Years ago I served as Pastor of the First Baptist Church of Gatlinburg, Tennessee.  It was a great experience for both me and my family.  Part of the joy of being there, was the opportunity to spend a lot of time enjoying the beauty of the Smokies and getting to know the local community.  One of my favorite activities in those days was coaching Little League Baseball.  Most of the games were played at a picturesque city park located within a stone’s throw of downtown Gatlinburg.   The park complex had a baseball field, a picnic pavilion, tennis courts, a playground, and even a babbling creek.  Our family has returned to that spot many times through the years to both gather the memories and to make new ones.

Just past the center field fence and down a small incline sits a large, green trash dumpster.  It almost never affects the play on the baseball field.  Almost never.  But as you might imagine, the dumpster is a favorite spot for the local black bears.  Usually they sneak their way into the park after dark, but then again, sometimes they appear in the middle of the 5^thinning.  It happened on several occasions.  A large bear would lumber across left field, climb the fence and meander his/her way down to the dumpster.  When a bear appeared, we would call a “bear delay.”  All the players were pulled off the field until the bear moved on.  The first couple of times it happened, it was a bit unnerving.   But soon, the “bear delays” just became a part of life in Gatlinburg at the old ballpark.  The game would pause, the bear would disappear, and then the game would continue.

It has been my experience that sometimes big, scary things meander into our lives and we are left wondering if we will survive.  The interruptions may come in the form a health concern, a job loss, a grief experience, maybe even a world-wide pandemic.  When the interruptions come, we may want to run to the relative safety of our “dugouts” as we hope the life-storm will soon pass.  We hunker down, pray a little, and worry a lot.  We want things to get back to normal.  We want the worries to subside.  We long for the burden to lift.  We want the dawn to break and chase away the dark night.

Sometimes all we can do is wait things out.  We agonize and fret and pray for the day when the bear in left field becomes a memory and not a present-day worry.  But sometimes we can act proactively.  We can schedule that long, put off doctor’s visit.  We can wear masks and get a vaccine.  We can talk to a trusted friend.  We can come up with a plan and start down the list of tasks needed to move forward.

But here is what I find interesting.  The interruptions to our lives may be a surprise to us, but they are not a surprise to our Heavenly Father.  He is intimately acquainted with all our days.  He knows when we rise and when we rest.  He knows when we venture out and when we return home.  And not only does He know all about us, He cares about our well-being.  Because we are human, we will worry about the interruptions.  Because we are His, we are held safe and secure.  The problem we face is the age-old battle between God-dependency and self-sufficiency.  When we rely on ourselves to get through the interruptions, we fret, wring our hands, and crush ourselves with worry.  But when we place our trust in the One who loves us, we find a presence, a peace, and a provider.  The Scriptures declare, “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.  And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” (Phil. 4:6-7)

Please understand.  I am not trying to belittle our fears.  I am not trying to offer a flippant response to the haunting stress in our lives.  I am not even asking you to glibly adopt a “whatever is going to happen is going to happen” mentality.  But what I am suggesting is that we take some positive steps while the bear walks across left field.  We should take the right precautions.  We should listen to those who have more insight and knowledge than we do.  We should talk it out with people who love us and care for us.  And we should call on the One who has promised to be with us until the end of the age.

Bears will eventually meander away.  Dark storms will give way to brighter mornings.  Relationships will find their renewed footing.  Fears will dissipate.  If you are in the middle of a life interruption, see it as just that… an interruption and not a final ending to your story.  It will soon be time for the game to begin again.

During your bear delay, may you find strength in the company of both good friends and a good God.

– Jon R Roebuck

Blood represents life.  In fact, it is essential to sustain life.  We literally cannot live without it. Blood is the life-giving liquid within our veins that carries oxygen to all of our vital organs.  It carries antibodies, genetic codes, cells and platelets.  Remove our blood, and our bodies cannot sustain life.  In any type of trauma event, it is important to “stop the bleeding” lest we bleed out and the life-giving, life-sustaining liquid seeps from our bodies.  When patients lose a lot of blood in surgery or in an accident, it is important to quickly replace that which has been lost.  It gives life.  It sustains life.  That why “blood drives” and “blood donations” are so critically important.  Blood is essential.  And because He created us, God understands the work of the blood which flows through our bodies.

Go back to the days of the Old Testament, when God was first establishing a relationship with His people.  After 400 years of enslavement, through the actions of Moses and the plagues, God brought about their redemption and freedom from oppression.  Remember the 10^th and final plague?  God instructed the Hebrews to take the blood of a lamb and splash it across the doorposts of their homes.  When the Death Angel passed over the land, those homes, which were literally “under the blood” were spared his wrath.  It was the blood of the slaughtered lamb that defined the people of God as they fled from Egypt.

Move the story ahead to the days at the foot of Sinai and even later to the establishment of the nation of Israel. God declared that a special place be constructed in the midst of the people in which His presence would dwell.  In the wilderness, it was the Tabernacle… a portable, tent-like structure where the people would gather to worship.  Once the nation was defined, it was King Solomon who built the Temple in Jerusalem… a permanent and unparalleled place of worship.  When the people gathered to worship in those places, sacrifices were made to atone for their sins.  The priests would take the blood of animals and pour it on the altar in order to set the Israelites free from their oppressive sins.  Again, it was the blood that made the difference.  It was blood that washed away the transgressions and brought renewal to the people, restoring the relationship with Holy God.  Because blood represented life, the shedding of blood on behalf of the people, restored the life that sinfulness had taken from them.  The life of a lamb was offered in order to give life to an individual.  The cost of sin was paid.  As Lev. 17:11 declares, “For the life of the body is in its blood. I have given you the blood on the altar to purify you, making you right with the LORD. It is the blood, given in exchange for a life, that makes purification possible.” (NLT) The spilt blood of sacrifice offered life.

Move the story ahead to our day.  No one is going to get up on Easter morning and sacrifice a lamb in order to atone for their sins.  Why not?  Because that sacrifice has already been made.  When Jesus died on the cross, that spilling of blood was offered for us… for our sins… for our shame… for our transgressions.  In order to reclaim the life that sin has taken from us, we must claim the blood of Jesus offered on the cross.  The connections are clear and powerful.  Once again, the blood a lamb has been offered for us, but not just any lamb.  This time we claim the blood of the Lamb of God… who willingly offered up Himself for us.  As I John 2:2 states, “Jesus himself is the sacrifice that atones for our sins—and not only our sins but the sins of all the world.” (NIV).  His blood has been splashed across the doorposts of our lives.  We who now live “under the blood” have found grace, mercy, forgiveness, and hope.  The blood liberates us.  We no longer live under the bondage of guilt and remorse.  Our sins are erased and we are set free.

Take the word “atonement” and break it apart.  When we speak of atonement, we are describing the process of being made “at-one” with God.  Sin separates us from God.  But the blood of Jesus Christ removes the barrier of sin and allows us to once again know a closeness with the Father.  As we celebrate Holy Week and claim the victory of Easter morning, may we be reminded this day of the simple truth contained in the words of the great hymn written by Robert Lowry over 150 years ago…

What can wash away my sin?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
What can make me whole again?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

O precious is the flow
that makes me white as snow;
no other fount I know;
nothing but the blood of Jesus.

May you experience the power of the resurrection and know the joy of being set free as you celebrate Easter Morning.

If I were to ask you if you are a racist, surely you would say “no.”  Who among us would want to even entertain the thought that we have marginalized or discriminated against races other than our own?  We’d like to think that we are more noble, more informed, more aware of the racial inequities in our nation and that we are listed among those who shine light into the darkness of such dehumanizing realities rather than add to them.  But have we been caught in a cycle of self-denial?  Are we contributing to systemic, prejudicial racism without even knowing?

For most of us, our racism was both “taught and caught” in the culture in which we were raised.  I am a child of the 60’s, raised in the deep South.  It is only with the vision that retrospection now affords me that I see some of the systems and influences that were in place.  There are memories that once seemed safe to harbor, that now make me wince a little.  I attended a public elementary school in the heart of my hometown.  My first-grade year was the first year that public schools in Georgia were integrated.  I remember that our class had several black students.  And while I’d like to think that we were progressive and welcoming of black students, and certainly our teachers did their best to teach us to treat all others with respect and dignity, the reality is that it must have been much harder to be black in those days than I would care to admit, for surely racial inequities existed in ways I could have never seen through the eyes of a 6-year-old child.  Even the numbers were skewed.  Out of 30 students, only 3 were black.  That fact alone must have made the goal of acceptability an all but impossible dream.  There were parents who didn’t care for the idea of their child sitting next to one of “those” kids.

In those days, music in the classroom was taught by a traveling music teacher who would teach music in each class for an hour or so before moving to the class next-door to do it all again.  I remember two of the songs we were taught.  One was about the Erie Canal and the horse that pulled the barges.  The other was about picking cotton.  We even had motions to the song…  “You gotta jump down, turn around pick a bale of cotton, jump down, turn around pick a bale a day.  Old Man-ie pick a bale of cotton, old Man-ie pick a bale a day.”  We never once considered that we were singing a song about the days when our ancestors thought it was ok to enslave human beings and make them do back-breaking work against their will.  And we also never considered what it was like, as an African-American child, to be required to sing that song with the baggage of pain and dehumanization it conveyed.  I don’t believe that our teachers were blatantly racist.  I think they probably never even thought about what they were doing.  And maybe that is still the problem.  Most of us don’t even think about the ways others in our world think, or feel, or are victimized by our words, actions, and conversations.

I think about day-laborers or lawncare workers back in that day.  They were always black men… mostly older, and mostly worn down by a long life of working impossible hours for pitiful wages.  Linton was the yard man for our church, which meant he was often brought to our house, (the church parsonage), to work in our yard.  He was kind and patient with my brother and me who probably always got in his way.  We just called him Linton, even though he was a grown man and we were just kids.  (I’m not sure I ever knew his last name.)  Even something about that fact rings of the racism of that earlier day.  I remember once when Linton was at our house at lunchtime.  My mother prepared him a sandwich and a tall glass of ice tea.  He was invited in to join my mother, my brother and me at the kitchen table.  But he politely refused and ate his lunch at the top of the basement stairs, separated from us by a simple wooden door, and by a very complex set of social mores and values.

On Saturday mornings, day-laborers would gather down at the old Train Depot on First Avenue.  They would stand around, shuffling their feet, maybe with a smoke hanging from their lips… talking and waiting to be hired out for the day.  Some would clutch a lunch pail in their hands.  And by and by, a white man would stop, negotiate a wage, and give them a ride to the jobsite.  And then another, and then another.  The scene was repeated throughout the morning.  (When I think back on that image, I am reminded of the Parable of the 11^th hour workers told by Christ.  It’s the image of men waiting to be hired out for the day.)  It’s not that there were no poor whites in my hometown that also needed extra work on the weekends.  Many did. It’s just that none of them would have waited with the blacks for work and thus making themselves seem as equals to them.  It’s funny how people would rather go in need than put aside their prejudices.

We lived in South Rome… just over the bridge from downtown.  There was an interesting juxtaposition in that part of town.  The local country club, with a manicured golf course, Olympic pool, and well-maintained tennis courts, was situated just along the river and in a spot where every black family had to drive past the stone gates every day.  Whether it was a written rule or just understood, there were no black members at the club… just black waiters or grounds keepers.  Our house was situated about ½ mile away on a dead-end street.  There was a barrier at the end of the street.  On the other side of the barrier was the “colored section” of town.  It wasn’t just the color of skin that was different on the other side of the barrier, but different living conditions, worn out cars, run-down stores, and fewer opportunities.  I remember once, when my father used a fuel additive in an old car he was restoring, that it smoked up the entire street with a heavy, thick smoke.  One of our neighbors came running down the street with his rifle, assuming some social unrest was taking place caused by people on the other side of the barrier.

In those days we had a black student from South Rome who participated in our Youth Program at church.  Mike was made to feel welcomed and was readily accepted into our group.  He would later serve our nation as a member of the military.  Whenever our youth group went to camp, or on a retreat, we always got a strange look from folks who wondered about the black kid.  I also know that Mike took some grief from some of his neighbors who wondered about his involvement at that “big white church.”  There were signs of racism all around us in those days, but we either never saw it, or never cared enough to consider it.

Our town was prominent in the days of the Civil War.  There was a foundry that made canons for the Confederacy.  When Sherman burned his way through Georgia, First Baptist Church was spared because he stored his horses in the basement.  (Some older members claimed that some of the soldiers even carved their names in the wooden supports under the church but I never saw that personally.)  There are cemeteries, monuments, and flags that are still in place from that era and will be for a while.

That’s just the water we all swam in as kids.  It was the culture of the day.  It was the way things were done.  I don’t say that to condone or excuse it, but simply to explain it.  Sometimes you don’t know what you don’t know.  (I hope to God that I know better now.)  But the culture didn’t change a whole lot as I grew older.  I once pastored a church in Birmingham.  One Sunday morning, we had three folks to baptize during the service.  One was an African-American, single mother of three.  The Chairman of Deacons stopped by my office and asked in what particular order we would baptize the candidates.  I suggested that we do it alphabetically as we always did.  “I was just wondering,” he said.  And then he added, “Afterall, who would want to get in that water after that black has been in there.”  That was 1993.  In another church I had a church member berate me after a sermon on MLK weekend.  He said, “Call him what you want, but some of us refer to him as Martin Lucifer King.”  That was 2012.

I was interested in thinking back to college and grad school experiences.  Never once did I have an African-American professor.  I never had a class on African-American studies or history specific to that topic.  I may be well-taught, but not well educated all at the same time.  The task for me has been that of learning perspective, learning with a different mindset, and seeing who we are as a nation through a different lens.  I’ve learned a lot in recent years, but not nearly enough.  I read.  I listen.  I host conversations, lectures, and seminars on race.  But still I have such a long way to go.  A couple of years ago I took the Harvard University Implicit Association Test on race.  I discovered to my dismay that I still have a lot of blind spots that need some attention.

If I once had the right to call myself an innocent racist, I no longer possess that right.  It’s far too late in my personal life-story to claim ignorance.  And so I must be intentional about learning, about understanding, and about equipping others to see the realities of racism in America and particularly in the American Christian experience.  Any privilege that I have does not give me the right to remain unaware of the needs, injustices, intolerance, and inequities that others face.  In fact, it must force me to engage the struggle even more deliberately in the hope of building a better culture for all of us.

Jon R Roebuck

This article is not just about COVID19 protocols, although it certainly could be.  A number of churches have done a notoriously bad job in managing the pandemic.  When faced with the decision to suspend in-person worship, or at the very least to require masks of those who do come to services, church leaders have acted in their own self-interests and in so doing, have compromised the health and well-being of their communities, not to mention the damage made to the Christian witness of their congregations.  We could have been the light to the rest of the world.  We could have practiced safe protocols and insisted on being good neighbors, but instead, we have gathered in our worship spaces, without requiring masks, and have helped to spread and keep the virus going.  Churches are not being faithful when they flaunt CDC protocols… they are being foolish and some have died because of it.  Many have argued that in-person worship is critically important to the church, and certainly it is the heart of what we do.  But to insist on singing, preaching, and praying without taking thought of our neighbors who need the church to lead the way, not stand in the way, is simply selfish.  It is putting “our wants” ahead of what the community needs, and that’s wrong.  In case you haven’t noticed, you can preach and sing and play pianos and guitars while wearing a mask.

But beyond the pandemic, it’s the other super-spreader tendencies of the church that get my attention.  Let’s talk racism for a moment.  The racial unrest of the past year has certainly been felt, heard, and seen by everyone in our nation.  Whether we speak of Civil War monuments, unequal access to goods and services, hate crimes, police brutality, or disproportionate numbers of incarcerations, no rational person can deny the systemic racism that permeates our nation.  The church has had the platform to address the issues and decry the hatred of racism.  And yet, many churches I know have remained silently on the sidelines.  It seems very few pastors have dared to wrestle with the issue or even acknowledge that it exists.  By being silent, churches have been complicit.  Unwittingly, or maybe knowingly, churches have acted as super-spreaders in giving a wink and a nod to the marginalization of Black Americans.

Let’s also talk politics for a moment.  The rhetoric has been corrosive, caustic, and damaging.  Many have traded in the Gospel Narrative for nationalistic prose that sets aside decency, morality, and kindness for the sake of promoting a fear-driven political agenda that marginalizes anyone who doesn’t get in lockstep with right-wing ideology.  We have draped the Cross with the American flag and declared that they are equal in terms of our allegiance.  Many have said “God and Country” so loud and so often that they sometimes say, “God is Country,” and never notice the difference.  The very ones who declare that our nation was founded on Christian values are the ones who are willing to trample on those values for the sake of winning at all costs.  And rather than offering a clear message about the grace, dignity, and acceptance of God’s coming Kingdom, we have clearly told many that they are not welcome.  Churches have been co-opted into become super-spreaders of anti-Christian rhetoric and they have become tone deaf to their own message.

Can we also talk about the sanctity of human life?  The battle for the Right to Life continues on.  In their zeal to protect the unborn, many churches have affirmed and praised those who are willing to support their viewpoint, even to the extent of ignoring other ethical missteps or  sinful behaviors exhibited by those in leadership.  I am not bothered by those who believe that life begins at conception and are willing to defend that position.  I am bothered, however, by those who stop their crusades the moment that child takes his/her first breath.  The sanctity of life should be extended to every child, regardless of race, gender, or country of origin.  Don’t claim to value human life if you deny healthcare to millions of impoverished children.  Don’t claim to value human life when you vote to underfund public education.  Don’t claim to value human life when you are willing to sit idly by when children are kept in cages at the border.  Don’t claim to value human life when you don’t support local food banks or give to organizations which clothe the naked.  Life is precious and should be fiercely defended.  Churches who preach that the battle is all about anti-abortion legislation and don’t include life-long health and well-being initiatives are super-spreaders of narrow-mindedness.

Here’s the tragedy of it all.  Churches… comprised of flesh and blood representatives of Jesus Christ, have been commissioned by God Himself, to truly be super-spreaders.  We are called to spread hope.  We are called to spread grace.  We are called to spread kindness.  We are called to spread love.  We are called to spread compassion.  We are called to spread forgiveness.  We are called to spread acceptance.  We are called to spread welcome.  We are called to spread understanding.  We are called to spread dignity.  And yet somewhere in the swirling storms of COVID19, racism, politics, and even the climate debate, we have lost our bearings.

It is time for us to reconsider who we are and recapture the reasons why we exist.  We don’t have to defend our faith… Christianity is strong enough to survive our insipid displays of loyalty.  What we must defend however, are our hearts which we have allowed to be overtaken by falsehood, deceit, and darkness which betrays the very light that Christ died to place within us.

Jon R. Roebuck

Over the course of the COVID pandemic, I have taken on the discipline of a careful reading and reflection of the Gospel of Matthew.  Knowing that the Word of God is both “living and active,” I thought such a discipline might allow The Word to speak to me in fresh ways as I examined the text in the midst of this season of challenge.  I have slowly poured my way through the Gospel, line-by-line, making notes, recording insights, and listening for the whisper of the Spirit to speak with new insight into my heart and mind.

In Matthew’s telling of the Gospel, Chapter 14 begins with the account of John the Baptist’s death.  Herod had John imprisoned because of John’s forthright preaching about Herod’s relationship with his brother’s wife.  Because of a foolish promise made during a poignant moment at a party, John is beheaded and his head is presented to the party guests as a gruesome trophy.  The disciples of John take his body and bury it, offering a meager sense of dignity in the midst of a horrific moment.

Coming on the heels of that story, Matthew offers his version of the Feeding of the 5000 (the only miracle recorded by all four Gospel writers).  It begins with the simple phrase, “Now when Jesus heard this, he withdrew from there in a boat to a desolate place by himself.” (Matthew 14:13).  The antecedent of the word “this” refers to the death of John.  Jesus, feeling the weight of his own sorrow, goes to a distant place to grieve, ponder, pray, fortify, and rest.  He needs a moment of respite and reflection. Matthew then tells of the response of the crowds… “But when the crowds heard it, they followed him on foot from the towns.”  Mostly, as we read this passage, we assume that when Matthew says “when the crowds heard it,” we think that the crowds are responding to the news that Jesus has departed the region.  But what if they too, are responding to the news that John is dead?  What if that’s the “it” to which Matthew is referring?

Suddenly their pursuit of Jesus is seen in a different light.  Their pursuit is that of seeking solace, answers, hope, and relief from their own sorrow.  The death of John the Baptist would have been a devastating loss.  His preaching, his powerful presence, his prophetic shining of truth into the political space of his day would have been so powerful, so hopeful, so meaning to his generation… and suddenly his life is snuffed out.  Perhaps Jesus feels the weight of their sorrow and bewilderment and that is the reason why he leaves the solitude of his boat and steps out onto the land to engage these desolate people.  In fact, maybe it is not the place that seems so desolate, as much as it is the hearts of the people who are so much at loss.  As you would expect, Jesus gives himself away in that moment.  He preaches, he touches, he heals the broken… both those who are broken emotionally and those who are broken physically.  And then, of course, he feeds them with the miracle of the fish and the loaves.  They leave with hearts and bellies full.  They leave with a renewed hope, a reclaimed faith, and a restored joy.

Understand that John’s death was not forgotten on that single day.  The pain and sorrow were still felt by Jesus.  But his grief was lessened through a sense of community, a sharing of a meal, and willingness to serve the needs of others.  Jesus found his footing again, not simply in the solitude of a quiet moment, but also in the company of his trusted followers and in the act of meeting the needs of hurting people.

Read in the context of this COVID moment, perhaps there is a word for all of us.  Like Christ, we find ourselves a little bewildered, a little stressed, a little “struck down” by the weariness of protocols, the ever-increasing numbers, and the grief of things taken from us… not just lives, but moments… moments that we long to share with loved ones and friends.  How do we regain our footing?  How do we step out onto the shore once again and face the challenges of each day?

First, we must seek the distant place of reflection.  We need to sit quietly and reflect on our confusion, our angst, our anger, and our need for renewed hope.  Most of us have churned our way through endless months of work and worry, trying to stay ahead of the virus and its impositions on our lives.  We all need a little rest… a little break from time to time.  It’s okay to step away for a moment and catch your breath.

Second, we need the comfort of community.  Obviously finding community is challenging in the midst of social distancing.  Finding community is hard, but it is not impossible.  Phone calls can still be made.  Letters can still be written.  Stories can still be told.  Laughter can still be shared.  If nothing else, the pandemic has reminded us of how important it is to be in community with others.  Though it may not be as easy to create community these days, it is still vitally important.

Third, share a meal.  There is something mystical, special, and even healing that comes when we sit together at a table.  We feed both body and soul.  Please do not miss understand… I am not advocating in-person dining in a closed-in space.  It’s not safe.  But maybe a socially distanced picnic, or backyard cookout, or a delivered pizza you share with someone 500 miles away as you meet on Zoom, can provide a chance to kick back, talk, and find solace.

Fourth, remember that Jesus found strength and renewal in meeting the needs of hurting people.  There is great healing when we are able to focus on the needs of others and act on their behalf.  Maybe this is a season to practice generosity… a generosity of wealth, of resources, of time, of patience, of kindness.

For most of us, it’s not a question of “if” we will live through the pandemic… it’s a question of how well we will survive.  May we find strength, hope, and renewal for the facing of this hour.

It’s just the color of skin, Lord, that’s all.

And we boast about our shade as though any one shade is better than any other.

We boast about our color as though we had one single bit of control over who we are, or where we were born, or into what race we were placed.

We’re all just people… made in Your image and precious in Your sight.

Remind us as your children, that the Kingdom is not about color, not about privilege, not about gender, not about politics, and not about economics.

The Kingdom is all about the condition of heart and the content of character.

Your gaze is always upon the person within, and so ours must be as well.

Teach us that there are no limits to the embrace of Your Kingdom.

For in Your Kingdom, there are no lines of color that will segregate, no walls of heritage that will divide, no fences of prejudice that will draw distinctions, for ALL are one in Christ Jesus.

We’ve built enough walls, instilled enough hatred, and passed along enough bigotry.

Forgive us.  Change us.  Empower us.  Make us better and make us bolder.

Teach us to stand united, hand in hand, heart to heart, as children of a Greater God.

Father help us to build the Kingdom and not to destroy it.

Remind us that that which sometimes divides us is just the color of skin, that’s all.

-Dr. Jon R. Roebuck

As we communicate, our conversations can be filled with lots of words that have both nuance and meaning.  Some conversations are long and composed of many words, while other conversations can be extremely short with maybe a single word used to convey our thoughts.  “Go!  Stop!  Look!”  Usually our conversations have a little pattern to them.  They begin with a greeting, followed with the main idea we long to convey, and then maybe we close with a word of farewell.  But there is one thing that I have noticed over the course of many conversations with many people.  Sometimes it’s the last word that becomes the important word.

For example I have had folks come to my office to chat.  We may converse for 5 or 10 minutes.  Finally they get up to leave and with their hand on the door to head out, they will finally get around to saying the thing they have really come to communicate.  “Preacher, my mom’s not doing well and I am worried.”  Or, “I discovered some drugs in my daughter’s car and I don’t know what to do about it.”  Or maybe something like this, “The doctor says that I have a lump that needs a biopsy.  I’m sure that I will be fine.  I just wanted you to know.”  

You have been there, right?  You listen for the last word.  It’s as though the conversation gets really serious at just the point you think that it’s about to end.  Sometimes we need to pay attention to the last word. 

Go back with me in your mind, to that upper room in Jerusalem.  Imagine the scene.  A spacious table is filled with the delicacies of the Passover Feast.  There is lamb, unleavened bread, fruit, and wine.  The room is dimly lit with candles.  In the flicker of light you can see the faces of 12 men and their leader as they spend the evening in celebration of their faith heritage.  Early on in the evening, the conversation is light and the mood is upbeat.  Moments of laughter erupt as these men tell their stories.  But the conversation slowly drifts to a more serious tone.  Jesus will teach and speak about the coming of the Holy Spirit and about the suffering He will endure and about the hatred these men will encounter.  At one point Jesus even gets up from the table to wash the feet of His followers.  It is a shocking display of servanthood that seems hard for each man to take in.

Passover Feasts were not the kind of meal through which one would rush.  It was a long, drawn-out affair that lasted for hours.  We are not told in Scripture the actual hour of the meal but surely it went on into the night.  And for argument’s sake, let’s suppose that it was well after nine when Jesus offered some of His last words.  If that were the case, then just 12 hours later, He would hang from a cross.  Just twelve hours later.  That gives a bit of gravitas to the moment.  Jesus offers a final word of challenge and command, His eyes riveted to the eyes of His followers.  Not only are these words among the last He will speak that night, they are among the last He will speak before the crucifixion and resurrection.  They are the last drops of a flood of teaching that has spanned the course of the past three years.  And because they are the last words, they become the important words.

And notice to whom they are spoken… the 12 disciples.  These men are the foundational stones of the Kingdom of God.  Upon their shoulders the Church will be built and the Gospel will take flight.  It is this group who will go forth to change the world.  Men like the tax collector Matthew, or the fiery Sons of Thunder named James and John.  Andrew, Philip, Simon Peter and the others all hear the voice of Jesus.  These are the men who knew Him best.  They were eyewitnesses to the miracles.  They heard the teaching.  With their own hands they had passed along the baskets of bread and fish that fed 5000 men.  They saw the dead come to life again.  Of all the people on the planet, you would think that they are the strongest, the most loyal, the best of the best, ready to go forth in the footsteps of their Master and Lord.

So, listen to what He says to them.  Listen to the last words.  “This is my commandment: Love each other in the same way I have loved you.  There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”  And just to emphasize His point, a few verses later he repeats Himself, “This is my command; Love each other.”  Do you think that is strange?  That Jesus has to tell His followers to love each other?  Is there the possibility that they wouldn’t love each other?  That they would let differences divide and old ways of thinking replace the new?  That they would forget all that He taught them?  Surely the importance of those words must reach our hearing as well.

This weekend, as we prepare to celebrate the cross, the sacrifice, the pain, and yes the resurrection, do we need to be reminded to love each other again?  Probably so.  You see if we are not careful, we can let the old ways of thinking seep into the hearts and mind’s of God’s people.  We can allow ourselves to live like those who have never met Him.  The love that should be evident is sometimes hard to find.  Think about the moments in which we now live.  These days people who call themselves Christians spew out racial hatred and prejudice in the name of good politics.  These days the people of Jesus try to exclude those whose lives are broken because of their “too many” mistakes… somehow forgetting that all of us are just sinners saved by grace. These days Christian folk will talk behind someone’s back or ignore the way words cause injury.  These days followers of Christ will ignore the plight of the poor or get angry when someone suggests helping out a neighbor.  These days disciples can let the smallest of arguments cause life-long rifts.  These days people who have been charged with “changing the world” somehow get angry when the world around them changes and rather than embrace the opportunity to be Christ-like in an ever-shifting culture, they put bigger locks on the doors so that the church will stay “irrelevantly fixed” in time.  

We have to be better than that.  We have to live by a higher standard.  We have to model a better life.  The distinguishing mark of Christianity is love and nothing else.  So do we love each other?  Do we forgive and long to heal?  Do we share out of our abundance?  Do we care when people haven’t heard the Gospel?  Do we weep for the lost and pray for the unsaved?  Do we love every neighbor as much as we love ourselves?  Do we love enough to listen, to care, to meet a need?  Do we love enough to be kind, thoughtful, and welcoming?

On the last night of His ministry, with the last moment of His teaching, with one of the last breaths in His body… Jesus said, “Love one another.”  That last word has to matter.

I’m a big advocate of getting people to the table.  Until we are intentional about inviting others to join us in civil, respectful, and rational dialogue about things that matter, those conversations will simply not happen.  We need to have conversations about race, immigration, gun control, women’s rights, border security, health care, and a whole host of other topics.  Social media, talk radio, and television news panels are not the best places for constructive, peaceful, and sensible words about important matters.  Sometimes we need to simply create the space and talk to people with whom we may not always agree… face to face and heart to heart. Perspective is a wonderful gift and when we learn to build relationships, the hostility and anger tend to seep away and honest dialogue occurs.

But let’s talk about our “place” at the table.  There is a difference between being seated at the table as a participant and standing at the table as an observer.  Most of us tend to think that we belong… that we should be seated at every table.  We think that our opinions, our values, our knowledge, and our experiences put us in a place of intellectual and maybe even moral superiority.  In other words, we tend to think that we are the source of all wisdom and knowledge and that others long to hear what we think.  And for some issues, maybe that’s true.  There are areas of expertise that might get us a seat at the table.  But those areas are not as many as we would like to imagine.

For example, if the topic swirled around preaching or pastoring or starting a new program, then pull me up a chair.  I’ve been there and have experience from which to draw.  Or, want to talk about raising kids?  Been there and done that.  Or consider this… I’m a fairly competent student of the Bible and can probably hold my own in terms of applying Scripture and faith to current events and cultural issues. I can talk with a fair amount of confidence about leadership and how to inspire others.  I can even talk about developing concepts and ideas into curriculum.  Or, if you ever want to talk about knee replacement surgery, I’m your guy.  Again, those are the kinds of topics with which I have had experience.  And although I do not claim to be an expert at any of them, there is enough personal knowledge and experience about those topics that might get me a seat at the table.

And then there are those topics that interest me, but don’t necessarily put me at the table.  I need to sometimes be an observer… a listener… a learner.  The older I get, the more I understand how limited any one person’s perspective can be, even my own.  For example, I can’t speak about what it feels like to be discriminated against, or what it is like to feel oppression because of gender, or denied access to education, goods and services because of my race.  That’s not my life, nor my story.  I can’t begin to tell you what it’s like to be an immigrant.  I can’t talk about how it feels to be denied healthcare.  I can’t tell you what it is like to live with perpetual hunger.  I can’t describe homelessness.  I can’t tell you about the emotional and physical pain that can erupt with an unplanned pregnancy.  I can’t tell you what it is like to be abused by a parent.  I can’t tell you what it’s like to fear the escalation of a routine traffic stop.  I haven’t earned a place at those tables of debate and dialogue because I can only learn of those things from a distance.

But learn I must.  Like many of you, I need to at least be present in the room when such topics are discussed.  I need to learn.  I need to listen.  I need to gain perspective that I don’t have.  I need to discover that moral, intellectual, or spiritual superiority is never a goal to be envied, but a false notion to be shunned.  There are far more tables around which I should stand as an observer, than those around which I should sit as a participant.  May God help me to know my place.

Dr. Jon Roebuck, Executive Director – Curb Center for Faith Leadership