Rev. Brent L. White

I’m sure I’m not the only preacher who is filled with apprehension every Easter season as we approach Passion Week, Good Friday, and Easter Sunday. Every year I think, “What can I say that I haven’t said before? What new insights can I glean from these scriptures? What if I’m unoriginal (by which I mean boring)?” As one preacher friend said to me once: “When it comes to Easter, there is no ‘big reveal,'” by which he meant, nothing we say is going to surprise anyone.

Well, I’m putting those thoughts out of my mind. If you come to Vinebranch tomorrow or next week, or perhaps just read or watch my sermons on this blog, I’m telling you right now: I’m going to be unoriginal. I’m going to repeat myself. I’m going to offer no new insights.

The old insights are just fine, thank you very much. I’m reminded of that exuberant southern gospel song, “Victory in Jesus.” The opening line goes: “I heard an old, old story/ How a Savior came from glory/ How he gave his life on Calvary/ To save a wretch like me.”

I can’t improve much upon that old, old story. I’m not going to stress about it. St. Paul’s words are appropriate here:

When I came to you, brothers and sisters, I didn’t come preaching God’s secrets to you like I was an expert in speech or wisdom. I had made up my mind not to think about anything while I was with you except Jesus Christ, and to preach him as crucified. [1 Corinthians 2:1-2 CEB]

If it’s good enough for Paul, it’s good enough for me.

The following comes from Thomas Oden’s systematic theology, Classic Christianity^[†].

A flood of impressions and images collide and meld in the portrayal of the rugged power and meaning of the cross. In a burst of ecstasy, many of these are amassed in a single passage by John of Damascus. In Jesus’ death,

death has been brought low, the sin of our first parent destroyed, hell plundered, resurrection bestowed, the power given us to scorn the things of this world and even death itself, the road back to the former blessedness made smooth, the gates of paradise opened, our nature seated at the right hand of God, and we made children and heirs of God. By the cross all things have been set aright…. It is a raising up for those who lie fallen, a support for those who stand, a staff for the infirm, a crook for the shepherded, a guide for the wandering, a perfecting of the advanced, salvation for the soul and body, an averter of all evils, a cause of all good things, a destruction of sin, a plant of the resurrection, and a tree of eternal life (John of Damascus, OF 4.11).

And the people of God said…

[†] Thomas Oden, Classic Christianity: A Systematic Theology (New York: HarperOne, 1992), 402.

Statue of Peter depicting his denial of Jesus.

Peter’s tragic moment of failure in the courtyard of the high priest Caiaphas is not usually regarded as an inspiration to us Christians. But in this sermon, I say that there is something from Peter’s example that we can apply to our lives: Just as it was obvious to the high priest’s servant and bystanders that Peter was a follower of Jesus, so it should be obvious to people in our lives.

Let’s let our words, actions, and character—the way we live our lives—give away the fact that we are Christ’s followers.

Sermon Text: Mark 14:53-72

The following is my original manuscript.

I was born in 1970 at the Grady Hospital to a woman from Virginia named Linda, who is here this morning. I was adopted into a family from the Deep South. My Mom grew up about 20 miles north of here, when that was the country, my Dad grew up near Lake Hartwell in rural South Carolina. I say this in order to establish my credentials as a true southerner. This sometimes surprises people who wonder about my lack of a southern accent.

My parents had southern accents. My parents’ extended families had even stronger accents. In fact, a few years ago, I caught a rerun of that old country variety show, Hee Haw, which my family watched faithfully every Saturday night at 7:00. And I saw that comedian Junior Samples, who actually grew up near my mom in Forsyth County. Junior Samples was that large man who wore overalls and talked real slow. But I heard him on this ancient rerun of Hee Haw, and I heard that deep southern drawl, and I thought, “These are my people.” I was transported back in time… transported back to Grandma’s house… and family gatherings with aunts and uncles and cousins and neighbors, all of whom sounded a little like Junior Samples.

I miss hearing that accent now. It’s fading with each generation. But when I was a kid, I wanted nothing to do with it. See, I grew up in the suburbs of Atlanta, and none of my friends or my friends’ parents spoke with strong southern accents. None of my friends had to watch Hee Haw on Saturday nights. In fact, the father of my best friend was English, which was the coolest and most exotic accent I had heard. Plus I loved Paul McCartney and Wings at a very early age, so I wanted to sound like that. But since I couldn’t sound like that, I at least didn’t want to sound like my parents’ families. I’m not proud that I was ashamed of that accent, but I was. I didn’t want to be perceived as a hick from the sticks. I was very self-conscious of being different. I wanted to blend in.

As Peter warmed himself by the fire, in the courtyard outside of the high priest’s house, he wanted to blend in. But you know what gave him away? His accent. That’s how the group in in verse 70 knew he was from Galilee. In fact, the accent of someone from Galilee, versus someone from Jerusalem, might have been as different as a Boston accent is from a southern accent. Read the rest of this entry »

"Gordon's Calvary": A proposed Protestant site for the crucifixion. If you squint your eyes, it does look a bit like a skull.

Adam Hamilton writes at length about penal substitution (what he calls substitutionary atonement) in 24 Hours That Changed the World. For my fellow Methodists who get all squishy on the topic, you might appreciate that another, rather more famous and influential United Methodist also endorses penal substitution as one important way of understanding the cross.

Some have dismissed the substitutionary theory of Atonement as simplistic or even confusing, but for many it is the clearest way to understand what Jesus intended to happen as a result of his death on the cross. In the trial before Pontius Pilate we get a glimpse of the this idea—one concrete example of a larger idea. For here at the lithostrotos [another name for the Antonia Fortress in Jerusalem] Jesus took the place of a “notorious criminal” named Barabbas, who was himself awaiting death. Barabbas, a convicted criminal was set free; and Jesus, an innocent man, was crucified in his place.^[1]

…

The substitutionary theory of the Atonement, which we touched on before, can be summarized in this way: Every one of us has sinned, and in our sin we have been alienated from God. Justice calls for punishment for the collective weight of that sin; the Bible says that “the wages of sin is death” (Romans 6:23) and eternal separation from God. But God, who loves us like parents love their children, does not desire us to be eternally separated. God wishes us to receive grace. An ordinary person could not die for all humankind; but Jesus, being God in the flesh, could die for the sins of the entire world. He paid a price he did not owe, giving us a gift of grace we did not deserve. This is what we see in Barabbas walking away free from the prison and Jesus hanging on a cross.^[2]

Hamilton also puts his finger on the very reason I’ve recently become outspoken on the issue: sin—and, frankly, my own sense of it within myself. A commentator on this blog once told me that being so self-conscious about my own sinfulness was surely not good for my self-esteem (or something like that). Sorry… I am a sinner. But thank God I’ve been redeemed by the blood of Jesus! Or course I believe that Jesus died in my place and took the punishment that my sins deserved! He needed to!

Does that make me “Baptist” (as if that label would offend me)? What does that make the pastor of the world’s largest United Methodist church?

Stepping off soapbox… Hamilton continues:

Some of us feel that sin does not require sacrifice or atonement. But there are moments when the idea of Christ’s death being for us comes into focus, moments when we have done something so awful and our shame is so great that we know there is no way we can save ourselves. It is in those moments when we find ourselves drawn to the cross and the understanding that Christ suffered for us. We look at the cross and realize that a price was already paid for us.^[3]

[1] Adam Hamilton, 24 Hours That Changed the World (Nashville: Abingdon, 2009), 66.

[2] Ibid., 67.

[3] Ibid., 68.

I’ve written before about my Lenten resolution to stop worrying about the appearance of being a caring person and focus instead on being a caring person. I spoke with a clergy friend this morning who knew exactly what I meant—even as he said something that seemed to contradict what I wrote.

He said, “I’ve found that there’s no difference between appearing to care and actually caring.” And I said, “That’s exactly right!”

Here’s what I mean: We pastors don’t have the luxury of reserving pastoral care for times when we feel like providing it. My parishioner didn’t check my schedule before he went to the hospital for that emergency appendectomy, and the fact that I had planned on spending Sunday afternoon napping is irrelevant. Likewise, death is always inconvenient. It never waits, for example, for me to finish writing my sermon. It doesn’t even respect my vacation schedule! Unlike Emily Dickinson, we pastors have to stop for death. It’s part of our job.

So sometimes, for the sake of appearances and to ensure that we’ll continue to have a job, we have to appear to care, even when we don’t—or at least not enough to want to interrupt whatever else we have going on.

But here’s the thing: it doesn’t matter whether we want to or not, at least in my experience. When I do it anyway, despite my feelings, I find that I do end up caring—a great deal. It doesn’t feel like I’m simply going through the motions anymore.

If these words are applicable to Christians in general, and not just us professional caregivers, I would say this: Disregard your feelings, your schedule, your other commitments, and take the time and effort to care.  I know it’s often inconvenient. But see what happens.

Statue of Peter depicting his denial of Jesus.

We showed the following video yesterday in Vinebranch. It features photos and video from the site of the house of Caiaphas, where Jesus was taken after he was arrested. As the video shows, Jesus was likely lowered down into a dark dungeon prison for several hours before he was taken to the Romans on Good Friday. Last week’s video, from the Garden of Gethsemane, is here.

An actual rolling stone for covering a tomb. It's wheel-shaped, and it fits in a groove in front of the tomb's entrance. At the Garden Tomb in Jerusalem.

So I was driving by the First Baptist church that resides next door to our First United Methodist church a couple of days ago, and I saw a banner for their upcoming Easter sermon entitled “Evidence of the Resurrection.” It caught my eye, and I thought, “I want to go to that!” Unfortunately, I have to work that Sunday morning.

I kid.

But… I really would like to hear that sermon. And I wonder if other people would like to hear that sermon, too. It isn’t fair, in my opinion, that we, the church, don’t often talk about evidence for the central historical claim of our faith—that we don’t give people reasons to believe. If we don’t, who will?

I understand that reasons by themselves can’t convert someone or sustain someone who’s already converted. But isn’t Christian faith regularly under attack in our pop culture? Doesn’t every Easter season feature, for example, a provocative new cover story in Newsweek calling into question Christ’s resurrection? Isn’t there always someone claiming that this or that scientific or archaeological discovery makes the Christian faith obsolete?

Doesn’t it feel like we believers are outnumbered sometimes?

Don’t misunderstand. We’re most assuredly not outnumbered. We have the answers to defend our faith. But are we equipped to do so? Shouldn’t we be?

Unlike our Baptist friends next door, I don’t think I could do it in one sermon. It feels like a two-parter to me. And I wouldn’t do it on Easter Sunday. On Easter, I’d rather talk about the meaning of the resurrection, not the reasons for believing it. But maybe immediately following that?

Seriously, what do you think? I’ve devised this handy poll to facilitate your response. Don’t make fun of me. It’s my first time making a poll.