Matthew 21:23-32 “Unexpected Grace.”
At the heart of our passage this morning is power. What authority does Jesus have for teaching? Who is the one that gave him this power? At the dawn of Jesus’ second day in Jerusalem, we find him confronted by a series of five challenges—all of which sought to undermine his authority and ministry. This particular passage is, by far, the longest single challenge story in the Gospel—all of which are framed as “zero-sum” contests in which the winner gains power at the loser’s expense. [1] If Jesus were to lose any of these challenges, his occupation of the temple would cease, his challenge to the authorities in Jerusalem would end, and the leaders would regain control of the temple. This morning’s passage reminds me of my own experience in my first ordination process.
After my first semester of seminary, I returned home for winter break to a meeting with my three supervisors on my Free Methodist Ordination committee. I was a Conference Ministerial Candidate and was on track to be ordained once I finished seminary. These meetings were a way to evaluate my growth and recommend opportunities for further development. Prior to this January meeting, I had approached my regional ordination team with a few concerns regarding their social principles. I relayed an experience I had at Summer Camp where a boy in my cabin had been thrown out of three churches because his dad was trans. The boy asked me in tears, “does Jesus really love me?” “Does Jesus really love my dad?” I remembered my own tears as I choked out, “Yes, Jesus love you and your father, too.” My question to the ordination committee was a basic question about God, “Does all really mean all?” I, unknowingly, walked into a room as cold as that frigid January day. I took my seat. The tension in the room was palpable. They began on the offensive. Poking holes in my arguments, then firmly pushing back. I was stunned by this shift in tone and posture. These were my mentors—friends—who I had known now for years. Disappointment and anger were written upon their faces. I felt myself shrinking in my chair, wondering if this is how that boy must have felt. The meeting ended with a looming threat: change your mind or else… Jesus’ adversaries—chief priests and elders—weren’t so different from my own.
I got up, walked out of the office—which had been the room I sat in for children’s church—walked out the front doors, took the path I made for my Eagle project, and got into my car. I sat there for a moment in stunned silence. And then, after a moment I cried. How? How could the church that had loved, nurtured, and raised me up in the faith abandon other brothers, sisters, and siblings? How could the church that had become my home threaten to throw me out too? I started the car and began my short drive home. A wave of emptiness, hollowness, and deep sadness fell over me as began my dark night of the soul. The phrase, “dark night of the soul” is often used to describe the extremely difficult and painful period in our lives—the death of a loved one; the break-up of a marriage; or the diagnosis of a life-threatening illness. The moments where loneliness, isolation, and fear create a dark night from which there seems to be no light. For me, the dark night of the soul began on that cold January day when I was forced to make a choice between my convictions and the church I had grown up in and loved.
During my Spring semester, I found myself trapped between the weight of impossible decisions. How do I move forward when it feels like the only two options available are bad? I remember feeling acutely alone. Staring out my window at Princeton Seminary I gazed at the library and decided that I needed to double-check all my conclusions. I read book after book after book. Arguments in favor of the traditional view of human sexuality. Arguments in favor of affirming and celebrating LGBTQ+ folks. All this and I arrived back at the same basic question, “does all mean all?” Does all mean I have to love the people I consider “those” people? Does all mean I have to love the people my colleagues, mentor, and even my church believes to be sinners? Does loving all mean I have to go beyond seeing others as sinners? After weeks of this song and dance, I finally came back to the one who prompted these questions: the young boy from summer camp. His tears contrasted with the rage of my ordination team. His wondering whether Jesus loved him with the “love the sinner, hate the sin” of my ordination team. Jesus’ words finally sunk in, “By this, they will know you are my disciples, if you love one another.” Would love so haphazardly toss families out of the church? Would love bring faith-seeking children to tears? Actions speak louder than words. No, something was deeply wrong with a theology and belief that would do this much harm, this much pain. I didn’t know beyond reasonable doubt as to whether I was right—and I couldn’t exactly articulate my theology—but, in that moment, I decided that all means all.
After that revelation, it was as if the clouds parted, and the sun shown clearly through. I knew that God loves all people and I could no longer pretend that what the church called love was actually hate. I was prepared to preach this truth within the Free Methodist Church. I was prepared to be a voice calling the church to greater love. I was prepared to stand up for what I believed in, but I wasn’t prepared for the church that I had called home, the church I grew up in, the church that had nurtured my faith to say, “you have no future in the Free Methodist Church.” Joseph Campbell writes, “The dark night of the soul comes just before revelation. When everything is lost, and all seems darkness, then comes the new life and all that is needed.”[2] Thank God that Jesus’ power is not the kind that abandons, kicks-out, or disqualifies. Jesus’ power is of a different kind, a power that produces healing and reconciliation rather than alienation and violence.[3] I discovered a church, instead, whose spirit was “open”—open minds, open hearts, open doors. I discovered a church, whose soul listened to, lifted up, and loved all those it came in contact with. I discovered a church that is not perfect but seeks to align its words and its actions—that all would mean all. I see in the United Methodist Church a return and a recalling of these roots. A church centered on grace—where the fruits of repentance are shown and celebrated. A church where gathering and restoration, healing and cleansing, humbling and lifting, water and table preserve, empower, and sustain all.
When confronted with the grace of God, Jesus asks us a very simply question this morning, “Will we see and believe?” Will we see the love of God and respond like the son who changed his mind? Will we who have seen the love of God soften our hearts? Will we be the church who kicks out or lifts up? Will we be the church who reconciles the lost or alienates them? By this, they will know you are my disciples, if you love one another. The choice is ours. Let us pray.
[1] Saunders, “Commentary.”
[2] Joseph Campbell, Reflections on the Art of Living: A Joseph Campbell Companion, (Harper Perennial, 1995).
[3] 1. Stanley Saunders, “Commentary on Matthew 21:23-32,” Working Preacher, November 11, 2020, https://www.workingpreacher.org/commentaries/revised-common-lectionary/ordinary-26/commentary-on-matthew-2123-32-4.