Jesus Calling- Rev. Wallace Bubar- Feb 9,2025
The Rev. Wallace W. Bubar
First Presbyterian Church
The Fifth Sunday after Epiphany, Year C
February 9, 2025
Jesus Calling
Everything changed back when Caller ID came out. Didn’t it?
Used to be—back in olden times, for you kids out there, here’s a little history lesson—when the phone rang, you just picked it up. Any of you remember those days? You just picked up the phone automatically. Didn’t know who it was. Could be anybody. So you answered it. “Hello?”
Every call was a surprise, right? You didn’t know who it was on the other end or what they wanted, until you actually picked up the phone.
Well, Caller ID changed all that. Ever since, you’ve got the caller’s name and number printed right there on the phone as soon as it rings.
Now granted, it’s nice to know when it’s a telemarketer calling, or whatever. Or somebody you really don’t want to talk to at the moment, you can just let it go to voicemail. But it’s that element of surprise that’s missing now. You don’t answer “Hello?” anymore. You answer, “Hey Steve, what’s up?” Nothing ever takes us by surprise anymore.
When was the last time you got a call that completely surprised you? A call from someone out of the blue you weren’t expecting to hear from. Or a total stranger, even. A name you wouldn’t even recognize, and maybe you’d just be inclined to let the machine get it now. But in those pre-Caller ID days, you would have picked it up and been startled to hear from this person.
And when was the last time you got a call that completely changed your life?
* * *
We’re talking today about the calling of the first disciples. That’s the word for what Jesus does here. He calls the disciples. Not on the phone, of course. But this is one of the first things that Jesus does after he’s baptized, is he starts rounding up some followers.
He calls four of them on the first day alone. Which is pretty impressive, I have to say. Especially when you consider that he’s a total stranger at this point, Jesus is. This is a “cold call,” salespeople call it. Jesus just shows up one day on the lakeshore. Out of nowhere. A total stranger, walking along the sand. He starts teaching. Does a little fishing. Then extends an invitation. And just like that, four people who—as far as we can tell—have never seen this guy before in their whole lives drop everything and follow him.
Simon and Andrew, James and John. The Gospels don’t tell us much, but they do tell us enough to piece a few things together.
We know they’re fishermen, for one thing. And now, we usually think that means they’re poor and uneducated. Day laborers. Trapped in some dead-end job, with no other prospects. But biblical scholars say that isn’t necessarily the case. Because the Gospel suggests that they own their boats—maybe a few of them, even. And there’s mention here in the Gospel of “partners”—people who work together with them, in other words.
So they’re not just “fishermen.” They run a “fishing business.” They own their own boats. They’ve got their own crews. They’ve got good, stable jobs.
And they’ve also got families. The Gospel reminds us of all the connections. Simon and Andrew are brothers. James and John are brothers. They have a father named Zebedee. And Simon Peter, we learn later on, has a mother-in-law. Which means, of course, that he also has a spouse. So the picture that emerges here is that these four guys are part of a family network. Surrounded by loved ones.
And they’re homeowners, too. That’s important to remember. Elsewhere in the Gospel, we hear mention of Simon’s house there in Capernaum. Back in 1993, I spent the summer doing an archaeological dig in Israel, and had the chance to visit Capernaum. The guide took us to the ruins of the house that—supposedly, according to tradition—belonged to Simon Peter two thousand years ago.
Now whether that was actually Peter’s house or not, he did have a house somewhere in the neighborhood. Which means that he had a mortgage, and bills to pay, and a lawn to mow, and all the rest.
So the question is: Why would someone like that—someone with a decent job, a nice family, a comfortable house, someone rooted in a particular place—why would someone like that suddenly leave it all behind the moment a stranger shows up and says, “Follow me?” What in the world would possess someone to do that?
* * *
I don’t know about you. But I’m not sure I have that kind of faith or trust or whatever it is that those disciples had. I mean, granted, I did leave half of my family back in Des Moines because seven people on the PNC showed up and convinced me to come to Granville. But the rest of my family is coming out here too, eventually. It’s not like I gave up everything.
But I’m not sure the best way to approach this text is to say, “You should be more like Simon and Andrew! You should have their kind of courage, to just drop everything—leave it all behind—and follow Jesus.”
I’ve probably preached sermons like that before. But it seems to me—the more I think about it—even though this story is about the calling of the first disciples, it’s not really so much about those being called, as it is about the One doing the calling.
* * *
It seems to me that maybe the most important things in life—we don’t really choose them. It’s more like they choose us. Have you ever thought about that? I mean, consider your vocation, for example. How did you know you wanted to be a lawyer, or a teacher, or an architect? Does anyone really sit down with a list of all the possible occupations, and just pick one? “I think I’ll take social work.”
No, the very nature of a vocation is that we’re called—by something outside of us—we’re called to a particular field of service. We don’t choose it.
Or what about relationships? Nobody just decides to love somebody, do they? They fall in love. Nobody talks about choosing a boyfriend or a girlfriend, a spouse or a partner, as if they were items in a catalogue. Instead, you’re attracted to someone, we say. You’re drawn to them by a force almost beyond your control.
And I think it’s the same way with our faith. You don’t choose to become a disciple by saying, “Well, I’ve done some research on the teachings of Moses, and Jesus, and Muhammad, and Confucius, and I’ve decided I really like Jesus the best. He makes the most sense out of all of them.”
No, you become a disciple because his word somehow resonates within you so deeply—with such “irresistible grace,” the Reformed theologians call it—that you simply allow yourself to be drawn in, to fall in love, in a way.
“You did not choose me,” Jesus says in the Fourth Gospel, “but I chose you.” That’s how discipleship works. Jesus speaks. And it happens. He grabs ahold of our lives, claims us for himself, and puts us to work. Whether we like it or not.
* * *
A year or so ago, I was at a conference in St. Louis with a bunch of other pastors, from all over the country. And in one of the breakout sessions, we did a little exercise around the tables to get to know each other. We were each asked to share a story from our congregation, something specifically mission-related.
Well, my previous church in Des Moines did a lot of work with Habitat for Humanity. We worked on houses several times a year. We raised gobs of money. And once a year in the spring, we would host this big panel build out in the church parking lot. Basically have an assembly line, to do the framing for a bunch of houses all at once.
It became a huge project, and we tried to involve as many people form the church as possible. The youth group was out there helping. Some of the older folk who couldn’t swing a hammer anymore made sandwiches and fed all the workers. Anyway, I was telling this story and I said, “We had over seventy-five volunteers out there helping.” Went on and on, really bragging about it. I thought it sounded pretty impressive.
But then afterwards, one of the other pastors said, “Uh, I had a problem with what you just said.” I said, “Excuse me?!”
He said, “You said you had seventy-five volunteers out there?” I said, “That’s right.”
He said, “No, no, no.” He said, “The church doesn’t have volunteers. The church has disciples.”
And my first thought was: “Who the heck do you think you are, to talk to me like that?” But you know, the more I thought about it, the more I think he was probably right.
We don’t have “volunteers.” Volunteers are people—and nothing against volunteers, don’t get me wrong. Volunteers are great. Volunteers are people who decide to give up a couple hours of their free time here and there for some good cause. You know, I might volunteer to help coach my kid’s soccer team. I might volunteer on Sign Up Genius to bring a dozen cookies to the school Valentine’s Day party, or whatever. We need volunteers.
But the assumption in that term is that what volunteers do is voluntary, right? Their time is theirs to do with it whatever they like. And they voluntarily choose to give some of that free time to this or that.
But no, we’re not volunteers. We’re disciples. There’s a difference. We’re people whose lives have been commandeered by Jesus for some higher purpose. We don’t believe that our time is ours in the first place. It’s God’s time—all of it. And God has deployed us out into the world, to serve God, and serve others in everything we do.
And we don’t do these things because they look good on a resume, or because we get a certificate if we get enough service hours, or even because we find it particularly fulfilling. We live out our lives as disciples—as followers—of Jesus. Because he called us. And we said yes.
So think about that the next time the Nominating Committee asks you to be a deacon, say. Or the next time you see that we need folks to help out with the kids program on Wednesday nights. Or the next time Ellen gets a call in the middle of worship from the Drop-In Center in Newark that they desperately need food that week, and volunteers—no, not volunteers, disciples—to keep the Warming Center open. Or any of the thousand other things you might do around here. And not just around here. But in your life out in the world.
* * *
Jesus is still calling men and women to be disciples today. (And boys and girls, too.)
Now to be sure, he doesn’t always call us to drop whatever we’re doing, leave our families behind like those first disciples, and set out for parts unknown. Although I suppose you can never put it past him.
But whether he’s calling us to go to the other side of the world, or the other side of town, or just the other side of the room, Jesus is still calling. Even today, still showing up on the lakeshore. Or in the classroom, or the lab, or the office. Still showing up. Still grabbing ahold of us. Still calling us to follow.
Amen.
