The Truth That Lays Upon The Heart

Sermon by the Rev. David Anderson
Matthew 4:12-23

Perhaps you’re like me. I am a little uncomfortable with people who say they absolutely know Jesus. Remember those WWJD bracelets? “What Would Jesus Do?” I’m uncomfortable with the conservatives who presume to know so much about Jesus—know exactly WWJD, what Jesus would do . . . about stem cells and immigration and sexual orientation.

But I’m equally uncomfortable with the liberals who mount their theological steeds and go in quest of the Historical Jesus. The zenith of that movement is the Jesus Seminar, a collection of 200 scholars who get together and vote on the veracity of Jesus’ sayings. “No, Jesus didn’t say that.” Or “Yes, that’s absolutely a word from Jesus.” How do they know? Any more than the WWJD people know if Jesus would be in favor of building a fence on our Mexican border?

We all, in our own biased ways, presume to know Jesus. And so it’s wonderful to read in today’s gospel that seeing Jesus, that knowing Jesus is more challenging than we think.

Now, you’d think that if there’s one person in the world who did know Jesus it would be John the Baptist. John was Jesus’ cousin. He was a prophet whose sole mission was to prepare the way for Jesus, to say “This is the One!” Surely John knows Jesus. But strangely and yet wisely John says, “I myself did not know him.” Twice he says this—for emphasis: “I myself did not know him.”

 I know that God is promising something more, John says. I know that the world of God’s creation was intended for something better than we’ve made it, and that God is promising to send someone who’s going to lead us into that truth and freedom and blessing. I know that, but I don’t know how it’s going to happen. My job is point to it, to herald it—even though I can’t name it.

Don’t you like that? Isn’t that refreshing? What John embodies is a kind of spiritual practice in which understanding follows faith and action. This is what St. Anselm, the medieval Archbishop of Canterbury, spoke of in his famous credo ut intelligam. “I believe so that I may understand.”  In other words, Anselm says, I don’t understand. And that’s all right. I believe—that is, I first give my heart to the truth—and then I understand.

This is not the case for all truths. Propositional truths that can be tested on a calculator or in a laboratory—Is this equation correct? Is this drug effective?—these do not require first the commitment of our hearts in order to understand. But they are not the great truths either. The great truths—Is love stronger than death? Do my tears have meaning? Are we alone in a blank universe?—these cannot be known except by participation in the answer.

After going to a memorial service this week, someone said to me, “I don’t know—this shakes my belief in God. This death happening to this family—it’s all wrong. And I need to figure this out.” And I said, “I know. But you’ll never figure this one out in your head. This one you can only take deep into your heart. And if you stay with it long enough you may come to know the truth.”

But that truth, you see, is not something we can demonstrate. We can’t prove it or give it to one other person! You know it in your bones, and all you can do for someone else who is seeking—maybe even desperately—is hug them and love them and tell them it’s going to be ok. But you can’t give them the wisdom of your heart.

Reminds me of the shema of the Jews, which ends with the phrase, "And these words, which I command thee this day, shall be upon your heart." Over the centuries the Jews have struggled with this commandment. "Why are we told to place these truths upon our hearts? Why are we not told to place these teachings in our hearts?" The Rabbis answer: "No one can place the divine teaching directly into anyone’s heart. All we can do is place them on the surface of the heart so that when the heart breaks they can fall in." And the heart breaks in ecstasy and in agony.

We know Jesus when we follow Jesus—not when we mouth some intellectual belief, but when we participate in his life. When we stay with our moments of ecstasy and agony until they divulge their secrets, until they teach us the mystery of human life. That means taking responsibility for your inner life. I’ve got to be quiet. I’ve got to listen to my heart. I’ve got to care for my soul. It doesn’t do any good to say we know Jesus because someone gave us a set of beliefs. At some point your heart has to break for the truth to drop in.

I told this story of Martin Luther King in my weekly email. He’s 27 years old living in Montgomery, Alabama. He’s becoming a prominent force in the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, and working for nonviolent change in the racial policies and prejudices of this country. And one night the phone rings at midnight. The angry voice says,“Nigger, we are tired of you and your mess now. And if you aren’t out of this town in three days, we’re going to blow your brains out and blow up your house.”

Years later, King recalled his kitchen-table thoughts after that phone call. He remembered looking into the crib of his newborn daughter sleeping peacefully, and imagining someone killing her. First thing he wanted to do was to call his parents—talk to his famous preacher father. Daddy knows Jesus. Daddy’s been through the fire and the flood. I’ll talk to him and he’ll tell me what to do, he’ll calm this pounding in my chest.

Dr. King had an epiphany in that awful moment. Later he wrote, “I had to know God for myself. I bowed my head over that cup of coffee. I will never forget it. I prayed

. . .  I could hear a voice saying, ‘Stand up for peace. Stand up for truth.’” In a moment like that, everything he had learned about Jesus was like truth piled on his heart. It’s important—yes, we have to lay that truth on our hearts, we’ve got to place it on the hearts of our children and grandchildren. But no one can put it in your heart or mine.

And if Martin Luther King had picked up the phone that terrifying night and called his Daddy, he would never have broken through to God for himself.

Everything you know about Jesus, about God is important. But it’s stacked like cord wood on top of your heart.

I am indebted to William Willimon for the insight that John the Baptist is a witness who does not know it all. Pulpit Resource Vol. 30, No. 1 Jan 2002.