Inestimable Grace

Revelation 21:1-6       

Acts 11:1-18      

I don’t think I have ever read a book that, on page 263 had a red arrow in the margin and the words: here is the climax of the story, right here! Or asterisks that say: take note: this is important! Writers don’t tell you that stuff – not in that way, at least. But there are other ways of discerning what is really important.

One way we understand that something significant is happening is when time slows down. Better than using flashing arrows and lights, the act of slowing the narrative down can communicate in an organic way that this is very important business going on right now.

The story about Peter and the Gentiles is given a solid chapter and a half – 66 verses. This is an episode we should sit up and pay attention to, because something big is happening here.

So let me go back and fill it in.

The story begins at chapter 10 in Caesarea with Cornelius, a centurion of the Roman army. Not a Jew, that is.

Cornelius is, however, a devout man who feared God – this means that he believed in the God of Israel. Even though he would never become a Jew, he followed the Jewish practices of prayer and almsgiving, and he led his household accordingly. And then one day, about three in the afternoon, he had a vision of an angel, who said to him, “Cornelius, God has heard your prayers. Now send some men to Joppa to seek out a man called Peter.” Being a centurion meant that Cornelius had a corps of 100 men under his authority, so he summoned a few of his men and sent them to Joppa. That is how strong his vision was.

Scene Two: we are in Joppa on the following day, about noon. Peter goes up to the roof of the house where he is a guest, to find a quiet place for prayer. He neglected to eat before climbing up on the roof, so in the middle of his prayers he starts thinking about food. You know how that goes, right?

He called down for someone to bring him a meal, and while he was waiting he fell into a trance. Here’s where it gets really weird. He saw the heavens open and large sheet being lowered to the ground by its four corners.

You really must take a minute and think about what this might have looked like. Were there four little birds holding the corners in their beaks, like in an animated Disney movie? Or was it more like Aladdin’s magic carpet, just sort of hovering in the air, waving?

I always picture it to be one of those red and white checked picnic cloths. Because on the cloth are all kinds of animals – mammals, reptiles, birds. Pig, rabbit, shellfish, ostrich, rattlesnake. All the kinds of things that are not kosher, that Peter as a Jew is not permitted to eat.

Weird enough. But then Peter hears a voice, which he knows to be the voice of God, saying, “Get up, Peter. Kill and eat.” But Peter says, “O my goodness, no – I would never do that.” Why? Because it is against the Jewish purity laws. Never in his life has he eaten pork, crab, or anything else on that picnic cloth. It is downright offensive to him. But the voice says to him, “what God has made clean you must not call profane.”

This exchange between Peter and the voice is repeated three times in exactly the same way, while the picnic cloth filed with animals hovers in the air. Then after the third time, the cloth is swept back up into heaven and Peter is left puzzling over this weird vision.

While this is happening up on the roof, Cornelius’ men are walking through the streets of Joppa, heading for this very house. Still thinking about his vision and having no idea what to make of it, Peter’s thoughts are interrupted by the Spirit – again, a kind of vision, we might say – who tells him that there are three men at the door looking for him, and that he should go see them because the Lord wanted Peter to go with them.

Still, Peter didn’t know what was going on, who they were, or where he would be sent. But he followed the Spirit’s leading. So the men at the door told Peter about Cornelius and his vision, in which an angel told him to go get Peter, and here they were. The men were invited in, given food and lodging, and the next day Peter and a few believers from Joppa followed these men back to Caesarea.

Now, just as Peter knew he was not supposed to eat of the unclean animals, he also knew that he was not to have table fellowship with gentiles. These were all new and uncomfortable things, but he did them anyway. Because he was beginning to put the pieces together, seeing that somehow this strange vision was connected to this journey.

When they arrived at the home of Cornelius, he told Peter exactly what had happened to him a few days earlier, the vision of the angel, the order to get Peter and hear what Peter would say to him.

Up until this moment I am sure that Peter had no earthly idea what he would say to Cornelius. Still, he opened his mouth and began to speak, and he said, “I truly understand now that God shows no partiality.” And he spoke about how this was the message God had sent through Jesus Christ, and that the good news had continued to spread throughout the lands, crossing all kinds of borders and boundary lines, and had evidently brought him right here now.

While Peter was in the middle of his speech, the Holy Spirit came down on everyone gathered there. How did they know it was the Spirit? By the ways the people responded to it – they began speaking in tongues and praising God. And it seemed authentic.

But the Jews in the crowd could not believe what was going on. Because this was not the way these things were supposed to happen.

Up until this time, they all understood that the good news of Jesus Christ was for the people of Israel. That one was a Jew first and then could become a follower of Christ. That one was circumcised first, and then could be baptized. That the Holy Spirit might skitter around the room all she liked but skip over the Gentiles and land only on the Jews.

Now Peter says, “Why should I not baptize these Gentiles, for they have received the Spirit of God, as we have all just witnessed.” And that is what he did.

And that is why this is such a big deal.

This was newsworthy and it spread quickly. Pretty soon Peter was in Jerusalem being interrogated by his colleagues. They demanded to know why he did it. So Peter launched into the whole story again. And, once again, the reader has the benefit of hearing it in all of its detail. He describes his vision – what he saw, what he heard – and then his visit from Cornelius’ men and the trip to Caesarea and all that happened there. Finally, Peter said, “Who am I to hinder God?” and at that his audience was silent.

And then they praised God as they celebrated God’s inestimable grace.

So, what does any of this have to do with us?

We don’t always embrace what is different, and we are often skeptical of the new thing. We are reluctant to let go of old ideas and traditions. But if we are open to the guidance of the Spirit, if we are able to shed our egos and put aside the notion that we have a lock on orthodoxy, if we truly believe that God is still at work in the world then we too might be able to discern God’s new thing.

The story isn’t finished, you know. When we profess our faith we do it in the present tense, knowing that God is working, God is forgiving, God is healing, God is leading us every day.

John of Patmos, toward the end of the first century had a vision – a revelation, which he wrote down. He described a series of visions that spoke of the great suffering that exists in this world. But God is not absent from it. And toward the end he wrote this:

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them as their God; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them.

God has done a new thing many times and will surely do a new thing many more times. And every new revelation expands God’s love and grace as we know it. It is an extraordinary thing. We don’t always understand it well, but God is always willing to show us. God’s way is a way of inestimable grace. And we are invited to come along. 

Photo: Megapixl

Life Breaks In

 Acts 9:36-43      

Her name was Tabitha. Or maybe it was Dorcas, depending on the language we are speaking, but in both Aramaic and in Greek her name meant gazelle.

A beautiful name, gazelle, an animal that is known to be swift and small, graceful in its movements. Her name may have been chosen for these reasons. Perhaps her parents hoped for her to be lovely and gentle, and bring more beauty to the world. We know that in her heart and soul she was truly lovely; we know that through her care for others she brought beauty to the world; we know that she was deeply loved by many.

Tabitha was quick to serve anyone around her who was in need. She took especially good care of the widows in her community. It might be easy for us to forget, but in that time a widow was an especially vulnerable person. Without any rights of her own, it was the custom for a woman to be shifted from the care of her father to her husband. If her husband died before her, she became the responsibility of her son. But if she had no grown sons to care for her, then she was a widow and in a bad way – utterly alone and defenseless in the world.

This is the reason why the law of Israel spoke clearly about the care of widows, as well as orphans and aliens – or immigrants, as we would say now. These were people who needed someone to care for them. And Tabitha was a woman who committed herself to caring for them.

The women of Joppa loved her. With Tabitha, they didn’t feel like they were a burden, as some others might have made them feel. With Tabitha, they knew themselves to be loved, the most precious thing we can imagine. Tabitha loved these poor women and cared for them with a fierce loyalty. We can tell that the feeling was mutual.

But then she died.

Their grief was palpable. Weeping, they washed and laid out her body. They gathered around her to begin their mourning. They carried in with them the tunics she had made for them.

It was much like the kind of funeral you and I might attend. They gathered together and told about the ways Tabitha had lived and cared for them, they showed the ways she had demonstrated her love, the love of God working in her. They gave thanks for her life at the same time they tearfully mourned her death.

They invited Peter to come. Peter, the rock of Christ’s church, should know this model of discipleship that Tabitha was, even if only after her death. The women gave their testimonies – each of them spoke of how Tabitha’s life force had touched them, even saved them. These widows knew that every day their lives were close to the edge. They knew how vulnerable they were. Tabitha not only pulled them from the edge, she afforded them dignity. They knew that because Tabitha had lived, they lived.

And Peter was deeply moved by this display of love.

He knelt beside her body and prayed. He said to her, Tabitha, get up. Then Tabitha rose.

For people who know the Bible well, this is a familiar story. When we hear it, it takes us back to a story in Mark’s gospel in which Jesus is called to the bedside of a synagogue leader’s daughter. The child was dead and everyone around her was weeping, grieving this loss of life. Jesus said to her, little girl, get up. Then she rose.

But that’s not all. This story of Jesus reminds us of a story from the Old Testament about the prophet Elijah. When he was staying with the widow of Zerephath. This poor woman had a young son; he became ill and died. In grief she called to Elijah. Elijah took the little boy in his arms and carried him up and laid him on his own bed. He stretched out his own body on top of the boy, crying out, praying out loud. And the boy’s breath returned to him. And there is yet another story about the prophet Elisha, who revived the dead son of the Shunamite woman, much like Elijah had done before him.

Story after story in the scriptures tell of God’s capacity to bring life. It goes all the way back to the beginning of Genesis when God speaks life into the world, out of nothing at all. Hard to believe, right?

We live in a world that scarcely thinks about anything beyond ourselves. We busy ourselves with the day-to-day dreariness and challenges, hopes and small pleasures. We fill our days with the mundane, and it may be that we never ever think about God until we suddenly find ourselves standing at the edge of an abyss. Not knowing where to turn, how to take another step. Only when we know that there is no way on earth we can be saved…then we may know the God who is able to break into the world with life.

I cannot explain any of these stories about life restored, but I don’t really want to explain them. We do not explain, but merely witness the divine power of God to reassert, again and again, that God is for life.

And if we, too, are for life as God is for life, then we also will support and care for the vulnerable ones.

In our nation today, to be for life, or pro-life, means only one thing: to be anti-abortion. But the truth is not so simple. To be for life means much, much more. We must care for the lives who have already been born – the children who lack adequate food and housing. The ones whom our society has made to feel less than everyone else. The women who find themselves in a situation in which there are no good options – none – and gently, lovingly give them the space to make the best decisions they can for themselves. To show care and compassion for all of these, as Tabitha did, is to be for life in the ways that God is for life.

And only when we are doing these things, when we are lifting up the downtrodden, seeing their worth as God’s beloved. Only when we are valuing and caring for, affording dignity and respect to, every life at every stage of life, only then can we truly say we are pro-life as God is pro-life.

It does not start with the unborn. It begins with the ones who are already here.

Photo by Pixabay: https://www.pexels.com/photo/close-up-of-pink-flower-248068/

Grace in Abundance

John 21:1-19

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. This is the greeting Paul liked to use in his letters he sent to churches.

In these weeks since Easter Sunday I have been thinking about the kinds of feelings the disciples of Jesus might have experienced after his resurrection. And, as I said last week, it is possible that fear was one of those feelings. They may have been afraid for a number of reasons. Among other things, they had their own personal guilt to deal with, because they had failed Jesus spectacularly. They let him die.

Not that they could have prevented it, of course. Even though they had tried a few times to stop him from going down the path. He would not be stopped. There wasn’t anything much they could do, other than die with him, and how would that help, they probably wondered.

They weren’t personally responsible for his death. But they could have still felt personally responsible, as we do tend to feel responsible for the ones we love. Perhaps you can identify with that sort of feeling. Because all of us, in various and sundry ways, have failed another. And we feel guilty. Sometimes so guilty that we are surprised to find that the loved ones we have failed still love us.

And there may have been some of that going on for the disciples of Jesus during these post-Easter days. If they were human, and if they loved Jesus, they felt some guilt. So when Jesus appears to them as they are huddled in that locked room and says to them, “Peace be with you,” I don’t doubt they were shocked on more than one level.

They were shocked in the same way any one of us would be if Jesus walked through our locked door and greeted us. It wasn’t one of the things they had been given to expect. But they were also shocked, I think, by his words to them: “Peace be with you.” We didn’t pay much attention to these particular words last Sunday, but let’s think about them now.

What does it mean when you wish someone peace, as Jesus did in these circumstances? It means I forgive you. It means I still love you.

What does it mean when you and I share the peace of Christ with one another on any given Sunday? It means we’re good; nothing stands between us. We’re whole, you and I. It means pretty much the same thing it meant to the disciples back then. But peace was not among the things they were expecting back then.

He said it twice, just to make sure they heard him right, and to assure them he hadn’t misspoken – he really meant it. And then he came back the next week to say it again. Because Thomas hadn’t been there the first time, and Thomas needed to hear it too. Peace, Thomas. Peace to you too.

We use that word all kinds of ways. Now and again, the peace sign becomes a popular fashion statement – on t-shirts, scarves, anything and everything – until it grows boring and people stop buying it. The word peace is used very lightly at times, and other times it is as serious as life and death.

But when Jesus brings greetings of peace to his beloved disciples in that upper room, his disciples who abandoned and betrayed him, he is bringing them so much more than we are inclined to hear. He brings them forgiveness; he restores them to wholeness. Peace.

And he comes to them again at the lakeshore, while they are out fishing. Their lives were in limbo – the past was over, and the future was not at all clear to them yet. So they turn to something familiar – fishing.

It didn’t work out too well for them that night; they caught nothing – a not unfamiliar situation. There had been other nights when they came up empty. And just like that one time, when they first met him, there was Jesus again, telling them, “Try the other side,” and they did. And they hit the motherlode.

They make their way to Jesus on the shore, where he has prepared a meal for them. Take this bread; drink this cup.

After the meal he turns to Peter. Simon, he calls him now – his former name. The name he had before Jesus anointed him as the foundation upon which his church would be built. Simon, he asks, do you love me?

Simon Peter and Jesus begin a little dance. Simon, do you love me? Yes, Lord, I love you. Then feed my sheep. Simon, do you love me? Yes, Lord, I love you. Then feed my sheep. Simon, do you love me? Yes, Lord, I love you. Then feed my sheep.

Three times they repeat this, varying the words slightly. And Peter’s feelings begin to resurface during this dance – his guilt, his love, his shame, his hurt, his sense of helplessness, even hopelessness. Lord, he says, you know everything.

Everything – you know what I did. And you know my shame, too. You know all of it, so you know how much I still do, and always have, loved you.

As painful as this was for Peter, it was necessary. He needed to face all of this – all the ways he failed Jesus – he needed to face it to be fully redeemed. Redemption doesn’t come cheap. It costs something.

Grace, which Jesus brought them in abundance, costs something. We know what it cost Jesus – his suffering and death, a journey through hell and back. We know this grace he brings is not cheap.

But do we know that it costs us something too? Cheap grace is false, it is not worth the little amount of time and effort it requires. The grace of Jesus will cost us something.

Our complacency, for starters. We cannot remain complacent. It is not possible to let Christ into your heart and remain unmoved by the suffering of the world. The cost of grace includes admitting our own complicity in the sin, the brokenness, of the world. We give up the ease of not caring.

When we accept Christ’s grace, we start down a path in which we surrender the privilege of hate. Christ calls us to love our friends and our enemies too. The delicious taste in our mouths when we utter words of contempt, this is a pleasure we must give up. We give these things up for the sake of grace and peace.

Grace and peace, he gives to them – through his broken body and the blood he shed – so that they may have life in abundance. Life in abundance, we will have, when we accept the cost of his grace.

May you know that as much as we bear responsibility for the brokenness and the hurting of this world, we are forgiven.

May you be blessed with the knowledge of your part in all things – the sin and the healing of the world.

May you hear the call of Christ to extend his forgiveness, to love his people, to feed his lambs.

And may grace and peace be yours in abundance.

Photo by Diana Măceşanu on Unsplash  

The Truth about Belief

John 20:19-31

Many of you know that in the Presbyterian church we have a tradition of confirming young people to bring them into the full membership of the church. It usually requires a series of classes, in which they might learn about Presbyterian polity, doctrine, and whatever is deemed necessary by the particular church. There is a lot of discretion in how the classes are run. But one thing that is not discretionary is the mandatory meeting with the session. Session is responsible for all matters of membership, and it is necessary for the session to “examine” anyone who desires to become a member of the congregation. 

Usually a confirmation class will meet with the session after they have completed their course of study, and the session members will ask them a few questions to get a feel for what they have learned and how they might talk about their faith. 

I remember when one of my sons was in confirmation they had an especially interesting meeting with session. This class was a little bit older than the norm, and they had a habit of challenging things. The session invited them to share any questions they might have. And these kids were honest with them. There were certain things that we had taught them that they just didn’t believe. 

I don’t remember all the details of what they were doubting. I am pretty sure that one of these was the virgin birth – which is something that a great many faithful people also have doubts about. But this challenge coming from these kids really threw the elders off their game. They were expecting simpler questions – not doctrinal arguments. Eventually, one of the elders in exasperation asked the kids, “Look, can’t you just believe it?” They said no, they could not.

These young people were not the first to have doubts about certain articles of faith – obviously. Thomas was clear about his doubts, wasn’t he? It is fair to say that doubt has accompanied faith from the very beginning.

There are some of us who would like this to not be so. I had a friend who was very anxious about doubt; she believed it was a sin and must be eliminated. “Don’t do that,” she would say if I asked too many questions. “Can’t you just believe it?”

I am sure Thomas’ companions very much wanted him to believe. I imagine the conversations during that intervening week – after Jesus first came through the locked door and appeared to the disciples, showing his wounded hands and side, and then a week later when he made a return appearance for Thomas. Picture them sitting across the table from Thomas arguing the case for faith, one after another. Finally, in exasperation saying to him, “Thomas, look: can’t you just believe it?” and Thomas saying, “No, I cannot.”

Not everyone is as honest about their doubts. Doubts can scare us, because they seem to threaten the entire structure of our faith. When I was getting ready to begin seminary studies, every pastor I knew had some advice to give me. But the strangest advice was from one pastor who told me the best thing I could do would be to keep my eyes and ears shut for the next three years. “Just go through it and get the degree,” he was saying, “but don’t let those seminary professors try to tell you anything you don’t already know.” Any new knowledge could instill doubts about what you thought you had locked down.

We build our faith like a house, brick upon brick. We go inside of it and we feel safe. But then someone comes along and challenges one of the bricks. If you let them pull that brick out, what will happen to your house? I understand why people are afraid of harboring doubts.

It seems to me that the interesting thing about Thomas is that he is not afraid – not at all. He is not afraid to say to the others, “I don’t believe what you are saying.” And he is not afraid to find out for himself. Thomas doesn’t want to hide from knowledge – he wants to receive it for himself. Thomas wants to see Jesus.

And isn’t that really what any of us want? 

The truth about belief is that it usually comes from experience. You don’t believe in gravity because your science teacher explained it to you. You believe it because your feet tend to stay on the ground and you don’t ever float away. You don’t believe that the sun will set tonight and rise again tomorrow morning because a textbook taught you about the workings of the solar system. You believe it because all your life it has been your consistent experience. 

You don’t believe your mother loves you because she wrote it in a birthday card. You believe it because she showed it with everything she had, the sacrifices she made, the way she held you. Experience matters.

There is a story I heard once about a missionary. He traveled halfway across the world to teach people in a foreign land about Jesus. He and his wife settled in, lived among the people, and taught them about Jesus. He brought the Bible with him, but the people he met couldn’t read. So he taught them in other ways, and the people there became Christians.

One day a local woman came to their door. She had a cruel and abusive husband, who was making her life extremely hard. The missionary and his wife welcomed her into their home. They took care of her while her wounds healed, her strength was restored. Eventually, she left their home and the village. She traveled over a mountain to another village, where she settled in. And she began to teach the people there about Jesus.

She could not read. They could not read. But she shared the good news of Jesus with them. and the good news was this:

Jesus heals us of our wounds. Jesus rescues us from oppression. Jesus loves us and asks us to love one another in the same way. This was what she had learned from the Christians. This was the good news of her experience, the good news she shared. And the people there became Christians.

This is the truth about belief: it comes through experience. The experience of goodness, which all flows from the ultimate source of goodness that is God.

The kids in my son’s confirmation class were accepted by the members of session. And they all chose to become members – even with their doubts. Doubt is a thing we all have to work through on our own journeys of faith. But a faith that begins with a belief in the love and goodness of God will be strong enough to carry you along this journey.

We are beginning a confirmation class today in this church. Through this Easter season we will work together to learn some of the essential tenets of our faith. I don’t know if they will remember any of that – it might not mean anything to them. But something I know they will remember is if, and how, they experience the love of God through the people of this church. This will mean everything.

Photo by John Moeses Bauan on Unsplash

Risen

 

Acts 10:34-43    

Luke 24:1-12     

This is a very big day in the church.

To put it in perspective: Without Easter, we would not be here. Without Easter, the church would not be – period.

Without Easter, we would never talk about Jesus – never utter his name. There would be no reason to.

This is not because Jesus didn’t do and say things during his life worthy of remembering. Quite the contrary. His teachings and his actions; the stories told of him in the gospels, from beginning to end, are precious gems to us. It’s just that, without Easter, all of those things would be forgotten.

Jesus would have been a footnote in history – one more Jew who died by crucifixion at the hand of the Roman Empire. One of thousands who died this way, whose names are not remembered.

Without Easter, death would have had the final word – for Jesus. For his disciples. For all who placed their hopes in him. For us as well.

The apostle Paul wrote, “If Christ had not been raised, then our proclamation has been in vain and your faith has been in vain.”

There is a lot riding on the doctrine of resurrection. It is not optional. It may not be discarded.

And why ever would we want to discard it? It is what eases the pain of death for us, the grief of losing a loved one; it is what gives us confidence that we will be united with them again in the life to come.

And yet, I know that, for some of you, there is a still small voice inside that persists in asking: is it really possible to believe such a thing? The resurrection of the dead?

Even on that first morning, his followers could not, at first, believe it. The stories we are told by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John show us the bewilderment, the skepticism and confusion among his disciples. An idle tale, they say. Not possible. Still, Peter runs to the tomb to see for himself and, finding it empty he walks away in amazement, or wonder. Not yet belief – but wonder.

Later, when they did encounter the risen Lord they failed to recognize him. Mary called him the gardener; the two disciples on the road to Emmaus called him a stranger. They were bewildered and confused.

And at times we are just as bewildered and confused as these first disciples were – both that he could have risen from the grave and that they could have failed to recognize their beloved lord. It just does not fit our understanding of and experience of the world – remember you are dust, we say, and to dust you shall return.

And still, we gather every Sunday in this place and proclaim Christ risen.

It is called the Paschal Mystery: Jesus walked toward his death as a sacrificial lamb, died and was buried. On the third day he rose again, the scriptures say, and we say whenever we recite the creed.

We cannot explain it. We cannot comprehend it. But there are ways we can know it, just as the first disciples came to know it.

They knew Christ was risen when they saw him, felt him, and heard him. When he was really, truly with them in ways that mattered. They talked with him, prayed with him, ate with him. They walked with him, were blessed by him and taught by the resurrected Jesus.

In the years to follow, they told and retold, and eventually put to paper, the stories of their experiences with the risen Lord – stories that are meant to convey that their experiences with Christ were very real –

even while they were not like the experiences they had with him before his death. Because the risen Christ they encountered was not the same as he was before. He was utterly transformed. 

And Christ’s transformation in the resurrection signals the beginning of God’s work of transformation in the world. Christ is transformed; in Christ we are transformed. Christ has new life; in Christ we have new life. What is more, because of Christ’s resurrection the world is changed. We live in a world transformed by the risen Christ, and so we proclaim him Lord. As the church has been doing for nearly two thousand years, we proclaim Jesus is Lord.

Jesus is Lord. It is not Caesar who is Lord. It is not Jeff Bezos or Elon Musk who is Lord. It is not Vladimir Putin who is Lord. Jesus is Lord, the one who defeated death and the power of empire for all time – however and wherever we find empire in our place and time. You may say that empire is a thing of the past, but I say to you that the same empire that killed Jesus is still with us today.

Empire is found wherever the ones who have power work first and foremost to retain and increase their power. Empire is found wherever violence is called peacekeeping. Empire is driven by the belief that life is a zero-sum game, so the powerful ones must hold down, drain, crush the powerless ones, impoverish them. The empire then tells these poor ones that their poverty is their own fault.

Jesus stood against the Empire. He stood alone before Pilate, before Herod, when everyone else had abandoned him. He stood trial and received his condemnation and death.

And on the third day he rose.

Jesus’ resurrection is the proof that God chose him over empire. God chose the one who stood against the powers of empire, and always will stand against these powers. It is the resurrection that puts the glory of Christ, a glory we share, in proper perspective.

It is the resurrection that allows us to say that Christ has defeated the powers of death and we need not live in fear. It is what gives us the strength to rise each new day and face the hardships and disappointments of our lives, keeping hope in goodness. It is what gives us the courage and the will to stand up against tyranny and evil in this world.

Because of Easter, we know something about God. We know that God is for justice, and as the body of Christ we are to stand where he stood: against the unjust powers of the world. There is no lack of opportunity for us to do this.

Believe it.

The disciples of Jesus did not yet believe on that first early Easter morning. They were still bewildered, confused, and afraid. But soon they would experience him for themselves – in the garden and in the upper room; on the mountain and on the lakeshore; on the road to Emmaus and for Paul, much later, on the road to Damascus. And still later, you and I may encounter the risen Christ, too.

As a poet once said, Christ plays in ten thousand places. We may meet the risen Lord anywhere, and like all the disciples before us, be transformed by the experience.

May we know the risen Christ and be so transformed. May we proclaim with all our being, Jesus is Lord. Amen.

What We All Need

Luke 19: 28-40  

Like his many parables, there are some curious and surprising elements in this story.

They have been traveling toward Jerusalem. Now they are, finally, almost there. But they pause, unexpectedly, near Bethany and Bethphage, because there are a few final details to take care of. Jesus turns to two of his disciples: “Go ahead into the village. You will find a colt tied up. Untie it and bring it here.”

And here we might wonder a few things, including: Is this really okay? That they should just go in and take a colt that belongs to someone else? Might someone object to this?

Yes, actually, Jesus anticipates this, for he also tells them, “If anyone asks you what you are doing just tell them this: ‘the Lord needs it.’”

So they went in and they found the colt. They untied it and, sure enough, someone asked them what they were doing. They followed his instructions to the letter, saying, “The Lord needs it,” and apparently that was good enough.

The whole scene has an air of mystery to it, where somehow Jesus knew just where to find a young donkey. It is an intrigue where there are code words that need to be spoken: The Lord needs it. Well, if the Lord needs it, so it shall be. They come back with the donkey and the procession into Jerusalem begins – Something that is particularly dangerous for Jesus. Remember that there was now a warrant out for his arrest. People were looking for him.

It was the time of the Passover – a time when Jews from all over the diaspora were making their pilgrimage to Jerusalem. The city would be packed and tensions would be high.

The Roman authorities would be there, too. As much as the Jews loved Passover, the Romans hated it. Too many people milling about, too high a risk for a disturbance of the peace. 

The Romans prized peace above all things.  But for Rome, peace meant something different than what it means to me and you.  For Rome, peace was their unquestioned, unchallenged authority.  For Rome, peace meant that there was no dissent, that there was total obedience and loyalty to the empire.  Rome prized their peace and was more than willing to use violence to keep this peace.   The irony of this should be self-evident. 

The Romans dreaded the Passover.  Because of the large crowds, of course, but also because of its meaning.  The Passover was, and is, Israel’s remembrance and celebration of their liberation story.  Many centuries ago, Israel remembers, God freed them from the bond of slavery in Egypt.  Many centuries ago, God chose Moses to lead them out of Egypt, through the wilderness, and to the promised land.  They remembered that God had given them freedom.  But how could they celebrate this freedom, while suffering under the oppressive boot of the Roman Empire, and not be inspired to resistance?  Rome dreaded the Passover for very good reason; they knew there was a heightened risk of uprising.

Everyone knew that this was a dangerous time in Jerusalem. Jesus knew that this was a dangerous time in Jerusalem. Yet he and his entourage entered the city gates, boldly, singing their praises to God and songs for peace.

Not the peace of Rome they were singing about. These are the voices of resistance rising up.

The Pharisees lose their cool; the tension is rising too high. Jesus shouldn’t be making an entrance like this. There are already reasons enough for the Roman authorities to be tightening the screws on the Jews, they don’t need another reason. The Pharisees order Jesus to quiet his disciples. But he says to them, it would make no difference.

It would make not one bit of difference, because the stones would shout out, all of God’s creation would shout praises to God, shout prayers for peace. This is what the Lord needs: the crowds, the shouts, the palms, the parade, the song of all creation rising up –

This, too, is what the Lord needs. And so it shall be.

This, today, is a moment for what the Lord needs. And as we see in this scene, what the Lord needs is a challenge to the oppressive powers of the world.

The Lord needs a colt – the antithesis of Herod’s war stallion. The Lord needs this procession of the common people with their poor cloaks and palms, a striking contrast to Herod’s soldiers in armor. The Lord needs all of creation to stand up and shout: God’s reign shall come.

Getting there means earth-shifting, norm-shattering change. It means standing against the powers of the world like Rome and any other authoritarian powers that would oppress people and ravage God’s good creation. It means standing for peace – not the peace of Rome, but the peace of Christ.

The Hebrew word for peace is shalom, but we should know that it’s meaning is deep and powerful. Shalom could never be mistaken for the peace of Rome, because the state of shalom is to be well, to be whole, to be at peace. Shalom starts in the heart and grows outward and then into every other heart and all of creation. Shalom does not require that some parts of creation be crushed so others can prosper; shalom is all of creation at peace.

It is what the Lord needs. It is what we all need and the way to it is through Christ.

We need Christ, this God in the flesh who came as one of us to show us God’s dream for this world. The love and the care that he constantly demonstrated, without boundaries; that he taught his disciples and they continued to teach others. To care, to love, to give. To stand up for one another, with one another, in a time of need. These small things.

No one of us is responsible for the peace of the world, but each of us is responsible for doing what we can, to bring peace a bit closer. To do what we would want others to do for us.

This is Palm Sunday. We know that later in the week these disciples of his will fail. They will run and hide, they will deny having any relationship with him. Tragically, they will not do what the Lord needs. Not the things any one of them would have wanted or needed were they in his place.

On this day as they approached Jerusalem, the Lord needed the colt, and he needed his disciples to go and get it for him. He needed the people lining the road with their cloaks and shouting their hosannas – making a loud noise for him. He needed this loud and insistent act of bearing witness to the world.

And if that failed, he needed the rocks and stones to take up the shouting on his behalf. The Lord needed all of creation to be proclaiming his name. Hosanna! Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!

The Lord needed everything that has breath – and even those things that do not – to praise God. That is what he was here for. Jesus needed God and all of creation to have his back in this. So he could do for us what we need.

What we all need is just what Jesus needed that day. To be surrounded, to be held up, by community – community knit together by faith, by love. This is what we all need.

The Lord needed that colt for his final entrance into Jerusalem. The Lord needed the people and the stones and all of creation to shout for him. The Lord needed it because the world needs it. To know that Jesus is Lord, Savior of all, and that through him, by grace, we are all bound together as one. What a glorious truth it is. 

Photo by Mika Korhonen on Unsplash. "I tell you, if these were silent the stones would shout out."

What Really Matters

 

John 12: 1-8       

You can tell, if you pay attention, that Mary and Martha and Lazarus – three siblings – are close to Jesus. They are important people in his life. and that matters.

Even at that time, Jesus sort of belonged to everyone. Crowds followed him wherever he went, they all wanted to touch him, talk to him, receive something from him. Everybody wanted a piece of Jesus. It was exhausting for him, as it would be for any of us. He needed to be able to get away now and then, for the sake of his own well-being. And when he did, Mary, Martha, and Lazarus were there for him.

Maybe you remember the other time he was at their house for dinner. This is told in Luke’s gospel. Martha bustles around preparing refreshment for him, Mary sits at his feet to listen to him. Even though I appreciate what Martha is doing, because someone has to get the food on, right? Still, I hear Jesus say to her, “Dear Martha, there is need of only one thing and Mary has chosen it.” The thing that really matters.

We realize how close they are in another story about the time Jesus gets word while he is on the road that his friend Lazarus is dying. He seems to be unwilling to accept that it might be true. He goes on with his travels, acting like there is no urgency regarding Lazarus. Like he was in denial.

But maybe he wasn’t in denial. Maybe his dear friends Mary, Martha, and Lazarus were about to play an important part in his work, something only these three siblings could be counted on to do.

When Jesus arrives at last, Lazarus has been dead in the grave for four days. So we should know he’s good and dead. When Martha heard he was coming, she went out and met him on the road – with accusations. If Jesus had just come when he had been called, Lazarus would still be alive. She is angry, understandably so. But because of their relationship, Martha is still willing to listen to Jesus. She still believes in him.

Jesus gathers with Mary and Martha, he weeps with them, grieves with them. We really see his distress. He has lost a good friend. Everyone is blaming him for it. and … he is about to do something that will draw quite a lot of attention – dangerous attention.

Jesus walks to the tomb and stands in front of it. He calls out, “Take the stone away.” Martha, the ever-practical sister, says, “You know there’s going to be an awful stench, Lord. He’s been dead four days.” But Jesus insists and so they take the stone away. Jesus calls Lazarus out, and out he comes.

And just as Jesus probably knew, this causes even more trouble for him. How dare he defeat death and raise up life! How dare he do what only God can do. Because of this, Jesus had to lie low for a bit. He left town for Ephraim. But when he came back, he returned to the same house, the home of his friends.

Lazarus, newly alive, is sitting at the table. Martha, as ever, is serving dinner. And Mary once again kneels before the Lord and pours out a full bottle of costly perfume to anoint his feet.

The text says it is made of nard, a flowering plant known for the medicinal properties of its oil. The oil has a therapeutic aroma that helps relax the body and mind. In ancient times it was regarded as one of the most precious oils. It was quite expensive, this nard oil; it was quite extravagant, pouring out a full pound of it on Jesus’ feet.

I remember the song from Jesus Christ Superstar that Mary sings as she pours out this oil: Try not to get worried, try not to turn onto problems that upset you. O, don’t you know everything’s alright, yes, everything’s fine. Much like Saint Julian of Norwich crooned, “All shall be well, all shall be well, all manner if things shall be well.”

Mary can see things that so many others cannot see. She can see farther out, in a way the others cannot. and she can see what is right in front of her, in a way the others cannot. Mary can see what really matters.

During our time of pandemic we saw a lot of things we never expected to see. We have seen a lot of death – as well as all kinds of loss. And we have said, many times, this experience has shown us what really matters. We grew to see the true value of relationships that we had previously taken for granted. We looked at the closeness of death all around us, and we suddenly realized what we value in life, and knew that life isn’t somewhere down the road. Life isn’t on a “to do” list. Life is what we are living right now.

I am sure this little family valued life in a whole new way after Jesus called Lazarus out of his tomb. They held one another close – and they held Jesus close when he returned to them. Mary opened up that big bottle of perfume and just lavished the whole thing on him, caressing his feet with her hands and her hair.

Martha probably didn’t even mind. The old Martha would have snorted in disgust, but the new Martha maybe just rolled her eyes a little bit and went on with her work. She knew what this meant to all of them.

But Judas didn’t know. He was not on the same page as the others. He starts ranting self-righteously: Am I the only one who cares about the poor? Now Martha probably did snort, because Judas deserved it.

The aroma of this perfume fills the room, a place that, only a short time ago, was filled with the smell of death. And for that reason, it is so, so precious. It smells like life. To everyone except Judas, who is more intent on his own agenda.

Jesus speaks up for Mary, saying to Judas, “Leave her alone. She needs this perfume for my burial.” In that one remark, bringing death back into the room. But it is alright. It is alright.

Jesus knows that death is near. He knows the Passover is coming, he knows there is a warrant for his arrest. He knows that he must go to Jerusalem and he knows just what he will be walking into there. He knows that the day of his sacrifice is coming but he also knows – and maybe Mary knows – that all shall be well, all shall be well, all manner of things shall be well.

When death is near, we can see some things more clearly. We can, perhaps, see what really matters.

It is a gift to be able to see what is truly important and what is, in the larger scheme, insignificant. People sometimes say, on your deathbed you won’t be regretting that you didn’t spend more hours at work. Although, you might regret that you didn’t tell enough people, often enough, that you love them. You might regret that you didn’t say I’m sorry all the times you should have. You might regret not listening carefully enough, not laughing long enough.

You might regret that you didn’t lavish someone with expensive perfume, at least once, to tell them how grateful you are for them.

The best thing in life is knowing what really matters. Embrace it and nurture it.

And may God give it growth.

Photo: ChurchArt.com