February 9, 2025
Matthew 27: 11 – 14
About 25 years ago, I was on a Saturday hike in the mountains with a couple of friends. It was a gorgeous fall day; the air was crisp and the Aspens were gold and the sky was that electric blue that’s always most intense in the Rockies in fall. We were on a trail that branched into several different routes, and at one of the branches, there was a logbook that someone had placed near the trail on a little wooden stand, kind of protected from the elements, so hikers could record which way they went in case they got lost and somebody had to look for them. Most of the logbook entries were pretty routine: name, date, time, which trail they took. Some people would add comments about how beautiful the place was, or how they were grateful to be there. And then at the top of one of the pages, someone had written the basic information about name and date and trail, and then wrote, “Jesus is coming soon.”
The next few entries were all pretty pro forma, but a few lines down somebody wrote their name and route, and then wrote, “Jesus not here yet.”
That kind of opened the flood gates. A few names down somebody wrote, “Thought I saw Jesus. Turned out to be just some guy with a beard wearing sandals.” Someone else said, “I think Jesus usually starts over at the West trailhead.”
I thought this was all pretty funny, but clearly someone didn’t, because next there was this long diatribe in the logbook, four or five lines worth, urging people to repent, God will not be mocked, we are all sinners under judgement, that kind of stuff. So the next line down, somebody just had to insult Christians and call us arrogant and judgmental, and of course that did it: pretty soon there was this whole rhetorical battle scribbled in enraged pencil strokes between the Christians and the atheists, line by line in this little spiral bound notebook. People were calling each other names and condemning each other to hell, and other people were writing about how stupid it was that everything had to turn into an argument and can’t we just enjoy our hike, and this went on for several pages.
The thing that struck me about it was the complete uselessness of the argument. No one was going to go back and read it, I guess except people with a kind of morbid professional curiosity like me. No one was going to win. It was words no one cared about, scrawled in a spiral notebook with a pencil or a cheap ball point pen. But somehow, people couldn’t stop themselves from fighting, even in that pointless format.
I just wrote my name and which trail we were on. One of my friends did the same. But my other friend just couldn’t leave well enough alone. He wrote, “Beautiful day, great hike. Blessings to all of you. Sincerely, Jesus.”
I’ve thought of that day over the past few weeks because it feels like a metaphor for our whole country right now, or in some ways our whole world. Instead of scratching out angry notes in pencil in a spiral notebook out in the middle of nowhere, we’re posting arguments on social media in the middle of digital nowhere. Every argument feels like an existential crisis. Every argument entails other arguments and other crises. We don’t seem to have a productive or peaceful way of actually resolving anything. We’re just shouting at each other.
Today is the second Sunday in a sermon series I’m calling “Finding Our Balance.” Ever since our November presidential election, I’ve talked with people across the political spectrum, and I’ve heard an amazingly consistent response, even across all our differences. People are tired. They’re checking out. I’ve heard a lot of people say they just can’t deal with all the hatred and chaos. They’re done. They can’t watch it anymore. They don’t want people trying to spin them up into righteous rage day after day. It’s exhausting and toxic.
And like I said last week, I understand that reaction. In some ways, I think it’s even healthy. But as hard as it is, I think that part of the church’s work right now is to help repair our tattered social fabric, to help create a more compassionate and nurturing environment for everybody. For centuries, Christians have relied on the spiritual resources of our faith to give us the strength and the vision for this kind of repair work. So for a few weeks here, I want to focus on some ways that our faith can help us find our balance and from that stance of balance, take whatever action we may feel called to take to respond to the many urgent needs around us.
Last week, we looked at the story of Nicodemus, a Pharisee who is part of the group trying to have Jesus arrested and killed. In that group of leaders, Nicodemus is the one person who speaks up for fair treatment of the accused. He reminds the other people assembled to discuss their response to Jesus that their law says that no one should accuse another person without at least talking to them, giving them a hearing, giving them a chance to explain what they’re about. Nicodemus is the one person who invites the religious leadership of his day to live by the principles they profess. They don’t do it, of course. But it seems to me that if we are willing to take the kind of risk that he did, to speak up for the best parts of our tradition, even if we fail, we can inspire courage and wisdom in others. We may catch the imaginations of others. God may be doing more through us than we realize.
This week, I want to focus on the story we heard this morning from the 27th chapter of Matthew’s Gospel. This episode shows up in slightly different versions in all four gospels, which means that most early Christians probably would have heard it even before it was written. The story would have been told in the communities that gave rise to the Gospels. The authors of all four Gospels considered it important enough to tell in their small communities, and to write down and pass along to Christians who came after them.
By the time we get to the passage we heard this morning, Jesus has been arrested and taken before the high priest of the temple and other religious leaders of his day. They’re determined to find some reason to put him to death, but he doesn’t respond to their accusations. Rather than answering, he simply remains silent. Eventually, they find him guilty anyway, and agree that he should be executed. Their problem is that they’re living under Roman rule, and under Roman law they can’t sentence a person to death. So they take him to the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, who can. When Pilate asks Jesus if he is the King of the Jews, Jesus gives a kind of an ambiguous non-answer. In Greek, which was the original language of the Gospels, he says, “you say so.” For us, it would be kind of like saying “if you say so,” or “you said it. I didn’t.” And once again, when the religious leaders speak up and accuse him in front of Pilate, he stands silent. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t answer. He says nothing.
The Gospel says Pilate is amazed by this (or it can also be translated that he’s “baffled”). He doesn’t know what to think. And that makes a lot of sense, because Pilate is not simply repeating the accusations of the temple leaders. He’s adding to them. The High Priest and the others there accuse Jesus of blasphemy. But when Pilate asks if he considers himself King, he’s accusing Jesus of being a revolutionary, trying to overthrow King Herod and maybe even staging an insurgency against Rome. The penalty for that crime is crucifixion, which is a form of public execution intended to be as horrifying and brutal as possible. We would call it state-sponsored terrorism: the purpose is to terrify the population, so everyone can see what happens to those who oppose Rome. And still, even in the face of those consequences, Jesus chooses not to defend himself. He chooses not to answer.
It’s a strange scene in some ways. But I think this story is meant at least in part to show us that the people accusing Jesus are blinded by their own lust for power and their fear of losing power. They’re blinded by their own ideology, their own religious belief, their own hatred, their own conviction that they are right and they couldn’t possibly be mistaken. They’re so certain they’re right, so certain that Jesus should be killed, that in the 26th chapter we read that they’re even willing to find people to lie under oath to convict him. So you have to wonder: in those circumstances, if he did answer, how would that help? In some sense, he’s doing the most effective thing he can do: he’s refusing to add legitimacy to their accusations by simply keeping silence.
Now, this is an extreme example. I sincerely hope none of us will ever be in a position like that. But I think there is an important tactic here, one we can learn from. There are times when nothing we can say will make any difference. And maybe in those moments, it’s best to choose silence.
There’s no doubt that Jesus can speak eloquently and powerfully. He does it all the time. He tells powerful little stories that change how people see the world. He argues eminent religious scholars to a standstill, often with just a few words. His teaching changes lives. So it’s not like he can’t speak. But when there is no prospect of changing anything, he chooses not to speak. We don’t always have to respond to those with whom we disagree. We can choose not to speak.
Of course, this is not to say that Jesus does nothing. It’s not to say we should do nothing. There are moments when we have to commit ourselves to opposing some evil taking place around us. And I’m not saying we never have to speak up. There are times when our most important values are at stake. I’m just saying we don’t always have to speak up. We can choose when. We can choose why, and how, or what to do instead. We can choose. We don’t have to be reactive, jerked around like fish on a line by people with whom we disagree.
In the story from Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus remains silent. He says nothing. But he has already begun doing the most powerful thing possible: he creates an alternative to the way the Empire and Herod’s kingdom and even the religious leaders of his day wield power. Jesus creates a way of life that does not subscribe to Caesar’s, or Pilate’s, or Herod’s methods. And he invites everyone into that way of life. Sometimes we can keep silence and simply listen deeply to people, even when they’re saying things we disagree with. In that silence, in that listening, we can give others the gift of full attention that God is always giving us. To do that is to not to surrender. It’s to give ourselves space to choose how we respond. It’s to participate in Jesus’ way of life instead of Rome’s way of death. I know it can feel like we have to react to every ill-chosen and hateful word, every manufactured crisis, every attempt to pull us off balance. But we don’t. We can focus. We can pray. We can keep silence. We can choose to respond, when we do, in faith and hope and love.