What Makes A Good Gate?

 

Is this a good gate?

Acts 2:42-47

1 Peter 2:19-25

John 10:1-10

Psalm 23

 

Good Shepherd, let my words be your words and when my words are not your words, let your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

When I turned eleven years old, I received an amazing birthday present. My mom gave me a six-week-old, Springer-Spaniel puppy who was curious, smart, and just a little mischievous. That night, I knew what to call him—Merlin because I thought he was magic. Soon I realized just how fitting his name was. 

After school, I would run and play with Merlin, so that he got some exercise and attention. We would play in the fenced-in backyard. One day I went inside to grab a snack, and not a moment later I returned to find that Merlin was gone. I ran around to the front yard, and he was trotting around proudly, sniffing bushes that he did not get to smell otherwise. It was as if he said, I did this just to show you I could do it. I chased him to the backyard and discovered that the magical dog had managed to unlatch the gate.

Merlin somehow found a way to get through the gate. For some time, I was scared that he would get out and get hurt, so anytime he pushed through the gate I got angry. A couple of times I even kicked and cussed that gate until I hurt myself or until my mom heard me. That was a bad gate. It would not keep Merlin in, it made me angry, and a few times it even let in other dogs or animals that would pester Merlin.

In today’s Gospel lesson, Jesus said, “I am the gate,” but my childhood gate makes me think, is that a good thing? What makes for a good gate?

When I went on a college visit to Birmingham-Southern, a security officer looked over the entranceway. He wanted to know my name and if I was there on an official visit. Later, I discovered that the guards of this gate are there 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. An admissions counselor told stories about when students broke down on the way home from Spring Break or Christmas Vacation and how the gatekeepers would make sure that these students got back to campus safely.

Jesus says, “I am the gate,” but is the BSC gate something like what he was describing? This seems like an impressive gate system. Those who are invited inside get to come in and even when in danger, they are rescued by the security guard.

On my last official college visit as a high school senior, I traveled north from Birmingham with my mom and sister. As we approached the campus of this university on either side of Highway 41A we noticed large stone columns with the name “Sewanee” on it. Our admissions tour brochure informed us that most refer to this rocky entranceway as “The Gates.” When one leaves campus, one is to tap the ceiling of the car to receive a Sewanee angel. This tradition stems from the belief that Sewanee stands out as a thin space, heaven-on-earth, as it were.

Jesus says, “I am the gate,” but is this what he meant? Does Sewanee have good gates? When you leave them you receive a holy presence that goes with you on your journey. There is no latch, nor roadblock, rather everyone is allowed inside. Yet, if inside is where the angels dwell, who and what is outside? And, what if without a real barrier those inside do not feel safe?

Today is Good Shepherd Sunday. Yet, Jesus was and is more than a shepherd. Today’s Gospel lesson informs us he is a gate too. What did he mean when he offered, “I am the gate”? Maybe, we cannot completely understand what he meant. Certainly, as our gateway then, now, and always, he is not a flimsy closure that a magic dog can easily bypass getting himself into danger, nor is Jesus a reinforced, closed, and guarded way that not everyone can enter.

Perhaps Jesus as our gateway means that we have someone who will come and get us when we are in trouble, like at BSC. Maybe Jesus as our gateway means that as we move through him, we are accompanied by a heavenly presence, like at Sewanee. Jesus as our gateway might just mean that we are invited to come into the fold when he calls, but we are also free to go out into the pasture to grow spiritually when he leads us there. 

Jesus is partially like all of these previously mentioned gates, and yet he is not like any of these gates. Gates keep things in or out. Sure, they can protect us, but they also can keep us separated. We need more than just any gate.

Today is Good Shepherd Sunday, and we learn from John’s Gospel account that Jesus was both shepherd and gate. In his day, these two positions were one in the same thing. Shepherds would lay over the only opening in a fence physically becoming the gate through which thieves and bandits would have to come to find the sheep. Imagine that! Our Good Shepherd keeps us safe, serving not only as our guide and companion, but also as our shield from those who yearn to harm us.

Christ walks with us always, and he calls us to go through his gateway into deeper life. As a gate, Christ is the way through which we experience the full abundance of life. To enter into the richness of life on and beyond we need only to walk with our Good Shepherd and through his gateway into the life eternal.

What does a good gate look like? It looks like a Good Shepherd.  

Remember and Love

What does a Nintendo 64 have to do with Jesus' betrayal, Passion, and death? Let's find out!

 

Exodus 12:1-4, (5-10), 11-14

1 Corinthians 11:23-26

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

Psalm 116:1, 10-17

The Rev. Seth Olson © 2023

Holy God, let my words be your words and when my words are not your words, let your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

This is a Nintendo 64. In the US, it was releasedin the fall of 1996. I know this because one of my childhood best friends Jeremy Drummond received one—together we played on that console for endless hours conquering Super Mario 64, James Bond: Goldeneye, Starfox, Mario Kart, and Super Smash Bros. The reason I show you this video gaming system though is not for the sake of nostalgia, nor to describe my misspent youth, nor even to humbly brag about my gaming prowess. Rather, it is to tell you a hard truth about the human brain—our own computing system so to speak.

Despite all the amazing technological advancements that we have collectively accomplished as a human species, our minds have not evolved much—if at all—since the days of Jesus of Nazareth. In truth, our conscious minds are not even equivalent to 64-bit gaming system like this one. Consciously, we can only process about 40 to 50 bits of information a second.[1] Sure, we can easily recall a seven-digit phone number, but what about throwing in a funky area code? Of course, we can keep three details in our brains, except what happens when someone throws in another question on top of that? Everything is fine while checking off chores in the kitchen, and yet our minds often go blank as to why we walked into the living room to do something else. The heartening thing is that we are not simply our conscious minds. Our minds work to make sense with logic and reason—very good things! We in the Episcopal Church often state that reason is among the most important principles of our shared Faith along with Scripture and Tradition.

Still, we are not only a disembodied brain that floats through time and space. Recalling another mid-1990s cultural reference (yes, I like to keep it fresh with sermon illustrations), we are not the tiny alien from the movie Men In Black, which controlled a human suit. There is more to us than simply what we think. Our beings are not confined to the neurons firing along synapses. And, while our conscious mind is like an outdated gaming console, our subconscious—our hearts and souls, if you will—are like a vast bank of servers powering a more sophisticated and mysterious computing network.

To this end—understanding our conscious mind and our subconscious awareness—let’s do a couple of things. First, what is your mind focusing on tonight? Right now, what are you thinking? You might be thinking about what I am saying right now. If so, thank you. Maybe you are thinking of what awaits you at home, at work tomorrow, or on your never-ending to-do list. If you are a youth, you might be dreaming about the ice cream sundae bar after this service. If you are a worship leader, maybe you are thinking of your next part in the service. Constantly though our minds are generating thought after thought, and if you are anything like me, you might get distracted by any one of them.

The supercomputers that are our subconscious though can pick up on things that our conscious mind does not easily hold. Even though you probably are not thinking about it, some part of you knows what the seat underneath you feels like. Pertaining to air temperature, if you feel comfortable in here you probably aren’t thinking that it’s too warm or too cold, but that’s data we are taking in all the time. Are you aware of your breath rate or how loudly your neighbor is breathing? Maybe not until I said something. You see our conscious mind is only the tip of the iceberg of who we are and how we engage with the world around us.

Now I’d like to try something else. It’s a bit different, but I figure if you are willing to come to a service with foot washing, maybe you are the adventurous type. Stick out your hand and raise a finger—not the middle one, as that might give us the wrong idea—lift up your index finger. Slow down your breathing and concentrate on your finger for ten seconds. Keep breathing, now look past your finger for ten seconds. Again, focus on your finger. And, now past it again.

This is vergence brain spotting—a mindfulness technique my therapist taught me. It’s designed to bring your whole self back into the room. So now that we are back in the room, let us go back into the upper room on that night long ago.

In that room, there was a lot that was happening. Surely the disciples could not hold all of it with their video game brains—their conscious minds had to be flooded with so much. In three Gospel accounts (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), Jesus instituted the Holy Eucharist during (what we call) the Last Supper. We heard those words in our Second Lesson filtered through a letter Paul wrote to the Corinthians. Throughout John’s telling of the Good News, Jesus was revealed as the Bread of heaven, so the institution of Holy Communion is missing. Instead, the holy ritual on that night was something wholly different—the teacher Jesus washed his students’ feet.

Did the disciples focus on “Do this in remembrance of me” or “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another”? Were they thinking of all the details of the Passover feast or were they concerned about Jesus’ increased anxiety, as he had been warning that he must undergo suffering? Were they keyed in on the practical, the spiritual, both or neither? What about us? Our minds, like theirs, may hone in on a specific detail, but our supercomputing souls are taking in terabytes of data.

What is the sensation of having water poured over your foot? And, how does it make you feel emotionally—anxious, uncomfortable, sad, confused, excited? What do the bread and wine smell like, how do they taste, is there a specific sensation you feel when consuming them? Are there emotions that are provoked when devouring these elements? What do the hymns sound like in your ears? How do they make your heart sing or sigh, laugh or cry? When the light fades, when the night comes, when the darkness encroaches—what then? There is more happening here than what our minds can hold.

Every year when we walk this way with Christ more and more layers of meaning are added onto this three-day-long service known as the Triduum. Simplifying things though, our tasks—given to us by Jesus on this night—are to remember and to love. More fully stated—we are to do this, so we may remember and we are to love as he loved. He did not say, “Do this to understand me,” nor did he offer a manipulative eye for an eye relationship. He was not interested in doing this to exclude anyone, nor was his focus on a giddy feeling we denote as “love.” Instead, we are to remember him and to love like him. We are to remember and to love.

We are to remember the things, which happened throughout those three days long ago—Jesus’ betrayal, Passion, and death. These events necessitate us to remember Christ because people just like us tore him apart. We are called to re-member him, to put Christ back together, as we acknowledge our part in continuing to tear apart Christ’s Body any time we injure, maim, or sever a member of the human family.

And we are to love. We are called to love like Jesus did. In the verses omitted (by the formers of our Lectionary) from John 13 in the middle of tonight’s Gospel lesson, we discover that Jesus knew his betrayer Judas was in his presence. Jesus still chose to love Judas by washing his feet. This was not cheap love, this was not an empty gesture, nor was this only a feeling. When Jesus said, “love like me” it was costly, it was a choice, and it was a sacrifice. We are to love and to remember, to remember Christ and to love like Jesus.

Our minds might try to make this a simple task of thinking about Jesus’ betrayal, Passion, and death during the Triduum, these next three days, or even throughout our lives, but there’s more. Our minds might even make this a feat for our bodies to undergo—having our feet washed or consuming the bread and the wine, the Body and the Blood, but there’s more still. It is the very purpose of our lives and the highest aim of our souls to be here, to remember, and to experience the love of Christ, then to share that love abundantly.

The love of Christ will not fully be revealed tonight. Certainly, we will not hold its breadth and depth only in our minds. Like missing verses in our lives, we won’t comprehend the self-sacrificing love of this night, of the cross, and of Christ on this side of the grave. As Paul wrote elsewhere to the Corinthians, now we only see dimly, like in a cloudy reflection. What is clear though, is that Jesus loved his betrayer fully knowing that he would be betrayed. He loved his disciples knowing fully they would abandon him. He loves us too knowing fully we will let him down.

Though each of us will betray and abandon God by not seeing Christ in each other and in ourselves, God in Christ loves us still, loves us anyway, loves us always. Tonight, remember Christ as we collectively constitute the Body—receiving Christ’s Body in Holy Eucharist. Tonight, experience with your heart, soul, strength, and yes your mind the love of Christ—taking on the new commandment to love, like Jesus did. Tonight, through these holy days, and throughout our lives, may we not only think about Jesus—His betrayal, Passion, and death—but may we also re-member the Body of Christ, as we follow Jesus’ commandment to love like Him.

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[1] Praga Agarwal, “Understanding Unconscious Bias” on NPR.org [https://www.npr.org/2020/07/14/891140598/understanding-unconscious-bias, written July 15 2020, accessed April 6,  2023]

Who is this?

 

On this Palm Sunday and throughout this week may we wonder who Jesus is as we wander to the Cross.

The Liturgy of the Palms

 Matthew 21:1-11

The Liturgy of the Word

Isaiah 50:4-9a

Psalm 31:9-16

Philippians 2:5-11

Matthew 26:14- 27:66

Holy God, let my words be your words and when my words are not your words, let your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

“When [Jesus] entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, ‘Who is this?’”

On a day long ago, the entire Holy City asked, “Who is this?” As Jerusalem experienced the unsettled turbulence, the fever pitch, the near riots, they collectively yearned to know who this Jesus was. By my count, today’s service features about 65 different answers for this question through various descriptors of Jesus—from grand titles like “Son of Man” or “King of Israel” to expressive phrases like “self-emptying one” or “oh, most afflicted.” Back on the first Palm Sunday, the crowds ran ahead of Jesus cutting down branches and throwing down garments, as they had their own 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.” (italics added for emphasis)

Surely the disciples were among the crowds. They had professed already who this was. “The Messiah, the Son of the Living God,” attested their spokesperson Peter. Later in this week, though these same followers would answer the question about Jesus’ identity differently.

Judas full of greed and disappointment betrayed his teacher with a kiss, only to later experience the kiss of death as the aftermath of his guilt and shame. Peter after Jesus foretold of the disciples’ 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 Peter, James, and John (the ultra-disciples) could not keep watch with Jesus falling asleep instead. When those with swords and clubs arrived to arrest Jesus, one disciple seethed with rage such that he turned to aggression with a blade.

The disciples’ replies to the question, “Who is this?” were not to hold up Jesus as “the Messiah, the Son of the Living God,” nor as a Prophet, nor even as their rabbi. Instead, through betrayal, denial, unconsciousness, and violence they let their words and actions speak disbelief, fear, and faithlessness.

The danger with pointing out the disciples’ sin-soaked responses comes when I try to wash my own hands of Jesus’ death, like Pilate did. 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—how I might answer the question. And yet, even there hiding in the masses, I discover that out of one side of my mouth I call Jesus: Savior, King, Prince of Life, beloved, friend; then out of the other: slave, imposter, accused. Worst of all is the cry ringing out of my mouth for Jesus to be crucified. “Let him be crucified!”

Over and over again, I crucify Christ, we crucify Christ—not only in ancient Jerusalem, but throughout the ages in the deaths of martyrs and innocents, and in our day, at Columbine or Covenant, at Emmanuel AME Church in Charleston or at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church in Vestavia Hills. It would be easier for us, for me to just look away!

This is the danger: to sit back comfortably and wait for a week to pass, so that I may drop in wearing my Easter best to sing my favorite hymns and never acknowledge my part in the story, my part in Jesus’ betrayal, Passion, and death—my part in the crucifixion of Christ.

What if you and I did not know how this story will end? What if we were to watch with the crowds, the disciples, and Pilate? Better still, what if we were to walk 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 tell you about who Jesus is. Instead, walk the way of Holy Week, and ponder, “Who is this?”