Fifth Sunday of Easter

TEXT: John 14:1-14

Jesus said to him, “Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me? Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.” (John 14:9a)

Shortly after World War Two, the World Council of Churches began providing relief funds to help needy churches re-build what bombs and artillery had destroyed. Seeking to be accountable as well as helpful, the Council decided to check on how its money was being spent in a remote area of the Balkans. So it dispatched one of its officers—a man named John Mackay, who also happened to be the Moderator of the Church of Scotland.

Accompanying Dr. Mackay were two other clergymen, both of whom came from a fairly conservative denomination. One afternoon they paid a visit to an Orthodox priest in a remote village. The priest—who worked in rather lonely isolation most of the time—was clearly thrilled to receive the visit. Immediately upon seating the guests in his study, the priest produced a box of fine Havana cigars and offered one to each of his three guests.

Dr. Mackay took one, bit the end off, lit it, and took a few puffs, saying how fine it was.

The other two pastors looked horrified. “No thank you!” they quickly said. “We do not smoke!”

Feeling badly that he had perhaps offended the two brothers, the priest wanted to make amends. He left the room, then re-appeared with a bottle of his finest wine.

Dr. Mackay took a glassful, swirled it, sniffed it like a connoisseur, and then praised its fine quality. Soon he asked for another glass. Meanwhile, his traveling companions drew back even more visibly. “No thank you! We do not drink!” they snapped.

Later—when the three returned to their car—the two clergymen set upon Dr. Mackay: “Here you are, an officer with the World Council and the leader of Scotland’s Church—and yet you smoke and drink?”

Mackay barked at them: “No, I don’t! But somebody in there had to be a Christian!”

“Show us the Father,” Philip and the other disciples said to Jesus. “Show us the Father and it will be enough for us.”

You can’t really blame the disciples for asking that—after all, Jesus has been talking quite a bit about God being his “Father.” Even so, he seems taken aback by the question.

“What do you mean?” asks Jesus. “Have I been with you so long and still you do not know me? You’ve been seeing the Father all along. If you’ve seen me, then you have seen the Father!”

The two pious clergymen who watched John Mackay smoke and drink the rare treasures served up by their host were scandalized because—in their opinion—such actions were unworthy of a Christian. So also the disciples who had been watching Jesus all along apparently did not think he looked like the Father. But Jesus said, “If you have seen me, you have seen the Father.”

But how could that be? Only a few weeks ago—when our lectionary served up the story of Lazarus (John 11:1-45)—we heard the report of Jesus bitterly weeping, mourning his dead friend. But does God weep? Can we picture the almighty, impassible God … crying?

The disciples had seen Jesus do some pretty amazing things. But more often, they’d seen him do very ordinary things. Just like them, Jesus got tired, hungry … cranky! Just like them, he had to eat, and drink, and sleep. It’s not hard to picture Jesus using a splinter to pick his teeth after a good meal, or to imagine him expressing his delight over a cup of good wine. But does that strike anyone as being like God the Father? It certainly is not the way that God has traditionally been depicted.

Consider today’s gospel lesson—from the 14th chapter of John. This is such a lovely chapter that it is easy to begin reading only at verse one, conveniently ignoring what just happened at the end of chapter 13. Do you remember it? It is the scene in the “upper room.” Judas Iscariot has just departed, having been singled out by Jesus as the betrayer in their midst. Peter—already considered by many the leading disciple—has just been told that he will deny Jesus three times.

So when—in verse one—Jesus says, “Let not your hearts be troubled,” it’s because there’s plenty of trouble to go around. I imagine Jesus speaking those words with his eyes brimming with tears, and his voice thick with emotion. “Let not your hearts be troubled,” he says.

Why? Because with God it is always smooth sailing? No! Things were falling apart in that upper room. Gethsemane is the next scene in this drama—and things will go rather quickly downhill after that. There is trouble enough to go around, which is precisely why Jesus tells the disciples not to let that trouble take root in their hearts.

And why not? The ultimate reason is because Jesus has prepared a place for them—a safe place, a good and comfortable place. However, Jesus does not waste words describing what that place is like. There is some many-roomed mansion somewhere, he says—and we will get to it someday. Meanwhile, the important thing is finding the way to get there. Once Jesus mentions his Father’s house, the specifics of it are ignored in favour of talking about the way to the place, which Jesus claims the disciples already know.

That was news to them, however. Jesus had, after all, provided no maps, no directions, no travel brochures. If Jesus had said that his Father’s house was in Rome or Caesarea or somewhere like that, the disciples could have drawn their own maps. But instead, he identifies himself as the way. Whatever the goal of the journey is, Jesus is the way to get there—and for now that’s got to be good enough. Apparently—as important as the final destination is—for now, the journey itself is the thing to focus upon.

To be sure, in this 14th chapter, Jesus dangles the promise of heaven before the disciples—but then, he proceeds to talk only about the journey as being important right now. All along on this journey, the very God of heaven had already been in their midst—if only their eyes had been able to see!

The problem was that this Galilean carpenter did not look like the God their parents and teachers had described to them. And their walk with Jesus had certainly not felt like heaven on earth. Dusty days of footsore travels, empty stomachs, ungrateful and threatening crowds—these were not the things one might expect to encounter in God’s company. Yet God had been with them all along, even as Jesus had all along been doing God’s work. But a lot of it was so seemingly unimportant—so ordinary—that they missed it completely.

Only much later did the disciples piece it all together and realize that theirs had been a sacred journey with Jesus and with God. As it turned out, Jesus was the Son who was his Father all over again. In and through everything they had seen in Jesus—the amazing and the mundane—Jesus had been so completely lost in his Father that everything he did was transformed. Something like that has to be our goal, I think: to live our earthly lives in ways so permeated by Christ that we won’t even think to worry about mansions in heaven.

Some years ago, I came across an article by the American neurologist Oliver Sacks, who has done some valuable research into Tourette’s Syndrome. As perhaps you know, “Tourette’s” is a bizarre neurological disorder which induces any number of physical and verbal “tics.” And almost all of this is behaviour which the casual onlooker would find distressing. Some Tourettic people have constant facial twitches. Others find themselves uncontrollably uttering verbal whoops, beeps, and even raunchy obscenities.

One case Dr. Sacks reported involved a man with Tourette’s who was given to deep, lunging bows toward the ground, a few verbal shouts, and also an obsessive-compulsive habit of adjusting and readjusting his eyeglasses. Yet that same man is a skilled surgeon!

Somehow—and for some unknown reason—when he dons mask and gown and enters the operating room, all of his tics disappear for the duration of the surgery. He loses himself in that role and he does so totally. But when the surgery is finished, he returns to his odd quirks of glasses adjustment, shouts, and bows. Dr. Sacks did not make any spiritual comments on this, of course, yet I find in the story of this surgeon a very intriguing example of what it can mean to “lose yourself” in a role.

There really can be a great transformation of your life when you are focused on just one thing—focused to the point that bad traits disappear even as the performing of normal tasks becomes all the more meaningful and remarkable.

Something like that, I think, is our Christian goal as we travel the “way” that just is Jesus. As we lose ourselves in Jesus and in being his disciples, we will find even our ordinary day-to-day activities are infused with deep meaning.

As John Mackay told his uptight companions, somebody has to be a Christian in life’s many and varied situations. According to the gospel, that “somebody” is every one of us as together we walk the path of discipleship.

It is a sacred journey in the company of Jesus the Christ—Jesus, who is for us the way, and the truth, and the life. Thanks be to God.

Fourth Sunday of Easter

TEXT:  John 10:1-16

“I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for the sheep.” (John 10:14-15)

Imagine that you are a first-century Christian—a member of one of the house-churches for which the apostle John wrote his gospel. Perhaps you are a Jewish Christian—one of many who have been expelled from the synagogue because of your belief in Jesus.

You’re meeting in a small group, praying for strength and courage, clinging to unpopular beliefs. You face huge challenges, and you have plenty of reasons to be worried.

Then the worship leader begins to read the apostle’s account, and you hear the words of Jesus: “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.”

“I am the good shepherd.” You hear those words, and you remember. From previous gatherings, you recall other “I am” sayings. Jesus said he was bread and light and life; a path, a gate, a vine. And suddenly your heart is rendered peaceful, as you remember that Jesus provides all that you need.

If you were a Jewish Christian, these images would have reminded you of your heritage.

Your “manna in the wilderness” has become Jesus, the Bread of Heaven. Your light—the symbol of the Law—is now identified with the Messiah, to whom the Torah bore witness. The way promised to the righteous is now identified with Jesus the Way. And the shepherd—a common sight across the ancient world and a common metaphor for leadership—is now Jesus, the Good Shepherd.

The gospel that John wrote is full of such powerful images. These texts were meant to be read aloud during group worship, and they are wonderful examples of effective oral communication.

They are brief. They are colourful. And they are memorable. In times of testing and persecution, these terse, bold affirmations of Jesus’ identity empowered believers to hold on to their faith.

We have much in common with those earliest Christians. Like those first believers, the Church of the 21st century does know something about what it means to struggle for survival … doesn’t it?

We have something else in common, though. Because, increasingly, we face persecution, also. It may be subtler, but it’s no less real.

Those first Christians were the ultimate outsiders. To the Roman Empire, they were suspect because they refused to affirm that Caesar was Lord. To their fellow Jews, they were dangerous heretics.

Their opponents in the synagogues worked tirelessly to discredit Christian claims about Jesus of Nazareth. They said his miracles were works of trickery. They said his teaching lacked credibility. They said the idea of a crucified Messiah was ridiculous, and that his claim to unity with God was blasphemy.

Today, the “new atheism” portrays religious faith as nonsensical, even dangerous. Militant atheists such as Richard Dawkins style themselves as “brights,” implying that those of us who hold on to faith—especially Christian faith—are not so bright.

Perhaps even worse, those of us who still respect the tradition we received—those of us who hold to the ancient Christian doctrines, those of us who believe in a God who is “really real”—find ourselves all too often facing opposition from inside the church, from theologians who want to convince us that God is just a metaphor, and from preachers who tell us that we can get by “with or without God.”

We live in a culture where religions of all kinds —and faith of any kind—are being, increasingly, pushed to the margins—to the fringes of society. Christianity in particular is becoming once again counter-cultural—just as it was in the first century.

Where can we find strength—and courage—for living in these days?

Certainly, one answer is: within a faith community—a congregation, especially one which has already demonstrated its ability to weather storms and withstand challenges.

Another answer is: in the Bible. In the words of Scripture. Today’s gospel text—and others like it—are good examples of that.

Just like the small congregations of John’s time—which met in people’s homes, and whose members leaned upon one another for support—modern faith communities can draw encouragement from the “I am” statements of Jesus.

Each statement, really, is a promise. Each one says something about Jesus’ identity … and something about our identities as individuals and as a community living in relationship with him.

Or, to put it another way, each one of the “I am” statements says something about Christology and something about discipleship:

• Jesus is food for our souls—“I am the bread of life,” he said (John 6:35);
• Jesus is light for our lives—he said, “I am the light of the world” (8:12);
• He is a path which we can follow—“I am the way, and the truth, and the life,” he said (14:6);
• He is also the way we get onto the path, for he said, “I am the gate for the sheep” (10:7);
• Jesus is someone trustworthy to follow—“I am the good shepherd,” he said (10:11);
• More than that, he leads us on an eternal journey—“I am the resurrection and the life,” he said (11:25); and
• He offers us a way of living that bears sustaining fruit—“I am the true vine,” he said. “I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing” (15:1, 5);

These “I am” sayings in the gospel of John are simply stated and easily grasped. And that’s important. Because, like I said, they are promises, and promises need to be understandable.

They are, at the same time, invitations. They invite us into a lifelong relationship with Jesus: a relationship in which we live into the promises they make.

Today’s primary image—the image of the Good Shepherd—makes an important promise. Jesus warns us about thieves and bandits, and then elaborates on their failings. They speak with an unfamiliar voice, they come only to steal and kill and destroy. They see the wolf coming and run away, because they do not really care about the sheep.

However, in the midst of this chaos—this swirling mass of negatives—the Good Shepherd stands firm, undaunted by danger, not intimidated by threats. “I am the good shepherd,” Jesus says. “The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.”  He holds his ground because he loves the sheep.

Friends, we are all invited into Christ’s fold. Because there is one (and only one) Good Shepherd, there is one flock that gathers around him.

We are invited into that unity—that community—which mirrors the unity of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The seven “I am” sayings make the invitation clear:

• Since Jesus is bread, discipleship means gathering around the table;
• Since Jesus is light, discipleship means coming out of our dark corners and gathering together in the middle of the room;
• Since Jesus is a path to follow, discipleship means travelling along it;
• Since Jesus is a gate, discipleship means paying attention to where we are walking;
• Since Jesus is an eternal journey, discipleship is about making a group pilgrimage along the way that leads to life;
• Since Jesus is the Vine, discipleship means being the branches, people whose lives draw their fruitfulness from him;
• Since Jesus is the Good Shepherd, discipleship means being sheep who find their life and well-being in his care.

That symbolism is truly rich.

There’s a Lutheran theologian named Craig Koester who makes what I think is a brilliant point about the seven “I am” sayings in the Gospel of John. He says that they “create a centripetal effect, bringing believers into relationship with each other by reinforcing their common relationship to Jesus.”*

The “I am” sayings create a centripetal effect. Do you know what that means? I didn’t. I had to look it up. And what I found out is kind of interesting. It has to do with the difference between centripetal force and centrifugal force. Centripetal is from the Latin “centre-seeking.” Centrifugal is from the Latin “centre-fleeing.”

Centripetal force draws toward the centre—like those “I am” sayings of Jesus. Centrifugal force flings out toward the edge.

Have you ever been on that midway ride that operates by centrifugal force?  It’s called different things in different amusement parks: “The Milk Churn” … “The Tornado” … “The Meteorite.”

Whatever they’re called … all of them make me sick!

The ride consists of a circular horizontal platform with a vertical cage-like wall around the edge. Right? You may have seen this thing at the Calgary Stampede.

The platform is attached to a motor on a hydraulic arm. The ride starts out by spinning until the centrifugal force is strong enough to push the riders against the wall and hold them there.

Actually, trap them there would be a better description!

I think that’s a pretty good metaphor for what can happen to us in our modern society if we do not find our identity in Christ: we end up hanging alone in mid-air with our backs against the wall!

The Good Shepherd offers another option.

His sheepfold is a much better ride. It’s not always comfortable, and it’s not always smooth. But it is a ride taken with friendly companions and run by an operator who cares for us above all.

No matter how violently life spins us and churns us, the Good Shepherd will make certain that we stay on board with him. Because the Good Shepherd knows … sheep can’t really fly! Not yet, anyway.

So, let’s be grateful for the one who says, “I am.” And let’s be grateful for our membership in Christ’s flock. He is, after all, the one who calls us each by name, and we are the ones who respond because we know his voice.

He is our Shepherd, and we know his voice. What a blessing that is! Thanks be to God for it. Amen.

______________________

* Craig Koester, Symbolism in the Fourth Gospel:  Meaning, Mystery, Community (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 1995), p. 230.

3^rd Sunday of Easter

TEXT: Luke 24:13-35

 

Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. (Luke 24:13-16)

Who would not want to receive a standing ovation? Who would not want to hear: “Good job!” “You’re wonderful!” “I appreciate what you’ve done!” “Thank you!” … ?

My guess is, just about all of us appreciate gaining a little recognition. Without recognition, who am I? Without recognition, who are you? Without recognition, we’re strangers to one another. Gaining recognition makes all the difference in the world.

Recognition. I saw it one day at the airport, on the face of a little girl waiting with her parents at the arrivals gate. Her eyes were searching this ocean full of strange faces and then—suddenly—those eyes lit up! Grinning from ear to ear, pigtails bouncing, yelling “Grampa! Grampa!” she ran to a man whose arms were extended wide in joy. Because he recognized this little one. He picked her up in his arms and gave her a kiss. What a marvelous scene! What a wonderful thing to witness. In an airport full of strangers, what that grandfather and granddaughter enjoyed was a moment of recognition.

In today’s story from Luke’s gospel, we see an absence of recognition. The risen Lord has joined Cleopas and his friend on the Road to Emmaus, but for some reason their eyes are kept from recognizing Jesus. Stopping, standing, looking sad, Cleopas says to the one who has joined them, “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?”

He asks them, “What things?”

They reply, “The things about Jesus of Nazareth …”

Now, doesn’t that make you want to scream? I want to yell, “Look you two, can’t you see? It’s Jesus who is standing right next to you!” Why can’t they recognize him? The text does not say that Jesus was in disguise. It just says, “Their eyes were kept from recognizing him.”

But how? Is Jesus playing tricks on them?

Or is it because Jesus is out of context? The last time I couldn’t recognize a familiar face was because that person was out of context. I was at a meeting and there came a woman who found a place at a nearby table and sat down. When she saw me, she immediately flashed a smile, waved at me, and said, “Hi, Gary!”

Well, she obviously knew who I was, but who was she? I did not recognize her. She looked familiar. But she wasn’t from my own church. Maybe she was from my son’s school. Who was she? It was driving me crazy.

After the meeting I had an opportunity to catch up with her, and I said, “I apologize, I know you. I know I know you, but I don’t know you. Who are you?”

She said, “Gary, I’m your dental hygienist.”

Of course! If she had shown up wearing some scrubs and a mask with goggles, and if I had a numb lip, maybe I would have recognized her.

Was that the trouble Cleopas and his friend were having on the road to Emmaus? They remembered a crucified Jesus. They remembered a dead Jesus. He was dead. Period.

A risen Jesus is out of context. Is that why those two did not recognize him? It sounds like a good explanation, but … I don’t know.

What I do know is that I want Jesus to let these two in on his identity. “Come on Jesus, tell them who you are!” But Luke drags out the scene, allowing Cleopas and his friend to tell Jesus all they know—about Jesus!

“[He] was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and … our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.” (vv.19-21)

And then they tell the Resurrected One about the Resurrected One: “Some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive.” (v. 23)

They tell Jesus—the one they cannot see—about Jesus, the one they did not see, saying: “Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.” (v. 24)

No recognition! How frustrating! Imagine having all the evidence of a risen Lord. You can remember the words that he spoke, telling you again and again, “The Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, chief priests, and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised.” (Luke 9:22)

You have the stone rolled away, the empty tomb, the angels in dazzling clothes urging you to remember: “Remember, how [Jesus] told you, ‘The Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.’” (Luke 24:6-7)

Imagine having all the evidence of a risen Lord—his words, the words of the angels—and now you have the risen Lord standing right in front of you … and you cannot recognize him! You just stand there, staring at a stranger, looking sad.

Well, that’s not so hard to imagine, is it? Many of us know what it is like to walk away from an Easter morning looking sad.

We know what the Lord said about love, grace, forgiveness, and new life. We have the words of the angels. We have the story of resurrection. We can dress up in Easter colors and sing, “Jesus Christ is Risen Today.” We can shout: “Christ is alive!”

But the brightness of the sanctuary and the scent of the Easter Lilies can fade a mile or two down the road. Soon the Easter trumpet transitions into the car horn blasting at that rude driver who cut in front of us.

We do not have to travel too many miles down the Easter road before we’re caught in the traffic of this world—in the hard realities of what we see and know. We have friends who suffer and die. We are overtaken by our worries and frustrations. We get easily angered by time lost. We get bitter about what is as opposed to what should have been. Our dreams of the perfect life have been shattered, and we just can’t seem to put the pieces together again.

“We had hoped that he was going to be the one to redeem Israel.” We hoped he would redeem us. We had such high hopes! How far do we get from Easter before we stop on the road and stare at one another and look so very sad? Any stranger can recognize the disparity between what we say we believe and how we actually behave. “Oh, how foolish you are,” says the stranger, “and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared!” (v. 25)

I can remember traveling down the Easter road a few years ago, in Kamloops. And I was looking sad, frustrated, bothered, in a foul mood. My problem?

Well, you see, in Kamloops there’s this thing called the New Life Mission, which is a kind of shelter and soup kitchen for homeless men and women. It’s also a recovery centre for people with substance abuse issues. And it has a late-morning chapel service every day, led by local preachers.

I was one of those local preachers. I was one of the people on the roster to do this—but it was not my day to preach. However, the phone rang. And I answered it.

It was one of my friends from the ministerial association. He was supposed to be leading Chapel at the New Life Mission in about an hour … but he was unavoidably delayed. He couldn’t make it. Could I please go in his place and do something?

Of course, I said yes. But inwardly, I was saying … “DRAT!” I didn’t need this … not after the week I’d had. I was worn out. But what could I do? I scrambled to find an old sermon that wasn’t too long, and I put on my best pastoral smile, and I headed down to the New Life Mission.

I got to the mission a few minutes early, and I met the volunteer who was going to be playing music that day, accompanying our singing on his guitar. He gave me a great big smile that came equipped with a missing tooth right up front, and in a deep voice he introduced himself as “Alphonso.”

Well, Alphonso launched into a story about his life—about the terrible side of alcohol and cocaine addiction. He told me about having been kicked out of his house; and then kicked out of his mother’s house—and then out of his brother’s house, and his sister’s house, and his aunt’s house.

He said, “Pretty soon there wasn’t any house left to be kicked out of, and I was on the streets.” He shared his pain, and I felt as though I could reach out and touch his wounds.

But then he said, “A stranger rescued me and got me into the program here, and God is so good. God is so very good. I’m thankful that God never gave up on me. I got a job, and a job gave me a home, and a home gave me a family. God is so very good.”

After the chapel service, I took advantage of the free lunch that was always offered in the cafeteria. I picked a seat at the table across from a woman who told me how touched she had been by my recycled sermon.

And then she said, “I thank God that I have a roof over my head. I thank God that I have food to eat! I’m learning how to type, so I can get a job. I thank God for all that, and I thank God for you, too.”

But she went on, and what she told me then almost made me cry. “Without people like you,” she said, “who help make this place possible, I don’t know if I would be alive. I just thank everyone I see, because you never know who the angels are among us.”

There was one resurrection story after another that day. I ended up staying there long after lunch was over. At one point, I wandered into the kitchen to get another cup of coffee. And there was a teenager holding a box of animal crackers. She smiled at me and held out the box. “Want one?”

Of course I did. I love animal crackers! I reached down inside that box and pulled out a cookie, and I looked at it. When it comes to animal crackers, I always want to know what I’m eating. It was a lion. Then the girl reached into the box and said, “I got a lion too!” Then she laughed and said, “God bless you!”

And I said, “God bless you …”

Before I went back to my office, I had a conversation with one of the mission staff. What she said will always stick with me. She said: “I’m not saying that we don’t have failures. Sometimes we don’t hear back from our graduates, and when we don’t hear back, we worry. Most of the time we don’t hear back because they’ve fallen off the wagon and are embarrassed to call us.”

She said, “I’ve gone down to the police station in the middle of the night and told a young girl, ‘When you get out of jail, I’ll be right here for you! Don’t you ever think that I’ve forgotten about you. I haven’t. I haven’t forgotten about you … because God never forgets about you!’”

As I got into my car to go back to the church, I thought about a God who never gives up on anyone. I thought about how we can’t, either. I thought about strangers who come out of nowhere to reach out a hand. I thought about “angels unaware.” I thought about past suffering and new hope. I thought about how miserably my day had started, and how good it was now.

I thought about all of these things, as they mixed in my mind with that aftertaste of animal crackers and strong coffee. And you know, that aftertaste—and all those resurrection stories … well, it reminded me of Communion. And the one I thought was a stranger… “When he was at the 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.” (vv. 30-31)

As we walk this Easter road, we can either stand around looking sad, or we can stop feeling sorry for ourselves and just listen to Jesus’ words … listen, and believe, and do! Visit the strangers. Feed the hungry. Lift up the poor. Taste and see that the Lord is good! And if you do that, I promise you that you will gain a little recognition. For you will not only see the risen Christ in others, but others will see the risen Christ in you!

Jesus is alive! Thanks be to God.

Sunday, May 1, 2011 ~ Easter 2

TEXT: John 20:19-31

 

But Thomas (who was called the Twin ), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” (John 20:24-25)

Well, another Easter Sunday has come and gone! Last week, we celebrated the resurrection of Jesus—the foundational event of our Christian faith. As the apostle Paul wrote to the Corinthians: “…  if Christ has not been raised, then our proclamation has been in vain and your faith has been in vain … But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have died” (1 Cor. 15:14, 20).

Easter Sunday is so important, we spend 40 days of Lent getting ready for it. Something that I greatly missed this year was the opportunity to attend an outdoor dawn service. When I was in active ministry, this was always the high point of Triduum.

I vividly remember my first time leading (or, actually, helping to lead) an Easter Sunrise service. It took place on Tom Campbell’s Hill in Calgary , Alberta. Between the three congregations that took part, there were over 60 people on that hilltop, gathered there at daybreak on a frigid, windy morning to sing “hallelujah!” and praise the Risen Christ. The guitar players almost froze their fingers, but even they said they wouldn’t have missed it for anything.

And yet, to begin with, I was reluctant to take part. When the idea of an early-morning outdoor service was first suggested to me, I thought to myself: “Well, if we get ten people to show up, I’ll be thrilled.” But in the end, six times that many came out for it!

Resurrection morning is always spectacular, isn’t it? The whole day is fantastic. But now it’s over. For those who had time off from work or school, it’s back to the same old grind. For those who traveled to see family or friends, it’s a long wait until the next holiday or vacation. And for those who were so involved in the special activities of Lent, Holy Week, and Easter, it’s time to settle back into a more regular schedule.

In other words: it’s time to get back to normal. Back into our daily routine. Lent and Easter were a nice change of pace, but now it’s time to get back to reality. The trouble is, reality—normalcy—can be so unpleasant. Our daily routine—our “same old, same old” pace of life—can feel crushingly boring, can’t it?

But then, sometimes, when that routine is disrupted, it’s for a reason that makes “boring” sound pretty good.

For some, reality swoops in with unemployment or illness. For others, it sneaks in when they run across the wedding photos of a ruined marriage. For still others, reality confronts them when they leave their Easter morning service and return home only to look across a tense dinner table at sullen faces, devoid of joy.

Confrontations with normalcy—encounters with reality—can be hard to take, because they destroy all the hopes and illusions on which we rely. Confrontations with the harshly normal (and normally harsh) realities of life remind us that everything comes to an end. Dreams come to an end. Relationships come to an end. Life comes to an end. And we have little or no control over any of that. In the face of those endings, we feel powerless, oppressed, and defeated.

It is just this sort of encounter with reality that is described in today’s gospel reading.

One week after the risen Christ appeared to Mary Magdalene and the other disciples, he returns to show himself to Thomas. Jesus has come back because Thomas—who was not present the previous week—refused to believe it when the others told him, “We have seen the Lord.”

“Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands,” Thomas said, “I will not believe.”

Poor Thomas. In my opinion, he has always gotten a bad rap. We know him as “doubting Thomas.” But you know, it seems to me that today’s reading is not primarily about doubt. No. It is about reality.

Thomas is, first and foremost, a realist. We see an example of this in the 14th chapter of John’s Gospel. When Jesus says, rather cryptically, “I go to prepare a place for you … And you know the way to the place where I am going,” Thomas is the pragmatist who replies—truthfully—“Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” (14:5).

And in the 11th chapter of John, when Jesus speaks about going back to Judea, Thomas knows that returning to Jerusalem will mean death—certainly death for Jesus, and perhaps death for the disciples, also. Thomas is no fool. He counts the cost before making a decision. Nevertheless, he is the one who bravely urges the others to follow Jesus. He says, “Let us also go, that we may die with him” (11:16).

Considering all of that, we should not be surprised by Thomas’s reaction when the others tell him that Jesus has risen from the dead. Thomas has been hardened and tempered by his experience in the world. As I said, he is a realist. And for Thomas, reality had hit home brutally just days earlier in the form of a cross, on which his friend and teacher had died.

Reality hit home for Thomas when, like the others, he fled and deserted Jesus; when he realized that the hopes and aspirations of the last three years were as dead as his beloved Lord.

Yes, when he witnessed the crucifixion of his Messiah, everything came crashing down around Thomas. It must have been the worst moment of his life. But he had survived that ordeal. He had come through it.

And maybe the reason he was not present the first time Jesus appeared in that locked room had something to do with him accepting what the others could not. Perhaps Thomas was out looking for a job—preparing to move on, to rebuild his life and get on with things. No wonder, then, that when his friends share their happy news, Thomas is skeptical.

It is as if a terminal cancer patient, at last reconciled to his fate, is told of a new “miracle cure”; or a disillusioned spouse, who has finally accepted that her marriage is over, is told that her husband has “turned over a new leaf.”

Nothing is worse than getting hurt, yet one more time, picking up the shattered pieces of a broken dream.

Thomas has been cut before—too often, and too deeply. He has bled enough already. So he demands proof: “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

But, as the story continues … it’s kind of odd. Did you notice? When Jesus comes back to display his wounds, Thomas never touches them, even though Jesus invites him to. No. When Thomas is confronted by the risen Lord—when he is greeted by the forgiveness and grace enunciated in the words, “Peace be with you”—he instantly believes, and he makes the great confession of John’s gospel: “My Lord and my God!”

In a heartbeat, Thomas knows! He knows that he is in the presence of God. He knows that he has been saved and redeemed by that God, and that he will never be the same again. So, you see, this story is not about Thomas’s doubt at all. No. It is about an encounter with the grace of God, incarnated in Jesus the Christ.

Now, right here, it’s important to pause and take note of something. In this encounter, Thomas’s doubt is swept away … but not his realism.

Thomas’s confession—that Jesus is his Lord and his God—is just as much a part of his pragmatism, his ability to deal with reality, as was his demand for proof. It is not Thomas’s realism that has been changed. What has changed is reality itself. When he is confronted by God’s grace in the risen Christ, Thomas enters a whole new reality.

Have you read Victor Hugo’s novel, Les Misérables? Or seen the movie, or the stage play?

The novel really is better. Early in the book, Hugo describes the moral disintegration of Jean Valjean, a common labourer who is sentenced to five years in jail for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his starving family. His sentence is stretched from five to nineteen years, and his time in prison withers the man’s soul.

Once he is released, Valjean’s descent continues, since no one will give him work, or even food or shelter, because of his criminal record. Hopeless and exhausted, he stumbles into the house of an aged bishop named Myriel, who welcomes him and treats him as an honored guest.

Valjean, though—ever the hardened realist—is confused by his host’s generosity. Unable to accept the genuineness of such treatment, he steals the silverware from the bishop’s cupboard and flees into the night.

However, he runs afoul of the police, who arrive the next day at the bishop’s house with the captured criminal and the silver. Valjean, of course, is utterly dejected at the certain prospect of returning to prison.

Then, the old priest surprises everyone. “I’m glad to see you,” he says to Valjean. “But I gave you the candlesticks, too, which are silver like the rest and would bring two hundred francs. Why didn’t you take them along with your cutlery?”

In Hugo’s narration, we read how, at Myriel’s astounding words, “Jean Valjean opened his eyes and looked at the bishop with an expression no human tongue could describe.”

Forced to release their captive at the bishop’s insistence, the police depart and Myriel hands Valjean the candlesticks, holding him just a moment longer before sending him freely on his way with this blessing:

“Jean Valjean, my brother, you belong no longer to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I am buying for you. I withdraw it from dark thoughts and from the spirit of perdition, and I give it to God!”

In the very next scene, Hugo describes Valjean’s agonized weeping as he realizes the depths to which he has sunk—and as he begins to comprehend the whole new world of forgiveness and grace into which he has been ushered.

In that moment, Jean Valjean dies—and is reborn. He learns compassion, and he becomes a force for good.

In the rest of this long and turbulent novel, we hear about the new reality in which Valjean now lives. It is an accounting of the results of this man’s experience of transforming grace.

To the skeptical, disillusioned Thomas, Christ says, “Peace be with you.” To the hardened, unrepentant criminal, bishop Myriel says, “Jean Valjean, [you are] my brother.”

Grace—mercy—comes in so many forms: in the unexpected apology of a colleague; in the undeserved forgiveness of a sibling; in the all-too-often-unnoticed tenderness and fidelity of a spouse. But when grace comes, it transforms both the recipient and the giver. It transforms them—it re-creates them—by joining them to the mercy of God in Jesus Christ.

However, even though this grace—this mercy—is transformative, it does not replace this world’s reality. In his encounter with grace, Jean Valjean—just like Thomas—is confronted not with opposition to his realism, but with an altogether new reality.

Neither one of them leaves his world. Valjean is still in oppressive and chaotic Paris, facing persecution and death. Thomas is still in Palestine, facing the same opposition which killed his Lord.

So, too, with us. We remain in our very real worlds. But there is something different. There is something new. What we gain is not an escape from the world, or a break from reality. What we gain is a sense—a conviction—that God’s grace, God’s new kingdom, has broken into the kingdom of this world. And now everything is changed. Nothing will ever be the same again—not work, not school, not our relationships, not even life and death.

This is what Easter means. It means each one of us is a “new creation.” We are forever transformed. We are “raised with Christ” (Col. 3:1).

Easter is about knowing that in faith we have been joined to the risen One, Jesus the Christ.

It’s about knowing we live in his new reality, and that we are indeed new creatures. Reality can no longer defeat us.

This is what the apostle Paul meant when he wrote that we are in all things “more than conquerors through him who loved us” (Rom. 8:37).

Christ is risen! Christ is risen, indeed!

Thanks be to God.

Easter Sunday

TEXT: John 20:1-18

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went towards the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed … (John 20:1-8)

On Friday, Christians all over the world marked the death of Jesus. At the church I’ve been attending, we joined in that somber commemoration with a special worship service. It was a “Tenebrae” service, wherein the Passion story was told as candles were snuffed out, one by one, until the sanctuary was in near darkness.

To say it was moving … Well, that doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Like so many Good Friday services, this one was designed to make us feel like we were there—as if we, ourselves, were eyewitnesses to the events.

We heard Pilate ask what he should do with Jesus.

We heard the crowd shout: “Crucify him!”

We heard Jesus’ final words: “It has been completed.”

And we heard three loud thuds as the heavy stone was wrestled across the entrance to his tomb. This was high drama.

The various people who read the gospel lessons made the liturgy come alive. It was readers’ theatre at its best.

I think it also made everyone present uncomfortable. And I believe I understand why.

Good Friday is too real—isn’t it? For many of us, Good Friday feels a lot more real than Easter Sunday. And it is a brutal reality.

It’s the same reason so many people refuse to see a film like Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ; we don’t want to face the truth about what happened to Jesus.

The cross is too messy, too painful—too real.

We don’t want to look upon it. We would rather flee from it, which is what most of the disciples seem to have done, in the gospel accounts.

In fact, it seems to me that—even for some of the most sincere Christians—Jesus’ death seems much more real than his resurrection. Which makes sense, I guess—because death is just way more familiar to us.

Almost all of us have been touched by death in some way—and all of us will be. Most of us have lost loved ones.

Death is familiar. Death is real.

But resurrection … that seems entirely foreign, doesn’t it? Much less real. Much less vivid … perhaps even too good to be true.

I think most of us consider the Good Friday account to be literal—a more or less accurate reporting of the events. But I suspect that many of us—even many professing Christians—regard the Easter story as allegorical.

I have to say, it is difficult to condemn anyone for harboring that kind of skepticism. Because we all know people who have died … but very few of us know people who have come back to life.

As I consider that fact, I realize there’s not much I can offer to support the assertion that Jesus has been raised from the dead. Not much, that is, except my own personal testimony.

My personal testimony of resurrection has to do with my son Samuel. He’s in fine health today—a successful man in his 30s with three small children of his own. But when he was a tiny infant, he very nearly did not survive his first month of life.

Sam was born with a very serious heart defect, and wound up having open-heart surgery when he was only 24 days old. He barely pulled through the operation. In fact, he “crashed” while still on the table.

For the better part of a week, Iris and I waited by his side in the Pediatric ICU … not knowing whether he was going to live or die. For my part, I was so convinced that he would not live … that I enquired about donating his organs.

But of course, he did live—and, against all odds, he thrived. Sam always did much better than the doctors expected—actually, much better than they could ever explain.

Finally, they gave up trying to explain it, except by saying—as Sam’s cardiologist was fond of remarking to other physicians: “This child is held up in prayer.”

So you see, I believe in resurrection because I’ve already seen it happen. God gave me my son back from the grave. I do not find it hard to believe that he would do the same for his own Son. I don’t need any further proof. My personal experience is compelling enough.

It occurs to me that, in the end, perhaps it is only personal experience that can make resurrection vividly real in someone’s life.

If you’ve read the gospel accounts, you’ve probably noticed that even the disciples did not at first believe that Jesus had been raised.

For example, in chapter 24 of Luke, it says that—after Mary Magdalene and several other eyewitnesses reported that Jesus had been raised—the apostles did not believe them, because their words “seemed to them an idle tale” (Luke 24:11).

They only believed once they had their own encounter with the risen Christ. Remember?

John tells us about that later on in chapter 20, where he says:

When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked … Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. (John 20:19-20)

But you may also remember that one of them—Thomas—was not present at the time, and he refused to believe that Jesus had been raised. He didn’t believe until a whole week later, when Jesus came back—just for Thomas—and said, “Peace be with you.”

Apparently, none of the disciples believed in the resurrection of Christ—until something happened to them that made it impossible for them to not believe!

Kind of like what happened to Iris and me when Sam was just a baby. I think it’s safe to say that—for my wife and I—doubt really is not an option, any longer. That is God’s gift to us.

What makes us so special? Well … nothing! We are neither extraordinarily faithful nor extraordinarily virtuous people—and we were even less so back then!

Which is why, today …

Today, I find myself wondering whether these sorts of encounters are more common than we think they are—moments when the risen Jesus shows up in our lives … shows up for us … just as he showed up for Thomas, and Mary, and the others.

What if, as a society, we were less skeptical? What if we did not heap ridicule upon those who would report miracles?

If we did not cling so tightly to a purely scientific worldview, perhaps we, also, would behold the risen Christ. Perhaps Jesus is, even now, standing before us, saying: “See my hands … look at my side … Do not doubt, but believe!”

I have heard recovering addicts speak about their sobriety in terms of “resurrection,” describing it as an experience of “being brought back to life” or even being “raised from the dead.”

I’ve heard AA members say that stories of personal recovery can give hope to those who hear them; that one person’s testimony makes others believe that the “Higher Power” can save them, too—that recovery is possible for them, also.

Over about a quarter-century of pastoral ministry, I have seen broken relationships mended—even dead marriages brought back to life—because individuals decided to trust in Christ’s promise of forgiveness, and then found themselves able to forgive, in turn.

I’m certain most pastors have collections of stories like that—examples of resurrection in the midst of everyday life.

Charles Henderson is a prominent American theologian—the author of numerous articles and books—who has lectured at some of the world’s most prestigious universities. He is also a Presbyterian minister with extensive pastoral experience. On an internet site called “Godweb,” Henderson relates the following anecdote:

… a small boy of about seven … was stricken with a fatal, ferocious and fast-growing cancer. He had been treated at Memorial Sloan-Kettering with every sort of therapy known to science. But nothing further could be done.

Perhaps they could administer one more dose of some experimental drug, but actually there was no real hope of recovery. And the side effects could only complicate the progression of the disease.

So the family and the doctors gathered in the little boy’s room for a final conference concerning his treatment. They had tried almost everything, what could they possibly think of next?  Finally the boy spoke up in a clear, crisp voice, “What I really want to do is to go home and learn how to ride my two-wheeler.”

The bicycle had been a Christmas present. It had those little trainer wheels attached. But before the boy had gained enough confidence to remove the trainer wheels the cancer caught up with him and he was sent to the hospital. Learning how to ride a two-wheeler was the last thought the doctors or the parents would have contemplated. It just didn’t seem possible. The boy was already physically weakened, why encourage him to do something that clearly would not be possible for very long even if he could succeed.

But the boy insisted and the resistance of the doctors and his parents melted away … And home they went.

Not thirty minutes after they had settled in, they were out in the yard, the boy insisting that his father take off the training wheels and let him have a go at it.

Obediently, but anxiously, his father took out his wrench and removed the training wheels to let him go. To their surprise, after only two false starts and one fall the boy was able to steer the bike …

“And now,” he said with mounting assurance in his voice, “Now I want to ride it by myself all the way around the block.”

Before anyone could stop him, he was off, up the street and around the corner out of sight. There were those few minutes of suspense as the parents, brother and little sister, waited for him to appear at the other end of the block, and after what seemed an eternity, there he was, headed for home, a gigantic expression of triumph and satisfaction written on his face.

When the excitement had settled down, the boy retired to his bedroom, and asked if he could be left alone with his little sister. He had his father bring the shiny blue bike into the bedroom. It sat there in the corner, a gleaming symbol of life. Then the boy turned to his little sister and said, “I won’t be needing the bicycle anymore. I want you to have it for your birthday. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.”

After telling that story, Charles Henderson makes this observation:

From under the shadow of death, and in the midst of life’s deepest tragedies, there comes the resurrection of life. In giving his life for us, Jesus revealed that we too can move from moments of trial toward the joy which Christ’s true disciples share. We too can make it through periods of boredom or self-absorption and find that sense of purpose which is God’s will for us. We too can confront sickness and physical suffering and come through the valley of the shadow of death to believe that we are held in God’s right hand.

We don’t need to spend our days grasping and grubbing for all we can get, when all we can ever desire is God’s free gift of grace.

We can follow Christ’s footsteps until at last we are part of that great homecoming at the end of every resurrection story.

We too can look forward to the day when we are embraced in the warm and welcoming arms of our creator and hear those words of praise: “Well done, good and faithful servant, now enter into the joy of your maker.”

[www.godweb.org/resurrection3.htm]

Like I said, I think all pastors have stories about resurrection. But the only reason we have them to tell is because they keep happening to people—people just like you and me.

For those who have eyes to see and ears to hear, human life is chock-full of examples of the grace of God being poured out upon us—breaking open our graves and rolling away the stones that seal us off from the future that Jesus offers us.

It has been said that the lesson of Good Friday is: “the wages of sin is death” … and that may be so. However, the lesson of Easter is different. Easter morning tells us this: “the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Rom. 6:23).

Thanks be to God for this greatest of gifts. Amen.

GOOD FRIDAY

TEXTS: John 18:1-19:42 and John 12:20-33

After this, when Jesus knew that all was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the scripture), “I am thirsty.” A jar full of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth. When Jesus had received the wine, he said, “It is finished.” Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit. (John 19:28-30)

“Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” (John 12:24)

Years ago, when the Betty Crocker Company first began selling their cake mixes, they offered a product which only needed water. All you had to do was add water to the mix—which came in the box—and you would get a perfect, delicious cake every time.

It bombed. No one bought it and the company couldn’t understand why, so they commissioned a study which brought back a surprising answer.

It seemed that people weren’t buying the cake mix because it was too easy. They didn’t want to be totally excluded from the work of preparing a cake; they wanted to feel that they were contributing something to it.

So, Betty Crocker changed the formula and required the customer to add an egg in addition to the water. Immediately, the new cake mix was a huge success!

Unfortunately, many people make the same mistake when it comes to “packaging” or presenting the Christian religion. They try to make the call of Jesus Christ as easy as possible because they’re afraid people won’t “buy it” if it seems too hard.

Jesus said, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies it bears much fruit.

Jesus then explained what he meant. He said, “Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life.” (John 12:25)

It’s true in life, isn’t it? If we are going to get anything out of it, we have to invest ourselves in it.

Do you remember the second to last album by the Beatles? It was called “Abbey Road”—and for my money it was their best. The last song is a little musical reprise called “The End.”

It’s the last lyrical statement the Beatles make on the album—and it goes like this:

“And in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make.”

The truth of this is written in creation. It is evident for everyone to see. It is even found in something as small as grain of wheat, a seed. Remember what Jesus told us:

• First, when a grain of wheat falls, it dies.
• Second, when a grain of wheat falls, it bears much fruit.
• Finally, Christ is the grain of wheat that dies and bears much fruit.

And that, I think, is the message of Holy Week—from Palm Sunday to Maundy Thursday to Good Friday to Easter. Christ Jesus is the grain of wheat which has become living bread for us.

In his birth amongst us, he became the good and gracious seed which God cast upon the earth for our salvation.

Through his life and his teaching, Jesus spread that good and gracious seed even further, hoping that it would sprout and take root within the hearts of human beings.

By his death upon the cross—and then through his glorious resurrection—Jesus became the gracious seed which died, and which was buried, and which then burst forth in new and unending life to bear much fruit.

The church is that abundant fruit. You and I—we are that abundant fruit! We are the evidence of Christ’s resurrection. We are the carriers of the good news.

And we ourselves are called to scatter the seeds of the gospel—and thereby also to bear abundant fruit for the salvation of humankind and the glory of God’s Kingdom.

What a blessing—what a privilege—that is! Thanks be to God for it. Amen.

Palm Sunday

TEXTS: Zechariah 9:9-12 and Matthew 21:1-11

“Tell the daughter of Zion, Look, your king is coming to you, humble, and mounted on a donkey, and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.” (Matt. 21:5)

That, of course, is verse five of chapter 21 of Matthew’s Gospel—quoting the prophet Zechariah, and referring to his portrayal of the coming Messianic King. But—if you recall the preamble to this “triumphal entry”—Jesus has apparently made arrangements in advance, for he sends two of his disciples ahead, telling them, “Go into the village … and immediately you will find a donkey tied, and a colt with her; untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, just say … ‘The Lord needs them.’  And he will send them immediately” (Matt. 21:2-3).

And why? “To fulfil what had been spoken through the prophet.”

This was a very carefully staged event. Every Jew in Jerusalem would certainly have been aware of Zechariah’s prophecy. This was how the Messiah would announce himself. This would mark the beginning of his reign, and the coming of God’s Kingdom, and the liberation of Jerusalem.

“When you see the Messiah astride a donkey’s back, you will know that the nation’s deliverance is at hand!”  That’s what everyone thought. That’s what the crowd thought. That’s what the Pharisees thought. That’s the imagery the chief priests and scribes were familiar with. Even if they doubted that Jesus was the real deal, they would have understood the statement he was making by acting out the prophet’s words.

Every Jew who saw Jesus that day would realize he was claiming Messiahship for himself. He knew that some would believe this, and rejoice. He knew that some would see him as an imposter, or a fake, or a lunatic. And he knew that nobody would really understand what he was doing—not even his own disciples.

See … All of them understood the Messianic imagery. But, apparently, none of them had paid attention to the rest of Zechariah’s prophecy. Did you notice it?

“Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey …” So far, so good. Here comes the king—the long-promised Messiah. And not a moment too soon. Jerusalem—and all Judea—has been under the heel of Rome far too long. It’s about time the Lord sent his Anointed One to save us. To raise an army and drive the Romans out.

So far, so good. But what about the other part? Where it says: “He will cut off the chariot from Ephraim and the warhorse from Jerusalem; and the battle-bow shall be cut off, and he shall command peace to the nations …?”

Yes. That part. Jesus is not coming as a warrior Messiah. He’s not going to raise an army, or wield a sword. And the only “driving out” he’s going to do is turning over the tables in the Temple courtyard. Caiaphas and Pilate have nothing to worry about … but the adoring crowds are going to be hugely disappointed in him.

Jesus knows all of that, too. The political and religious authorities misunderstand him as completely—and as utterly—as do the throngs of well-wishers lining the streets and waving their palm salutations. And they are all going to end up shouting, “Crucify him!”

How has it come to this? Why did no one see this coming?

Well, actually, someone did. Jesus did. He’s always known that donkey would be carrying him to his death. How many times, already, has he tried to tell us this? Just listen to these passages from earlier in Matthew’s account.

A week before his Transfiguration (Matt. 17:1), and just after revealing his Messiahship to them, “Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed, and on the third day be raised” (Matt. 16:21).

After that, as they were preparing to leave Galilee for Jerusalem, he told them, “The Son of Man is going to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and on the third day he will be raised” (Matt. 17:22-23).

And on the way to Jerusalem for what he knew would be his last Passover with them, he took his disciples aside and told them that “the Son of Man will be handed over to the chief priests and scribes, and they will condemn him to death; then they will hand him over to the Gentiles to be mocked and flogged and crucified; and on the third day he will be raised” (Matt. 20:17-19).

But somehow, they don’t believe it. They think it won’t really happen.

Peter thinks all Jesus needs is a pep-talk: “This won’t happen to you! God won’t let it happen. You’re too good a player to take out of the game. And, besides, you’ve got us! Better than that, you’ve got me! Together, we’re unbeatable.”

Peter seems to think his rabbi is simply going through a crisis of confidence. He just doesn’t get it. None of them gets it. They don’t want to hear it. Matthew tells us that Jesus’ words make them “greatly distressed” (Matt. 17:23). Mark says, “they did not understand what he was saying and were afraid to ask him” (Mark 9:32).

Afraid to ask him? Ask him what? What part of “They’re gonna kill me!” don’t you understand?

Denial. It’s not just a river in Egypt. Out of that band of 13 men, Jesus appears to be the only one who’s not in denial. He knows—perhaps he has always known—what lies ahead for him.

Why are the male disciples so dense?

I ask that question because—from the gospel record—it’s clear that at least some of Jesus’ female followers understood where things were going. Like Martha’s sister Mary, who—a whole week before his crucifixion—anointed Jesus in preparation for his burial (John 12:1-8).

But, I digress. A better question to ask on this day is: Why did Jesus go through with it? Living in Roman-occupied Judea, he would certainly have seen men die on the cross. It was the Empire’s favoured method of execution. It was agonizingly painful, and wretchedly slow. The sweet relief of death took many hours—sometimes even days—to arrive. Jesus knew all of this. He knew, also, that from the moment of his high-profile entry into the city, he would be a marked man. As he rode into Jerusalem that day, the spectre of the cross had to spring—vividly—before his mind’s eye. The cross. His cross. His personal cross. His personalized cross—complete with a nameplate above his head, reading: “Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews” (John 19:19).

So why did he do it? I remember having a conversation about this with someone who thought the answer to that question had to do with Jesus’ awareness of the eventual outcome: “He knew he was going to be crucified, sure—but he also knew he was going to rise again. So, of course he went through with it. Knowing that, wouldn’t you?”

Wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t I gladly be flogged and beaten and nailed to a cross and left to die, if I knew I’d only have to stay dead for two days?

Uh … truthfully, I think the answer is, “NO!”  There’s not anything on that list that I am hankering to experience. I would love to be able to tell you that I might consider going through that hell if it meant I could save the world as a result … but I know that I don’t have anything close to the necessary courage.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that I think I’m exempt from the call to suffer—or to die for my faith. Or lay down my life for my friends.

I’m just saying I hope I never have to find out whether I’ve got what it takes to do that … because I’m afraid I already know what the answer is … And that’s why I am so in awe of this man riding the donkey.

Why did he do it? Because—as he explained later to Pilate: “For this I was born, and for this I came into the world” (John 18:37). He was, as the Book of Revelation refers to him, “the Lamb that was slaughtered from the foundation of the world” (Rev. 13:8).

Jesus believed that he was living out his Father’s plan; a plan for the reconciliation of the world; a plan to bridge the deep abyss between God and his children—a plan to end the estrangement between creature and Creator. It was a plan that could only take effect as humanity and divinity were reconciled in the person of Jesus the Christ—the one in whom we see “God revealed as one of us.” And for it to mean something—for it to mean anything—this person … this divine and human person … had to live an authentic human existence. Otherwise, he would not truly be one of us.

Here’s the really astonishing thing, for me. He had a choice. Jesus could have opted out. He could have grabbed the only lifejacket. He could’ve swam for shore. He could’ve changed his mind. We know he thought about it. His prayer in Gethsemane, after all, was this: “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me …” (Matt. 26:39).

The Son of God was also a Son of Man. This was a real human being, and he was terrified. He wanted to bolt and run. I would have! God’s plan or not, I would’ve been past the other side of the Kidron Valley long before Judas arrived with the cops.

But Jesus stayed put. In the end, for him, it came down to this: “Father, if this cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done” (Matt. 26:42).

“Not what I want, but what you want” (Matt. 26:39). “Not my will, but yours, be done” (Luke 22:42).

That, my friends, is radical obedience. The kind of radical obedience that Jesus demonstrated throughout his life. Absolute, uncompromising devotion to the will of God.

But today … today, as he approaches the city gates … as he realizes this plan is about to come together … as he contemplates everything that means … today, it gets real. Today, the final leg of his journey begins.

Welcome to Holy Week.

Fifth Sunday in the Midst of Lent

TEXTS: Ezekiel 37:1-14 and John 11:1-45

Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead for four days.” (John 11:38-39)

I suppose it’s a natural enough connection to make, but whenever I read about Jesus calling Lazarus out of the tomb, I immediately think about another Scripture passage—from Ezekiel, chapter 37:

The hand of the LORD came upon me, and he brought me out …  and set me down in the middle of a valley … full of bones. He led me all round them; there were very many lying in the valley, and they were very dry. He said to me, “Mortal, can these bones live?” I answered, “O Lord GOD, you know.” (Ezekiel 37:1-3)

Today we reach the turning point in Jesus’ ministry. Raising Lazarus is the crowning miracle or “sign” that reveals Jesus as the giver of life. It also seals his fate. If you keep reading past verse 45 of chapter 11, you discover that the raising of Lazarus provokes a meeting of the Sanhedrin—the official Jewish court. The Sanhedrin reaches the conclusion that Jesus must be killed; and so, next week, we come to Palm Sunday and the beginning of the anguish and joy of Holy Week.

Today’s story begins where we all find ourselves at one time or another: in a valley of dry bones; a place of desolation, loss, and despair. Lazarus has been dead for four days, and his sisters Mary and Martha are devastated.

We know what that’s like, don’t we? Just getting up in the morning requires tremendous effort. Either we’ve gone totally numb, or else we can’t believe the intensity and volatility of our feelings. One minute we’re handling things okay, juggling responsibilities and talking sense like rational human beings; the next minute we’re bursting into tears at the slightest provocation.

You know, that’s one of the things I love about Scripture—the way it meets us just as we are, the way its stories connect with our lives. Mary and Martha taste the same bitterness that we all taste when a loved one dies. They know, as we do, the pang of loneliness that can seize you in the middle of the night, the grief that empties life of all its joy.

Even if we haven’t recently suffered a personal loss, there is still plenty to mourn and protest about these days. Sorrow is no farther away than the morning newspaper, or the evening newscast—or the house next door, or the one down the street. No wonder we are tempted sometimes to hide—to flee from one distraction to another; to buy something we don’t really need, or dive into one more busy task, or “space out” in front of a TV sitcom. The pain we sense around us and within us can be excruciating.

“Out of the depths,” says the psalmist, “have I called to you, O Lord.” I wonder sometimes what it would be like if we could press our ear to the earth and hear the sound of the world’s pain. What would change in us if we could hear all at once the blended wailing of the world’s great sadness?

The prophet Ezekiel uses a different image. What if God picked us up by the scruff of the neck and set us down in the middle of a valley full of death, so that we saw nothing but dry bones all around? “Can these bones live?” we would ask ourselves. “Can hope possibly spring out of this desolation?”

That’s where today’s gospel passage begins: in darkness, in the pit, in the valley of the shadow of death. Like mourners the world over, Martha and Mary are utterly bereft. And then something happens. Jesus arrives.

When he sees Mary weeping, and the crowds around her weeping, Jesus is “greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved” (John 11:33). As if the gospel writer wants to make the meaning perfectly clear, the next sentence is the shortest verse in all of Scripture, a verse often translated by just two words: “Jesus wept” (John 11:35).

He wept! This is no distant God—no far-off deity untouched by grief, but a God who comes as one of us, a God willing to meet us in our suffering and to share in our pain. This may come as a shock to those who take the hard fact of suffering as proof that God is not real or that God does not care or that God is punishing us. This story reveals an astonishing truth: when our hearts are breaking, God’s heart is breaking, too.  

Not only that. The fact that Jesus wept suggests that the first step in healing—the first step in birthing new life—comes when we step toward the pain, not away from it. The God who enters into our suffering knows that new life begins only when we are willing to feel pain. If we are able to grieve, then we have moved out of numbness—out of inertia, out of the denial that pretends that everything is fine, when in fact it is not.

“Jesus wept,” and in that weeping begins the healing that leads to new life. But of course, there’s more. Jesus comes to us not only with vulnerability and an open heart. He comes with power.

“Take away the stone,” he says to the astonished crowd. Can you imagine what the crowd must have been thinking just then? Martha lays out the situation as tactfully as she can: “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.”

In other words: “When someone’s dead, they’re dead. Don’t torment me by pretending you can do something about it.”

But—reluctantly or eagerly, maybe shaking their heads in bemusement, maybe daring to hope against hope—some folks in the crowd do move forward. They lean their weight against the stone and push it away from the entrance of the tomb. And then comes Jesus’ voice. In the midst of weeping, his voice is clear.

“Lazarus,” he cries. “Come out.”

Can you hear him? “Come out!”  It is a voice of power, a summons, a command, and it addresses Lazarus by name.

Can you hear him? “Come out!”  It is a voice of power—and it addresses you by name. You’ve heard that voice before, and I have, too.

In the end, this gospel story is about how much God wants to set us free—to raise us up, to call us out from the tombs that seal us in. Out from fear. Out from resentment. Out from addiction, despair, resentment … Out from our tombs, whatever they are. 

Thank God we don’t have to do it alone. Jesus calls Lazarus out of the tomb, but he also calls a community into being. “Unbind him,” he says to the circle of villagers who are standing around, gawking. “Let him go.”

We can’t just watch each other grow. We need each other to help unwrap the layers that have bound us, to uncover who this raised-up person is.

I invite you to let Jesus draw close. Are you in mourning? Then let him weep with you. Are you holding a vision for your life that you’ve never quite dared to carry out? Then let him empower you to begin. Are you wishing you could reach out to help another person—but you feel too shy, or too afraid? Then hear Jesus calling you to “roll away the stone”—to “unbind her”; to “let him go.”

Or maybe you are the one who is shut away in the tomb. If so, take time to listen. Today may be the very day that Jesus summons you out. The world is full of grief, loss, and fear, but something else is going on, too. If we press our ear to the ground and listen closely, perhaps we’ll hear it—not only the world’s pain, but also the steady heartbeat of God, the sound of a love that pulses through all things, seeking us out and making all things new.

May God give us ears to hear what his Spirit is saying to us—and eyes to see Jesus, who is our resurrection and our life.

Fourth Sunday in the Midst of Lent

TEXT: John 9:1-41

“I do not know whether he is a sinner. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see.” (John 9:25)

How many of you have seen the movie—or the play—The Miracle Worker? Even if you haven’t seen the film, or watched the stage play, you probably know about Helen Keller.

As a child, Helen Keller had lost both her hearing and her sight. However, a teacher—Anne Sullivan—was able to break through the isolation imposed by those disabilities, allowing the girl to blossom as she learned to communicate. Helen Keller went on to complete college, and she became a famous author and lecturer.

Keller was asked once whether she thought that blindness was the worst thing that could happen to someone. Her answer was no. The worst thing that could befall a person, she said, was not to lose their sight, but to lose their vision.

Because someone was able to bridge the gap between Helen’s silent, dark world and the world of light and sound, she was able—despite her limitations—to lead a meaningful life of helping others. In spite of great obstacles, she found a sense of purpose and vision.

Most of us have blind spots—assumptions, ideas and perceptions that we never even think about changing. These blind spots can be major roadblocks on our spiritual journey, and they can cause severe damage—to others, and to ourselves. And I think we all run up against them, no matter who we are—even if we sit in church (or stand behind a pulpit) every week,

Today’s gospel lesson illustrates this point. Consider the Pharisees. The poor Pharisees … they get a rough ride in Scripture.  Yet the Pharisees were the good religious people. We don’t get much of a sense of it in the gospels, but the Pharisees were—in many ways—the most like Jesus of any of the religious parties in first-century Judaism. They were leaders in the synagogues and in society, and they were the ones who advocated most aggressively for the poor and the underprivileged—the widows and orphans, the aged and crippled.

Even so, some of them seemed utterly blind when it came to Jesus and his ministry. They were important religious leaders, yet their own spirits had become hardened and dead. They were supposed to be leading people into the light of God—yet they had become so smug and sure of themselves that they were not able to recognize God’s light as it shone in the person of Jesus. These particular Pharisees were as blind as anyone could possibly be.

But we’re not like them, are we?

“Surely we are not blind, are we?”

If we have blind spots, they exist because we have developed them—and this development is not a random thing. Consciously or unconsciously, we choose our blind spots. We choose them to protect ourselves from things we perceive as threats.

For their part, the Pharisees were blind to the power and goodness of Jesus. Their blind spot protected them from having to give up any of their authority or power. And that’s not such an unusual blind spot, is it? Even today, people in authority want to protect themselves from anything or anyone that might threaten their position. I guess that’s why election campaigns look and sound the way they do.

Today’s gospel lesson challenges us to take a closer look at those areas of our lives that we have blocked off from God and from others—and maybe even from ourselves. But there seems to be a built-in problem here. If I am blind—but don’t recognize my blindness—how can I move toward healing? Toward seeing?

Blind spots surround our fears, most often. If there is something that we need to protect from outsiders, then we conveniently fail to see the reality that threatens us.

Prejudice is one such blind spot. We think that those who are different from us are a threat to us, and so we keep our distance from them. We afraid of what they might do to us, or demand of us.

Growing as they do out of our deepest fears, blind spots are not logical or rational. That is why you cannot argue a person out of their blindness; they are emotionally incapable of listening to you.

Only conversion works to help people see. But to be converted, we must be open to receiving new sight. Prayer can be the first step in this process, for in prayer we open ourselves to God working within us. If we sincerely ask God to reveal those parts of ourselves that we don’t see, we can be sure that God will answer our prayers.

There is one clue to our blindness that we would all do well to be aware of. That clue is anger. Now, it’s true that there are many reasons for anger—some good and some bad. If we become angry because an injustice is being done, we are not doing anything other than what Jesus himself would have done. But—if we are honest—we have to admit that most of our anger is not provoked by injustice.

Often, we are angry because someone has threatened something that is personal to us—whether that personal thing is a possession that we cherish, or an idea that we cling to. So it’s important for us to pay attention to our anger.

The Pharisees became so angry with the formerly-blind man that they expelled him from the synagogue. And it’s easy to see why. The fact that he was cured by Jesus—someone who was not exactly a friend of theirs—did nothing to help the popularity or authority of the Pharisees. So, in anger, they threw the man out of the synagogue—out of their community.

Our anger is the first thing we must consider as we explore our own blindness. If you discover a pattern to your anger, you have likely discovered your largest blind spot.

Want a Lenten exercise? Try this. Write down all the times and places in the last several months where you have lost your temper. Then look at all of those instances very carefully as you try to discover a pattern. If you do discover a pattern to your anger, then go to the root of that anger, and you will have discovered one of your blind spots. As we become more aware of what motivates us, we will also become more able to control that motivation.

This is worth doing—and not just because it’s Lent. To deny your imperfection is to deny yourself, for to be human is to be imperfect. Accepting your imperfection, it seems to me, is the beginning of healing. Discovering and accepting our blindness is the foundation for receiving sight from the Lord.

In one of the other lectionary readings for today—in the Letter to the Ephesians—the apostle Paul urges us to come out of the darkness:

For once you were darkness, but now in the Lord you are light. Live as children of light—for the fruit of the light is found in all that is good and right and true. Try to find out what is pleasing to the Lord … everything that becomes visible is light. Therefore it says, “Sleeper, awake! Rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.” (Eph. 5:8-10, 14)

As we continue our Lenten journey, may the Lord bless all of us with new insight—and with new vision.

Third Sunday in the Midst of Lent

TEXT: John 4:7-29; 39-42

A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink”. (John 4:7)

In his book, Transformed by Grace, the American preacher N. Gordon Cosby writes about the importance of a personal encounter with Jesus—an encounter such as the Samaritan woman at the well experienced.  Here’s what he says:

… I have discovered … that commitment and discipline are the absolute essentials for any spiritual power. I do not mean a general commitment or general discipline. I mean a definite commitment to the Lord Jesus Christ. This is a commitment to a person—not a commitment to a cause. Not a commitment to a principle of love, this is a commitment to a living person and is definite. Not only must it be definite, but it must be a full commitment. When Christ comes to a person he makes a total claim upon his or her life; only a total response is adequate. Not to respond in such a definite way is not to have met the real Christ. If Christ is not a figment of our imagination, we make a commitment in which we can say with freedom of spirit—“I belong solely to him. He is my life. He is the hope of every dream. He is of absolute significance to me. I want you to know him.” Such a commitment is the essential of any sort of Christian power.*

So it is when Jesus comes to the Samaritan woman at the well. She is, perhaps, the most broken woman in the New Testament—and we discover a hint of that in our gospel passage from John. When John sets the scene for this story, he tells us that it is about noon. Now, customarily, women came to draw water in the early morning coolness. But this woman comes to the well at noon … in the blistering heat of the day, long after the other women of the village had departed. This suggests that—at the very least—she is afraid, or ashamed, or both. In all likelihood she is the target of scorn and derision. People look down upon her because of her brokenness in marriage and in relationships.

So, here she is trying to avoid being seen—and instead, there is someone else at the well. And not just any someone, but a man. Not just a man, but a Jewish man. In that time and place, men and women were not supposed to be seen in public together. More than that, Jews and Samaritans usually had nothing to do with one another. So she is startled to see him there. She is even more startled when he speaks to her. Jesus is tired. As he addresses this broken, lonely and ashamed woman, he says, “Give me a drink.”

But this is a dangerous invitation. It is an invitation to cross boundaries and defy ancient taboos. It’s risky. But he is thirsty, and she has a bucket, and there is the well of their mutual ancestor Jacob.

Jesus does not look down upon her as the others do. He calls no attention to her brokenness. Instead, he acknowledges his own brokenness. He is tired. He is thirsty. If you’re familiar with the story of Christ’s passion—the story of Good Friday—you may recognize this thirst of his. Amongst his very last words on the cross are the words, “I am thirsty.”

What Jesus is seeking here is someone who shares his thirst. His thirst is a thirst for peace—for what he calls God’s shalom. This shalom is, in turn, a thirst for justice and healing for all people—especially people like this Samaritan woman. Most of all, Jesus thirsts for dignity and respect for all people. Not some people. Not a lot of people. All people. This poor woman knows neither dignity nor respect. But Jesus reaches out to her from his need, not hers. By reaching out to her from his own need, he gives her dignity and respect! There is something she can do for him.

By his treatment of her, Jesus gives her identity and purpose. Suddenly something new—something real—wells up inside of her. It is a new confidence, a new spirit. From this new spirit, her real thirst is revealed—and it is a thirst that cannot be quenched by the waters at the bottom of Jacob’s well. No. She thirsts for real life—authentic life—and Jesus gives it to her without cost and without condition.

After some astonishingly frank and assertive conversation, her response is one of total commitment. And why not? She—who had no life and no purpose, but only heartache, pain, and shame—is suddenly given the gift of eternal life with Jesus, who is revealed to her as God’s own anointed one.

When the disciples return, they are shocked that Jesus has compromised himself by talking with this woman in broad daylight. The disciples cannot understand this crossing of ancient boundaries, such a departure from the old taboos.

As for the woman … she runs off, leaving her bucket behind. She does not need it any longer, for she now has living water welling up inside of her! She is energized by the simple fact that Jesus trusts her with his needs, his exhaustion and his thirst. She runs into town and tells everyone about her encounter at the well—her encounter with the source of true and living water: “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done!”

At first, the townspeople do not trust her testimony—so they come to see for themselves, and they end up begging Jesus to stay in their village. Jesus stays for two more days, and many more people come to know him. And it is all because of the Samaritan woman’s willingness to risk talking to the stranger at the well. She becomes, in effect, the first evangelist. Talk about being transformed by grace!

Like the Samaritan woman, we all come to the well over and over again to draw water. But do we see the man sitting there? Can we hear what he is saying to us? Are we even aware he is speaking to us? Can we feel what it’s like to have Jesus ask us for something?

Can we see how it is that Jesus does not look down on the poor and broken ones?

He does not come with something to give them. He does not come pretending to tell them how to live their lives. He does not come saying: “Here, I have what you need. Take this and become like me.” No. Instead, Jesus says that the Samaritan woman has something that he needs. There is something she can do for him. Hearing this news, she is liberated from all that weighs her down.

Jesus gives her value. Jesus gives her purpose. He gives her new life by simply letting her know there is something she can do for him. This story asks us if we can approach others in this way. This story asks us if we are willing to reveal our brokenness to others and to him.

Later in the Gospel, we will hear the disciples sounding completely unlike this woman. They all jockey for positions of power and prestige in Jesus’ kingdom. They sound so much like so many of us. And yet, what does he ask them? “Are you able,” he says to them, “to drink the cup that I must drink?”

“Are you able,” he says to us, “to drink the cup that I must drink?”

He asks us to consider our thirst. He invites us to acknowledge our real thirst so he can give us the living water that shall well up inside of us.

As we move steadfastly toward Holy Week, we remember that—as the story nears its conclusion on the cross—Jesus is still thirsty. He is still thirsty today. And each of us is that Samaritan woman. Week after week, we come to the well. Week after week, Jesus asks us for a drink—and we know the kinds of things for which he thirsts.

Are we ready to give him a drink? Are we ready to talk with him? Are we ready to reveal our own brokenness to him? Do we make our full commitment to him?

Even now, Jesus sits in front of us. He is tired—very, very tired. And he asks us to give him a drink. Now, what shall we do?

________________________

* N. Gordon Cosby, Transformed by Grace (New York: Crossroad Books, 1999), p. 5