"The mad that you feel..."

The following is a sermon I preached in Jeanne Vail Chapel at Northwestern University, March 23, 2003. I've decided to post a few sermons this week, since I will be out of the office.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about Mr. Rogers lately. Are you familiar with Mr. Rogers? In our house, he was affectionately known as “Shoes,” because every afternoon he would take off his suit jacket and put on a cardigan sweater – one with a zipper – and change from oxfords into sneakers, but not before gently tossing the shoes into the air. He would then spend the next thirty minutes visiting with his television neighbors. I very much enjoyed being neighbors with Mr. Rogers.

This wonderful man, who you might know was also an ordained minister in the Presbyterian Church, had a special gift for helping children cope with all kinds of feelings – happy, sad, scary, even mad. I remember one of the songs he sang: “What do you do with the mad that you feel when you feel so mad you could bite? When the whole wide world seems oh so wrong and nothing you do seems very right?” The song continues with suggestions for some healthy outlets for anger – punching a bag (not your little sister), pounding some clay (not your little brother), having a came of tag and running just as fast as you can.

Anger is one of those emotions I think many of us don’t “do” very well. Anger can be explosive and very messy, or almost corrosive, insidious. Anger is rarely polite. Sometimes anger embarrasses us, and sometimes it frightens us. How interesting that something that generally feels so much bigger than we are can sometimes make us feel so very small.

Jesus was a little angry in today’s gospel text. But, Jesus doesn’t seem to have too much trouble expressing that anger. He had gone to the temple – it was almost time for Passover. Apparently, it looked more like a market than a temple! Folks selling livestock – to be used to offer a sacrifice, to be sure. Moneychangers – providing appropriate coinage for the temple tax. This is a house of worship? Well, something snapped, and Jesus, generally a peaceable man, goes on a rampage. He made a whip out of cords and began flailing it about. He drove the riff raff right out of there. He grabbed the coins from the moneychangers and dumped them all over the floor. He started knocking over tables, all the while chastising the merchants: “Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!” He made quite the mess.

I wonder what the disciples were thinking. We are told that they remembered having read somewhere, “Zeal for your house will consume me.” But, I would like to know what they thought, how they felt, as they watched their friend and teacher basically go off the deep end. We might assume they took it in stride – just another of his moods. I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that Jesus had a bit of a temper. Of course, we might just as easily surmise they might have been dumbstruck. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time. This Jesus character – always full of surprises. We’re just along for the ride.

That’s probably enough about the disciples. But, what about everybody else? What must they have been thinking? “Uh, Security? We’ve got a situation here.” We might imagine more than a little indignation. “Who are you? Who do you think you are? What gives you the right? Give us a sign!” And Jesus is quick to reply – “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” Right. Whatever you say. It’s taken 46 years to get the temple to this point, and you’re going to rebuild it in three days.” Okay.

In retrospect, we know, as the disciples would come to know in their remembrance of this exchange, that Jesus wasn’t exactly talking about the physical structure of the building that was the temple. Instead, he referred somewhat cryptically to the temple that was his body, his physical flesh and blood, soon to be silenced, however briefly.

We are several weeks along in the season of Lent, that time during which we prepare our hearts and minds for Jesus’ betrayal and death, and eventually, his glorious resurrection. It is a time during which we wrestle with difficult questions, and perhaps question easy answers. It is a time during which we wrap our minds around some of the central tenets and sticking points of our faith.

The letter to the Corinthians was written to a people wrestling and struggling with some of the same tenets. If we take a look at the verses immediately preceding where this morning’s Epistle lesson begins, we discover the author is a bit disappointed with his friends in Corinth. They were having some issues concerning division within the church. Division within the church? Hard to imagine, isn’t it? Anyway, the author wants these folks to understand that such divisiveness might cause the cross to be robbed of some of its power? “For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.”

I have to be honest – this particular passage always trips me up a bit. I never know what to make of it. First of all, I tend to hear a somewhat harsh, almost angry undertone: “Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?” Situated as we are, in the midst of a university campus, we tend to be very concerned with the wisdom of the world. I think it can be useful to give some thought, from time to time, to how exactly it is we define wisdom, perhaps contemplating the extent to which wisdom differs from intelligence, and intelligence from intuition. Here at Northwestern University, many of our days, not to mention a fair portion of our nights, are consumed with the pursuit of knowledge – in the lecture hall, in the laboratory, in the library. It can be all too easy to discount the learning that takes place outside of the ivy-covered walls of academia. It can be all too easy to insist that wisdom is solely a by-product of the number of degrees amassed, the number of languages fluently spoken, or the extent to which one’s hair is graying. Some of the wisest folks I have had the good fortune to know have never set foot on a college campus. Others of the wisest folks I have had occasion to know are about three feet tall and gather around me during A Moment with the Children. You think I have something to teach them? No, not really. I’m just trying to learn what I can from their insightful revelations!

It can be all too easy to overlook the wisdom all around us, if we would only open our eyes. A few weeks ago, I found myself on a ferry traveling to Whidbey Island in Washington State. It was in Seattle for a conference of college and university chaplains. As I stood on the deck, a rather brisk wind more than rustled. Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to go inside. The mountains – just fascinated, captivated me. This reverie was interrupted as someone standing nearby remarked, “Our God surely is amazing!” Several of us exclaimed in agreement. Who could argue with that?

Well, another country heard from, as my grandma used to say. Someone else remarked, “Yeah, it’s beautiful, but I don’t need the mountains to tell me God is amazing – I just need to look at your face.” She went on to voice somewhat of an impatience with nature, and a decided preference for the city, as one who draws her energy from an urban environment. Now, I’m a confirmed city girl as well, don’t get me wrong. But, those mountains…

“The heavens are telling the glory of God; and the firmament proclaims God’s handiwork.” The firmament, built up to such incredible dimensions, proclaimed a great deal for me that afternoon. They offered a quiet wisdom, to be sure. Those mountains have been, for a very long time. God willing, they will continue to be. Those mountains are much more sure, more secure, than they molehills that comprise much of our daily lives. I needed that gentle yet certain reminder.

Let’s turn our attention back to another reminder, not exactly gentle, but surely certain – the cross. Two sturdy beams of wood, positioned perpendicularly. As innocuous as the pendants hanging around our necks may seem, we know the cross to be a particularly brutal means of a very public, very humiliating execution. “But we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles.” I don’t know. I tend to do a fair amount of stumbling over the cross. I won’t go so far as to call it foolishness, but it is a lot to take in.

What exactly is the message about the cross? That which is meant to be “Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God?” On one level, one could almost say the message about the cross has far less to do with God, far more to do with fallen humanity. Important people were feeling threatened by this radical character who was generating quite a following. They plotted and conspired, orchestrated his betrayal. Mob mentality went to work, and before we know it, Jesus is hung on a cross, crucified, left for dead.

But, we know the story doesn’t end there. We have to stay tuned. I don’t mean to rush the season, but we have to hold out for the message of the empty tomb. The resurrection. That’s what these forty days are all about. We preach Christ crucified, to be sure. But we also preach Christ raised from the dead, ascended into heaven. Which is the point? The death, or the life?
I can’t help but wonder – why is it that the cross is such a central symbol of our faith? Why not the empty tomb, the stone rolled away? I think it may have something to do with the privileging of presence over absence. There is something appealing about a savior who will suffer with us, for us. God in human form, vulnerable, subject to frailty. The very physical reality of Jesus’ death. The tomb is empty. Miraculous – yes. Full of God’s grace and power – yes. But, somehow inaccessible. Out of reach.

Let’s return to Mr. Roger’s neighborhood. The song I mentioned earlier continues: “It’s great to be able to stop – when you’ve planned a thing that is wrong, and be able to do something else instead and think this song: I can stop when I want to, can stop when I wish, can stop, stop, stop any time.” I’m going to stop before I actually break into song.

Now, I certainly don’t want to incite a crisis of faith for anyone – although there is a part of me that firmly believes such crises can be moments of tremendous growth – or, maybe that’s what I need to tell myself. At any rate, far be it for me to second guess the scriptures, but… Intellectually, I understand the drama of the crucifixion as a necessary backdrop for the promise of the resurrection. An unavoidable precursor, a divine inspiration, so to speak. But I wonder… had we been present some two thousand years ago, would we have joined in with the crowd? Would we have betrayed our teacher, what is more our friend? Or, would we have raised our voices in protest? Would we have pled with the powers that be for a better way to manage the threat they were feeling? “For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.