On The Way

“Ehh ewww, ehh ewww, ehh ewww,” I breathed in and out exhaustedly. Despite years of a cardiovascular foundation playing soccer, on this first run with college distance men from the track team I found myself out of breath. “Running: Our sport is your sport’s punishment” read the shirt of the guy ahead of me. After only a couple of miles at “easy pace” I could barely read those words as they faded into the horizon ahead. When they did I was lost. Confused by the woods and a maze of similar looking trails on the 13,000 acre campus I did not know where to go.

Eventually I found my way back to the track with a few minutes of daylight to spare. Over the course of months I got better at running. I did not gasp as much. My legs became stronger. Finally, by the fall when the leaves turned fiery colors and the air turned crisp, I found myself acclimated to the mileage and the routes. And yet, I might have been more lost than before even with good friends and teammates by my side.

My junior year of college turned out to be an age of being lost, or perhaps better put, not knowing where to go. The relationship I had been in for over a year with my girlfriend exploded right in my face, which precipitated a series of life-altering questions about life and love and loss—including whether God even existed. I recall the runs that autumn serving as stress-relievers, as well as moments when with my best friends I could ask the most serious questions that I dared not wonder in the presence of professors, high school buddies, or family. As we blazed the paths to the Forestry Cabin, King’s Farm, or Dotson Point I never realized that I wasn’t only on Sewanee paths, but also on the way to Emmaus.

Cleopas and his friend were lost, and in not such a different way than I was lost. Sure, they knew they were headed to Emmaus and ultimately I knew the routes I ran, but make no mistake none of us knew where we were going. With all our doubts blinding our vision we headed down paths that we hoped would lead back to normalcy: fishing nets or geology assignments, tax offices or computer labs, and the day-in, day-out comfort of routine. Those men and I had a lot in common for we had in the midst of trying times turned back to go towards everyday life, while we ignored the events that had changed life forever.

On that same day, that is Easter Day, Cleopas and his friend recounted everything that had happened. And yet, even though they went back through all the events of what we call Holy Week they had long since decided that their savior had lost. Thus, they walked on the way that led away from what had happened to Jesus and towards a place called Emmaus. Scholars still cannot agree on where Emmaus is, it appears nowhere else in Scripture and was not even a blip on the ancient map, so honestly they were headed on the road to nowhere! And, as they went they looked back and missed all the clues that pointed to the Way. We may very well do the same thing as they did and as I did way back when.

Eventually a third person joined the walk to Emmaus. His question, “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?” stopped them in their tracks. We can like Cleopas and the other disciple buzz along on our normal routes, like runners in the woods of life. Rarely, if ever, do we have reason to pause. Rarely, if ever, do we stop such that we feel the sting of life and love and loss. The question caused the men to stand still and feel their deep sadness. They were upset I think because they had hoped, but were let down. Even when the women from their group told them about the empty tomb that sorrow clogged the ears of their hearts. And so, they walked back towards nowhere, hoping now to forget all that had happened.

Often this is where we are walking even after Easter. It was where I felt like I was going when I felt the sting of life and love and loss. Christ is risen Alleluia! but there are still bills, wars, illness, conflict, poverty, famine, addiction, and everything else that causes us to toss and turn at night. As we walk we may be met by a stranger that causes us to stop for a moment, but even when someone professes the Truth of God’s saving love, even when our hearts burn in our chests, we may keep walking that road to nowhere, like Cleopas and his friend, for they did not recognize the stranger with them even during profound Scriptural study. And then, the stranger looked as though he might leave them. Cleopas and the other invited their co-journer to join them for a meal, a bit of southern hospitality shown way back in ancient Israel. What happens when we come together as strangers, neighbors, and friends to share a meal?

“When he was at table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him, and he vanished from their sight” (Luke 24:30-31).

As we head on the pathways away from Easter we may find ourselves lulled back into a false way of living, namely that life is supposed to be normal, like we are to just keep on keeping on. Jesus though meets us in the middle of our regular lives on the way to wherever it is we think we are going. As we begin to walk in the wake of the Resurrection we will meet strangers. When we invite them in to dwell with us at table we may very well be shocked to discover that together we see the Risen Christ. At this Table, God’s Table, we meet the Risen Lord, we bump elbows with Christ, we eat a meal with Christ, and we are fed by Christ. As much as we may feel lost running down the paths of this life, Christ comes to find us to bring us back together, and to walk with us on the paths that lead to new life.

There is no returning to normal life. When things feel at their worst we may want to rush back to a routine, and comfort, and security. Even when we think that our Savior has lost, we may be surprised as Christ shows up right next to us. As we break bread together may we see the Risen Lord among us, between us, and within us. Allow the light of the Resurrection to shine and to lead us into a transformed lives where we re-member the Body of the Risen Christ and run out to tell of this Good News!

How Do YOU Share the Good News?

So this is how the Gospel according to Mark concludes with casting out demons, handling snakes, drinking deadly things, and healing the sick. It is certainly interesting, even if it is a little bit Pentecostal for us Episcopalians. Then, much like at the end of Luke’s telling of the story, Jesus takes off up into heaven, as the credits begin to roll. Except, this was not really how Mark finished up his telling of the good news.

According to a note within the Oxford Annotated Bible what we heard today was actually part of the longer ending to Mark. This section was “possibly written in the early second century…These sentences borrow some motifs from the other Gospels and contain several unusual apocryphal elements.”[1] What? Essentially, some people were not quite satisfied with the original ending of Mark’s Gospel, and so they added an extra bit to bring it to a more satisfying close. However, did they really end it well? The analogy that comes to mind features a musician playing an entire piece in a major key, then finishing with a minor chord—something feels jarring. How did the story really end?

The original conclusion to Mark’s good news finishes mysteriously. The Passover Sabbath comes and goes and Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome brought spices to anoint Jesus’ body. When the sun had risen they went to the tomb wondering who will roll away the stone, but upon arriving they saw that it was already open. Inside they found a man dressed in a white robe and the women were alarmed. The young man told them not to be alarmed and said if they were looking for Jesus who was crucified, he had been raised and so he was not there. Then, he sent them to tell the disciples that Jesus would meet them in Galilee, just as he had said. The story ends with the women fleeing the tomb in amazement. That’s it! No resurrected encounter with Jesus, but instead Mark finishes his tale with suspense! To me this stands out as just one more reason to love the way that Mark tells the Good News.

Of course, not everyone shares good news in the same way. Think about something monumental in your life. Perhaps it is a family wedding, maybe it is the birth of a child, or it could even be retiring from a long and prosperous career. How do you share that good news? Do you send out an announcement? Do you post something on FaceBook? Do you call all your best friends and relatives? When you tell people about this good news do you speak in hushed tones building the level of excitement? Do you bounce from exciting detail to exciting detail? Do you calmly build the story until you get to the best part? I imagine that each of us shares the good news in our lives in different ways, which is much like the four Gospel accounts we find in Holy Scripture. Each one has a different way of delivering the life-transforming story of Jesus.

Mark tells the Good News of Christ Jesus with immediacy, passion, and a vulnerability that stands out. We may forget that since Mark’s account comes second in the Bible that his was actually the oldest Gospel account we have in our cannon. Mark jumps right into the story of Jesus: “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” There are no birth narratives, no genealogies, and no teenage tales. Instead we immediately find ourselves planted within the ministry of John the baptizer.

As Mark bounces from one healing to another he speaks with such passion about Jesus’ love and connection for all of God’s people. Often this passion ties stories together in interesting ways, as a story about actual blindness may in fact also speak to spiritual blindness that the religious elite suffered. In Mark’s telling of the Good News fringe characters often figured out the love of God quickly and were never seen again, unlike the disciples who seem more stubborn.

Finally, the simplicity of Mark’s telling of the story—it is the shortest Gospel by far—brings out the vulnerability of God’s good news. Without all the extra details it feels as though the Truth has nowhere to hide, and is more readily available to us the readers. Even the true ending, leaves the listener at the edge of his or her seat. What happened after the tomb was empty? Did Jesus really show up in Galilee? Where are we to go?

As we celebrate St. Mark’s Day today I invite you to go out to discover the Risen Christ out in the world. When you meet Christ in your life share this good news with others. It may not be exactly like the Gospel according to Mark, but still it will be the Gospel according to you, for all of us are called to share the Good News of Christ Jesus the Son of God!

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[1] Horsley, Richard A. "Mark." In Oxford Annotated Bible, by Ed. by Michael D. Coogan, 1824-25. New York: Oxford University Press, 2010.

Going On

I feel strangely incomplete this year. The last couple of times around the sun I had the delirious privilege of preaching on Easter Sunday evening when, in the Episcopal Church at least, we hear the story of Cleopas and his friend walking the road to Emmaus. Here at St. John’s we have moved our Sunday evening worship to Wednesday, so I did not walk that mysterious seven mile journey from Jerusalem as the sun was sinking on April 16th. Fortunately for me, and maybe you too, I am preaching on this Third Sunday of Easter when we hear again Luke 24:13-35.

To me, the walk to Emmaus stands out as important for many reasons. What we in the Episcopal Church call Cursillo, the United Methodist Church and others call Emmaus, so it is a story about pilgrimage and transformation. Also, some will attest that this story heard on Easter evening caps off the Triduum, those Holy Days spanning from Maundy Thursday to Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and finally Easter day. Most importantly to me, without walking this journey with the disbelieving disciples I do not get the full, mesmerizing scope of what happened on Easter day long ago. This story definitely still resonates with us enough that we need to hear it again and again.

As I go back again to that holy walk that two disciples took, I am struck by several details in particular. On the day after the Passover, when these men would have first been able to travel away from the fervent atmosphere of Jerusalem and distance themselves from Jesus' death, Cleopas and his friend were walking somewhere that most scholars cannot even pinpoint on a map. Almost as though they were walking anywhere that was not Jerusalem. Luke tells us Jesus came near, but they could not recognize him. This detail appears somewhat common among Post-Resurrection accounts in the various Gospel accounts. The disciples cannot seem to see their teacher with them. When Jesus asks them what they are discussing they respond most curiously.

The two men when questioned about what had happened over the last few days in Jerusalem responded not with words, but with stillness and sadness. Eventually they came around to discussing Jesus of Nazareth, and when pressed by the man himself, they talked of his death, their hopes, and their doubts. What gets me though is their standing still. Like a well-timed rest in a beautiful piece of music or the use of negative space in a fine work of art, sometimes what isn’t said says more than all the words we might utter. When the disciples finish blabbering a bit, Jesus calls them foolish and slow of heart to believe. I wonder if he would have said the same thing if they had just continued to stay still and be grief-stricken, instead of explanatory and dismissive of what others had discovered. Regardless, what comes next would have been a conversation to behold!

Jesus unleashed for those two fortunate listeners a Scriptural study that had their hearts burning within their chests. Sometimes I wonder what the Great Teacher would have said about himself. The Scripture we still possess has the evidence Jesus used to show how Christ came, comes, and will come to redeem all of Creation, which is fantastic, but part of me still wishes to be there on that walk. After this great Bible study, Luke makes it clear that Jesus was headed onward. While the entire story fascinates me, today this detail stands out from the rest.

Where was Jesus going? Why would he have left those disciples? If they had not been bold enough to invite him to dine with them would they have ever known it was Jesus? I have no answer to these questions and many others that this detail stimulates. I do think Luke beautifully gives to us a gift in this part of the story. The text reads, “He walked ahead as if he were going on.” I think that after this story concludes with the mystic sweet communion and Jesus’ disappearing act that he did keep going on. I think that even now Christ keeps going onward.

As I continue to wonder what the Spirit is saying through this passage, I believe that standing still and being with where I am will allow me oddly enough to see where Christ is going onward within me, within our church, and within all Creation. Stay still, be where we are, and watch Christ going onward!

Dare We Go?

Usually this sermon happens in the light, but since Foster our beloved organist (wait, did I say beloved? I meant curmudgeonly organist) missed so much of Lent this year, I wanted to give his weary soul one more moment of penitence before we step into the light. Nonetheless, it’s a little strange to be preaching in the dark staring ahead at something in the distance.

High-speed cameras exist today that can capture video in excess of 1,000 frames per second. This means the subtleties that we once could not observe we now have the ability to study with intense scrutiny. We can properly calculate that a hummingbird flaps its wings 70 times per second. We can estimate with more precision the blast radius of explosives used to implode a dilapidated, old building. We can also—painfully sometimes—see the moment when a wide receiver gets his foot or feet in bounds to make a thrilling catch—and send our hopes soaring or crashing to the ground. This technology even gives us the ability to see those precise moments when even a minute change occurs—maybe even a change that changes everything.

For us this morning though, we won’t need any of that fancy equipment the naked eye will do just fine. As we look ahead, we also look back carefully at these stories of creation, love, and salvation. There we see precipitous moments right before it became clear that God would indeed act. In the beginning there was “a formless void and darkness covering the face of the deep” and then (Genesis 1:2). Abraham took Isaac on a walk with fire and the wood but no lamb and then (Genesis 22:7). An oppressed people wandered and wondered if dying in the wilderness was any better than being worked to death and then (Exodus 14:11). A valley of dry bones felt lost and completely cut off from God and then (Ezekiel 37:11). We observe these moments before the moments that we truly remember. Sometimes though we still remember the moments before the moments.


I remember being six or seven years old and having one of the best nights of my childhood. On a Thursday night my dad took me to go see a live-action Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles production. It was to borrow some of their phrases, “RADICAL”, “EXCELLENT,” and “BODACIOUS”! As my father knew one of the tech guys we got to sit in this cool booth. The A/V guy would point out right before something awesome was to happen, so that I would pay particularly close attention. I can still see the choreographed flipping and fighting in my mind now.

When the show concluded my dad took me to go pick up my mom and sister who had been at church. At the time I definitely thought I had gotten the good end of that deal—no church and Ninja Turtles—Seth 2-Life 0. Still I can recall that moment of walking into the church. Everything was dark. All the normal liturgical hangings were missing, the candles were extinguished, and even the crosses were either gone or covered. I saw my mother weeping and wanted to say to her, “Don’t worry the Turtles show will come back and next time you can take me,” but something stopped me from saying anything. That was my first memory of a Maundy Thursday liturgy—a service that is all about the moment before the moment. For it is when we remember the night before Jesus died when he shared communion, washed feet, and commanded us to love one another. That service is the beginning of the Triduum (our holy service of three days) that we conclude this morning!

Typically we like to rush through the moments before the good stuff, or what we perceive will be the good stuff. We fast forward through commercials. We order ahead to avoid the lines at restaurants and even grocery stores now. Hey, I’m all about efficiency—I’m the kettle calling out the pot. Sometimes though all this rushing ahead distracts us from paying attention to what God is doing right in front of us, how God is sitting right here with us. We push ourselves or others into moving beyond the moment so often that I fear we are not like those cameras that record a thousand frames per second, but instead like a TiVo or DVR that is ready to skip ahead (bebop).
Even in the midst of what we call a crisis, a dilemma, or our lives ripping at the seams God is present right in the thick of it with us. This is as true for us as it was for a group of women long ago.

There was a small group of dedicated disciples a long time ago who sat anxiously awaiting the Passover Sabbath to end, so that they may go to tend to the dead body of their beloved Jesus. Their reality felt broken. Their savior had not only been killed, but betrayed by friends, tortured, and then crucified. Their lives had been sideswiped by the cruel forces of the world. I cannot imagine how much grief they bore and how difficult it must have been to take the first step out the door from their bleak homes. Somehow though they stared that moment—the one before the moment we remember—dead in the eye and they did not blink.

We are called to be like Mary Magdalene and the other Mary. We are charged with paying attention to what God is doing in this world. Just like in the story of creation, the story of Abraham and Isaac, the story of Israel’s deliverance, and the story of the Valley of the Dry Bones when in each there was a moment before the moment. We are called to see that sometimes before we hear the Good News we have to hear the bad. And, that even then God is with us.

Do not mistakenly think that God’s creative, life-giving, salvific love is locked in the past, so that we may never taste it, never feel it, never experience it. That’s just not true. The Truth is we always sit on the cusp of divine transformation, we’re always on the brink of celestial brightness, even at this moment we rest on the edge of Resurrection. Dare we go with the women to look into the tomb?

Good Friday

This past Sunday morning in children’s chapel our young ones heard Matthew’s telling of the Passion Narrative. When they got to the part when Jesus died I am told they had a visceral response. “What?! Jesus dies! Why did that happen?” they asked.

I have the same question today. Why did Jesus have to die? Why did the story happen in this way? Could it not have gone differently? Though I spent years in seminary communities learning about prophetic words pointing to a sacrificial savior, though I can comprehend intellectually that those fragile ones in the lowest classes of that day were subject to the whims of the Roman Empire, though I follow logically that the religious elite wanted to get rid of a movement that threatened their way of being, I still do not get it with my heart. Wasn’t there another way? Didn’t God rescue his people with plagues, Passover, and passing through the Red Sea? So why did it happen this way? I am—and I think we are—stuck wondering questions just like our children’s.

If you are here today you are not only interested in how the story ends, but also in how we get to the end of the story. And, if you are here you cannot only be wondering why this had to happen, but you probably have other questions. Namely, what does this death, Jesus’ death, have to do with you? What does Jesus’ death have to do with you? Why did it happen? What does it have to do with you?

Academically, we could wade through all the forces that conspired together to bring about Jesus’ death. We could explore together the layers of sacrificial atonement theology, but that may very well be like trying to pronounce some heady platitude to a grieving loved one sitting at the now deceased family member’s bedside. Intellectualizing our experience of loss as we look upon Jesus on the cross feels awfully abrupt, as though we are rushing beyond the moment.

Instead, perhaps we would do well to heed the invitation of the blogger and priest Sarah Condon who wrote:

“Just find a back pew at a church and take a seat this week. Forget the sermon…human beings can be hit-or-miss. Besides, you’re not there for that. You’re there for Jesus. Or rather, he is there for you. Listen to him. He will wash your feet. He will tell you to love one another. He will hang from a cross and utter his dying last words of sadness and abandonment.”[1]

Strangely, we find more questions than answers in Holy Week, and we find them by meeting Christ Jesus within the Holy Word, within our liturgy, within each other, and within our encounters out in the world. At this precise moment our appointed Scripture, the liturgy, as well as our personal and corporate lives all seem to reflect the same terrible things to one another, like a mirror collapsing in on itself. We are not dwelling in an era of blossoming life, but rather subsiding within an age of death.

Coptic Christians who were doing what we were doing on Sunday died as a result of their faith. Children, like our children, suffered torturous deaths as a result of chemical weapons last week in Syria. Scrapping to find an inch of moral high ground we as a country decided to respond to violence all over the globe with more violence—pushing an unstable world nearer to nuclear annihilation in the process. Closer to home we now utter a different governor’s name than we did last week due to a sordid affair that garnered international attention. And, churches in our state can install their own police forces, which echoes eerily the temple police who arrested Jesus in the Passion Narrative. If these were not enough in each of our lives we or loved ones face risky procedures, difficult prognoses, unhealthy relationships, overwhelming temptations, and questions of purpose, direction, and vision.

Why are we here? What does Jesus’ death have to do with us? What doesn’t it have to do with us?

It’s not Easter morning in our church, within our hearts, or out in the streets it’s Good Friday. Perhaps this is why we are here because this is a safe place for us to fall apart. This is a haven in which we see the crumbling reality of our world inflicted upon the one who came to save us. We see our Savior installed not at a capitol, or on a throne of gold, but on the cross made of wood. Here and now, we cannot press fast forward on a remote control of life, we are instead forced to look upon Jesus’ limp body hanging right above us.

Audaciously, we still call this Good Friday. And, maybe it is though not because of what lies ahead—not because of what we hope will happen, nor what we trust God will do in the end. This day is good because Jesus showed us the ultimate response to all that is wrong in this world, in us, even in our beloved church.

We so often refer to God as almighty, but we see in Jesus today that God is not only almighty, but also all-vulnerable. Jesus the Christ through whom all things were made was not recognized by his own creation. He came into the world and the world comprehended him not. If God were only almighty, we may expect Jesus to vengefully descend from the cross with fire and a legion of wrathful angels hell bent on recompense. That is not the way we see God express God’s strength. Instead, Jesus draws all things to himself through complete self-emptying. When at the Last Supper Jesus commanded his disciples to love one another just as he loved them, this is what he meant. This love is what makes Good Friday good. Could this be why we are here?

As one collect in Morning Prayer puts it, “Jesus extends his arms in love on the hard wood of the cross that everyone might come within the reach of his saving embrace.”[2] In this moment when we see the wilted figure of Jesus lifted up, it is like we are looking at a solar eclipse—compelled to keep staring, although we are afraid of what may happen as a result. As we dangerously gaze at the blinding light of the son, we observe the love that God has for each and every one of us, even if our vision gets obscured by the brokenness of this world, all around us, and in us that love continually shines down on us.

As one wise teacher put it, this is the moment of not merely atonement, but at-one-ment (with Jesus bringing all things together as one).[3] Through him we see the size, scope, and magnitude of God’s love, which does not end the pain of this world, or the problems we face, or the dilemmas of the church. Rather, we finally see that God the Almighty willingly gets down on our level and suffers with us, as the most vulnerable one.

This is Good Friday because our Almighty God freely becomes the All-vulnerable one, who lives with us, suffers with us, and dies with us.

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[1]Condon, Sarah. "Church/Religion." Mockingbird. April 11, 2017. http://www.mbird.com/2017/04/when-jesus-gets-crucified-and-churches-get-bombed-take-a-seat-this-holy-week/ (accessed April 12, 2017).

[2]The Episcopal Church. The Book of Common Prayer. New York: Church Publishing, 1979, 101.

[3] Rohr, Richard. Center for Action and Contemplation. October 12, 2016. https://cac.org/nonviolent-atonement-one-ment-2016-10-12/ (accessed April 13, 2017).

Glory

Not too long ago Evan and I were in a Presbyterian church for a funeral. As we sat in the congregation, he leaned over to me before the service started to remind me that “trespasses” and “trespass” in the Lord’s Prayer were replaced with “debts” and “debtors”.

On Christmas Eve I find myself spellbound listening to the broadcast of the Lessons and Carols service at King’s College in Cambridge, England. One of the moments that most captivates me comes when the congregation prays the Lord’s Prayer with distinct differences: “Our Father, which art in heaven,” (not who art in heaven) “in earth as it is in heaven,” (not on earth) and “as we forgive them that trespass against us” (not those).

On Thursday mornings during Centering Prayer we end our twenty minutes of resting in God’s presence with the Lord’s Prayer. Sometimes as we speak those words slowly and intentionally I forget a phrase, as I am wrapped up in words that have just left my mouth. If I am not careful I will not think about the words of prayer that Jesus taught his disciples and us.

At the end of the version we most often pray there is a phrase that stands out to me on this Wednesday in Holy Week: “For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.” These words do not appear in our translation of Luke’s or Matthew’s telling of the Good News from which we get this prayer that is a part of our every liturgy together. It was not until 1662 that our Anglican forebears added this big finish, so from where does it originate?

Allegedly the Early Church added these words. They added them so early in fact that some of the first Gospel manuscripts carried this doxological statement. While most scholars will attest that Jesus probably did not speak these words when teaching his disciples how to pray, we still gain so much by uttering this statement that caps off the Lord’s Prayer. We are reminded at the last that it is God’s Kingdom, Power, and Glory that we seek, not our own. What does this look like though?

In today’s Gospel account we find ourselves reclining around a table with Jesus and the disciples at dusk on Maundy Thursday. In John’s telling of the story Christ Jesus through whom the entire cosmos came into being remains in control, even of his betrayal by Judas. When Jesus gives Judas the piece of bread only then does Satan enter the disciple, so that he carries out the terrible deed. Jesus even adds on, “Do quickly what you are going to do,” revealing his complete humanity alongside his entire divinity. Right as Judas leaves to betray his teacher Jesus turns the conversation to glory.

The text puts it in the following way: “When he had gone out, Jesus said, ‘Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once.’” Perhaps you find this to be completely normal, but I see this connection as completely paradoxical! Betrayal glorifies God? Judas’ action to go out to hand over Jesus is the way in which God will glorify both the Father and the Son? How can this be?

We live in a self-glorifying age, and if I am not careful I fall victim to self-aggrandizing feelings, actions, and thoughts. Sometimes those of us who profess faith in God attempt to clothe our showy behavior in a shroud of false humility. One example immediately pops into my mind: well-intending athletes who after scoring a touchdown point up to heaven or who after winning a tournament say in an interview that God was responsible for this victory. This happens at award shows and elsewhere too in our society, but seemingly athletes exhibit this behavior most readily.

On the surface nothing is wrong with this action of turning the attention off of oneself. In fact, if it is sincere this stands out as an admirable recognition that all things stem from God. And yet, this is also where the dilemma arises. In Jesus’ words it is not a moment of triumph that is celebrated as God’s glory, but instead the darkest betrayal of all time! God’s glory is revealed not in victory or accomplishment, but in defeat and even death. Returning to our athlete analogy this would be the equivalent of striking out in the bottom of the ninth on a full count with the bases loaded in game seven of the World Series, and then pointing skyward to give God the credit. This would be like an athlete fumbling the ball on the one yard line and having it returned for a touchdown to lose the Super Bowl, and then getting down on one knee to thank God. In a world of competition the type of glory that Jesus embodies does not make sense, but to tell you the Truth trophies, gold, and recognition are not part of the Kingdom that Jesus inaugurated this week long ago.

The Son of Man, the Eternal Word, Christ Jesus came to show us the fullest extent of reality by transforming the most shameful instrument of torture into the ultimate expression of God’s love. God’s glory may best be seen in the complete failings of human beings to recognize God among us—as instead of accepting Jesus we crucified him—and still in that moment and throughout all time God says to us there is no way that we may escape God’s love. This is the glory that we pray for in the Lord’s Prayer, not a type of pride that pats us on the back, but an overwhelming love that turns the most gruesome defeat into the greatest victory of all time!

A Killer Party

Six days before the Passover, which was the evening before Palm Sunday and Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem, Mary, Martha, and Lazarus threw a party for Jesus. Well, that is not exactly what John’s account of the Good News says. It reads, “There they gave a dinner for him.” When one puts it this way though, ridiculous images come to mind.

Giving a dinner for someone could go in several different directions. This could have been a very formal affair, as though the friends of Jesus were putting together some sort of fundraising effort for his not-for-profit movement. If you will recall Mary had ample resources—this day last year I was giving a sermon all about her connections to the dried fish industry in her home town of Magdala. So one way this dinner could have gone down was very formal, like that day’s equivalent of black ties, evening gowns, and maybe even a red carpet. Of course, that does not sound like Jesus’ type of party.

Maybe the friends of Jesus gave him a dinner that was more like a roast. This was the last time some of them would gather with Jesus, and perhaps they took this opportunity to highlight some of the best moments of his ministry with jokes. While I like this idea in my head, I somehow doubt that on this night before Jesus would ride from the Mount of Olives into Jerusalem and set into motion his own death that light-hearted comedy was taking place. So what really happened on that evening long ago?

We cannot get a full glimpse of the meal, what kind of wine was served, or whether or not the fish was overcooked, but we do know some details. It took place in Bethany, not two miles from the Holy City. John tells us that Lazarus was there reclining at the table—as was the custom in those days. He was alive after being dead not but a few days earlier. His sisters Martha and Mary followed their typical pattern with Martha serving—busily running around serving guests—while Mary took a different approach, which we will come to in a moment. Other guests seem to include the disciples, although the only one mentioned by name is Judas. We must remember that occasions like these were large social affairs not in a private home so much as a public gathering space. This helps explain why the chief priests showed up looking for not only Jesus, but also Lazarus as well.

In the middle of the party, when all were reclining together something strange happened. Mary situated herself near Jesus with a pound of nard, a type of expensive essential oil, so that she could anoint his feet. Upon seeing this Judas was beside himself. He became indignant for Mary had spent 300 denarii, which was a about a year’s earnings in today’s figures $30,000, not on the poor, but on perfume. I love John’s Gospel, but I wish that it left out the editorial comment about Judas being greedy and not really loving the poor. For we cannot help but be on Mary’s side when we think that Judas was a scoundrel and a thief. In all honesty, wouldn’t we be upset if someone spent $30,000 on perfume?

While Mary wiped Jesus’ feet with expensive oil and her hair, Jesus replied to Judas’ legitimate claim that this money would have been better used to care for the poor. He spoke to Judas, "Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me." In this statement, Jesus rebukes his disciple’s claim about the extravagance of this gesture, cryptically hints that his own death is at hand, and provides one of the most challenging statements about caring for the poor. Talk about a mood killer for a party! Right after this the focus of the story shifts to the religious folks, the chief priests coming to see Jesus and Lazarus as they plotted all the more to kill both men. Going back though, what do we make of Jesus’ claim?

Jesus condoned an extravagant gesture of love—one that foreshadowed his own washing of the disciples’ feet, pointed to his own impending death, and threw out a statement that has long since been misunderstood. Saying you always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me was not a slight to caring for the poor, even if we may question the integrity of Judas who originally logged the complaint. Acknowledging the profundity of Mary’s gesture and at the same time acknowledging the need to care for the poor provides a deeper insight into the love of God personified in Jesus: God’s way exists beyond one good thing pitted against another. Dr. Tony Baker, my theology professor in seminary called this non-competitive transcendence. When a third way is found beyond simply a dual between two good outcomes.

What Jesus says is adore me and adore the poor, or perhaps looking towards a third way: love me by loving the poor. This is what is truly worth celebrating at this dinner, that we gain an insight into God’s way of love. And, what is more Mary shows us how to do it. We literally and figuratively bend down to serve others. Mary did not simply wipe Jesus’ feet though, she anointed them with oil, which was how kings were sealed into their reign. The next day on Palm Sunday, Jesus would enter triumphantly into Jerusalem as he humbly inaugurated his kingship. His ruling was never, is never, and will never be about a mighty, clinched fist, but rather about kneeling with our hands open ready to share the love of God. This week may we celebrate like Lazarus, Martha, and Mary, may we serve others, and may we revel in God’s reign of love!

Who Is This?

“When [Jesus] entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, ‘Who is this?’” (Matthew 21:11) 

The whole of the Holy City asked on a day long ago, “Who is this?” As Jerusalem experienced the unsettled turmoil, the fever pitch, and the near riots, they collectively yearned to know, “Who is this?” Crowds ran ahead of Jesus cutting down palm branches and throwing down their garments, as they had an answer for Jerusalem’s question, shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!” and “This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.”

Surely among the crowd were the disciples. They had professed already who this was. Later in this week these same men would answer the question “Who is this?” differently. Judas full of greed and disappointment betrayed his teacher with a kiss. Peter after Jesus foretold of his threefold denial replied, “Even though I must die with you, I will not deny you.” The other disciples chimed in likewise, but a cockcrow would be the alarm that awakened them from their denial! In the garden the most dedicated ones could not keep watch with Jesus. When those with swords and clubs arrived one disciple seethed with rage and turned to the sword. The disciples’ responses to the question, “Who is this?” were not to hold up Jesus as the Messiah, or a Prophet, or even their rabbi. Instead, through betrayal, denial, unconsciousness, and violence they let their words and actions speak disbelief, fear, and unfaithfulness.

The danger with pointing out the disciples’ sins comes when I try to wash my own hands of Jesus’ death. I claim that it was the disciples’ missteps and inaction, not mine. I likewise blame it upon religion and politics, the Jewish or the Roman people, not me. I so easily slide into the crowd to run from my own part in the story. And yet, even there hiding in the masses I discover that out of one side of my mouth I call Jesus a prophet and out of the other I cry for Jesus to be crucified. This is the danger: to sit back comfortably and wait for a week to pass, so that I may show up in seersucker to sing my favorite hymns and never acknowledge my part in the story, my part in Jesus’ death.

What if we did not know how this all will end? What if we were to watch with the women—Mary Magdalene, the other Mary, and the mother of the sons of Zebedee—to see how this story unfolds? What if we wondered anew, “Who is this?”?

This week suspend what you think you know. Look past the answers that the disciples, religion, politics, or others telling you who God is. Instead, walk the way of Holy Week, and wonder, “Who is this?”

Look and Live

When Nicodemus went to visit Jesus at night back in the third chapter of John, the teacher said some curious things. We might most quickly remember that he said that most famous verse John 3:16; however, that is not all he said. I’ve always been fascinated by Jesus comparing himself to a serpent lifted up in the wilderness, which comes just two sentences before the bold statement of God’s love of the world. Today we heard the precursor story from Numbers in which a bronze serpent made by Moses helped to heal those who were snake-bitten in the wilderness, as they complained about their current plight. What does this mean though? Why did Jesus compare the crucifixion with a somewhat obscure passage about the Israelites’ disobedience?

Pretty quickly we realize that the Son of Man being lifted up indicates the manner of death that Jesus would undertake upon the cross. And yet, if we expand the conversation that Jesus was having with Nicodemus in John’s Gospel even a little bit we hear that those who believe in the one lifted up have eternal life. Still to me this appears a little blurry. If we believe in Christ, then we gain life everlasting. Yes, we have heard this before many times, and I believe it, but this bit about the snakes in the wilderness still does not compute.

Looking more specifically at the story from Numbers may open up the wisdom of Jesus’ words for us. The snakes in the wilderness were not random. After being saved from a life of slavery in Egypt the people of Israel began to grumble to God. They took their complaints to Moses saying, “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? For there is no food and no water, and we detest this miserable food.” Earlier in the Book of Numbers God gave the people the “miserable food” of manna, right before this story Moses had led the people to waters flowing from a rock, but this sustenance appeared boring to the people. Thus, they complained. God’s response startles me. He sent snakes.

God responded to the people’s complaints not with an affirming pat on the back or a hopeful way forward, but instead with poisonous serpents. These snakes bit the Israelites and many even died. The result of these bites though was for the people to recognize that they had sinned. Oddly enough the serpents helped the Israelites to see that speaking against God and against God’s servant had been foolish. This tough love led them to believe once more. We can understand this in our own lives. If we see a negative consequence of something that we have done we may change what we are doing, still it is hard for me to believe in a God who would send snakes, or a flood in the story of Noah, or even a worm in the story of Jonah. To quote Indiana Jones, “Why does it have to be snakes?”

While this bit of the story seems odd and perhaps a little tough for me to comprehend, something more exists if we dig a little deeper. When the people asked Moses to pray for God to relent. God’s response was not to take away the serpents altogether. Instead, God told Moses to make a serpent and when the people looked at the serpent they would live. This is where it gets really interesting. When the people were bit, as a response to their sins of impatience and unbelief, they were to look at a serpent, which was in fact a sign pointing to their sinful state. The serpent that Moses created signified both the results of their sinful state and the salvation that God would offer to cure them of its repercussions. Jesus very easily could be seen in a similar manner.

When we look upon Jesus high on the cross we are forced to see both the consequences of the sin that poisons us and the salvation that heals us from it. The sins of the world literally put Jesus upon the cross. Were the people of Jesus’ day not sinful they would have been able to see his true nature; however, God’s will was ultimate love and sacrifice even in the face of individual and systematic evil. When Jesus told Nicodemus, who would have been familiar with the story we heard from Numbers, that the Son of Man must be lifted up like the serpent in the wilderness our Lord connected a very important set of dots for the religious leader and for us.

Until we confront our sinful nature and have the courage to look at the wrongs we commit, then we will continue to live in a toxic state continuously bitten by the offspring of our sins. And yet, when we boldly believe in God something changes. We must be willing to trust that God will guide us through even those times when we have to confront the darkest parts of our selves. When we look at the serpent, which is the result of our sin AND the sign that points to our salvation, then we finally receive the antidote that gives us life. To believe in God is to trust that even in our sinfulness God’s love will guide us into life. May we be bold enough to see our sinful nature and even bolder still to believe that Jesus is the cure for our poisoned, fallen state!

Looking Ahead To Turmoil

When I first met my wife she was not a fan of the TV show the Office (the American version). In fact, I can remember that she was very skeptical of the fact that I loved the series so much. WHAT'S NOT TO LOVE? After a few persistent nudges, she took me up on watching a few episodes, as I said, "It is an acquired taste." Fairly quickly, she too fell in love with the goofy comedy. Fast-forward to now when almost everyday we watch at least one episode together. At this point we both know the episodes so well that we do that really annoying thing when we speak the lines along with the characters... I know, I know we are ridiculous! One thing I have noticed though is that we know the story lines so well that all of the drama of the episodes has been taken out.

Knowing what will happen throughout each episode has a way of comforting me. I do not have to worry that a plot twist will arise that I do not see coming. Perhaps I will notice a new detail, but I am not at risk of being surprised in a negative way by the comedy series. However, a danger exists in knowing the story too well. Often the show loses my interest and I fall asleep only to be woken up by the chipper theme music at the end of the show. As I look ahead to this coming Sunday, Palm Sunday, I wonder and worry if I might do the same thing with Holy Week.

We are about to enter Jerusalem again with Jesus. Once more we will hear the story of Jesus' Passion. Another time we will begin our Holy Week pilgrimage. Having heard the story so many times before if I am not careful I will simply say the lines along with the Gospel writers and lull myself to sleep in the process. This is not my hope at all. I want to be alive, awake, and aware of what is happening, but I have questions and concerns that Holy Week will just drift by and I will be the same on April 17th as I am today.

How can I be completely present to the story unfolding even as I already know what is going to happen? How will I prevent myself from skipping ahead in the story to get to the good part? How do I let myself feel even the most horrid details of this story to walk with Jesus along the way?

I believe the answer to these questions is actually simpler than I sometimes try and make it. A friend of mine recently observed something I found fascinating. He said, "Some people will say, 'Oh man, it's Monday again!' or 'I don't want to eat that I had it yesterday.' And, I find this interesting because when we say these things we missing that every day, every minute, every second is new." The worry I have gets cut down at the knees by this perspective.

The present moment is the only time we ever live. This Holy Week has never happened before. I have never heard these stories in the way I will hear them this year. Yes, we are participating in something ancient and beautiful and handed down from generation to generation, but it is something that is also completely new. This Holy Week may we hear these words afresh, may we hear the ultimate Good News and be transformed, and may we walk with Jesus on his way to the cross.