This morning I preached a sermon at Grace on Matthew 12 called Sacred Cows. Jesus and his disciples were walking through a grainfield on the Sabbath, and because they were hungry, his disciples picked some heads of grain and ate them. The Pharisees, who enforced strict Sabbath-keeping laws, were incensed by their irreverence for the Sabbath, which had become the theological symbol of Moses’ law and the litmus test for Jewish faithfulness. The Sabbath had become a sacred cow for the Pharisees, and Jesus and his disciples were, in a sense, kicking the cow. He responded to their outcry with a bold claim: The Son of Man is Lord of the Sabbath. 

We all have sacred cows, the things that have become primary identity markers, or litmus tests of faithfulness. It could be any number of things, including politics, our family, an ideology, or even the Bible. But when Jesus declared himself Lord of the Sabbath, he made the powerful statement that he is greater than all of our sacred cows. He is the Lord of all of our sacred identity markers and theological litmus tests. When any of these things come into conflict with him – as they did through the hunger of his disciples in that grainfield – we must choose him. We cannot serve two masters; we cannot serve both God and Sabbath.

If you’ve been holding onto something the way the Pharisees held onto the Sabbath, it’s time to let go. You’re crushing it under the weight of your expectations and demands. What the Pharisees should have done, and what we need to do, is to remind ourselves of this truth and live in it daily: Jesus is greater than. Because when you get that right, Jesus can do to the Bible, and to your family, and to your politics what he did to the Sabbath – he can redeem it from a dead list of dos and don’ts and transform it into something that breathes life into your spirit, sustains your soul, and brings healing and freedom to your whole being.

There are many different interpretive models for the book of Revelation. Some approach it as though it were a code to be deciphered, matching ancient images with present figures in an attempt to unlock the secrets of the last days. Others see it as a uniquely Christian history with little or nothing to say to believers today. As we seek to understand this fascinating and oftentimes befuddling book, perhaps we should interpret it in basically the same way we interpret every other book of the Bible. That is to say, maybe the key to unlocking Revelation’s secrets is to simply ask, “What did this mean to the people to whom it was originally written?”

In his book The Theology of the Book of Revelation, Richard Bauckham takes this basic exegetical approach, and manages to make sense of, and draw compelling meaning from, John’s Apocalypse. Bauckham starts where most Christian exegetes start with any other biblical book by asking, “What sort of book is this?” The answer, he discerns, is that “Revelation seems to be an apocalyptic prophecy in the form of a circular letter to seven churches in the Roman province of Asia.” (2)

This past Sunday I preached a message I called Skeptics Sunday at Grace Church. Using the doubt of Thomas as my lead-in, I addressed a couple of the issues raised by skeptics of Christianity. Obviously, there wasn’t enough time in one message to address all of their claims, so I had to limit myself to these two: The presence of evil contradicts the existence of God, and Science has disproven religion.

In addressing the first claim, I walked our congregation through the very basics of Alvin Plantinga’s argument from God, Freedom, and Evil. In that book, he demonstrated that it is possible for an omnipotent, omniscient, good being to allow the presence of some evil for the purposes of either preventing a more serious evil or allowing a greater good, thereby revealing an internal contradiction within the old problem of evil.

In addressing the second claim, I stated that it’s not possible for science to disprove God’s existence because science deals with the material and natural, whereas God is spirit and supernatural. God lies beyond the purview of science. But the real issue, as I see it, is that we Christians have, in general, made the science/faith issue about creation and evolution, and we are trying to win an argument. For a people whose king willingly lost his life on a Roman cross, trying to win arguments is a grave mistake. Jesus won a lot of arguments, but nobody he bested ever entered the kingdom. In fact, they all sought to kill him.

Our task is not to win but to woo. Jesus told Thomas, “You have seen and so have believed; blessed are those who have never seen but still believe.” People today will never see the risen Lord the way Thomas did, but they will see us. Jesus has left his wounds in our hands. Let us be sure to bear them faithfully.

A photographer, who is a Christian, reached out for help. “I have several gay friends, and they keep telling me, ‘When I get engaged/married, I’m definitely having you shoot the photos.’ While I’m honored by their compliments and love them dearly, I’m conflicted about whether or not I can, as a Christian, participate in their weddings as the photographer.” When her friends ask her to shoot their wedding, what should she do?

These are complicated questions that require serious reflection. One of the most common responses I’ve seen to these types of questions goes like this: “Jesus ate with sinners, so you should [shoot the wedding/join the frat/go to the party].” But is it really as simple as that? What, after all, did it mean for Jesus to eat with sinners? And why was it such a big deal?