“Jesus in History”
By Rev. Dr. Jason Byassee
Sunday, May 11, 2025
Reading: 2 Samuel 4:4; 9:1-13
Happy mothers’ day everybody. Glad to see you all. It’s good to thank God together for the grace born to us through our mothers.
Mother’s Day was invented by a Methodist lay woman named Anna Jarvis in West Virginia in 1908. The floral industry loved it—there was an abundance of carnations this time of year to unload. Later the founder tried to take Mothers’ Day back. It’d become too commercialized. It was no longer about the sacrifice that she’d tried to lift up. It’s awfully hard to put that genie back in the bottle though.
Many of us learn what it means to care for another person by becoming a parent. Suddenly there’s this other creature, totally dependent on you. Mothers learn all the more given their disproportionate contribution to birthing. If you spend any time in old graveyards, like I do, you’ll see headstones of mothers and infants with the same death dates. Childbirth was deadly until just a moment ago in human history.
We might also give thanks for having a mother today. That is, being a human; being alive. Good luck getting born without a mom. We Christians say even more. Motherhood is so great that even God has a mother. Through Mary in Christ, God has eyelashes and a spleen and a Jewish mom.
We also give thanks for those who act as mothers without the biology. One mom is never enough; we each need more. Many of you have heard of my difficult relationship to my mother, who died when she was about the age I am now of an accidental overdose. The church has always been a surrogate mom for me, offering up femininity and wisdom. I couldn’t have survived without it.
I love watching y’all mother someone else’s child in here. From a kid’s perspective, if someone else corrects you, the rules must be legit, your parents didn’t make them up. We all listen to an adult we’re not related to better than someone in our own family for some reason. Christians speak of the church as our mother, the one who births us in faith, tenderly teaches us prayer and the Bible, watches out for us, cares for us. The church is a family that displaces our family of origin and is bigger and more rambunctious than the people who share our surname. You may have heard Dayle say, “If your church isn’t crying, it’s dying.” When one of our new parents apologizes for their kids’ noisemaking, we won’t hear of it—that’s the sound of life. Out there, child-care costs a fortune. In here, hand that baby over, it’s someone else’s turn to get spit up on.
I’ve never preached a sermon on Mephibosheth. I’m guessing you’ve never heard one. But remember we’re disciples on the way to Emmaus. The risen Jesus, unrecognized, is explaining how all of scripture refers to himself. We might think that’s like a prediction of 9/11 hidden in the New York Times crossword or Nostradamus predicting Hitler. But the Bible’s not like that. It offers stories, patterns, which Christ then gathers up and crowns with himself. In Mephibosheth, we get a story about covenant, reconciliation between enemies, and adoption: lots of big-ticket stuff.
But first, Mephibo-who?
Saul was the first king in Israel. A tragic figure. Struck by madness, his house quickly dies out. And the prophet Samuel anoints a new king, David, while Saul is still living. Danger! The two houses struggle against one another. But David still honours Saul’s royal authority. And he becomes dearest of friends with Jonathan, Saul’s son and heir apparent. In the middle of one of the epic struggles for power in Israel—between kings Saul and David—erupts one of the great friendships in our literature—that between David and Jonathan. Watch out who you resent—your kid might become their best friend. Jonathan, we’re told, loves David as his own soul. Their love for one another surpasses their love for women.
This is how God works: hatching friendship in the midst of enmity.
Now a covenant, like that between David and Jonathan, is a bigger deal than we might think. It’s a great deal more than a contract, which we’re more familiar with and which either side can break. God makes a covenant with Abraham and marks it with circumcision. The covenant with Moses is commemorated with the commands. The Hebrew for covenant is hesed—loyalty, steadfastness, aggressive kindness. David and Jonathan making a covenant is more than friendship. It binds them to one another’s children and to their children.
I knew a man from west Africa who got to be friends with a mutual friend. When he wanted to bless our mutual friend, he presented a beautiful robe to the man’s father. In his tribe, you honour someone by honouring their parent. None of my kids’ friends have presented me with a robe. Yet. One can hope. David and Jonathan will remain committed to one another longer even than spouses do. They will remain intertwined to one another’s children and grandchildren.
Enter Mephibosheth. We meet him after the crushing news of the death of Saul and Jonathan in battle against the Philistines. His maid drops him, and he is disabled in his feet. This is a key fact about the young man: he is crippled, as we used to say, differently abled, as we say now. David asks around: any relatives left of my dead friend Jonathan? Anyone to whom I owe hesed, covenant loyalty? He learns of Mephibosheth and sends for him.
Gotta be a little unnerving. You have a claim to the throne and the king presently reigning sends for you. This can’t be good. As soon as Jesus starts claiming to be King of the Jews, his life is in danger. Mephibosheth must’ve gotten his will ready before appearing at court. He goes in abject, does obeisance, calls himself a dead dog, promises to be David’s servant.
I got to meet one of my heroes once. I started presenting my credentials, mentioned people we knew in common. He interrupted me by saying my name. Jason. Now we were on another footing entirely—something like comradery, less like obeisance. David names Mephibosheth. Invites him not to be afraid. Promises kindness for the sake of his father Jonathan. Restoration of his grandfather Saul’s lands, a welcome to eat at his table always. That looks a lot like Christ’s invitation to us.
Expecting the worst, Mephibosheth receives an abundance of grace; crippled and prostrate before the one who had supreme power over him, he finds himself lifted up and lavished with benefits, even to the point of being invited to share the family table of his master
This is the gospel. We enter God’s presence expecting non-recognition or even harm. Instead, we get lands and a forever meal ticket. This might be the hardest thing to get through our heads: the gospel is not 5th grade. We don’t turn in our homework and wait for a gold star and a pat on the head. We bring nothing to God, except our mess. And God gives us everything. That’s barely a trade; it’s more like a gift – an avalanche of grace. Now that’s a good deal ain’t it?!
And maybe that’s the story Jesus tells his crestfallen disciples as they walk away from Jerusalem, trying to make sense of all that had happened there. Right now, he says, when you’re most disappointed, when you’re utterly crushed, that’s when God is closest. Like any good mother, only better.
Scripture can’t hardly mention Mephibosheth without quickly mentioning his disability—smitten in both feet. Not sure why. Is it to emphasize that Mephibosheth is no threat to David’s throne? Or the degree of David’s mercy—there’s nothing Mephibosheth can do for him. Either way it’s a glimpse of the gospel. Perhaps we show our faithfulness as a church by how we treat those who are different in our midst. We have some history with that. A ministry called Handicapable from years ago that folks are rightly still proud of. Mary Louise Dickson, a lawyer celebrated across Canada, who spent her whole life in a wheelchair and yet traveled the world on her own, helped bring accessibility on sidewalks not just for wheelchairs but also for strollers, elevated bumps for blind people. You may not realize that our chancel up here is not actually accessible, wheelchairs can’t get into this space. One might say, ‘well we don’t have any disabled staff or choir.’ That would be incorrect. Joanne and I have both had multiple back surgeries. We’re each a bad sneeze away from needing wheels. Several in the choir would benefit, new members and confirmands and those to be baptized could all approach. But it’s backwards from how these things actually work. If you have accessible space, those in wheelchairs turn up, if not, then not. This is why I try to preach as though non-Christians are present here and listening. If they feel seen, heard, honoured, then we’ll have non-Christians at our services, discerning whether to follow Jesus. And that’ll make us all more faithful. Can we get to work getting this chancel accessible?
The disabled unnerve us by showing that bodily ability is always temporary. We’ll all need help moving around at some point. So, it’s a deeply human and humanizing thing to make our spaces inviting for those who need an extra boost. The prophet Isaiah promises this. One day:
The eyes of the blind shall be opened.
The ears of the deaf unstopped;
then the lame shall leap like a deer
and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy.
That’s not a linear prediction—this will take place on January 29, 20-whatever. It’s also not entirely literal—some in the deaf community aren’t asking for hearing, thank you very much. No, it’s a glimpse of what comes in the ministry of Jesus. He brings that day Isaiah promised and is coming again to bring it in full.
You may have noticed I limp when I walk. It’s from the damage in one back injury that never healed. I can’t lift my toes in my left foot properly and I trip sometimes. The holiest guy at my last church in North Carolina was a polio survivor, had a limp too. I joked I was trying with my foot drop to be like him. Like all good jokes, it was serious. We’re both trying to be like Jacob. He wrestles with a man all night—who is this? God? An angel? The man puts his hip out of joint and Jacob limps away with a new name—Israel. The name “Israel” means strives-with-God. To meet the living God leaves you disabled, limping, wounded. But also new.
We also have the theme of adoption. David seeks to do hesed for Jonathan’s descendants, finds Mephibosheth, and adopts up as family. Here are your lands. Here is your table. Eat with me and my children. Be a son to me. Some of you are blessed to be adopted children or to parent them. The church is an adoptive family. Jesus is our elder sibling. He makes God our adoptive Father. In mother church, we all become sisters and brothers. Mephibosheth might have thought his family lineage would make for death: a threat to David’s throne. On the contrary, David adopts him into his royal family, not less than David’s own children.
Raises the question: how can we be like King David? Adopting would-be enemies?
I learned something once that changed how I view gay families. When queer couples want children, they often approach adoption agencies. And do you know what those agencies find? LGBTQ+ parents are more likely to adopt children who are otherwise hard to place: package-deal siblings, kids with disabilities, from different ethnicities. This is just one of the ways that gay couples’ marriages bear fruit: who are the kids no one else wants? We’ll love them. More of this, please Jesus.
Some of the most beloved words in our language come from the 23rd Psalm. Recited at countless gravesides, innumerable church services, you may know it by heart. One line says this to God: “you have prepared a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.” David might have been an enemy to Mephibosheth. But David loved Jonathan his father and swore covenant faithfulness. So, Mephibosheth and his family get a table in the presence of their enemy. A meal ticket in place of a guillotine. And that’s pretty good news, wouldn’t you say?
Here’s a constellation of some of Jesus’ favourite things—reconciliation in place of violence, the disabled with a seat of honour instead of shame. And then this—the table is where good things happen.
At the start of the story, Mephibosheth’s location is unknown. The place he’s found is actually a no-place, nothing grows there, he’s in a sort of witness protection program. Near where we used to live in Vancouver is a place where if you pull out a camera, everyone ducks, dives out of the way. It’s a great place to hide out for folks like Mephibosheth.
But then the king’s love finds him. And brings him back to court. And offers him a place at his royal table. And the servant who finds him, a certain Ziba, brings his whole house too. Fifteen sons, 20 servants. That’s a lot of forever meal tickets! In Christian faith, the table is where good things happen, where God transfigures us from strangers, even enemies, into friends. That’s why we’ve been hosting these community meals lately under Dayle’s leadership and fed thousands of our neighbours. Each meal costs a lot. But do you know what? For each one, folks have written special cheques. For this? More money. People recognize the Jesus magic in meals with strangers and want to sponsor more of it. This church has six kitchens in it. Six! Our forebears said okay, we want five groups cooking away in here, and then a sixth can roll up and say ‘we’re hungry,’ and the response, ‘great, we have room for you too.’ In a city as crushingly lonely as Toronto, these meals are the good news. The table is where we meet Jesus and one another and learn grace. Ask our 19 new members at Easter how they found us and the answer you’ll mostly get is ‘the meals.’ There’s where Jesus does his thing.
By contrast, think of how we eat in our day. Alone. A quick grab of fast food. Scrolling phones, grazing social media. Ignoring the humans at the table with us. Now think how Jesus eats: with friends and betrayers, reenacting the Passover. Look how David and Mephibosheth eat: the privileged and the disabled, rival family claims to power, a promise of permanence for strangers. More of this. Our congregation calls this ‘awakening community,’ a pillar of our life together. Every human being craves community. But we fear it too—community shows our worst selves. Someone wise said community is the place where every time you show up the person, you least want to see is right there. But that’s how we’re changed. Made new.
Jesus tells the following parable a lot. There’s to be a wedding banquet. The invites go out, but those invited aren’t available. Sorry, got other stuff. Hmm, weird. So, a new set of invites goes out. ‘Go to the ones who have no one. Who don’t get invited to banquets. Fill my hall. I need the best party ever.’ That’s the church: love in search of an object. A banquet with extra seats.
The church has somehow given the impression that Christian faith is about believing impossible things, condemning people who are even a little different. No. It’s a feast. And you’re invited. You’ll discover who you are. And be changed. I promise. Amen.