Sometimes, you have to go
back where you started. For the last fifteen weeks, we've studied
the Greatest Sermon Ever Preached, the Sermon on the Mount – Jesus'
key instructions for the crowd and disciples to know what his plan
for a new people of God looked like. It wasn't what the Pharisees
offered, it wasn't what the Zealots longed for. It was radical, and
it invited everyone, even villagers in Galilee.
And when the sermon
ended, the disciples who followed Jesus probably thought they were
done with the mount. It was behind them; they moved on. But it
stuck with them. For three years, they followed Jesus. They heard
him use stories to illustrate his message about God's kingdom. They
watched Jesus as he lived out every detail he'd spoken. They saw
miracles that boggled their minds again and again; they watched the
powers of darkness overthrown. And they wondered, “Is this what
the Sermon on the Mount makes possible?”
But then Jesus started
talking more darkly. He told stories that ended with injustice,
bloodshed, murder. He talked about us marching toward death,
carrying heavy crosses to be put down like criminals. And he began
looking in the direction of Jerusalem. You couldn't distract him.
He seemed determined to be there. Maybe, they thought, a different
look passed over his face. Peter tried to talk him out of it, tried
to get him to stop all this talk. He got shot down pretty quick,
though. But through it all, Jesus never wavered from what he'd said
in that sermon.
And then it happened. A
meal after dark. A march into an olive grove for a private retreat.
It's getting late; everyone's falling asleep – but not Jesus. And
then the sound of footsteps. The flickering shine of torches through
the trees. Soldiers come. Jesus surrenders. Everyone runs. The
next hours are a blur. And his disciples can only watch in terror
and heartbreak, most from a safe distance, as the nails go through
his shredded flesh, as the cross is hoisted high under the brutal
noonday sun, as the crowd mocks him for hours while he gasps for
breath – and finally stops. The Teacher is dead, dying while
hanging on a tree, which the Law of Moses called the curse of God
(Deuteronomy 21:23; cf. Galatians 3:13).
After the crucifixion,
the disciples were disheartened. The disciples were disillusioned.
Put yourself in their heads; eavesdrop on that inner monologue.
They've invested the last three years in this teacher. But now he's
dead. And they're still thinking a dead messiah is no messiah. If
he wasn't real, if he wasn't legit, what good is his teaching? How
can someone who dies under God's curse tell us anything about what
kind of life God blesses? What good is the Sermon on the Mount?
That's not practical. It's not useful. Because Jesus lived that
way, and living that way is what got Jesus killed – for nothing.
Or so they might be tempted to think.
Afraid for their lives,
they hunker down in Jerusalem's nooks and crannies. But then they
hear strange news from that hysterical Mary Magdalene – never the
most stable person, they must think in retrospect – after all, she
used to host not one but seven demons, and who knows what that did to
her brain? But still, they sneak over to the tomb, and that little
limestone shelf carved into the rock is topped by linen wrappings –
and no body. What a confusing turn of events. And in all her
babbling, Mary makes one thing clear: if you want to unravel this
mystery, if you want to somehow see Jesus again, you need to go back
to Galilee. And not just anywhere. He set a rendezvous point: back
to the mount (Matthew 28:16).
So that's where they go,
this little band of eleven beleaguered disciples. This is the only
resurrection appearance in Matthew's Gospel; that's how he chooses to
narrate it. So there they go, a band of disciples no more numerous
than we here this morning. Up the mountain they go. Was he already
visibly standing there, I wonder? Did they spy him from a distance
and race up the mountain? Or did they wander back to that spot and
wait, feeling profoundly silly as they just stood around? But in
either case, the mystery unfolded. Because back on the mount, they
saw Jesus, risen again from death, towering above them on the
mountain, probably from a distance.
And seeing that, how
could they not worship him? How could they not be filled with awe
and amazement, and just bow down and surrender? But Matthew records
a weird little detail: “When they saw him, they worshipped him,
but some doubted” (Matthew
28:17). Some doubted? He's telling the resurrection story, and he
includes doubt?
But that's what happened: some were doubting. Some wondered if that
figure could really be him, if their eyes weren't playing tricks on
them. Some wondered if Jesus could really be alive. They wondered
if he could really be everything he says he is – the Promised One,
the Son of God, the Lord in person.
They doubted. Does Jesus really
open his Father's family to us? Does Jesus really interpret the Law
with authority? Does he really give the blessed life? Can the
Father be as near as Jesus says? And is Jesus' kingdom really worth
going through the narrow gate and walking that hard road that leads
through the cross? Some in this little crowd have their doubts –
and maybe we've had a share of our own, too.
And
so Jesus approaches them. He reveals himself by coming near to them,
collapsing the distance. They see him up close, they handle him, his
identity isn't in doubt. He makes clear to them: the answer to all
the above is yes. And what does he say? “All
authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me”
(Matthew 28:18).
Is that not amazing? Is that not awesome? If
Jesus has received all
authority in heaven and on earth, the kingdom has to be on its way!
And this kingdom covers everything!
If Jesus has all authority in heaven, then Jesus and Jesus alone
sets the terms of the blessed life – he decides, he decrees what's
good. He is the only way; he is the boss, he's in charge, he's
heaven's Lord. He gives the true Law, he breathes the true Spirit.
And
if all authority on earth
is his, that means we can't stuff Jesus in a little box we call
'church' or 'religion' or 'Sunday morning.' It means that in
everything we do, we are answerable to Jesus. In everything that
anybody
does, they're answerable to Jesus! Nothing is exempt. His throne is
over all worldly powers. His throne is over all politicians, all
campaigns, all governments – they all answer to him. Jesus raises
up and casts down at his pleasure and in his timing; he is “the
Most High [who] rules the kingdom of men and gives it to whom he
will”
(Daniel 4:32).
We
sit here this morning, and we're in the midst of one of the stranger
transitions of power most of us have ever seen – it's been a
bizarre year and a bizarre election. And with the results unveiled
this week, some of our neighbors are gleeful and celebrating; some of
our neighbors are cautious and uncertain; some of our neighbors are
apathetic or resigned; and some of our neighbors are disgruntled or
upset or angry or even frightened at what might come next. I've got
family members, all decent and upstanding Americans, at both
extremes. Some of our neighbors have reason to celebrate; some have
reason to be cautious; and some, like the wonderful neighbors I met
when I visited a local mosque two days ago, feel fair reason to be
concerned.
Some of us may fall into one or more of those camps:
gleeful, cautious, resigned, upset, fearful. We in this sanctuary
may run that same range. “Rejoice
with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep; live in harmony
with one another”
(Romans 12:15-16). But never forget: Jesus has authority to raise up
and cast down. And this same Jesus will lead us through the next
four years. But he asks us to walk in faith (and not fear), to hold
on to hope (and not despair), and to reach out to all
our neighbors in love (and not judgment). Because all authority in
heaven and on earth belongs to the Lord Jesus Christ.
And
so back on the mount, two thousand years ago, Jesus authorizes his
disciples, his little fledgling church, to help wield that authority
in heaven and on earth. It's true: he shares that authority with
them, with us. That's why he brought us together in the first place.
It's why he called us back to the mount. He wanted to give them,
give us,
a commission. A charge to keep we have. There are veterans among us
this morning, those who served in this nation's armed forces – and
veterans know, maybe better than anyone else in the world, what it
means to be commissioned, to be given marching orders from a
commanding officer who has the authority to give them. That's what
we have here this morning: our final marching orders for our whole
earthly deployment.
So
what are Jesus' marching orders? First, they involve going. He
takes almost for granted that we will go out into the world. We
won't stay cloistered in our homes. We won't build a compound to
keep the world at bay. We won't create a bubble of Christian
subculture to insulate ourselves. (...Uh, oops.) No, no, we'll go
out into society. We'll mingle with and build relationships with
people who aren't
like us,
whether we go near or whether we go far. And while we do that,
Commander Jesus' orders are to reach and train all nations, all
groups of people.
That's
what he says: “Disciple
all nations”
(Matthew 28:19a). Train America. Train Russia. Train Japan and
Saudi Arabia, train Nigeria and Syria, train all nations, and don't
leave any out. Go out and train Jews and pagan Gentiles. Go out and
train Buddhists and Hindus and Muslims and atheists and, yes,
longtime churchgoers, too. Train veterans and civilians and
draft-dodgers, train old and young, train rich and poor, train white
collar and blue collar, train men and women, train country bumpkins
and city slickers and small-town folk and suburban soccer moms, train
Democrats and Republicans and Libertarians and independents – train
all of them, because we all need discipleship, and we all need each
other in Christ Jesus. Politicians may focus on courting this or
that special interest group, this or that identity bloc, to the
exclusion of others. But not Jesus. He wants everyone, and his
message is the same for everyone. None are exempt from Jesus'
authority. None are beneath the good news, and none are above the
good news.
And
how does Jesus want us to do it? How do we do it? Jesus tells us,
first of all, we do it by “baptizing
them”
(Matthew 28:19b). The disciples knew by now what baptism meant. It
means that we show people that Jesus is the Gate, and we show them
that you enter by faith, and we take them by the hand and lead them
through the Gate. It means we introduce them to his death and
resurrection – because that's what baptism is. Baptism requires
repentance, decisively turning your back on your old life, your old
identity; it means dying to self. Baptism is following Jesus through
death, being buried with him, and emerging clean into life again. So
we do that, we lead people through Jesus' death and resurrection by
faith, which cleans them of their sins and opens wide forgiveness.
And
we do it “in
the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit”
(Matthew 28:19c). One name of “God in three Persons, blessed
Trinity.” Because we baptize by authority of, and into the life
of, the whole God. And really, what does the doctrine of the Trinity
tell us? It tells us that God's inner life is like a community –
it's a fellowship of love, shown by the Father to the Son, by the Son
to the Spirit, by the Spirit back to Father and Son, from and to all
eternity. To be baptized into Christ is to be brought into that
eternal fellowship of love. And on earth, that fellowship, that
community, is called the church. That's just what the church is: the
earthly extension of the loving oneness of Father, Son, and Holy
Spirit.
There's no such thing as being saved alone, apart from the church and
the one faith she confesses. We're baptized by one name into one
body, and we travel as one. In the early church, being an
'unchurched Christian' wasn't considered an equally good choice; Paul
referred to exclusion from the church's worship and fellowship
together as “being handed over to Satan” (1 Corinthians 5:5; cf.
1 Timothy 1:20). It's sad when our brothers and sisters opt by
choice to embrace a life the apostles imposed as the worst
punishment; that's not how it's meant to be. We are designed and
meant to live as one body, not just in theory but in practice. So
when we baptize people, we introduce them to the church's fellowship.
We're stronger together.
And
then, as they share in the faith and the fellowship, we carry out our
commission by “teaching
them to observe all that I have commanded you”
(Matthew 28:20a). And the word 'observe' here means to 'keep
intact,' to safeguard, to practice as one entire lifestyle. And what
does Jesus mean by what he's commanded us? Well, where did he ask
the disciples to meet him? Back on the mount! Everything we've
covered in the last fifteen weeks, everything we unpacked from the
Sermon on the Mount – that
is the cornerstone of what Jesus tells us to teach people.
We
lead people to faith. We help them become new like little children.
We welcome them into the Father's big family. And we show them how
the family lives. Our customs, our family tradition, is the sermon's
message. The Sermon on the Mount just is
how God's family lives – how we live when we're behaving like his
children. It's the lifestyle, not by
which, but for
which we're born again. This is what we're training all nations, all
kinds of people, to do. At least, that's what our marching orders
tell us.
It
can be intimidating to live that way. I mean, Jesus modeled it for
us, and he got whipped, beaten, spat on, and nailed to a cross. That
fear, or plenty of other fears, or plenty of other desires, can lead
us astray to alternative lifestyles – anything that doesn't match
what the Sermon said. But Jesus doesn't want us to surrender to
those fears or those desires. So he closes our marching orders with
one last promise: “And
behold, I am with you always, even to the end of the age”
(Matthew 28:20b).
What
a promise! Jesus is always
with us – he always has been, he always will be. As long as this
age lasts, as long as we're in a world where the Sermon on the Mount
isn't how everybody always acts, Jesus is with us. He is with us in
times of war and in times of peace. He is with us in times of
sickness and times of health. He is with us in times of sorrow and
times of rejoicing. He's with us no matter where we go, whether he
sends us somewhere safe and comfy or somewhere dangerous and harsh.
He's with us no matter who sits on any court, no matter who lives in
any palace, no matter who writes the laws. He's with us no matter
what happens or what comes our way. Because he has commissioned us
with our marching orders, and he's in it with
us. Always and forever, he's with us – are we with him?
Throughout our history, the church has adopted so many pet projects.
There are so many little commissions that we've given each other or
given ourselves:
- We've commissioned ourselves with church growth, just getting people in the door.
- We've commissioned ourselves with institutional maintenance and fiscal responsibilities.
- We've commissioned ourselves to be traditional or contemporary, to sing hymns or have a rock band, to waft incense or fire up the fog machine.
- We've commissioned ourselves to be seeker-sensitive or follow all the latest trends – or the oldest trends, just like granddad used to do it.
- We've commissioned ourselves to be powerful and influential, to be a respected keystone of the community, to speak loud and proud.
- We've commissioned ourselves to affirm and include indiscriminately or to reject and exclude zealously.
- We've commissioned ourselves to have power and prestige.
- We've commissioned ourselves to pursue personal happiness.
- We've commissioned ourselves to quest after wealth, success, popularity, and security.
- We've commissioned ourselves to climb the ladder.
- We've commissioned ourselves to enjoy 'religion' as part of a balanced diet of life, or as a fine hobby for those who like that kind of thing.
- We've commissioned ourselves to advance some political party's agenda, some social program, or some electoral candidate's defense.
And in all these little self-made commissions, we've run the risk of being
sidetracked, becoming entangled with what Paul called “civilian
affairs.” But that's not what soldiers do. Good soldiers aim to
please the one who enlisted them (2 Timothy 2:4). They obey their
CO. They follow their orders. They carry out their charge, their
commission. And we are the commissioned officers of the Resurrection
and the Life.
So what he actually said, his last words on the mount
– that's the commission that really matters. It's the one Jesus
really gave us. It's our calling, the one that completes everything
he said on the mount before. The church Jesus died and rose to make
must live as a commissioned church. We carry the good news – the
best news ever – and we need to share this road and the life it
brings. So come on, church: let's make our commission great again,
to the Father's glory. Amen.
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