfectly fine and healthy to think and dream about going to Heaven one day.  It is fine to have the hope that someday, somehow, some way there’s not going to be anything more to fear or dread. It is wonderful to know a time is coming when there is going to be no more crying, no more pain, and no more death. It is great to sing those great hymns of faith, the ones we sang during our six night revival services, such as “When We All Get To Heaven,”  “In the Sweet Bye and Bye we Shall Meet On that Beautiful Shore,” “When the Roll is Called up Yonder,” and “Shall We Gather at the River,” but if Heaven is the only place our hearts are, if going to Heaven is the only reason we are Christians, then we have missed the whole point of who Jesus Christ is and who we are called to be as Christians.

As Christians, our eyes are to always be focused on the suffering of this world. Our Lord is not only the one who is exalted and glorified, but our Lord is the one who was rejected, suffered and died.

When we look at the frail bodies of the hungry, we are looking at the frail body of Jesus.

When we see the parched lips of the thirsty, we see the parched lips of Jesus.

When we walk by the homeless beggar on the street, we walk by Jesus.

When we meet people who are disabled, physically, mentally, and socially, we meet Jesus.

When we encounter minorities who have been oppressed for their religion, for what country they’re from, for their sexuality, or for the color of their skin, we encounter Jesus.

When we visit the sick in hospitals, the forgotten in prisons, the elderly in nursing homes, the widows and widowers who sit all alone day after day, we visit Jesus.

When we reach out with grace and forgive and love even those who have committed unspeakable sins against us, we reach out to Jesus.

When we make the church a place of grace for all people, especially for those who have been marginalized or demonized by society, culture and bad religion, then we make a place of grace for Jesus. When we do it for the least of these our brothers and our sisters, we do it for Jesus.

And there’s more, much more…

Since we know that the risen Christ we serve is a Christ who knows suffering, who knows what it is like to be a human being, and experience the evils of this world, when we find ourselves overwhelmed by the suffering and pain of this world, we can have faith that Christ is there suffering with us and feeling our pain. And giving us hope and understanding and grace as only a loving God who knows suffering can give.

When we are overwhelmed by grief and loneliness, Christ is there.

When we reach the ends of our ropes and feel that we can not take it anymore, Christ is there.

When we hear words from our doctor’s like:  heart disease, cancer, diabetes, pneumonia, Alzheimer’s, inoperable, and terminal, Christ is there.

When human mistakes seek destroy relationships with the ones we love, Christ is there.

When it seems there is nothing holding together our marriages, Christ is there.

And when we are faced with the knowledge of our own imminent deaths, and feel abandoned, even by God, when we want to cry out with a loud voice, “My God, My God why have you forsaken me?” Christ is there.

This is why Luke places so much emphasis on Jesus’ physical nature. This is the reason the risen Christ ate a piece of broiled fish with his disciples. Although it is a good thought, Luke does not write this to tell us that when we all get to heaven we will all get to stuff our faces with seafood. He is telling us a more important message: a message that the disciples got and gave their physical lives proclaiming.

This is why every disciple, except for John, who experienced the risen Christ were killed for preaching “Christ Crucified.”  John died for his preaching all alone on the island of Patmos in prison after writing the book of Revelation.

May each of us, like the disciples, hear Luke’s message this morning. And may each of us, like the disciples, give our physical lives, our bodies, broken, our life, outpoured, proclaiming with our words and by our deeds, “Christ Crucified.”

Saving the Soul of the Church

On By Rev. Dr. Jarrett BanksIn Short Articles, UncategorizedLeave a comment

These days, churches are not only in danger of losing their members, many are in danger of losing their souls.

There are some pastors who look at their pews on Sunday mornings and assume that the reason they are empty is because the vast majority of people today have rejected Jesus, as they believe much of this world is going straight to Hell. However, I believe that many who avoid church these days have actually accepted Jesus. They love Jesus and even want to follow Jesus. The problem is that they simply do not see Jesus in the church, and believe it is the church that is on the way to Hell.

I believe you can go to any main street in the heart of downtown of any city in America and ask people the following question: “What’s the first word that comes to your mind when you hear the word: “Jesus?”

People everywhere will respond: “loving,” “forgiving,” “compassionate,” “hospitable,” “selfless,” “sacrificial,” “humble, “radical.”

Then ask those same people: “What is the first word that comes to your mind when you hear the word: “Christian?”

They will respond: “mean,” “judgmental,” “insensitive,” “unwelcoming,” “selfish,” “self-centered,” “holier-than-thou,” “boring.”—words that describe the very antithesis of who Jesus is and who Jesus calls us to be as his disciples.

And sadly, those of us who are a part of the church know that there are many good reasons for these thoughts.

The church’s mission is to make disciples, to make followers of Jesus. How is that possible when many in the church are not following Jesus?

If the church wants thrive in these days…no, let me rephrase that… if the church wants to survive in these days…no, let me rephrase that once more… if the church these days wants to avoid going to Hell, then the church must answer Jesus’ radical call to be his disciples, to live as he lived, lovingly, graciously, compassionately, hospitably, selflessly, sacrificially, humbly and radically.