And We Shall Be Changed

Scripture: Acts 2

My father was a private man who didn't have friends outside of the workplace. We rarely visited his office and therefore knew very few of his co-workers. So it wasn't until he passed away, and dozens of people who had worked with him over the years came to his funeral, that we had any sense of how much he had meant to so many.

At one point during the visitation I found myself surrounded by three of them. The first, a kindly older gentleman shook my hand warmly and said "Your father was a great guy. As you know, he was interested in antique grandfather clocks, as I am, so we had a lot to talk about." Then a middle-aged man in the group nodded and said "Yeah, he always found time to compare notes with me about furniture making. He sure was passionate about it." A young woman wiped a tear from her eye and said "He taught me how important it was to talk about my feelings. I think he helped save my marriage."

This was all very nice except for one complication. In my entire life, I had never heard my father express any interest in grandfather clocks. I had never seen him build a stick of furniture. And I certainly had never known him to talk about his feelings. My father was a characteristically stoic first-generation German American who used the word "feeling" only in a very different context, as in "I'm feeling ... like having potato pancakes with my knockwurst tonight."

At the time, I wondered if I had roamed into the wrong visitation room or if my father had cultivated a secret second identity. But over time I came to understand what was going on. I came to realize that my father, like all of us, had two lives.

One was his life in time and space. This life could be captured in data: when he was born, where he had lived, what he had done for a living, his age when he died, and so on.

The other was his life in the hearts and minds of those who had known him. This life defied data. This life reflected a higher truth. This life was not about fact, but about effect: the effect that my father had on those who knew him. This was the life that mattered more. This was the life that would endure in human memory when the data was long forgotten.

A few months ago, I was filling out a government form that asked for my father's birth date. I hit a complete blank. Stunned, I looked up at the clerk and said "I've forgotten my father's birthday!" The clerk, obviously trying to make me feel better, screamed back "You've forgotten your father's birthday?!" I thought for a second and then said, "Well, yes, but I can tell you every detail about our first fishing trip together."

The great theologian H. Richard Niebuhr observed that Jesus had these two lives as well. One was his life in time and space. This life can be captured in data: when he was born, where he lived, how he died, and so on. Of course, we have more consistent and confirmable information about some data than about others, but we certainly know a good deal about the Jesus of history.

Still, Niehbuhr pointed out, most of what we find in the New Testament is about Jesus's other life, his life as expressed through the effect he had on others. Throughout the New Testament, Niebuhr writes, "we find that what is present is not a Jesus of history but a Christ of faith, not Jesus incarnate, but the risen Lord."

This offers one explanation for why we find differences between the various gospel depictions of what Jesus did and said. Jesus obviously had differing effects on those who knew him, and in turn on those who knew those who knew him. Or, as the biblical scholar Raymond Brown puts it, the gospels are like a diamond that reflects the same light in different ways. The presence of differences is therefore unremarkable; indeed, properly understood, it is downright consoling.

Well, all of these things are at work when the second chapter of the book of Acts brings us into the room with the apostles. These are individuals who had walked beside Jesus. He had been a real and physical presence in their lives. But, more importantly, Jesus remained present in their lives. So when we come into the room we do not find the apostles quibbling over data or trying to reconstruct a sequence of historical events. We find them praying. We find them opening their hearts to the Lord for guidance. And then we find them drenched, infused, filled with the Holy Spirit.

This experience does not just affect them. It fundamentally transforms them. Bible commentator William Barclay offers this explanation:

"Fear, despair, flight--these were the things which filled the horizon of the disciples after the event of Calvary. This was their condition at the Passover time. Seven weeks later Pentecost came and we see these same men filled with a blazing hope and confidence, with a courage that defied the Sanhedrin and the mob alike. Every effect must have an adequate cause. And the only possible explanation of the astonishing change is that the disciples were firmly convinced that Jesus was alive."

They were firmly convinced that Jesus was alive because of the effect he continued to have upon them. But this was an effect unlike any other. This was not just a fond memory. This was an effect that spoke directly to their hearts and that said "I am still with you. I am still in your life. I am still walking beside you, arm in arm. I am still walking before you, guiding you. I am still walking behind you, nudging you along. I will be with you to the very end of time. And I will never leave you."

Jesus was alive with them. Jesus is alive with us. Showering us with grace, an amazing grace, a marvelous grace, a grace that is "greater than all our sins."

The experience of Christ's living presence transformed the apostles. And it can transform us. That is, indeed, the point of the Pentecost story--that God calls us to open our hearts to the work of the Holy Spirit so that we might be changed in ways we cannot even imagine. Of course, we cannot expect everything to change right along with us. But the book of Acts offers no illusions here. In the chapters that follow it goes on to tell us about the struggles the apostles faced as they went forward--changed--into an unchanged world.

The Reverend Peter Gomes suggests that this is not just the point of the Pentecost story; this is the very essence of what it means to be a Christian. He writes:

"I will give you my definition of what a Christian is. To be a Christian is to be a changed man or a changed woman in an unchanged world. Anyone can be a Christian in an Christian world, but, in case you haven't noticed it, this is not a Christian world. This is a pagan world, a fallen world, a secular world, a sordid world, a shabby world, and it happens to be the only world that you and I have. That's it. To be a Christian in it is to be changed in the middle of that which is unchanged."

Through the grace of the living Christ, we can be changed. Through our experience of the presence of the living Christ, we are changed.

I will confess to you that I have an unshakeable prejudice on one particular issue. Fortunately, it is a musical issue and my opinions on such matters mean nothing to anyone, so the possibility of my giving offense is remote. Here it is: in my view, the single most beautiful piece of music ever written is Handel's Messiah. I say that with all due respect to those who might claim the title for Beethoven's Ninth Symphony or Bach's cello suites or Willie Nelson's "Blue Eyes Cryin' in the Rain." So, over the years I have seen dozens of performances of the Messiah and I have loved all of them. But one performance has a special place in my heart, and in my faith.

As you may know, performances of the Messiah typically feature a choral group, an orchestra, and four soloists. On this occasion, one of the male soloists, the bass, was a movie-star-handsome young man. As he moved across the stage, though, it became evident that he was using two large metal crutches to help him walk and that his legs were supported by bulky, heavy braces. I had no way of knowing for sure, but it appeared to me that this related to a condition he'd had for a very long time, perhaps his whole life. Of course, after a while I ceased to notice it. After all, it was hard to pay attention to anything other than his spectacular voice.

But then, toward the very end of the performance, he came forward to sing his last solo piece. It was the part of the Messiah that takes its text from First Corinthians fifteen. You know the words: "The trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed." Over and over again he sang those words, "and we shall be changed, and we shall be changed."

As he sang those words he leaned his head back, and raised his eyes, and slightly extended his arms. And he sang it again and again, "and we shall be changed, and we shall be changed," and as I watched him I went right along with him. Somehow I knew what he was thinking. Somehow I knew that he was imagining a time when those crutches and braces would be cast aside, a time when all the limitations of this life would be left behind, a time when he would be raised incorruptible, a time when he would stand before Christ, a time when he would be changed.

And I went right along with him because he was singing about all of us. All of us are shackled by our limitations. All of us have our crutches and our braces. All of us are struggling along in our walk through life, bound and burdened and hoping for a day when we will be free from sin and sickness and sadness. All of us dream of a time when change will come.

But then I realized that something else was going on as well. I realized that by leaning back his head, lifting his eyes toward God, reaching out his arms, and opening himself to the movement of the Holy Spirit he was changed. Right there, right then. Just as a roomful of apostles was changed two-thousand years ago. Just as we will be changed if we will only do the same.

You know how the human ego works. Whenever something special happens we're sure it must be happening only to us. So you can imagine my surprise when I looked around the auditorium to see if anyone else was having the same experience and discovered that I was surrounded by people who were weeping--weeping out of the joy that comes when we see that we can be changed, that we shall be changed, that we are changed.

Ah, let us praise the one who changes us that it is so.

Amen.

Get Out of the Boat

Scripture: Matthew 14:23-28

A number of years ago I went sailing in Lake Erie with three Methodist minister friends of mine: Don, Tom, and Wayne.

Just as we turned for home, at our farthest point from land, a terrible storm broke out. Violent winds tossed us mercilessly. We dropped our sails and used the boat’s small engine to try to work our way in the general direction of shore. We were all terrified.

All of us, that is, but Wayne. Wayne seemed completely unfazed by the whole thing.

He napped. He grabbed a snack. He commented on the brisk night air. He admired the flashes of lightning.

He smiled at the funny way the compass spun around frantically whenever we almost capsized.

We all wondered at Wayne’s Christ-like calm in the storm.

At one point, Wayne went into the cabin below for his gloves. Tom, distracted by the giant waves smacking our little craft about, didn’t see where Wayne had gone and suddenly cried out in alarm “Where’s Wayne?!”

Don dryly responded, “Maybe he walked home.”

We all know the story of Jesus walking on the water. We’ve heard it and read it since our first Sunday school classes. We’ve seen it depicted in paintings and films. We’ve incorporated it into our clichés, describing an extraordinarily virtuous person as someone who “walks on water.” We’ve run across it over and over in our study of the Bible: indeed, the story of Jesus walking on the water appears in the gospels of Matthew, Mark, and John.

The three gospel renditions of this story closely resemble each other. Matthew’s version, however, differs in one very significant respect. In Matthew’s story, Jesus is not the only one who walks on water—so does Peter, even if only briefly.

Now, I think it’s easy to miss the importance of what happens here with Peter because of the two very different—and to some extent, conflicting—images we have of him.

On one hand, we think of Peter as a towering figure of our faith. He and his brother Andrew were the first disciples called by Jesus. When Matthew, Mark, and Luke list the twelve disciples sent into the world by Jesus they name Peter first. Those same gospels portray Peter as the recipient of unique revelations and as having a special closeness to Jesus.

In Matthew, Jesus describes Peter as the “rock” on which he will build his church. This takes on a kind of literal significance when we remember that the largest church in Christianity—the 5.7 acre Vatican Basilica that Michelangelo designed, that took more than a century to build, and that can hold 60,000 people—is named not for Jesus but for Peter and is traditionally thought to rest upon his burial site.

Jesus tells Peter, “I will give you the keys to the kingdom.” This passage gives rise to a symbol that endures throughout the thousands of years of Christian art that follow. In paintings and sculptures we can tell which disciple is Peter by the keys hanging from his waist. And, of course, this passage gives rise to countless jokes about awkward encounters between those who would enter the kingdom of heaven and Peter, who holds the keys to the gates.

One of my favorites is a Charles Barsotti cartoon that depicts an amused-looking Peter saying to a relieved-looking fellow being interviewed at the gates of heaven: “No, no, that’s not a sin, either. My goodness, you must have worried yourself to death.”

How often I’ve hoped that’s how things turn out!

On the other hand, however, we think of Peter as deeply human and therefore profoundly flawed. Jesus commanded him not to sleep—and he slept. (Mark 14:33-34, 37-38) Jesus said to Peter, “You will deny me three times before the morning”—and, even having been warned, Peter did so.

On occasions recorded in both Mark (8:33) and Matthew (26:33-35) Jesus calls Peter “Satan.”

We all remember Jesus’s powerful injunction that those who live by the sword shall die by the sword. But sometimes we forget that Jesus directed this rebuke not at one of his tormentors or persecutors but at one of his disciples—a disciple identified by the Gospel of John as the beloved Simon Peter.

So when we come to the story of Peter’s failed attempt to walk on the water we may have one of two understandable reactions. We may say, “Well of course Peter walked on water briefly; after all, he was Peter.”

Or we may say, “Well of course Peter faltered; after all, he was Peter.” And, over the years, many sermons have been preached on the fact that Peter started to sink when he let the storm distract him and took his eyes off Jesus. In my view, all of these points have merit.

But I want to focus our attention on something different. I want to take a close look at an element of the story that precedes all that—a fact that I think tells us a great deal about who Peter was and about who Jesus calls us to be. And the fact is this: Peter got out of the boat.

Jesus invited Peter to take a risk, to make a bold move, to engage in a leap of faith—literally. And Peter responded. Peter got out of the boat.

Now, this can’t have been an easy decision. Staying in the boat must have seemed a great deal safer. But somehow Peter understood that this was only how things seemed. Somehow he grasped that he wasn’t leaving behind security but the illusion of security.

“Security,” Helen Keller once said “is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.”

Jesus called Peter to a daring adventure. And he calls us, too.

But, oh, how we love the boat. Oh, how we love to tuck in, cover up, and float along.

Matthew has a story about that, too. Maybe you remember it. Jesus has just begun his ministry and he invites James and John to come with him. Matthew tells us that “[i]mmediately they left the boat and their father [Zebedee], and followed him.” James and John got out of the boat. Zebedee didn’t. And that, my friends, is the last we hear of Zebedee.

Now, I’m not suggesting we pass judgment on poor, unheralded, un-sainted Zebedee. We have no business passing judgment in any event, but this holds particularly true with respect to those who act as most of us probably would under the same circumstances. Zebedee did precisely what many of us would do; he played it safe. As a result, he missed a chance to walk in the footsteps of Jesus Christ. But he did keep his boat.

I suppose Zebedee played it safe for the same reason most of us do—out of fear. Fear limits us and makes us small. It breeds inertia and feeds our darkest impulses. I like how Bruce Springsteen puts it in one of his songs: “Fear’s a powerful thing. It can turn your heart black, you can trust. It’ll take your God-filled soul, fill it with devils and dust.”

In the film Apocalypse Now, a crew of American soldiers travels down a river deep into the Vietnamese jungle. At one point they go ashore in search of mangoes but flee back to the boat when a huge tiger leaps from the bush and attacks them. One of the soldiers—literally rending his shirt with fear—screams out over and over “Never get out of the boat! Never get out of the boat!”

That’s what fear does. It keeps us in the boat.

And we can always come up with a million seemingly good reasons to stay there. We can always list a million reasons to stay put, to stay behind, and to stay safe. We can always find a million things to worry about, a million things to fear, a million things that matter and need full consideration before we take action.

A good friend of mine recently learned that his wife has a fairly advanced form of cancer. The news came out of nowhere and they’re facing many challenges, including a long and aggressive program of chemotherapy. When I recently asked him how they were doing, he said “You know, it’s strange. My wife and I are at peace in a way we’ve never been before. We’ve spent all these years thinking lots of things mattered. And now our life is entirely focused on just one thing.”

Peter had a million reasons to stay in the boat. But he had one infinitely better reason to get out.

Jesus calls us to a life of courage, a life bravely focused on what matters. Not a life without fear—after all, we’re human. Besides, as the flying ace Eddie Rickenbacker once observed, fear is the necessary precondition for courage.

But Jesus invites us into a life of faith that makes it possible to see our fears for what they are and move beyond them. That is why the great theologian Karl Barth memorably said that “Courage is fear that has said its prayers.” We will know fear. But we will also know what we need to do.

We may be afraid to speak up when we see prejudice and bigotry and injustice. Jesus says, get out of the boat.

We may be afraid to step up when we see tragedy and poverty and hunger. Jesus says, get out of the boat.

We may be afraid to put up when we see work that needs doing, care that needs giving, forgiveness that needs imparting, and love that needs sharing. Jesus says, get out of the boat.

Getting out of the boat is how we change our lives. It’s how we change ourselves. It’s how we change the world.

These changes do not come effortlessly or painlessly. But, as William Penn put it: “No pain, go palm; no thorns, no throne; no gall, no glory; no cross, no crown.”

Many years ago a man named John Newton sailed a ship that brought slaves to England. Then, on one remarkable day, John Newton got out of his boat. He dedicated his life to serving God and God’s children. And, along the way, he wrote a song you know by the name “Amazing Grace.” Amazing, indeed, what can happen when we let God work in our lives and follow God’s call out into the daring adventure.

Periodically in our lives we have to decide whether and how to commit--or recommit--ourselves to God's work. As we ponder the alternatives, fear—and fear’s right-hand assistant, complacency—will tempt us mightily. But what we need now are daring hearts, brave hearts, faithful hearts.

Those cartoons that have fun with the nervous encounters between Peter and those individuals newly arrived at the pearly gates often tease us about our inadequacies. Again, Charles Barsotti penned one of my favorites. But this time the petitioner looks nervous and Peter is disappointedly reviewing what appears to be a resume. “That’s it?” Peter asks the poor guy. “Salesman of the month, August 1987?”

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with “Salesman of the month, August 1987.” It’s a fine thing. We do lots of fine things. We do lots of fine things as individual believers. We do lots of fine things through our churches. We do lots of fine things that are very admirable, but very safe.

So I keep entertaining this image. Your time has come and you're standing before Peter like one of those characters in a Barsotti cartoon.

"Tell me about yourself," he says. So you do. But then at some point you stop your story. Peter looks inquisitively at you, tilts his head, and says, "And what happened next?"

You smile. You look him straight in the eye. And you say, knowing he’ll understand, “Well, then I got out of the boat.”

Ah, may it be so for all of us.

Amen.