אָחוֹת

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 for fear of the Jews, 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. Jesus said to them again, ‘Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.’ When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.’

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.’

A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.’ Thomas answered him, ‘My Lord and my God!’ Jesus said to him, ‘Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.’

(John 20:19-29)

 

A week had passed since that extraordinary evening when the travellers arrived from Emmaus. Afterward, she had run out looking for Thomas. Unsuccessful in her search, she had returned to find the door once again bolted firmly shut.

“Go home, woman!”

But where was home, now?

In daylight hours, she often lingered near the house, lost in her thoughts. Watching. Waiting. For what, exactly, she was unsure.

Suddenly, a sound drew her out of contemplation. Looking up, she saw …

She saw Thomas!

Unsteady on his feet? A little, perhaps. But not so you’d notice, unless you knew him well.

Obviously, he was making his way back. For the first time? She couldn’t be sure.

She stepped into his path.

“Thomas.”

He did not look surprised to see her.

“Thomas Didymus, what happened to you? I was worried.”

Silence. But in his eyes, she saw … what? Weariness? Or wariness?

She wanted to embrace him, but knew she should not.

“Thomas, you weren’t in the room with us last week.”

A faint smile crossed his face.

“I heard they couldn’t get rid of you.”

“So you’ve spoken to the others. They told you, obviously.”

The smile faded.

“Yes. They told me. I suppose you believe it, too.”

“I saw it. I saw him! We all did.”

He sighed. Weariness.

“Ahot,” he said (which means “sister”). “You should go home.”

“Thomas, please, I …”

But he brushed past her and went up to the house.

They let him in.

“What will happen now?” she wondered.

The Travellers

TEXT: Luke 24:13-43

 

As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. But they urged him strongly, saying, ‘Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.’ So he went in to stay with them. 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. They said to each other, ‘Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?’ That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. They were saying, ‘The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!’ Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread. (Luke 24:28-35)

 

It was evening. Having declined numerous invitations to depart from the house, she was still present. Now the commotion had quieted somewhat, and finally she could draw near with her questions.

“Peter! Simon Peter!”

The fisherman turned toward her, looking apprehensive.

“They’re saying you saw him, alive and well. But you’ve been within my sight almost the whole day. When did this happen? Did he meet you at the tomb? Did John see him, too?”

“Well … that’s not exactly …” Peter began, only to be interrupted. At the door, another commotion.

“Peter! It’s Cleopas. Let us in!”

Cleopas? He and his companion had left them, hours ago, on their way to Emmaus. Why had they returned?

“Peter! Peter! Simon Peter! Open the door!”

Peter unbolted the door, then stumbled backwards as the two disciples burst in. Then the story tumbled out, as they described their encounter.

“He walked with us almost the whole way, but somehow we didn’t recognize him.”

“I can’t believe we didn’t know it was Jesus.”

“But when he broke the bread, we knew.”

“Yes. But then he was gone!”

From her position beside the crowd of men, she could see someone enter through the still-open door. A stranger?

No. A familiar face. Then a familiar voice.

“Peace be with you.”

The Resurrection of Jesus

On the first day of the week, at early dawn, the women returned to the tomb, bringing the spices that they had prepared. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in, they did not find Jesus’ body. While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, ‘Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.’ Then they remembered his words, and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened. (Luke 24:1-12)

 

“Peter, let us in! We’re here. We’re all here.”

Silence.

“We’re all here. We’ll break the door down.”

Finally. The bolt is withdrawn. For a moment, the threshold is clear.

The women rush inside to deliver their message. The men look upon them with pity.

“Thomas, I’m not crazy,” she said.

“Dear woman, you’re in shock. You’re full of grief. You all are.”

“I know what I saw. What we all saw. What we all heard.”

Suddenly alarmed, Peter sprang to his feet and hurried out the door. John followed him.

She would have pursued them, but found gentle arms restraining her.

“It’s all right,” Thomas said. “Let them go.”

 

 

 

The Burial of Jesus

Now there was a good and righteous man named Joseph, who, though a member of the council, had not agreed to their plan and action. He came from the Jewish town of Arimathea, and he was waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God. This man went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus. Then he took it down, wrapped it in a linen cloth, and laid it in a rock-hewn tomb where no one had ever been laid. It was the day of Preparation, and the sabbath was beginning. The women who had come with Jesus from Galilee followed, and they saw the tomb and how his body was laid. Then they returned, and prepared spices and ointments. On the sabbath they rested according to the commandment. (Luke 23:50-56)

 

No commandment could hide her away. Fists hammering, she attacked the bolted door.

“Peter, let me in! Judas is dead, too.”

Silence.

“Peter, let me in! I want to know what’s happening.”

Silence. The door remained shut.

“Peter! Peter!”

Finally, from within, a response.

“Hush, woman. Stop raising such a fuss. It’s the Sabbath.”

“As if you care about that. Peter, I’m afraid. Please let me in.”

“Go home, woman. They won’t be looking for you.”

 

The Death of Jesus

When it was noon, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. At three o’clock Jesus cried out with a loud voice, ‘Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?’ which means, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ When some of the bystanders heard it, they said, ‘Listen, he is calling for Elijah.’ And someone ran, filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on a stick, and gave it to him to drink, saying, ‘Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down.’ Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. Now when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, ‘Truly this man was God’s Son!’

There were also women looking on from a distance; among them were Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James the younger and of Joses, and Salome. These used to follow him and provided for him when he was in Galilee; and there were many other women who had come up with him to Jerusalem.

(Mark 15:33-41)

 

She recoiled from the scene, falling on her knees, retching dry. She had eaten nothing since their last meal together in that borrowed room.

“I’m glad I told him,” she thought. “I’m glad I told him, while still I could.”

Glad she told him. But heartbroken, seeing how little difference it made.

Jesus Prays in Gethsemane

They went to a place called Gethsemane; and Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Sit here while I pray.’  He took with him Peter and James and John, and began to be distressed and agitated.  And he said to them, ‘I am deeply grieved, even to death; remain here, and keep awake.’  And going a little farther, he threw himself on the ground and prayed that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him. He said, ‘Abba, Father, for you all things are possible; remove this cup from me; yet, not what I want, but what you want.’ He came and found them sleeping; and he said to Peter, ‘Simon, are you asleep? Could you not keep awake one hour? Keep awake and pray that you may not come into the time of trial; the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.’ And again he went away and prayed, saying the same words. And once more he came and found them sleeping, for their eyes were very heavy; and they did not know what to say to him. He came a third time and said to them, ‘Are you still sleeping and taking your rest? Enough! The hour has come; the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. Get up, let us be going. See, my betrayer is at hand.’ (Mark 14:32-42)

 

“Please, Jesus, please. Come home with me,” she said. “The men are all sleeping. Let’s just go.”

“I can’t,” he said. “It’s not about what I want, but about what God wants.”

“But I don’t understand,” she said. “How can this be a good thing?”

“Here’s what I know,” he said. “I believe that God is good. I believe that God’s purposes are good. And I believe that, in the end, God’s good purposes will prevail. Even if it’s not good for me personally.”

Palm Sunday

TEXTS: Matthew 21:1-9 and Luke 19:28b-40

 

A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. The crowds that went ahead of Jesus and those which followed him were shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!” (Matt. 21:8-9)

Some of the Pharisees in the crowd said to Jesus, “Teacher, order your disciples to stop.” He answered, “I tell you, if these were silent, the very stones would cry out.” (Luke 19:39-40)

 

If you listen, you can hear the crowd. Off in the distance, a muffled roar, indistinguishable words, then a cheer, and then a chant: “Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna!” If you look carefully, you can see the brightly-coloured holiday clothes of festive pilgrims gathering in Jerusalem. The Passover is not for several days yet, and the people are restless. A rumour draws them from their eating, from their sightseeing, from their napping. “The Messiah has revealed himself!”

If you use your imagination just for a moment, you can feel the crush of the multitudes as people gather along the road from Bethany to Jerusalem. You can smell the dust, and the animals, and the unmistakable odour of too many unwashed humans in too close a space. You can sense the almost palpable excitement in the air, and soon you find yourself climbing a tree to break down a palm branch, and then straining to see through all the other waving branches. You may even find yourself shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!”

If you are the kind of person who thinks about things, you may even wonder what all this is about. Who is this man on the donkey that the people are treating like a king? If he really is a new king, am I supposed to be his subject? If so, what will he expect of me?

It is the last week of Jesus’ earthly life. The crucifixion is six days away. Jesus is coming to Jerusalem despite the intensifying danger, because there are some things he must say, some things he must do. Perhaps the most important thing that he said publicly, he said symbolically. He rode a donkey into town.

And why is this so significant? So far as we know, Jesus never rode a donkey before. Prior to this day, he always walked with his disciples. He ate and slept and sweated and grew thirsty in their midst. Often he drew apart from them for prayer, but he never expected any special privilege. Now he sends them to fetch a donkey for him to ride. Why?

Entering the city on a donkey’s colt was a simple way to symbolize the truth that Jesus did in fact come as king. He accepts the title, and he accepts the people’s praise. He remembered that when Solomon became king after David, he rode his father’s favourite mule during the inaugural procession into the royal city of Jerusalem (1 Kings 1:33). Now, a far greater “son of David” rides triumphantly into the city of kings in similar fashion.

A conquering king would have ridden into the city on a fearsome warhorse, or in a gilded chariot, but Jesus rode on the back of a donkey. While he accepted the title of “king,” he refused to become the military messiah that many of the people—and perhaps even his own disciples—hoped for.

Jesus had specified that the donkey was to be a young colt that had not been ridden. This suggests the sacred aspect of his journey to Jerusalem. Only animals that had never been used as beasts of burden could be considered suitable for sacred purposes (Num. 19:2; 1 Sam. 6:7). The unridden animal’s willingness to bear Jesus also says something about his power. Jesus is not only a king—he is a divine king. This is not a political occasion, but a sacred one.

Imagine what the disciples must have been thinking. As they approached the city, looking across the Kidron Valley at the shining city of Jerusalem, and as they watched Jesus preparing to climb on that donkey’s back, a string of excitement snapped within them and freed their pent-up hopes. They knew that Jesus was perfectly capable of walking, and not so uppity as to think he should ride. Jesus never did anything without a purpose, so he must be saying something. Gradually it dawned on them that Jesus was accepting the title of “king.”

The disciples had longed for this, but they must have wondered if it would ever happen. Once they realized what was on his mind, though, they did all they could to make this a truly royal procession. They draped their cloaks over the donkey’s back to make Jesus’ seat more comfortable and to make the donkey look more presentable. The road was already crowded with pilgrims, and many of them knew about Jesus, so it was not hard for the disciples to stir up the crowd’s excitement.

“Jesus has proclaimed himself king!”

Soon the road was jammed with pilgrims and locals alike. They joined the disciples in laying their cloaks across the path to show Jesus honour. They broke branches from the palm trees and waved them in the air, and spread them on the road.

The last time Israel had been independent was a century before, when Judas Maccabeus had led them to victory and became their king. His nickname was “the hammer,” and he had adopted the palm branch as a symbol of his victory (1 Macc. 13:51; 2 Macc. 10:7). He put the image of a palm branch on his coins, and had them used in temple feasts to celebrate the victory over Rome.

When the crowd rushed to fetch palm branches for this occasion, it was not simply because they were convenient. While the cloaks and the palm branches make this a royal procession, the cheers of the people are even more significant: “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!”

The word “Hosanna” is a Latinized transliteration of a Hebrew phrase that means “please save!” or “help us!” It occurs in Psalm 118:25, just before the other phrase used here, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”  Both of these quotations were used in the liturgy of the Jewish feast of tabernacles, when the people would commonly wave branches in the air and pray for God’s help.

“Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord” was a popular greeting shared between pilgrims on their way to Jerusalem for the festival. Here, it is adapted to pronounce a blessing on the King who comes in the name of the Lord.

We remember that Zechariah had prophesied something very much like this: “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion! Shout, daughter of Jerusalem! See, your king comes to you; righteous and having salvation, gentle and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.” (Zech 9:9)

As Jesus rode in on his donkey, the people all about took notice. In Matthew’s account of this story, he tells us that: “When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, ‘Who is this?’ The crowds were saying, ‘This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.’”  (Matt. 21:10-11)

As we read this story, we also must ask, “Who is this?” And in particular, we must ask, “Who is Jesus to me?”

You know, the problem with palms is that once you cut the branches from the tree, they don’t live very long. The problem with Palm Sunday is that the excitement of that crowd soon faded, and when Good Friday rolled around, many of the same voices who shouted “Hosanna!” were now shouting “Crucify him!”  Their love for Jesus was shallow—based entirely on their hope of what exciting things he could do for them. Too many pilgrims would get in behind Jesus on the road to the throne, but they would not follow him on the way to the cross. They would wave palms before the coming king, but they wanted nothing to do with the Suffering Servant.

This day in Jesus’ life was significant in many ways. Jesus knew that the end of his earthly ministry was near. It was time to complete the mission that God had set for him. It was now or never.

This is a day in history that speaks to Christians in every era. Are we so shallow that we will wave palms on one Sunday a year, and sing occasional hymns of praise, but refuse to obey the Servant King?

There is a life ahead of us, and a purpose for us. None of us knows just how long that life will be, or exactly how much time we have left. Every time we hear of someone who dies too young, we are reminded of that.

None of us can know all that the future holds. We don’t know how long we will be on this earth. But we can know that God has a purpose for us. He calls us to love him—and to love others—with the kind of love that makes a difference. He calls us to speak out the truth, to reach out our hands, to hold out our hearts—and he calls us to do that now!

Most people I know cling to the ideal of one day being truly faithful to Christ. “One day I’ll be obedient,” we say. “One day I’ll be truly committed. One day I’ll serve him.” But that day is now! It has to be, because we do not know how many more days there will be.

Back in the 1960s, as the world was in an uncomfortable turmoil (sound familiar?), a young American college student named Phil Ochs decided that he wanted to make a difference. He left the field of journalism and began using his gift with words to write songs. Primarily, Ochs was an anti-war activist. But he wrote at least one song that—to my mind, anyway—speaks to anyone who is passionate about any cause. In these lyrics of his, we hear what it means to be committed to something—in the here and now.

 

There’s no place in this world where I’ll belong when I’m gone,

And I won’t know the right from the wrong, when I’m gone,

And you won’t find me singing on this song when I’m gone,

So I guess I’ll have to do it while I’m here.

 

And I won’t breathe the bracing air when I’m gone,

And I can’t even worry ‘bout my cares when I’m gone,

Won’t be asked to do my share when I’m gone,

So I guess I’ll have to do it while I’m here.*

 

Something like that may have been running through Jesus’ mind as he entered the city gates atop his donkey. And on this Palm Sunday, I guess the question for us is: What are we going to do—while we’re here?

What are you going to do? I hope you will choose to follow Jesus, wherever he leads. I hope we all will. May God grant us courage for the living of these days. Amen.

__________________________

* On this decades-old video (from 1966) of Ochs performing “When I’m Gone”, the voice-over from martyred president John F. Kennedy echoes in the 21st century as Trump’s America descends into latter-day fascism. Have a listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Greffl1UVYc

 

Fifth Sunday in the Midst of Lent (Year C)

Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, ‘Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?’ (He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) Jesus said, ‘Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.’ (John 12:1-8)

 

And so we come to the anointing at Bethany. This event marks the turning point of John’s Gospel. Jesus has set his face toward Jerusalem. Instead of remaining a popular rabble-rouser in backwater Galilee—safe from the religious and political authorities—Jesus is now preparing to meet his destiny.

Shortly before this episode, Jesus had famously raised Lazarus from the dead. In so doing, he has triggered a chain of events that will very soon nail him to a cross. The high priest and the Pharisees hear the reports from eyewitnesses. Jesus has really outdone himself this time. He did not simply heal a leper or drive out a demon. No. This time he brought back to life a man who had been in the tomb four long days.

As the news spreads that Jesus has brought his friend Lazarus back from the dead—such a sign, such a promise of what is to come—the religious leaders panic.

“We have to put a stop to this,” they say. “People will believe in him, see him as truly the Messiah—and that will provoke the Romans to come in and destroy our temple and our nation.”

“So,” the text says, “from that day on they planned to put him to death” (John 11:53).

Right in the midst of all of this turmoil and danger, Jesus’ friends throw a party.

That’s right. Martha, the earnest, hard-working hostess; her brother Lazarus, fresh from the tomb; and their sister Mary … They decide to celebrate.

Who can blame them? After all, Lazarus wasn’t just sort of dead or metaphorically dead, like the Prodigal Son Luke told us about last week. No. Lazarus was dead dead—100 per cent dead! Dead long enough to raise a terrible stench. Dead long enough to bring the whole family and the town and his good friend Jesus together in grief.

Not dead long enough, however, to deter Jesus and the power of his love; not even if the consequence will be Jesus’ own death. Today’s beautiful story of extravagant love—Mary’s anointing of Jesus with expensive perfume—is set just on the outskirts of Jerusalem.

Yes. Jerusalem, shortly to be the venue for the most extravagant love-offering of all time.

So the family of Lazarus gathers to honour Jesus, and to try to thank him for all he has done. Yet, at this party, death is everywhere. Lazarus sits and talks with his friend, Jesus, who will soon be laid in a tomb himself. Can you imagine the conversation between them, one so lately returned from death and the other one on his way there?

Jesus knows he is a marked man. Just like Artemis Ghasemzadeh—who fled her native Iran after converting to Christianity, only to be deported from the United States by Donald Trump’s immigration police*—he knows his days are numbered, and everyone else, also, must at least suspect it.

All around them is the smell and the feel of death—the tomb outside, probably still open, waiting for the next occupant; the expensive nard, perhaps left over from the anointing of Lazarus only a few days before.

Things are tense, and you know what happens when people get tense and anxious … they start picking at one another, criticizing one another, counting the cost of everything, losing sight of the big picture and missing the point.

But not Mary of Bethany. Not Mary, the passionate one—the one who loves Jesus with her whole heart, who loves to sit at his feet and listen to him. Not Mary, full of love and gratitude and without inhibition.

No. Mary allows nothing to hold her back. Better than anyone else—even more clearly than the men who have been following Jesus all this time—Mary sees the big picture. She gets it. She recognizes who Jesus is, and she understands what it means. She knows what lies ahead of him, and she is compelled to act.

And so, she does things not considered acceptable in polite company in that culture and time. She unbinds her hair, loosening it as women do only for their husbands … or when they are in mourning.

She pours expensive balm on Jesus’ feet—his feet, as one would anoint a corpse, not a king. Mary touches Jesus even though she’s a single woman—a shocking thing—and then she wipes his feet with her hair.

That is the scene being painted for us in today’s brief eight-verse reading. It’s way too small a picture for something of such enormous significance.

You may remember how, in John’s Gospel, Jesus began his ministry with an extravagance of fine wine at a wedding feast. Now, his ministry draws to a close with Mary’s extravagant offering of expensive ointment, a passionate display of love and caring that perhaps only the two of them fully understand.

To return for a moment to the 21st century … if you’ve been following the political circus ongoing in the United States, perhaps you’ve noticed how newscasters insist upon explaining to us exactly what we’ve just watched happen—as if we weren’t paying attention! It’s annoying, isn’t it?

But John the gospel writer does not annoy us. He adds only a few words of commentary; a few words—but important ones, and helpful to us as we look on.

Helpful because, let’s face it, this account in John’s gospel is kind of bizarre. The ointment or “costly perfume” that Mary pours on Jesus’ feet was, we are told, worth at least 300 denarii. That’s a lot of money!

One denarius was equivalent to a day’s wage for a common labourer. So, in today’s terms (calculated according to the current Alberta minimum wage of $15/hour, which is the lowest in Canada), that amounts to almost $36,000!

Thirty-six thousand dollars! And Mary poured it all on Jesus’ feet. I wonder what her sister Martha thought.

Let’s be honest. In all our commitment to the poor, would we not be tempted to say, as Judas did, “What’s going on here, anyway? Why are we wasting expensive perfume instead of selling it and buying, say, food for the hungry?”

I could almost support Judas here, but John’s commentary pulls me back.

“You know,” he says, “Judas doesn’t really care about the poor. He steals from the purse entrusted to him. His heart is so hard, he could be an American president.”

Okay. John didn’t say that, exactly. But you get my point.

Perhaps the only thing worse than not caring about the poor is pretending to care about them. Here, on the edge of his act of betrayal, Judas pretends to know what it means to follow Jesus.

But it is Mary who teaches us what Christian discipleship means. In this passage, she appears to be the only one who recognizes who Jesus really is.

Just as importantly, she recognizes who she is as his follower: one who serves, one who anoints, one who gives extravagantly without counting the cost; one whose response to Jesus is an act of selfless love.

Think about this: in the Gospel of John, at his last meal with his disciples—in the very next chapter after this one—Jesus gets up from the table and ties a towel around his waist and pours water in a basin and washes his disciples’ feet. That is what he wants his followers to do, also. But he doesn’t just tell them, he shows them. “Do as I say,” he says, “and do as I do.”

Mary has already learned that lesson beautifully. She acts from her heart, responding to all that Jesus has been for her. And her example demonstrates this wonderful truth: it is never a waste to give from the heart, without counting the cost.

When you love someone—really love someone—it just flows from your heart, doesn’t it? You want to give them not just your stuff, whatever it is and however expensive it is, but you want them to know how you feel! And it doesn’t matter if it’s the last jar of expensive nard on your shelf, does it? You want to crack it open and pour it out, because your heart is full to the brim, and overflowing.

This woman who takes an expensive jar of perfume and lavishes it upon Jesus’ feet is making a heartfelt gesture, because she knows what it means for Jesus to come to the end of his journey. Her heart is full. And her heart is breaking.

When your heart is full, when your heart is breaking, you don’t bother to calculate your expenses. When your heart is full, when your heart is breaking—when you’re not sure what’s coming, but deep down you know it’s going to mean loss and grief—you don’t waste time figuring out the cost of your love.

Palm Sunday is next week. Today, Jesus is on the outskirts of Jerusalem, preparing to enter the holy city as the Prince of Peace, even while those who rule by violence are getting ready to murder him. Even though Jesus has no weapons and no army behind him, he strikes fear into the heart of every petty ruler.

Now, he is headed toward an awful confrontation with that fear. But first, he rests for a while with his friends, with the people who love him. They are doing what they can for him, even though the time is short and the hour is at hand to lose the one they love.

And perhaps that’s what we are about, as well. Aren’t we also looking for some time like this in Bethany? Time to cherish the gift of Christ, here and now? Time to spend with him, while he is still with us?

Today, as our Lenten journey nears its conclusion, we turn with Jesus toward Jerusalem. Toward the Sanhedrin’s court, and Pilate’s headquarters, and the cross. As we travel, may our vision be clear, and may our hope be fixed on the One whom we follow. Amen.

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* For Ghasemzadeh’s story, see: https://www.persecution.org/2025/03/25/iranian-christians-in-legal-limbo-after-deportation-to-panama/

According to reporting by Newsweek, 80 percent of immigrants at risk of deportation from Trump’s America are Christian, which means that an estimated 10 million Christians face deportation, and 7 million U.S. citizen Christians live in households with at-risk individuals. See: https://www.newsweek.com/donald-trump-christian-anger-migrant-deportations-ice-immigration-2054932

Fourth Sunday in the Midst of Lent (Year C)

Text: Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

Now all the tax-collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to [Jesus]. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, ‘This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.’ So he told them this parable … ‘There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, “Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me …”

 

The parable of the “prodigal” (or “lost”) son has a dual message, both sides of which have implications for the church today.

The most obvious—and most widely embraced—dimension of the message is God’s unconditional acceptance of anyone who turns to God.

We encounter this dimension of the message when we approach the parable from the perspective of the prodigal son.

For his own reasons, this young man makes the decision to leave his family and seek to build a new life for himself elsewhere. The story gives the impression that the separation is not amicable. Nevertheless, his father gives him his share of the inheritance—and then the boy is on his way.

The son has no intention of returning. He is confident that his inheritance will be enough to get him established away from home. He believes that he now has the means to lead his life as he pleases.

As it turns out, he wastes his resources and soon finds himself destitute.

The logical thing to do under these circumstances would be to return home, acknowledge his mistake, and perhaps apologize to his parents.

But would his family take him back? Would they forgive him?

Had the separation been frictionless, there would have been no reason to doubt his acceptance back into the family. He would have wasted no time in returning.

However—whether out of pride or fear—he resists going home, until his situation deteriorates to a point where he simply has no choice but to seek his family’s forgiveness. So he swallows hard and makes his way back.

The point of the story from this perspective is the enthusiasm with which the father receives his son. He hurries down the road to meet him. He does not scold him for having made a bad decision in the past. Neither does the father humiliate his son by telling him, “I told you so.” The past is gone and forgotten. Their relationship begins on a new page with great potential.

Jesus says that God’s love for each one of us is just like that. Like a parent who accepts and receives the wayward child without question. Never fear that you may have gone too far beyond God’s grace. You will always be part of the family. The door is always wide open for you. This truly is good news for all of us who—for one reason or another—feel unworthy.

However, there is another dimension to this parable—and to the ones which precede it (see verses 4-10). It’s a dimension which is usually ignored, but it’s arguably the most important one, because it reveals the purpose of Jesus’ teaching here. Remember that his immediate audience is made up of those Pharisees and scribes who grumble about his association with “sinners.”

Behind the three parables in chapter 15 of Luke—the “lost sheep”, the “lost coin” and the “lost son”—is a not-so-veiled message for those who believe themselves to be more righteous than most; those at the centre of the established order, the custodians of the prevailing norms and values.

Jesus has noticed how these self-proclaimed gate-keepers abuse their power, how they deny people free access to God’s blessings, how they impose upon the people burdensome and unjust rules. In parable after parable, he warns that there will be a huge surprise when “sinners” and outcasts enter the kingdom ahead of the good and respectable people.

Sinners and outcasts will be accepted because of their genuine contrition and the simplicity of their faith.

One interesting—though often ignored—character in today’s parable is the elder brother. He has all the external characteristics of the “good son.” He works hard and remains faithful to his parents. He does not fight with them. He does not ask for his inheritance prematurely like his brother did. He is a good son.

But the story takes an interesting twist at the end when we discover that while the brother is good on the outside, he is rotten on the inside. He’s bitter. He’s jealous. In fact, we discover that his motives were never entirely pure.

“For all these years,” he says, “I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends.” (v. 29)

Jesus is making a subtle but definite critique against those who dare to consider themselves more deserving than others. He says that it is not enough to show obedience outwardly if there is no love and compassion in one’s heart.

Indeed, the person in our midst who may outwardly appear to be unworthy—but whose heart is genuinely set toward God—will be accepted by God ahead of us.

Way too often—even in our present day—we seek to exclude those whom we see as “not like us”. We may do this on such grounds as morality or status or “family values”, or simply because—in our judgment—they somehow do not measure up. It’s like ridiculing someone for failing to wear a suit and tie (whether to church or to the Oval Office).

This attitude of exclusion is sad enough when it runs rampant in the church. However, it is downright dangerous when it bleeds into the larger society, as it appears to be doing in many western societies—perhaps most glaringly in the United States of America, where Donald Trump’s approach to immigration has drastically escalated arrests and deportations of women, children and men.

According to some estimates, the U.S.A. may be home to as many as 14 million persons without legal status. Trump has said that he wants to deport all of them—and, indeed, arrests by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) spiked to as many as 1,200 per day during his first week in office.

Data published in late February showed ICE had nearly 44,000 immigrants in detention. Since this exceeded the agency’s funding and capacity, the Trump administration swiftly struck or expanded agreements with Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, Panama, and Costa Rica to take the deportees. Notably, the deportations to Panama have raised concerns about treatment of the migrants, including that of more than 100 sent to a camp near the Darien Gap jungle. To speed the process up, Trump has ordered his armed forces to assist with deportation operations, leading to military deportation flights to Guatemala, Honduras, Panama, Ecuador, Peru and India.

The president has also targeted legal immigration, attempting to freeze the U.S. refugee resettlement program and revoke visas and green cards of students who’ve participated in pro-Palestinian protests. Trump has even tried to restrict automatic birthright citizenship by means of executive order.

Beatriz Lopez, co-executive director of the Immigration Hub, a Washington-based advocacy organization, has lamented the disruption and destabilization of families and communities, saying, “This is clearly them going after people who aren’t criminals, who don’t fit their version of America.”¹

Alas, all this mayhem is apparently condoned—and even applauded—by literally millions of American Christians who voted for Donald Trump in 2024², and who continue offering their vocal support to his inhumane policies.

For those labelled as outsiders, every effort is made to keep them excluded. How horrible that any of this is being done in the name of Jesus.

Let’s be clear: this is not what Jesus was about! This is not the Jesus we see in Scripture, who dined with sinners and tax collectors; the Jesus who had compassion for the very people society rejected.

Jesus’ teaching should cause all of us to pause and think. For those among us who are inclined to be like the prodigal son, he extends God’s grace and reminds us that God will never give up on us. God accepts us unconditionally. No one gets deported from the Kingdom of Heaven. We are welcomed in the same way the prodigal son was welcomed.

For those among us who are inclined to be like the disgruntled brother, Jesus says outward obedience is not enough. We need to have compassion and love for our neighbour, and to be accepting of all people.

May the Spirit of God touch our hearts, and bring us the message of compassion and inclusion we so desperately need to hear. For Jesus’ sake. Amen.

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¹ https://www.aol.com/news/trumps-immigration-policies-support-expands-195534961.html

² According to exit polls, 72% of white Christians voted for Trump in 2024. https://www.prri.org/spotlight/religion-and-the-2024-presidential-election/

 

Third Sunday in the Midst of Lent (Year C)

TEXT: Luke 13:1-9

 [Jesus] asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? … Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem?” (Luke 13:2, 4)

On a website called “Day One,” Joe Evans tells the following story:

About two years ago I was with a group on a mission trip to Haiti, and we were flying from one side of the island to another in a little propeller plane driven by a Cuban pilot.

The turbulence was horrible and once we landed we were all thankful to finally be on solid ground again. While unloading the baggage, one member of the group says to another, “I wasn’t worried. Our pastor was head bowed in prayer the whole flight.”

And I’m glad that when she saw me with my head bowed on that turbulent flight that’s what she thought I was doing—because in reality I was putting my head down because I thought that would keep me from throwing up. ¹

Pastor Evans makes this observation: “You have to be careful with people,” he says, “because if they don’t know the answer, they may well just make something up.”

Turn on the television news—or pick up a newspaper—on any given day, and you will find a report about some catastrophic tragedy happening somewhere. Only the locations change.

Tornadoes, floods, earthquakes, tsunamis, shootings, bombings, acts of war—all of them happening, it seems, all of the time. All of them wreaking havoc. All of them breaking hearts and leaving permanent scars.

And behind them—usually left unreported—are the larger tragedies, like the nine million people who die every year of hunger or hunger-related causes. When you do the math, that amounts to approximately one death every five seconds, and—sadly—it’s children who die most often.²

For every one of those deaths, families or loved ones grieved—for every single one. And at some level, every one of those grieving souls probably asked the same question: “Why?”

It just doesn’t seem fair. What had any of those folks done to deserve such tragic deaths?

In Jesus’ day, there was no question about fairness. The assumption was that disease, suffering, and death bore a direct correlation with human sinfulness: the greater the sin, the worse the misfortune.

There was a group of Galileans “whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices.” For whatever reason, the Roman governor saw these individuals as a problem, and so he dispatched soldiers to kill them—apparently either on their way to the Jerusalem Temple, or perhaps even in the Temple itself.

And then there were the 18 who died when the tower in Siloam fell.

When confronted with such terrible events, we want an answer to the question of “Why?” And whether the answer is true or not … Well, that may not even matter so much, because having an answer—any answer—feels much better than not knowing.

Some years back, Forbes magazine published an article by Holly Green entitled: “Ten Good Reasons Not to Trust Your Brain.” I won’t repeat all 10 of the reasons she gives, but here are a few:

First of all, your brain jumps to conclusions; it sees what it wants to see. Not only that, but:

• • it twists and distorts incoming information so that it aligns with your own assumptions;
  • it has too much confidence in its own abilities; and
  • it constantly makes stuff up!

As Holly Green put it: “In the absence of information, we make stuff up. We do it all the time, and then we believe it to be true! Our brain won’t live with a void, so it fills in the blanks.” ³

We want to know, “Why do bad things happen?”

Why did Pilate have those worshippers killed?

Why did that tower fall on those particular eighteen people?

And how can I prevent the same thing from happening to me and the people I love?

Almost any answer to these questions will do—just so long as there is some kind of an answer. And the more an answer allows me to believe that the same thing won’t happen to me … Well, the more I like that answer.

When it came to explaining the murder of those Galileans and the sudden death of the eighteen, a popular answer was that of “retribution for sin.”

In other words, bad things happen to bad people. Suffering is evidence of divine justice at work. People suffer because they deserve it. But as long as you keep your nose clean and mind your own business, the same fate will not befall you.

Now, on the face of it, this idea does appear biblically-sound. In the Book of Deuteronomy, we read that disobedience results in punishment—not only for the disobedient, but even for their children and grandchildren. It says:

“… I the LORD your God am a jealous God, punishing children for the iniquity of parents, to the third and fourth generation of those who reject me …” (Deut. 5:9).

However—biblical or not—Jesus is having none of it. Rather than agree with conventional wisdom, Jesus holds the crowd accountable for their own behaviour.

He asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did. Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them—do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did” (Luke 13:2-5).

Now, that doesn’t seem very pastoral, does it? Jesus sounds less compassionate here than we might expect him to be.

Apparently, he is not so much trying to comfort these folks as he is aiming to challenge them. And because Luke has included this episode in his gospel, we can assume that it’s meant to challenge us, as well.

Jesus moves our focus away from what lies outside of our control. He warns us not to accept simple or judgmental explanations that only build up self-righteousness. Instead, Jesus calls us to focus on those things of which we are in control.

To make that point, Jesus tells a parable. It’s not exactly a warm and fuzzy parable. In fact, it emphasizes God’s judgment and underscores the need for repentance.

He tells the story of a fig tree that is not producing, and how the landowner is fed up with its apparent inability to bear fruit. He proposes cutting the tree down: “Why should it be wasting the soil?”

But the gardener argues for a one-year reprieve.

“Let me work with the tree for one more year,” he says. “And if it does not produce fruit, then we can cut it down.”

The passage concludes just like that; an ambiguous ending, if ever there was one.

As I said earlier—quoting that article from Forbes—our brains do not like ambiguity. If we don’t know the answer to something, our brains tend to just make something up!

If you think this sounds like current U.S. politics, you’re not wrong.

• • Don’t know how to make public schools teach right-wing propaganda? Dismantle the Department of Education.
  • Don’t know how to solve the opioid crisis? Focus on the less than 20 kilograms of fentanyl coming in from Canada each year.
  • Don’t know how to stimulate the economy? Implement policies that will cost thousands of American workers their jobs, and cause the stock market to plummet.

Over the past few weeks, I have been offering blog posts which, I admit, are mostly aimed at my fellow Canadians. Well … Canadians, and any Americans who may disagree with their president’s stated intention to annex his northern neighbour, turning Canada into a “51st state” by first destroying its economy with crippling tariffs.

I’ve tried to point out the autocratic tendencies of Donald Trump, including some frightening parallels to a 1940s-era German dictator who has widely been considered an antichrist.

Then, after Trump unilaterally renamed the Gulf of Mexico—declaring it to be “The Gulf of America”—I suggested changing the White House street address to “666 Pennsylvania Avenue” (tongue in cheek, I assure you).

I’ve also noted his eagerness to harshly condemn Christian leaders who dare question his policies. This includes, by the way, not only the Episcopal Bishop of Washington (the Right Rev. Mariann Budde, who called him to account publicly), but also Pope Francis, who—way back in 2016—said that “A person who thinks only about building walls, wherever they may be, and not building bridges, is not Christian.” 

Realizing that Donald Trump is not the only American who dreams of global domination, I’ve even appealed to divine justice, quoting a prayer first lifted up against Norse raiders who came to devastate and pillage, laying ruin to the defenceless: “Our supreme and holy Grace, protecting us and ours, deliver us, God, from the savage race which lays waste our realms.”

Am I overreacting? I don’t think so. Neither is Timmins-James Bay Member of Parliament Charlie Angus, who has branded Trump’s rhetoric and trade policies as nothing short of an “act of war.”

Faced with this kind of existential threat—and not knowing quite what to do about it—our Canadian brains may cast about wildly, trying to fill the void of our anxiety with some kind of useful response.

• • Should we cut off electrical power to New York state? (That’ll show ’em.)
  • Should we bend over like an Alberta politician, offering up a tantalizing vision of a southbound pipeline, glistening with oilsands crude? (Be gentle, Donald.)
  • Should we just give up, accept 51st-statehood, and go buy assault rifles? (So we’ll fit in better)

Over these past weeks, I have not been able to ignore the fact that Canada’s position in the world is precarious, now that the United States—once our closest ally—has become, astonishingly, our most dangerous adversary.

Even so, I do not intend to preach a doomsday message today. What I want to preach about (or preach against) is temptation—especially and particularly the temptation to despair. The temptation to quit. To deny that we have a God who can and does act in our lives.

Throughout our entire 158-year history as a nation, Canadians have faced one profound challenge after another. Two world wars. The Great Depression. The October Crisis of 1970. Recession in the 1990s. The financial crisis of 2008. The COVID pandemic. And we have overcome them all by the grace of God, who has blessed us with creative thinkers and diligent workers.

To be sure, we are on the verge of a severe economic downturn, precipitated by assaults upon our sovereignty. The damage is already being felt. Every one of us, I’m sure, knows somebody who has lost their job, or is watching their business fail. And of course, the fallout from that is going to limit what people have available to give to charities of all kinds.

But now is not the time to give up on the True North, Strong and Free! I believe that, by the grace of God, we will be spared the axe which our enemies are grinding. Rest assured, we’ve been given much more than just another year. The question now is: what will we do with that future? What will we do with the Lord’s blessing?

Another question is: do we truly believe that God is able to improve our situation, if we do our part? Are we willing to do our part—even if that means doing things differently than we’ve done in the past? Are we willing to seize the day?

I trust that we are. Whatever yesterday was like—for better or for worse—we have been given the gift of today. And today, Jesus the gardener is ready to work with us and through us—nourishing us by his Spirit, nurturing and caring for us by his almighty grace, so that we might bear yet more fruit.

Throughout this season of Lent, we are being called to give thanks to the One who has spared us from the axe and given us the gift of today. Let us not squander this gift through complacency, or defeatism, or by returning to old ways that no longer work. Rather, let’s take this time to practice self-examination. Not worrying about things over which we have no control. Not criticizing one another for what has or has not been done in the past.

But rather, let us—each one of us—devote ourselves to the examination of something we actually can change: namely, our own behaviour. Our behaviour as a body of believers—and our behaviour as individuals within it.

The season of Lent is a time to focus not on who is worse or what is wrong with everybody else. No. This season of Lent is a time to focus on what could be better—with me, and with you.

In Canada, a federal election is looming. Whomever you choose to vote for, I hope you vote. Make no mistake about it: the more of you who participate in public life, the healthier and stronger and more vibrant this nation will become. Our fruit will be more abundant. And, I suspect, the sweeter it will taste.

The fig tree was spared the axe. We have been, as well. By the grace of Christ, we will survive. God has spared us, and in his mercy, he has given us the gift of today. Let’s not ignore this opportunity or take this gift for granted. Instead, let’s use this gift of time to nurture in ourselves the fruits of righteousness and love; in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

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¹ http://day1.org/4534-spared_the_ax

² https://www.concern.org.uk/news/world-hunger-facts-figures

³ www.forbes.com/sites/work-in-progress/2012/10/23/10-good-reasons-not-to-trust-your-brain/#72d8429a2e94