The Deadly “D’s”

Third 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. (Luke 24:13-14)

 

Disappointment.

Doubt.

Disillusionment.

Defeat.

Discouragement.

Despondency.

Depression.

Despair.

Death.

Have you ever noticed that some of the saddest words in the English language begin with the letter “D”? I call them, “the deadly D’s.”

Disappointment, doubt, disillusionment, defeat, discouragement, despondency, depression, despair, and death; all of these words sum up the feelings of Cleopas and his fellow disciple as they trudged down the road toward Emmaus.

They had left the frightened and confused band of disciples, who were still in shock from the events of Good Friday. Cleopas and his friend must have been in shock, too. They were leaving Jerusalem because, for them, Jesus’ death was an unmitigated disaster.

The Master they had loved and followed had been brutally executed—subjected to a cruel and degrading death upon a cross.

Jesus had been made a public spectacle, exposed to the jeers and taunts of passers-by.

Only a week before, their hopes had risen to fever pitch when the excited crowds welcomed Jesus with palm branches and shouts of “Hosanna!” But now …

Now he lay dead—as dead as all their hopes and dreams. Even the report of the women that Christ’s tomb was empty did not raise their spirits; it only served to confuse them more.

On Emmaus Road, the sad pair of disciples summed things up quite well when they said, “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel”—the one who would set their nation free.

Their despairing words reveal something about their Messianic expectations. The very expectations that Jesus had tried so hard to dispel: that he was going to be a great military leader like King David—one who would raise an invincible army to drive the Romans out of the Jewish homeland.

Now everything had fallen apart. The empire had crushed Jesus beneath its heel. Cleopas and his travelling companion were devastated. They must have felt that they had been wrong about everything—especially Jesus. Even as they grieved for their carpenter-rabbi, they were also bitterly disappointed in him.

We had hoped …”  That’s what Cleopas and his friend had said. “We don’t expect it now, but a week ago, we did. We had high hopes for the future, but now those hopes are gone and all we have left is disappointment.”

Can you identify with that? I can. I think most of us can. None of us can remain forever untouched by the “D” words.

As the two disciples trek along, a stranger joins them. They don’t know it yet, but this is going to be the most significant walk they will ever take. The stranger asks them what they are discussing.

And so they pour out their story to someone who seems willing to listen. They tell the stranger all about their hopes and their disappointments.

Of course, we know that the stranger is Jesus; but for some reason, they do not recognize him. They share with him the news they had received that very morning—unbelievable stories about Jesus’ tomb being empty, about his body gone missing.

Notice that Jesus does not give them a brisk pep talk. He does not tell them to “get over it.” No. At first, he simply listens. He provides a sympathetic ear, and walks along with them.

As their journey continues, Jesus takes the initiative and, in effect, begins to tell his own story. Exposing their lack of understanding and faith, his main point is a rhetorical question: “Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?”

He reviews the Old Testament scriptures. It’s all there in the tradition, but their minds and hearts have been blinded to it.

The picture Jesus paints of the events in Jerusalem is radically different from theirs. As he interprets the story, it ends—not with failure—but with glory, with triumph over death.

Isn’t that a great picture:  Jesus walking along the road with his despondent and confused disciples, sharing their troubles?

Suddenly this 2,000-year-old story is brought into the present—into our time.

When disappointment, doubt, disillusionment, defeat, discouragement, despondency, depression, and despair fill our lives with death… Jesus is the unseen stranger who walks alongside us, listening to us, and—if we are willing to hear his voice—revealing himself to us.

As Cleopas and his friend talk about the cross—about their bewilderment and sorrow—Jesus reassures them and helps them.

He places their sad journey in a new frame:  the journey of the Messiah as mapped out in the Bible. As Luke tells us, “beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.”

Jesus must have given the Emmaus travellers the best-ever exegesis of the Old Testament, reminding them how sin came into the world through human disobedience, and how the prophets foretold a Saviour who would be obedient … even to the point of death.

He might have reiterated something he himself had said before … that, just as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of the great fish, so for three days and three nights the Son of Man would be in the heart of the earth (Matt. 12:40). No doubt, he would have referred to Isaiah’s description of the Suffering Servant of God who “was wounded for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities” (Isaiah 53:5).

You see, it wasn’t that these two disciples were ignorant of the scriptures. The problem was that their understanding was clouded—clouded by preconceived ideas; especially the idea of a Messiah who would come with might and power and destroy their enemies.

The two-hour walk to Emmaus must have seemed like five minutes. The two disciples could feel their despondency and sorrow melting away, being transformed into understanding and hope as the “stranger” explained that Jesus’ death was a part of God’s great plan of salvation.

When the “deadly D’s” oppress us—when disillusionment, depression, and defeat overshadow our lives—Jesus walks with us just as he walked with those two on the Emmaus road. He points us to God’s Word of promise—the Word that tells us, over and over again, that we are God’s dearly beloved children and that he will stand by us—no matter what. Jesus turns our despair into hope.

When the two disciples reached Emmaus, they asked the stranger to stay with them for the night, and he agreed. Then, at the evening meal, he “took bread, blessed it and broke it, and gave it to them.”  Suddenly it dawned on them just who the “stranger” was. It was their Master—raised from the dead, just as the women had told them.

Jesus himself had ministered to them in their distress. Now they knew why a change had come over them as they walked on the road. Now they knew why their despondent hearts had been refreshed—filled with hope and renewed faith. Jesus had revealed himself to them in the breaking of the bread.

The road to Emmaus is, I think, a symbol of the Christian life. This story is about ordinary despair—and ordinary, Monday-morning drudgery. It is a story about meeting a stranger, hearing his words of comfort, sitting down at the table and sharing a meal.

This is a story—for us—about the meaning of Easter. It assures us that the risen Lord is able to give us hope and joy—even when all we see around us is disappointment, discouragement and despair. It urges us to see the world—not as a place of death, decay, and defeat—but as a place of waiting, as we press onward toward God’s final victory.

This story about the walk to Emmaus is a story for everyday life in the year 2020. It’s a story for me, and it is a story for you.

Perhaps you are walking the Emmaus road right now. Or maybe you know you’re going to. Rest assured we will all walk this road someday—this boulevard of broken dreams, this thoroughfare of “deadly D’s.”

When that day comes—as it surely will—when you find yourself staggering under burdens of disappointment, doubt, disillusionment, defeat, discouragement, despondency, depression, and despair … when your life seems filled with death and decay … I hope you remember that you are not walking alone. The unseen “stranger”—the risen Jesus—is walking with you.

Christ is risen from the dead! Christ Jesus—the Saviour and hope of the world—is risen! He is risen, indeed! Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen.

STAY STRONG, NOVA SCOTIA

PRAYER FOR DELIVERANCE:

ONE:  From a spirit of contention which would destroy our unity;

MANY:  Good Lord, deliver us.

ONE:  From a spirit of rage which would destroy our love;

MANY:  Good Lord, deliver us.

ONE:  From a spirit of despair which would destroy our hope;

MANY:  Good Lord, deliver us.

ONE:  From pride of self which leaves no room for your Spirit;

ALL:  Good Lord, deliver us—for Jesus’ sake.  Amen.

 

 

“UNLESS I SEE …”

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)

I love to read about the disciples of Jesus—mostly because they are so very human and so very far from perfect. I find that comforting, because it means they were a lot like I am.

Consider Peter as an example. Many call him “the prince of apostles”—yet in Scripture, he appears as bumbling as he is brave. In chapter 16 of Matthew, when Jesus has just finished explaining God’s plan for him—that he must suffer and die—Peter butts in and shouts, “God forbid it … This must never happen to you” (Matt. 16:22-23).

James and John didn’t get it, either. In chapter 10 of Mark—after Jesus has again explained the fate that lies before him—they approach him with a request for cabinet positions in his government: “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory” (Mark 10:37). It’s as though they hadn’t been listening to him at all.

As I said, the disciples of Jesus were very human—often confused, often selfish, and frequently a source of frustration for their Teacher. And I do find it comforting—even encouraging—to realize that. There’s hope for me, yet!

But I have always regretted the way we have treated one of those Twelve—the one we call “doubting Thomas.” He was a person of great faith and great courage, but we forget about that because of the label we’ve put on him.

The first time we hear from Thomas is in chapter 11 of John’s Gospel. Things are not going well. The authorities have already tried twice to have Jesus killed, and the disciples know that it is far too dangerous for them to go back into Judea anytime soon. But then Jesus receives news that his friend Lazarus is seriously ill, and he tells the Twelve that he must go to visit him in Bethany—in the very heart of Judea!

They protest. Going back there is too risky. It’s a stupid, reckless thing to do. It looks as if they may abandon Jesus once and for all, telling him to go alone if he must go at all. At this critical turning point in the ministry of Christ, we first hear from Thomas. It is Thomas, this man of courage and faith, who says: “Let us also go, that we may die with him” (John 11:16).

Now, I want you to notice that Thomas was no fool. He was not following Jesus blindly. He did not believe that there was going to be a fairy-tale ending. He knew what was involved. He had counted the cost. But he intended to follow Jesus, even if it meant death. Thomas may have had his doubts about the wisdom of Jesus’ actions, but he also had the faith to follow in spite of those doubts.

More than that, Thomas had the courage and the faith to ask questions—to admit to Jesus that he simply did not understand. The next time we hear from him, it is in the upper room, during Jesus’ last talk with the disciples before his arrest and trial. Jesus was trying to explain to them the significance of the cross and what lay beyond it, and he said, “You know the way to the place where I am going” (John 14:4).

Only Thomas had the courage to admit his ignorance. It was Thomas who had the faith to know it would be all right to interrupt and ask, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?”(John 14:5).

Be assured that Thomas was not the only one in that upper room who was puzzled. However, because Thomas had the courage to ask his question, we have all received the answer—an answer that is one of the most quoted passages in all of Scripture:  “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me” (John 14:6).

Thomas had courage enough to question—and faith enough to know that it was all right to question. And because he did, Jesus could give him—and us—an answer.

How often, I wonder, do we brush aside uncomfortable questions? And how often do we say to those who dare to ask them: “Oh, you just have to have more faith”? How often are we afraid to admit—even to ourselves—that we have questions, because we don’t want to be labeled a “doubting Thomas” or a spiritual weakling? Yet it is only by asking questions and wrestling with them that we are able to grow in faith. Honest inquiry does not destroy our faith—it increases it. Our faith is in far more danger when we pretend we don’t have any questions, because then our doubt can spread like a cancer, until doubt overwhelms everything else.

I’ve heard it said that the way to learn is by asking the right kind of questions. Thomas not only teaches us that, but also shows us that one way to attain greater faith is by expressing the right kind of doubt.

Thomas, you will remember, was not alone in his refusal to believe in the risen Christ until he saw for himself. According to Luke’s Easter account, when the women who had seen Jesus’ empty tomb reported this to the apostles, the men did not believe them. When the women said that they had encountered angels who told them Jesus was alive, the apostles thought it was “an idle tale” (Luke 24:11).

No, Thomas was not the only one who doubted. It’s just that Thomas’s doubt is expressed in ways we can understand. When he heard the news that the risen Christ had appeared, he said, “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 20:25). He wanted hard-core evidence of this resurrected Jesus.

“Unless I see the mark of the nails …” I think those words shake us up the way they do because there are times when we could say them as easily as Thomas did—times when we want solid physical evidence of God’s presence in our lives. When we have our doubts, we want a flesh-and-blood Christ to stand before us. The trouble is: we don’t always have Thomas’s courage to speak our doubts aloud.

Look what happened when Thomas did express his doubt. Christ appeared to give him the proof he asked for. And as soon as that happened, Thomas no longer needed the evidence. He did not need to place his finger in the nail prints or his hand in Jesus’ side. Instead, Thomas responded in faith: “My Lord and my God” (John 20:28).

Thomas’s doubts were not barriers to his faith. Rather, when he admitted them, when he confessed them—when he confronted them—his doubts led him to greater faith.

Jesus never condemned Thomas for his doubts; we are the only ones who do that. Jesus knows that asking questions takes courage—particularly if we, like Thomas, choose to wrestle with doubt until we reach our own certainty.

It’s always easier to go with the flow, to just pretend we believe, to just say we have no questions—but it is in the struggle for answers that our faith grows. It was because he was willing to engage in that struggle that I count Thomas amongst the greatest heroes of Christian faith. I pray that each one of us may have more of his spirit—more of his courage, and more of his faith. By the grace of God, may it be so. Amen.

 

HOPE IN THE DARKNESS

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 … (John 20:1)

Here’s a different kind of Easter story. It’s about an American submarine called the USS Squalus, commissioned on March the first, 1939. On May 23rd of that same year, she was in the Atlantic, not far from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

The Navy submarine carried a crew of 59—five officers, 51 enlisted men and three civilian inspectors.

On that day, she was to conduct a test dive—a rapid emergency descent. This capability would be important in wartime, because—once submerged—a submarine could easily hide from enemy aircraft.

At 08:35 hours, the test commenced. However, just after the Squalus submerged, her engine room began to flood. Somehow, the main induction valve—a large opening that brought air to the diesel engines when running on the surface—had failed to close.

The submarine’s after compartments quickly filled with water, drowning 26 sailors. The Squalus settled to the bottom, where the water was 243 feet deep and only a few degrees above freezing.

In the forward compartments, sealed behind watertight doors, 33 men remained alive.

Seawater began short-circuiting the boat’s two batteries, arranged in 252 six-foot-high cells lining the keel. Lights flickered and went out, plunging the crew into darkness.

In the pitch-blackness of their steel sepulchre, the survivors trembled, damp and cold.

In desperation, they began firing signal rockets from the sub to the surface. After four hours, the sixth rocket was launched—and another American vessel noticed the smoke.

Before long, two other ships arrived, and commenced planning a seemingly-impossible rescue.

But those men confined in darkness beneath the waves knew nothing about these labours on their behalf. After what seemed like an endless night, their oxygen supply was running low, and was being rationed by the skipper. Carbon dioxide was building up, and making them drowsy. Their doom appeared imminent.

Then, suddenly—a surprise! From outside came the clanging of lead-weighted boots, as divers in pressurized equipment began walking about on the hull, looking for signs of life.

Hearing those sounds, the trapped sailors used a hammer to bang out a message from inside. Listening carefully, the divers recognized the dots and dashes of Morse code, spelling out four words: “Is there any hope?”

It was an urgent—and desperate—question. Never before had survivors of a submarine sinking been rescued from such a depth.

Waiting helplessly in the darkness, the men of the Squalus knew they could do nothing to save themselves. Their salvation depended upon someone coming down from above to rescue them.

Just before dawn on May 24, the navy ship USS Falcon came upon the scene, carrying a McCann rescue chamber—a large diving bell intended for deep-sea rescue.

However, the McCann device had never before been used in an actual rescue attempt—only in testing and training.

The nine-ton chamber looked like an inverted tumbler. It submerged itself by means of compressed air, ballast tanks, and a watertight hull.

Using air-driven power and winches, it was supposed to lower itself to the disabled submarine’s deck, where a rubber gasket would seal the chamber to an escape hatch, through which the bell’s two operators would take aboard the Squalus’s crewmen.

That, at any rate, was the idea—and, thankfully, it was an idea that worked.

All 33 surviving crew members were rescued in the first-ever underwater operation of this type.

So … why do I call this an Easter story? What does all this have to do with Easter Sunday?

Well, it strikes me that, sometimes in life—perhaps, too often in life—we may feel like those men aboard the Squalus. Your situation appears beyond hope—and you find yourself plunged into deepest darkness.

Like the darkness before the dawn on that first Easter morning. John’s gospel tells the story of Mary Magdalene going to the tomb of Jesus “early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark …”

“While it was still dark.”

To be sure, John meant it only as a reference to the time of day, but—with some inspired imagination—that phrase can lead us to a deeper understanding of the text.

Mary Magdalene. As surely as were the twelve men, she was a close disciple of Jesus. Following him, she had seen lives made new, bodies healed, and eyes opened.

She had listened to the complaining of the disciples and the accusations of the religious leaders. She saw how the lowly ones adored Jesus—and how the rulers despised him.

She had witnessed the adoration of the people as they waved palm branches for Jesus on Sunday—and she beheld their hostility when they stood before Pilate at the end of the week. She had heard both their joyful hosannas … and their vengeful cries of “Crucify him!”

Mary of Magdala. She had watched in anguish as her Lord was nailed to the cross … and she stood beneath it as his life drained away. Now, her heart was broken. Now, it was all over. She had come to Jesus’ tomb to mourn for him, and—in her soul—“it was still dark.”

We know that darkness, don’t we?

We know that hollow, desolate feeling—that sense that the bottom has dropped out of your world. Like the despair you feel when your soul-mate has died—and now you have to go home and clean out the closet.

Or like the forlornness of a professional hockey team once the NHL season has been cancelled.

No Stanley Cup for them. All they can do now is empty their lockers, carry out Johnny Gaudreau …  and wait for golfing weather.

Mary keeps vigil beside the empty tomb. What will she do now? Peter and the others could go back to fishing—or tax-collecting! They could start their businesses again. Perhaps they could have a reunion in ten years’ time, and talk about the good old days.

But what will Mary do, now? Sadness, disappointment, and emptiness had been her companions since Friday. It had been a good three-year run, she thought … but now, it was all over.

We know what it’s like (don’t we?) to stand with our dreams in shambles around our feet. Our children go badly astray. We get the pink slip from our employer. Our blood work comes back from the lab, confirming a grim diagnosis.

These things happen to good people … as well as to those who … haven’t been so good.

Still, we ask, “Why me, Lord?”

We protest, saying: “I attend worship regularly. I volunteer in the Sunday School. I tithe. I even serve on the Board!”

My future seemed oh-so-bright … but now I sit in darkness.

Let’s face it: when the sun is shining, faith is easy. But in the darkness, faith becomes extremely difficult. When things are going our way, we readily proclaim that God is good. But when life turns sour, we feel rejected or resentful or guilty. As someone has said, “Anyone can walk in the sunshine—only a saint can walk in the darkness.”

Consider once again our gospel text. Consider once again Mary’s sorrow as she stands near Jesus’ tomb, weeping. Then, suddenly, a surprise—the risen Christ calls out her name!

While it was still dark, God was labouring on her behalf—making a way where there was no way.

Have no doubt about it, my friends, when things get tough—and they will—it does not mean that God has abandoned you. When darkness comes upon you, God is still working on your behalf, calling you to remain faithful to him as you wait for the sunrise. To remain faithful to him as Mary did.

Unlike the trapped sailors of the Squalus, Mary could have walked away from the scene of her disaster. But she did not. She would not leave Jesus, nor would she deny him. She remained devoted to him—even while it was still dark.

I have been a pastor long enough to know that there is a heartache inside each one of us—and I also know that most of us suffer in silence. No one is immune to heartache. Rich or poor, old or young, we all stagger beneath heavy burdens. And in the darkness, we stumble.

Yet, whatever weight we carry through the gloom, God is labouring on our behalf.

Even if—like the sailors on the Squalus—we do not at first realize it, he is working to shine light into our darkest predicaments. The good news is not only that Jesus was raised from the dead, but that the character of God is revealed in him. He is light—and he is also love.

Mary does not immediately recognize Jesus when he appears to her in the graveyard. But once she realizes who he is, she calls him by the name most familiar to her: “Rabbouni”—“teacher.” Nothing could pierce her darkness—neither discarded grave clothes, nor angels in white. But when Jesus calls her name, she responds.

In her darkness she is ministered to—and then her life assumes new meaning when Jesus calls her to go and tell the others. The first command of the risen Christ is to tell a woman to carry the good news to his male disciples, who have shrunk into hiding. And so Mary becomes “the apostle to the apostles.”

What is this good news she is to carry? She is to proclaim that Jesus is alive.

He is risen! We need live no longer in darkness, for our light has indeed come. Our salvation is at hand. God pierces Mary’s darkness—even as he pierces our own. He not only greets her—he gives her a commission: “Go and tell the others.”

We are given the same marching orders: “Go into all the world and spread the good news” (Mark 16:15).

And we are able to do that, because the same power which was given to Mary—the same power which rolled away the stone from the mouth of Jesus’ tomb—that power is available to us, as well. It is the power of resurrection. It is the resounding “YES!” to our desperate questioning: “Is there any hope?”

Yes. Yes, there is. For Christ the Lord is risen today. Alleluia! Alleluia! Amen.

 

ENTHRONED UPON A CROSS

Good Friday

TEXT: John 18:1-19:42

When Jesus had received the wine, he said, “It is finished.” Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit. (John 19:30)

 Earlier in the Gospel According to Saint John—in the 12th chapter—Jesus said: “When I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to myself.” (John 12:32)  To us, it seems obvious that he was speaking about his crucifixion; but that is the insight of history.

“Lifted up” meant something quite different to his disciples. They pictured a victory parade and coronation festivities for the messianic King. That’s why they were so offended whenever Jesus raised the subject of his impending death. They didn’t want to hear about that. Instead, the disciples wanted to talk about the seating arrangements for the Big Day.

Well, the Big Day did come—but it was Good Friday. Preceded a few days earlier by a procession of palm branches and hosannas upon his entry to Jerusalem, Jesus’ crucifixion apparently caught the disciples by surprise. Jesus, however, had always known what lay ahead. He would indeed be crowned as King—but with a tiara of thorns. And his throne would be a wooden cross.

Theologians sometimes speak of the “two states” of Christ in his earthly ministry: first, the state of humiliation (that is, from birth to death); and second, the state of exaltation (that is, resurrection, ascension, and present reign). But, to me, it seems that those nice, tidy distinctions get blurred in all the action of Holy Week and Easter.

“When I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to myself.” Does this not sound more like the ascension than the crucifixion? Especially when he says, “lifted up from the earth”?

But the next verse makes plain Jesus’ point. John writes: “He said this to indicate the kind of death he was going to die.” (v. 33)

And you know, Jesus used this phrase—“lifted up”—a couple of times before in John’s Gospel. To Nicodemus, he said, “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.” (3:14) Again, in chapter eight, we read: “When you have lifted up the Son of Man, then you will realize that I am he.” (8:28)

Far from his death demonstrating the failure of his messianic Kingship, or even thinking of it in terms of a mere prelude to glory, Jesus claims his cross as his throne—as the centre of his royal ministry.

Not only at the resurrection, then, but also at the cross, Jesus says his Messianic glory and office will be made apparent. It is from that throne that he will draw all people to himself. It is as a sacrificial substitute on behalf of his people that the King establishes his throne forever.

Today, many in the church seem to want to repudiate that language of “sacrifice”—and yet, without it, it seems to me that Christ’s death loses its saving significance. It then becomes nothing more than just another tragic end of a good person. But surely, that is not the gospel message!

Many empires have been raised on the sacrifices of brave soldiers, and many kingdoms have been preserved by the shedding of blood, but this cross is the one place where the King makes himself the sole sacrificial offering for the good of his entire commonwealth, so that no more will need to be offered except for the sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving.

Not only at Easter, then, do we see Christ’s glory. On Good Friday, we begin to see his glory even amidst his suffering. Our Saviour is not first a victim and then a victor. He conquers sin and death precisely by offering himself as the only effective and final sacrifice. That is exactly how he becomes King!

He is not first a prophet and a priest, and then a king. He is a king in the very act of being “lifted up”—enthroned—upon a cross. In other words, his sacrificial death is not something he performed on his way to or as a necessary prerequisite of his coronation as the King of kings and Lord of lords. No. It was his coronation.

The suffering of Christ was not accidental to his kingly reign, nor was his glory absent in his cross. Here, we are introduced to a different kind of glory, a different kind of king, and a different kind of kingdom. It is a glory that can only be recognized in the redemptive suffering of a King who gives his life for his subjects in order to make them co-heirs with him of everything he possesses. It is a kingdom whose weakness is mightier than all the powerful empires of planet Earth.

Enthroned upon a cross, wearing a crown of thorns, dying between two criminals. This is a king like no other!

And who are the people who belong to his kingdom? They are the poor and the broken, the outcast and the needy. They are the ones who would be expelled from all other kingdoms, except the Kingdom of God. Jesus does not separate himself from his people and their suffering. On the contrary, he makes himself one with his people, embracing them in their suffering.

Jesus fulfills—beyond all expectation—his responsibilities as King: to be mindful of his people, to tend to their needs, and to protect them, drawing them into the fullness of life. He does so, not by force or defence, not with legions of armies or protective barricades, but by laying down his own life.

His Kingdom reigns in our hearts. In the face of our own poverty and brokenness, our own personal struggle and heartache, Jesus our King remains one with us, infusing us with his life-giving presence.

And what does he ask of us? Only that we will allow his Kingdom to flourish in our own hearts, and in our Church, and throughout our world.

By the grace of God, may it be so—for us, and in us. Amen.

Love One Another

Remembering Jesus, We Eat and Drink

Communion Liturgy for Maundy Thursday

 

INVITATION:

Jesus says: “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty … and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away.”

PRAYER OF THANKSGIVING:

ONE:  Living and loving God, we lift our hearts to you in gratitude and joy for all your gifts to us. You made us in your own image and set us in this world of contrasting beauty. In your great love you delivered your people of old from slavery and you have delivered us from the power of evil and death through the sacrificial love of Jesus Christ.

ALL:  We praise and honour you, holy God. Heaven and earth are surely full of your glory. Blessed is Jesus, whose supper we share this night, and blessed are we—renewed by his life.

ONE:  Before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come; and having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end; at supper with them, he washed the disciples’ feet and gave them the new commandment:

ALL:  “Love one another as I have loved you.”

ONE:  He took a loaf of bread and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and gave it to his disciples, saying, “Take eat, this is my body which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” After supper, he took the cup, and again giving thanks, he gave it to his disciples, saying, “Drink from this, all of you. This is my blood of the new covenant which is poured out for you and for all for the forgiveness of sins. Do this as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.”

Upon these fruits of field and vine—and upon your people gathered here—send your Holy Spirit, O God. May Jesus break bread with us even as once he broke bread with his disciples in the upper room. This we ask in his precious name, as in the words he taught us, we pray together, saying:  Our Father …

FRACTION (BREAKING OF THE BREAD)

We remember … the Body of Christ was broken for us … (break bread)

And we remember … the Blood of Christ was shed for us … (raise chalice)

Now, we are his body. We are flesh of his flesh, and blood of his blood.

Now, we are his bride. And this is a foretaste of his wedding banquet.

Receive the bread of life, my friends. Take hold of this cup of blessing.

SHARING THE FRUITS OF FIELD & VINE

INVITATION TO PRAYER:

For the food we have eaten, and the drink we have tasted—but most of all for the life which he has given us—let us express our gratitude to the One whom we call our Saviour and our Lord. Let’s pray, one more time.

POST-COMMUNION PRAYER:

Lord Jesus Christ, we give you thanks for refreshing and renewing us with this meal—and for nourishing our lives with the gracious gift of your life. Amen.

BENEDICTION:

Tonight, we sat with Jesus at the Table of Promise. We waited with him in the garden of prayer. And we witnessed his betrayal.

Tomorrow, we shall behold his passion; and on Sunday, we shall rejoice in his victory over death.

For now, let us go into the world in peace, blessed by the grace of God, and loving one another, just as Christ has loved us. As you go out from here:

  • May the Lord bless you and keep you.
  • May the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you.
  • May the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace.

Amen.

 

“NOT MY WILL, BUT YOURS”

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 …” (Matthew 21:5)

That, of course, is from verse five of chapter 21 of Matthew’s Gospel—quoting the prophet Zechariah, and referring to his portrayal of the coming Messianic King.

Now, if you’ve read the entire gospel passage for today, you’ll 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.”

You see, this was a very carefully staged event—a kind of sacred drama. Every Jew in Jerusalem would certainly have been aware of Zechariah’s prophecy. The Romans probably knew about it, as well.

From ancient tradition, this is 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.

Jesus knew that everybody who saw him 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 …”

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 …?”

Yeah. That part. Jesus is not coming as a warrior Messiah.

He’s not going to lead a revolution, or wield a sword. And the only “driving out” he’s going to do is by 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. By week’s end, many of them will be 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.

In chapter 16, shortly after Peter makes his stunning declaration of faith—“You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God” (v. 16)—we read: “From that time on, 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” (v. 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 believes his rabbi is simply experiencing 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). Maybe women really are better at listening!

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? 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 says, “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: 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. Jesus wanted to bolt and run. But he didn’t. In the end, for him, it came down to this: “Father, if this cup cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done” (Matt. 26:42).

That is called radical obedience—absolute, uncompromising devotion to the will of God—the kind of radical obedience that Jesus demonstrated throughout his life.

In fact, Jesus’ willingness to see his mission through—for our sakes—is one thing we memorialize in the Sacrament of the Table.

Surely, Jesus was the most faithful human being who ever walked upon this earth.

But today … today, as his path leads him through the city gates … as he realizes this plan is about to come together … as he is confronted by everything that means … today, it gets real.

Today, the final leg of his journey begins.

Welcome to Holy Week.

“TAKE AWAY THE STONE!”

Fifth Sunday in the Midst of Lent

TEXT: John 11:1-45

Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair; her brother Lazarus was ill. So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” (John 11:1-3)

Now, here’s something strange: even though we’re told that Jesus loved Lazarus, he does not seem to be in any hurry to rush to his side when he hears that his friend is gravely ill. Quite the opposite, in fact. Jesus stays where he is for two more days—with the result, of course, that Lazarus is already dead when Jesus finally arrives in Bethany.

To quote William Shatner: “Is that weird, or what?” How can Jesus show such apparent disregard for a beloved friend?

That’s the question on Martha’s mind, too, as she comes down the road to confront Jesus: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

“Where were you, Jesus, when we needed you?”

Jesus says to Martha, “Your brother will rise again.”

Now, this is not the language of the funeral parlor or the condolence card. We are not used to it. Martha, however, recognized his meaning immediately. Like most Jewish people of her time, she had been taught that at the last and final “Day of the Lord” there would be a general resurrection of all the dead.

She is, I think, bitterly disappointed with Jesus for saying this. To her, it sounds like a platitude. Her response has this impatient tone: “Yes, yes, I know he will rise again at the resurrection at the Last Day. That’s not what I meant.”

But here is the theological core of this story. Jesus means to teach us something about his power, and about what he has come to do. Throughout John’s gospel, Jesus is continually revealing his identity to his disciples. One of the ways he does this is through what are called his “I am” sayings. You know them:

“I am the way, and the truth, and the life …” (14:6)

“I am the bread of life …” (6:35)

“I am the light of the world …” (8:12)

“I am the good shepherd …” (10:11)

There are several more of these “I am” statements in John, and each of them conveys something about who Jesus is and what he is doing. Here we have another one. Jesus tells Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

And then he asks her, “Do you believe this?”

I think that must have been a very hard question. Martha had, no doubt, been to lots of funerals. She had seen many people buried in tombs. And while she may have witnessed Jesus doing some amazing things …

Well, there is, after all, something final about death.

“Okay, Jesus. You are the resurrection and the life. But there is no hope for my brother, is there? He’s been dead four days now, so he is not coming back.”

But then he asks her, “Do you believe?”

The question is direct and straightforward: “Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live … Do you believe this?

And now we have been drawn into the story, haven’t we? The question demands a response, and we hang on Martha’s words, waiting for her reply. And her answer, when it comes, is an expression of faith. She says to Jesus, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”

With these words, Martha confesses Jesus Christ as the incarnate presence of God and the Lord of all life, and the rest of the story will be a ratification of her trust. But there’s more going on here than that. John the Evangelist is a consummate story-teller, and—in his recounting of this exchange between Jesus and Martha—he is posing the question directly to us: “Do you believe this?”

The story continues. Martha runs back home to tell her sister that Jesus has arrived, and Mary runs out to meet him. She falls at Jesus’ feet, and—weeping—she echoes her sister’s bitter words: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

Some people from the village have followed Mary, and they also are weeping. They knew that Jesus could heal—but where had he been, when they needed him? Jesus is now moved to tears himself. John tells us “he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved.”

He asks to be shown to the grave, and they lead him there. The tomb is in a cave, sealed tightly with a large stone.

Like I said, the theological core of this passage tells us who Jesus is and what he has come to do. Now we have come to the story’s dramatic climax.

Jesus says, “Take away the stone.” Despite her confession of faith, at this, Martha protests. Lazarus has been dead four days! There will be a terrible odor. As the King James Version bluntly puts it, “He stinketh.” No gentle passage into the afterlife here, no resuscitation of a body medically dead but still intact. In the old paintings of this subject, the bystanders are depicted holding handkerchiefs to their noses. We are talking about a decomposing corpse.

But Jesus says to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?”

Overcome by the authority in his voice, they take away the stone, and Jesus prays aloud in a way that publicly demonstrates the unity of the Father with the Son. And then he cries with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!”

So instantly does new life follow upon the Word of the Lord that Lazarus is still bound hand and foot in his grave clothes when he appears at the entrance of the tomb.

Jesus did it. He turned death into life. He turned mourning into celebration.

Wow. This is quite a story. But what does it mean for us? What does this story about Jesus and Lazarus—and Martha and Mary—have to do with you and with me and with our walk with God?

This text goes right to the centre of our human lives. It touches on our own questions about death, and on our own relationships with Jesus.

We have all been to too many funerals. We have lost too many loved ones, too many friends, parents, children. We know what it is to mourn, and grieve, and weep. And it is natural that we do that. We need to do that. Jesus did it, too.

Before I say anything else, I want to tell you this: I am not one of those people who will say to you, when you are mourning a loss, that you should expect to “get over it” after a period of time. Because you won’t! And besides, who would want to?

But I do know that deep grief—if you hold on to it and don’t move through it—can turn into despair, which will destroy you. And so, to those who grieve—including myself—I offer this counsel: remember that you are a child of the living God. Remember that you are in a relationship with Jesus, the one who has power even over death. Jesus demonstrated this time and again throughout his ministry. Remember? He raised Jairus’s daughter, and also the son of the widow at Nain. He brought Lazarus back to life, and then—ultimately—he himself was raised from the dead.

This is the hope of the Christian. It’s not a fanciful, “I-hope-that-I-will-win-the-lottery” type of hope. No. Ours is a sure and certain hope of resurrection. Death is not the final word for any of us.

Today, we are able to rest in the assurance of those familiar words: “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

If we believe this—if we know this—then we can get on with living, with the priorities of life sorted out. Our Christian faith tells us that what happened at the tomb of Lazarus is a foretaste of what will be for each of us. We are Easter people. During Lent, we journey with Jesus to the cross and the grave—but we know the story does not end there.

Thanks be to God.

God’s Most Unlikely Choice

Lent 4

TEXT: 1 Samuel 16:1-13

“For the Lord does not see as mortals see …

 

“Seeing is believing,” we hear it said. “What you see is what you get.” These familiar statements could be the mottoes of our western culture—and we believe them, don’t we? In making choices for our lives, we rely on careful observation. We check Consumer Reports before making a major purchase. We look at Google reviews before choosing a service provider. We carefully examine fruits for ripeness and vegetables for imperfections before adding them to our grocery cart. After all, what you see is what you get.

Or is it? I remember that some years ago, on PBS television, there was a program called “Mental Engineering.” The focus of the show was to analyze and critique television commercials (I suspect that you could only see this sort of thing on PBS). The program took a hard look at the social and psychological impact of television advertising, and exposed the misleading promises and insinuations that go along with it. It encouraged viewers to develop awareness, discernment—and media literacy—in order to balance the techniques of media persuasion. What you see is not always what you get!

Today’s Hebrew Scripture reading teaches that how we see is much more important than what we see. God sent Samuel the prophet to Bethlehem to find a king from among Jesse’s sons. Samuel thought that Eliab—the eldest son—would surely be God’s choice. After all, in the ancient world, the firstborn son  pretty much eclipsed all the other children when it came to power, privilege, promise, and recognition. And besides, Eliab looked the part, standing head and shoulders above his brothers.

But God said, “No, he’s not the one!”

“Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” (1 Sam. 16:7)

Then Samuel looked at Abinadab, son number two, and Shammah, son number three. God did not choose them, either! Likewise, it was “no, no, no, and no” to sons four, five, six and seven. So Samuel asks Jesse, “Are these all you have?” Jesse says, “No, there’s the youngest, out watching the sheep.”

So David is brought before Samuel. David is the youngest, the smallest, the least significant, the one far down the line of succession—the one from whom greatness was least expected.

And the Lord says to Samuel, “This is the one I have chosen,” for God sees possibilities even when others do not. Jesse’s eighth son is anointed and filled with the Spirit of the Lord, and David becomes the greatest king in Israel’s history.

Do you remember the first “Rocky” movie, the original one? (It was made in 1976. Millennials, you can rent it on iTunes).

Rocky Balboa—the underdog—rises from the corner gym in the Italian ghetto of Philadelphia to compete for the heavyweight championship of the world. The “Italian Stallion”—whose most famous line consisted of “Yo, Adrian”—was thrust into a position of power, prominence, and recognition.

This is David’s story, too. The insignificant young shepherd boy becomes the king whose military conquests expand the nation of Israel to its widest borders. David’s reign would be forever regarded as the Golden Age of Israel—and of its monarchy.

God’s most unlikely choice was not based on credentials or appearance or reputation—but on the heart. Scripture describes David as a man after God’s own heart (1 Sam. 13:14). In other words, a man who looked for the heart—or the will—of God.

Even so, David himself was far from perfect—as a friend of mine learned to her dismay. You see, she had named her precious firstborn son after the biblical David—David the shepherd, David the psalmist, David the great king. But then she joined a Bible study, and learned that her own little David was named for one who was in fact an adulterer, a murderer, a violent warrior, and a lousy father. Never let anyone tell you that Bible study isn’t challenging!

The truth is, the characters of the Bible are not there for us to emulate. The message of Scripture is not, “Be like David,” but rather, “You are like David.”  The Bible is full of stories of unlikely people being chosen by God. Anyone can become God’s instrument of salvation and service!

Who did Jesus choose to follow him and spread the good news of the Gospel? He picked ordinary fishermen. He picked a tax collector—one of the most despised men in the country. And later, when he called Saul of Tarsus, he picked the church’s most bitter enemy.

Last week, we heard the story of Jesus’ encounter with the Samaritan woman at the well. Because of her gender, race, nationality, and reputation, he shouldn’t have given her the time of day. And yet, from his hand she received the gift of living water—and she became a messenger of the gospel.

Personally, I find these examples are encouraging to me—especially during those times when I feel inadequate or discouraged in my service to God.

I believe the story of David’s anointing has a powerful message for all of us. It challenges us to look for possibilities of grace and hope beyond the traditional channels of power, influence, and success. Too often, we fail to appreciate the potential of those who are absent from the circles of worldly power—the impoverished, the uneducated, the elderly, immigrants who speak languages other than our own, those of a different race from ours.

If we forget the prophetic message of Scripture, we will also forget about God’s power to create hope—and new futures—even for the marginalized and the dispossessed. Indeed, in our own personal moments of estrangement and self-doubt, we may forget that God can find possibilities for grace in us, as well.

But we are not called according to the rules of “what you see is what you get.” We are called by God, who looks on the heart. The Church of Jesus Christ is called both to discern and to mediate God’s grace in the world. In order to fulfil its mission, the Church must also look upon the heart—to see as God sees. And you know something? The Church is us!

We are the Body of Christ, and God is calling us to look beyond appearances in order to address the needs of wounded humanity in this third millennium. Nothing less will be acceptable for the life of God’s people, no matter how successful our institutional appearance might be.

We are not called to be bigger. We are not called to be wealthier. We are not called to look good. If we succumb to the temptation to choose for appearance alone, then God’s rebuke to Samuel will be our own.

So look carefully with the eyes of love, remembering that God’s Spirit is given to each one of us—and that the gifts of the Spirit are planted within each one of us—so that we can share God’s grace with the world around us.

Therefore, let us pray for discernment as we seek to discover our own gifts and talents—and for wisdom in using them. May we not judge people and situations by what they appear to be (the way Samuel judged the sons of Jesse), but—by looking with the eyes of God—may we see them as they truly are.

 

 

WHO KNOWS YOU?

Third Sunday in Lent

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

Then the woman left her water-jar and went back to the city. She said to the people, “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah, can he?” (John 4:28-29)

“Nobody knows me, pastor. Nobody really knows me.”

He had come into my office to talk, and I could see that he was in torment. Then he poured out his heart and soul, recounting dark and painful episodes from his past.

A survivor of childhood sexual abuse, he had turned for solace to drugs and alcohol. For over two decades, he had struggled with addiction, turning to petty crime to support his habit. Twice, he had served time in prison.

Now, he had been in recovery for several years, holding down a full-time job and finding a place in our worshipping community. In fact, he was fitting in so well, and was so highly regarded, that he had been asked to assume a volunteer position. He had readily and enthusiastically agreed … but then, he learned that a criminal records check would be required of him.

And so, he was going to be “outed” … unless he backed out of his commitment. Deeply ashamed of his personal history, he had confided in no one … until now. He had closely guarded his dark secret, and prayed that no one would ever find out. Because, of course, he was certain that—if his past was exposed—his new friends would reject him. After all, none of them really knew him.

People like him are not rare. In fact, I think they make up most of the world. In today’s gospel reading, we hear the story of “The Woman at the Well.” It is the story of most of us. Our dark side is darker than anyone can imagine. We figure no one would understand if we told them. Nobody really “gets” us.

This condition respects no boundaries. It cuts across social class, gender, and economic status. Prominent in the community or obscure and unheard of, each one of us has a dark side.

Certainly, that was true of the woman whom Jesus met at a place called “Jacob’s Well,” located deep in the territory of Samaria. His encounter with her was so significant that when John sat down to write his gospel—to record the events which he felt demonstrated the essence of Jesus’ life—he included her story.

When the woman came to the well, Jesus was sitting beside it, weary from his morning’s travel. He had nothing with which to draw water, and so he asked her for a drink. This surprised her. She asked Jesus how he—a Jew—could ask water from her, a Samaritan. After all, Jews and Samaritans normally avoided one another.

More than that, she was a woman!

John tells us that, later—when Jesus’ disciples returned from the city—they were “astonished that he was speaking with a woman.”

Now, let’s back up a bit. This woman is one of the most broken people in the New Testament—and we discover a hint of that in our gospel passage. 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. But this woman comes to the well at noon, in the heat of the day—long after the other women of the village had come and gone.

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. For some reason, people look down on her.

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. Moreover, 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 should not have interacted with this woman at all. They shared nothing in common. And yet …

He turns the conversation from the mundane to the spiritual. “If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water” (John 4:10).

This surely must have confused her, because—in the common parlance of their place and time—“living water” simply meant flowing water. As in a river or stream, not the well water she thought they were discussing.

She said to him, “Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water? Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well, and with his sons and his flocks drank from it?” (John 4:11-12)

But Jesus told her that his living water was different. He said the living water he would give would come “gushing up to eternal life” (v. 14). The water she was used to drinking satisfied only for a time, but Jesus spoke of water that would for all eternity satisfy her thirst.

“Sir, give me this water,” she said, “so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water” (v. 15).

In the conversation that follows, Jesus throws open the curtains on the dark side of her life. Moving boldly into the most secret places of her heart, he tells her that she has had five husbands and was now living with a man who was not her husband. And so her scandal is revealed. This is what has made her an outcast.

Somehow, Jesus knows all about her. But he does not regard her with disdain, as the others do.

When at last she leaves him, she runs into the city and tells anyone who will listen, “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done!” (v. 29) 

He knew! He understood! He got her!

He saw her brokenness—what others would call her “sin”—and he loved her anyway. He accepted her. He offered her hope. He gave her living water.

Here’s the simple point that I believe John wanted to make when he recorded this story: we are like this woman. We all live with brokenness. John knew something about that. Jesus had appeared in his path one day … and his life was never the same again.

Here, the gospel writer is holding up a mirror for us—for all of us who stumble along through life, wrestling with demons and burdened with guilt and unable to escape from our past.

Most of the time, we keep a lid on this information, so we don’t have to deal with it. But then … Jesus breaks into our lives. Uninvited, he peers into our souls—and he tells us everything we ever did!

Then we realize … He knows us. He “gets” us. And still, he loves us.

If we open our hearts to this sort of encounter with the living Christ, that is when he gives us his living water. The wells from which we have been drinking lose their attractiveness, as we understand that their water only satisfies for a moment. We have been chasing the whirlwind, as the writer of Ecclesiastes said.

We have been looking for salvation in a bottle or a needle or an affair or a career or the esteem of our community—or any of a thousand other things—and none of them have satisfied us.

Far from it. They have left us empty, yearning for something more … but not knowing where to find it.

Jesus, though … he sees us and he knows us—and he offers us his living water. If we choose to bathe in it, it will cleanse us completely. If we choose to drink it, it will satisfy our deepest thirst. And however often we draw from it, there is always more, because its supply is infinite.

When Jesus looks into our souls, sees our dark side, uncovers our secrets, knows our guilt, discerns our motivations, and loves us anyway … this is the living water!

It renews us and remakes us. It re-creates us. When Jesus sees that we are dying inside, and he gives us water that flows from an eternal spring, when he tells us everything we have ever done … this is living water for our dried-out souls.

One more thing about this woman: after Jesus’ vision has pierced her soul, she tells the people of her town: “Come, and see a man who told me all that I ever did. Can this be the Christ?”

“He told me everything about myself. Can he be the Messiah?”

She is asking the question around which this whole story revolves. If he can know us so completely, if he can give us living water … then … can he be the Messiah?

Jesus leaves no doubt. “I am he,” he says, “the one who is speaking to you” (v. 26).

Family therapists tell us that—despite the promises made by dating websites—strong relationships are not built on common interests or perspectives on life. No. They are built on self-revelation.

Enduring relationships grow when two people are able to trust one another with the deepest parts of themselves—with who they really are.

That is precisely what happened at Jacob’s Well. Jesus opened his heart to the woman whom he found there, and a broken Samaritan outcast was able to begin a new—and eternal—relationship.

When Jesus breaks into our lives, he opens the way for us to begin such a relationship ourselves. This relationship is the living water.

Notice that he was not offering free advice to this woman; he was offering himself.

In the end, this is not simply a story about Jesus “getting” this person he met at Jacob’s Well—in the sense of understanding her. It is a story about Jesus “getting” her as his friend—as his sister.

He wants to get all of us that way—as his friends. As his sisters. As his brothers.

Will he?

Will he get our trust?

Will he get our discipleship?

Will he get us to be his followers, to drink of his living water?

Jesus himself cannot not answer those questions. Only you can.

So, on this third Sunday in the midst of Lent, I want to ask you this: How will you answer?

Will you allow Jesus to get you? That’s what this story … your story, and my story … is really all about.