One day as he was teaching the people in the temple and proclaiming the good news, the chief priests and the scribes came with the elders and said to him, “Tell us, by what authority are you doing these things? Who is it who gave you this authority?” He answered them, “I will also ask you a question, and you tell me: Did the baptism of John come from heaven, or was it of human origin?” They discussed it with one another, saying, “If we say, ‘From heaven,’ he will say, ‘Why did you not believe him?’ But if we say, ‘Of human origin,’ all the people will stone us, for they are convinced that John was a prophet.” So they answered that they did not know where it came from. Then Jesus said to them, “Neither will I tell you by what authority I am doing these things.”
~Luke 20:1-8
Chief Priests Ask Jesus by What Right Does He Act in This Way James Tissot, 1836-1902, Courtesy of Art in the Christian Tradition
On Sunday we celebrated the entry of Jesus into Jerusalem. The week of the Passover is here, as is the week of the crucifixion. Chapters 20 and 21 describe Jesus' activities that week. At the end of chapter 19, we read that Jesus was teaching in the temple every day. Here we find some of our most memorable teaching moments of Jesus. Shall we pay taxes to Caesar? What about this poor old woman, dropping two coins in the treasury. Is that right? A number of these fall under the category of "attempts to trip Jesus up," which have ramped up ever since Jesus' wild welcome by the people. They welcomed him as a king.
This exchange, which I am imagining to take place on Tuesday (the gospel doesn't break down the days for us until Wednesday), seems rather tame by comparison. It sounds like a sincere question. By whose authority do you teach, and heal, and work wonders?
If these folks had taken the time to hear Jesus' teaching at any time before this, they would have had their answer.
Jesus, as ever the wise teacher, uses it as a teaching moment. Tell me, he says--where did John the Baptist get his authority--from God or from humans? They all know the answer to this--just as they know the answer to the question they have posed Jesus.
There is a famous painting of John the Baptist--a closeup in which he is looking directly at the artist, and pointing his index finger heavenward. He is indicating that his teaching is not about himself, but about God. This could easily have been a portrait of Jesus. Jesus, too, is pointing to God, in all his teaching, in all his healing, in all his feeding multitudes. It is never about his own self-aggrandizement; it's simply sold teaching about how we love God with all our heart and soul and mind and strength, and love our neighbors as ourselves.
The questioners back down. They refuse to answer, because they don't like the answer. If this teaching comes from God and is pointing to God, it condemns them for not listening to it, not trusting it.
Immediately after this Jesus tells the parable tradition has named "The Wicked Tenants" (Luke 20:9-19). It tells of a man who leases vineyard, and then sends servants to take his portion of the proceeds. The tenants famously beat up all the servants he sends. Finally he sends his son. The tenants kill him.
This is a story about those of us to whom God has entrusted God's Word, God's love, and God's grace. In first century Judea, Jesus had some complaints about his own faith tradition, but that is now how I read this. This is to us.
Are we good stewards of God's church? Do we care for it, not for our own benefit, but for the benefit of those who exist outside it? Do we love one another well, and let that love spill out into the community? Do we feed the hungry, quench the thirsty, care for the sick, visit the chained, clothe the naked, welcome the stranger?
Do we ignore the prophets in our midst? Do we act out of safety rather than out of what is right? Do we excuse our passivity? Do we neglect the Spirit?
Is everything we do of God?
These are the highest possible standards, but we are out in the world claiming to do things in Jesus' name. Would Jesus be pleased or scandalized?
If, then, there is any comfort in Christ, any consolation from love, any partnership in the Spirit, any tender affection and sympathy, make my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition or empty conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests but to the interests of others. Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,
who, though he existed in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God
as something to be grasped,
but emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave,
assuming human likeness.
And being found in appearance as a human,
he humbled himself
and became obedient to the point of death—
even death on a cross.
Therefore God exalted him even more highly
and gave him the name
that is above every other name,
so that at the name given to Jesus
every knee should bend,
in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
and every tongue should confess
that Jesus Christ is Lord,
to the glory of God the Father.
Image: Cara B. Hochhalter, Palm Sunday: Even the Stones. http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=59018
Sermon
It is the first day of the week, the week that will bring Passover to Jerusalem. From the east side of town Jesus enters, riding a donkey colt, a not-even-fully-grown animal. Jesus is dressed in his usual dusty robes, hems darkened with the earth of Judea, and Galilee, and wherever his travels have taken him. He is hardly the image of a king, but here he is, being received as one. Someone put their cloak on the donkey, a makeshift saddle. People are laying their cloaks on the ground for the donkey to walk upon, a mark of respect for people who are usually much better dressed that Jesus happens to be. And there is singing—it is a joyful procession, with the sound of music in the air—the psalm we have already read together this morning:
Give thanks to the Lord, for the Lord is good;
God’s mercy endures forever!
Open for me the gates of righteousness,
I will enter them and give thanks to the Lord.
This is the day that the Lord has made;
let us rejoice and be glad in it. ~Psalm 118:1, 19, 24
The air is festive, but also, subdued. Though the people are celebrating, Jesus himself, and probably at least some of his disciples, are still remembering the anointing, which happened only last night… the fragrance of the ointment is no doubt still on his body, perhaps his robe. Everyone heard what he had to say: Mary of Bethany was anointing him for his funeral.
At the same time, on the western edge of the city, a very different parade is entering. Pontius Pilate enters the city, riding a mighty warhorse. He is at the head of of a legion of Roman soldiers. Their armor is glinting in the sunlight. They carry implements of war. There are drums.
Jesus is coming to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover, as any devout Jew within a reasonable distance does. He is coming with friends, and probably family. Though he is aware of what awaits him this week, he comes in peace.
Pilate is also coming because of the Passover, but not to celebrate it. He’s coming to manage it, to control it. Passover commemorates the liberation of the Israelites from enslavement in Egypt. There is always a strong of insurrection in the air during the Passover celebrations. The Romans are there to show the Jews that they are large and in charge. They are making it clear: pushing back at Rome would be a fool’s errand. Pilate comes ready for war, if that’s what it takes to keep everyone in line.
So, how are the disciples doing? I guess a good question would be, how would we be doing, if someone we loved and revered seemed to be walking very deliberately toward a situation that would bring about their death? By this time, Jesus has told his inner circle at least three times what was going to happen: that he would go to Jerusalem, and would be handed over to gentiles, who would torture him, and kill him. And then, he told them, God would raise him from the dead. Jesus used the term, “Son of Man” for himself in these conversations. It seems to have been a somewhat darkly humorous choice. For us it sounds all Bible-y, and is hard to grasp. But Jesus’ friends heard it for what it was: a phrase that meant, the Mortal One. In these predictions, Jesus is driving home the point that, yes, he can die—and he will. He’s the Mortal One. (Just like everyone else.)
It seems possible—even likely—that that same inner circle would be feeling deep anxiety here, maybe even some anticipatory grief, grief in advance of a death. Perhaps some of you have experienced this, as you watched a loved one move into the shadows of illness or dementia: a sense that you had already lost this person, that they were beyond your reach, even as they were still physically present.
Did the disciples feel something like this? And did Jesus himself feel something like this? Across the four different gospels, Jesus approaches his death with varying degrees of fear and anxiety. Jesus’ fear is most visible in the oldest gospel, the gospel according to Mark. The Jesus of the gospel according to John, the latest gospel to be written, seems almost impervious to fear.
Our passage from Paul’s letter to the Philippians gives us some insight into how Paul understood Jesus’ approach to his own death. He frames it—as he does much of this letter—in terms of love, using it as a teaching tool for the congregation at Philippi.
He begins with an appeal to his people. If, in looking at the life of Jesus, you find any comfort there, if you see clearly how fully it is shaped by love, try that on for yourselves. Be of the same mind. Carry in your hearts the same love. “Let the same mind be among you that was in Christ Jesus,” he says.
In most of our Bibles, the opening portion of chapter 2 is in paragraph form. But then, suddenly, it is in poetic form, it’s laid out like a psalm. That’s because scholars believe that what follows is an ancient hymn. It’s almost certainly a hymn the church at Philippi knows and loves. It may be a hymn that Paul himself wrote. He uses it to remind that congregation what the love of Jesus looks like.
Jesus shows love by emptying himself. He empties himself of the idea that, because he is one with God, that he should gain any special benefit from that. He empties himself of the possibility of taking advantage of that, or exploiting it, for instance, for his own safety. He does not grasp it. He does not hold it tightly. He lives deeply into his humanity, claiming no special treatment. And therefore, he remains radically with humanity, we who all too familiar with suffering.
Instead, he lives as a slave. He dies the death of a disobedient slave, or a traitor to the Roman Empire—the most painful and humiliating death imaginable. He humbles himself, going to his death, not as a victim, but as God’s obedient child, still living in God’s love.
Jesus empties himself of everything it means to be God—the kingdom, the power, and the glory. He walks away from any chance to rule as an earthly king. He refuses to use divine power to get himself out of harm’s way. He turns his back on glory and embraces only the logical result of a ministry that scares the daylights out of religious and political elites alike.
In naming all these things, Paul is asking the Philippians, can you do the same? Can you be a servant rather than jockeying for power? Can you be humble rather than boastful about your gifts or position? Can you be acutely aware of the needs of those around you and privilege those over the things you want?
All these things are products of the way of love that Jesus walked and modeled for us. What does it mean for us to walk this same way of love? The answer is the same—and they are questions. Can we do the same? Can we be servants to one another? Can we be as Christ to one another? Can we live do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God?
All of this is just as counter-cultural now as it was in Galilee 2000 years ago. And it is just as potent—there is nothing so potent as love. God shows us this, again and again. God tells us this, again and again. Love breaks down the walls that separate us and the chains that bind us. Love lifts us out of the prison of the self and reminds us of the beauty that service unleashes in the world and in our own lives.
For Jesus, this is the week that will bring the Passover to Jerusalem. It is also the week that will bring him to his final confrontation with the powers that fear him enough to want to kill him. Jesus will walk through this week with his humanity fully on display. He has emptied himself of everything else. He is left with only those things we share, including our frail human bodies, our experience of pain and suffering, and the love we carry in us.
It is that love that most truly erases the boundary between human and divine. It is love that most truly is a sign that we are made in God’s image. It is love that will draw us to walk together this week, as his witnesses and his disciples. We will witness his love in action. We will witness his humility. We will gather with him at the table on Thursday evening, and at the cross on Friday. In all of it, his love will be poured out, like ointment whose fragrance flows through time and space. In all of it, we will know what it is to be loved.
For everything there is a season and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die... ~Ecclesiastes 3:1-2
Two people died last week: the mother of a dear friend, and a dear friend. Both were women, deeply loved by family and community alike. One death was anticipated through diagnoses; to the best of my understanding, the other was not. One lived a long and full life; the other lived a full but abbreviated one, barely making middle age.
Lent is very much about death, in the sense that it is about being human, and death is one of the very few things that all human beings can expect to experience, sooner or later. On Ash Wednesday many Christians receive a roughly cross-shaped smudge of ashes on their heads (the ashes of palm branches, usually those with which Palm Sunday was celebrated the year before). When the ashes are being administered, these words are often said: Remember, [Name], that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. It is a lovely but heavy moment for both the person administering the ashes and the person receiving them, each of us contemplating our own span of life, Only once in my years as a pastor have I experienced the death of someone to whom I had just administered ashes the previous Ash Wednesday. He died on Good Friday, completely unexpectedly.
Lent is also about death in the sense that it is a season of preparation for an annual commemoration of the suffering and death of Jesus Christ--and also the resurrection. During Lent we ponder our shared humanity with Christ. We seek to understand it better, and we seek to live it better. The observance of Holy Week is a journey to the cross.
Here's the thing, though. We are alive until we are dead. I've been thinking about anticipatory grief, and I have been wondering whether Jesus might have experienced that. The gospels show him driving out money-changers and teaching in the temple, getting into some disagreements with other religious leaders, and sitting down (or, really, reclining) to a meal with his closest friends. However Jesus' spirit was as he anticipated his own suffering and ending, it seems as though he succeeded in living until he died. Apparently, he did not let the shadow at the end of the week diminish his witness to love, justice, and peace along the way.
I imagine we would all hope for the ability to live and love until we died. I also imagine we would all hope that we had said everything we wanted to say, and shown our love and care well and clearly to those we love in advance of their departures. The problem is, we think we have time, and hard experience has told me that we do not.
I am deeply grateful for the lives of the people I have mentioned here. They have all impacted my life in significant ways, have been friends, or congregants, or both. One gave birth to one of my favorite people. One gave me one of my most cherished pieces of wisdom and buoyed me up when I lacked confidence. One had the ability to make me laugh and laugh, and we shared experiences that I treasure. All are in God's hands now.
I live with gratitude for each life and with regret that I haven't told the people I love, that I love them. Not nearly enough.
Death is a bittersweet reminder to tell them, and tell them now.
This evening’s passage from the prophet Isaiah starts with a reminder:
What God has done.
In these words, directed at the Babylonian exiles, God reminds them of an earlier moment when God showed up, and God took care, and God carried God’s own people out of danger. I’m betting that you could recognize the scene that is described as the passage opens.
“Thus says the Lord, who makes a way in the sea, a path in the mighty waters” (Isaiah 43:16). When did God make a passage through the waters? Yes, absolutely—during the great exodus of God’s people from enslavement in Egypt. The people were able to cross on dry earth with the waters held back. But what happened next? The pharaoh’s soldiers followed in chariots pulled by horses, and then…
chariot and horse,
army and warrior;
they lie down; they cannot rise;
they are extinguished, quenched like a wick. ~Isaiah 43:17
God releases the waters, and the pursuing soldiers are drowned by the very seas that stood still so that God’s people could escape.
Our passage opens with a reminder of the remarkable: What God has done.
But then the Lord says a strange thing—but don’t think about things that happened before, kiss today goodbye, and point me toward tomorrow. Now we are going to hear:
What God will do.
God says, I will do a new thing. Here it comes… can you see it? And then God tells of a different kind of rescue: Instead of leading God’s people through water, God will lead God’s people through wilderness, a desert, complete with ostriches and jackals.
I have to say, the ostriches and jackals caught all our attention Tuesday night at our Music Team meeting. So, here are some things you might not have known about them.
Ostriches are the largest living bird, standing between 6 and 8 feet tall, and between 200-300 lbs. Ostrich eggs are so large they can feed a small family. Unlike most other birds, ostriches do not fly—unless you count their running. They are the fastest running bird on the planet, with speeds up to 43 miles per hour. They do that running with just two toes, which are also claws. Naturally, their legs are incredibly strong, and their main means of self-defense. An ostrich can kill a lion with one kick. The ostrich’s native habitat is flexible: they can be found in the savannah, grasslands, woodlands, and deserts. And their large eyes—unusually large—enable them to see for miles and miles.
The word for ostrich in Hebrew means “greedy.” Greedy bird. This is probably connected to the ostrich’s omnivorous diet, which includes greens, gourds, fruit, invertebrates, bugs and lizards—not to mention small stones and sand, which they need for grinding up food in the gizzard.
Jackals, on the other hand, are the smaller cousins of wolves, dogs, and coyotes, with a average weight of about 13 lbs. They are natural predators of the ostrich, and their small size is an advantage against the large bird. Unlike ostriches, who mate as they are able with all and sundry and are known to be less than stellar parents, jackals are monogamous types, mating for life and raising their pups together. They’re known as opportunistic omnivores—they’ll eat a vegetarian or carnivorous diet as available, and they’re not too proud to scavenge the leftovers of larger predators, like lions. In fact, the Hebrew word for jackal indicates that it is a scavenger.
Why, we have to wonder, are the ostrich and the jackal named here, where Isaiah offers the words of the Lord saying,
I am about to do a new thing;
now it springs forth; do you not perceive it?
I will make a way in the wilderness
and rivers in the desert.
The wild animals will honor me,
the jackals and the ostriches,
for I give water in the wilderness,
rivers in the desert,
to give drink to my chosen people,
the people whom I formed for myself
so that they might declare my praise. ~Isaiah 43:19-21
Why name the ostrich and the jackal, who, in the animal kingdom, are not exactly A-listers? For one thing, God is speaking of how all creation will honor the almighty, for all God’s good provision and help—for how God will continue to care for them. But if we look more closely, don’t the ostrich and the jackal have just a little bit in common with the people who are in exile? Their similarities fall under the category of “making do.”
The ostrich and the jackal can adapt to any environment—as the exiles had to adapt to the loss of their homes, and being involuntarily transplanted in Babylon.
The ostrich and the jackal can make do with most any food—as the exiles had to learn what the local fare was, and what was available at Babylonian markets, and to figure out a whole new way of eating.
The ostrich and the jackal have radically different behavior around what we might delicately call family life—and the exiles have been doing something they might never have anticipated. They are intermarrying with gentiles, those who are not part of God’s covenant people, those who don’t yet know the wonders of the Lord their God.
The ostrich and the jackal are scrappy, innovative survivors, much like the Israelites who were taken from their homes and forced to relocate for a full seventy years. During that time they had to adapt, they had to learn new ways, they had to make do.
And God is casting no blame on them for any of that. Instead, God is reminding them, if these beasts can be part of the creation that will understand and give thanks for the goodness of God, surely the Israelites can, too.
And now, God is doing a new thing—can they not perceive it? And there is no need for fear. God was with them the last time, and the time before that. God will be with them through this next transition, whatever that may be.
We know what it’s like to live in unsettled times. Most of us know what it’s like to live through something so painful we’re not sure how we’ll ever get through. But we also know what it’s like to get through. And whether we were aware of it or not, God was there, as God is here, now, with us.
God is doing a new thing, and God will be with us, every step of the way.
But you have been anointed by the Holy One, and all of you have knowledge.
OR
But you have been anointed by the Holy One, and you have all knowledge.
~1 John 2:20
A blurry bud opening on a lilac tree.
In the middle of a rant on the coming of antichrists (note the s: there will not be one, but many), the first letter of John has this little jewel of a verse. You have been anointed by God, and you all have knowledge. Or, you have been anointed by God, and you have all knowledge. It's one of those tricky moments in translation when two different things are perfectly reasonable translations of a Greek sentence.
But look closer, and you can see that the writer is encouraging a group of people-- this letter is not to a solitary person, but to a community. They lovingly address this community as "little children." We don't have to choose a translation; both are true.
But you [all] have been anointed by the Holy One, and [together] you have [all] knowledge.
In a fearful time, a community of faith may struggle to know what is the next best step to take, the next right thing to do. There are always competing priorities, with very good rationales behind them. What does it mean that we have "all knowledge" when it can be so frustrating and overwhelming to come to consensus, let along making a decision that excites and energizes us as a community?
Sometimes things take their own time.
Years ago I was trying to come to a decision about a huge change--leaving one denomination and joining another. It was torturous. I didn't know what to do. I wasn't sure. I didn't want to do it for the wrong reasons. I wanted to be sure I was being called by God. But I couldn't tell.
In frustration I went to a friend's house and said, Help! I'm trying to make this decision, but I just can't. I don't know what to do.
I went on like that for a while, essentially saying the same thing in a lot of different ways. Finally I was silent. And my friend was silent.
It was an icy winter night. My friend's house was warm. I sat in the silence with her for a bit.
Finally, my friend said, Maybe you need to accept that this is a time of not knowing. And then there will come a time of knowing.
This bit of wisdom resonated with me. In fact, it was a huge relief--the idea of saying, I don't know, but practicing being ok with that, with trusting that the decision, the knowledge, would reveal itself in time. It was a gift. It was a revelation.
So I entered a period of not knowing. And, in this case, it didn't take long. Several weeks later it was as clear to me as a blue sky in spring.
Sometimes things take their own time. Things are gestating--even in our souls. They are growing, and developing, and coming to maturity, and we have to allow them the time they need to do that.
Because, it is true. By virtue of our baptism, God has anointed us and we have a knowing that can't be undone. In community, we can share our ideas, discern together, pray together, and trust that, yes, there may be times of not knowing. We can learn to abide in the not knowing, but with trust. Eventually, we will know--when the time is right.
Hello friends. Alas, I have been unable to stick to my commitment of daily posts here. I am sorry for that. At the same time, this has been a rich season for me. The devotional we are using at church is a daily encouragement and solace. The other activities I've been involved in have been deeply satisfying. Union Presbyterian Church, the congregation I serve has, as ever, been warm and loving, with hearts for service. My family is well and each, in their own way, thriving, even in the midst of the national (and now global) chaos set off by the administration.
Today I give you, again, my sermon from Sunday. I hope you are having a good Lent, and I'm sorry, again, for falling down on this commitment. I'll be seeking to do better these last two weeks.
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 reclining with him. Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’s 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.”
Sermon
It is night. A crowd is gathered in rooms illuminated by candles and oil lamps. Shadows flicker on the walls. Jesus’ disciples are there, and perhaps some of their wives. Jesus’ mother is probably there… after all, this is a celebration of her son. The host family are there, of course—the siblings Mary, and Martha, and recently raised-from-the-dead Lazarus. And Jesus—the guest of honor. Just days before this celebration the host family was in mourning—diminished by one beloved brother, wearing torn clothing as a sign of their sorrow, sitting at home with those who came to witness and participate in their grief. Lazarus was in the tomb—had been for four days. But all that changed when Jesus arrived. The one who was lost, was found. The one who was dead, is now alive.
This is a celebration! A thanksgiving dinner. The sisters of Lazarus and the man himself are filled with gratitude for his return to the land of the living. This is also the celebration of the end of the Sabbath, the sweetest day of the week, for tomorrow—the day following this dinner—Jesus will go to Jerusalem for the beginning of the Passover festival. There is every reason to celebrate this night.
Still. Many at this gathering are on edge. The mood is subdued. This is because the threats are out there, and they are getting louder and louder. For at least two years of Jesus’ ministry, there has been talk of killing him. Everyone who follows Jesus, everyone who knows him, everyone who loves him, knows that he has a target on his back. They know that there are people who will be all too willing to turn him over to the authorities.
The Romans are furious with Jesus for the whispers that he is king—whispers that began when Jesus’ preaching was brand new, and have only grown louder in the three years since. For Jesus to be king—even to be dreamed as king—is a threat to Rome.
The religious authorities gathered together after this last miracle, this last sign of Jesus raising Lazarus. What are we going to do? If he continues like this, soon everyone will believe in him—and then, all bets are off. The Romans will come and decimate our people and destroy our Temple. Wouldn’t it be better if one man died than a whole nation, a whole way of life? And so they decided to kill him. They put out word that anyone who saw Jesus should let them know, so they could go and arrest him.
All the fear around Jesus comes back to the struggle for power, in the political realm and in the religious realm. Jesus is too powerful. Dangerously powerful.
Jesus is all too aware of this. After he raised Lazarus, he and his disciples went to a village called Ephraim, out of the way, bordering on the Judean wilderness. It was a place where he could lay low.
But now he has traveled the fifteen or so miles to Bethany, to be with his friends, to be celebrated. But he knows what is coming.
Imagine the murmurs of the people, reclining on comfortable pillows around the long, low tables. The sound of clay goblets clinking, wine being poured.
Then, everyone stops. A silence falls as Mary, one of Lazarus’ grateful sisters, approaches Jesus carrying a vessel filled with a pound of the purest, most expensive and exotically fragrant oil known, spikenard. The aroma of it precedes her, but it is nothing compared to the strength of the fragrance when she pours it out, emptying the vessel, on Jesus’ feet. Imagine Jesus, sitting up, perhaps, to watch as the woman bathes his feet. Touches them, gently. And then, because there is so much, bends down and soaks up the excess with her hair.
This is a stunning act of love and devotion. It is a shockingly intimate act between an unrelated woman and man. The murmuring begins again. Maybe a few soft, nervous laughs. But everyone sees this moment for what it is: a loving gift, given in gratitude, in thanks for an unimaginable blessing upon her family.
But Jesus knows it is even more than that. In just a few days, Jesus will take this act and transform it into his own act of love and devotion: following the last meal he will ever share with his disciples, he will wash their feet. And then he will give them a new commandment: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. Because everything Jesus has done, and everything he will do—for his disciples and for the many strangers he encountered, and fed, and spoke with, and healed—has been a pouring out of the love of God for the world.
And acts of love, and acts of beauty, as this one is, are also acts of resistance. In a dangerous world, where not everyone is safe and the desire for power is an enticement to recklessness and destruction, acts of love and beauty take courage. Acts of love and beauty require steadfastness. Acts of love and beauty say, “I will not live in the fear you are trying to drown me with. I will not forsake those with targets on their backs. I will stand alongside them, and walk their path of suffering with them, and do everything in my power to tell the world that they are worthy of dignity, they are worthy of love. Acts of love and acts of beauty are a form of resistance.
Judas breaks the moment. He crashes into it with his anger. He rages that Mary should have taken that ointment and sold it. It was valued at a year’s wages for a day laborer. Think of the good that could have been done with that money—they could have used it to feed the poor. Judas, who is said to have kept track of the money box for the disciples, is doing the math: should all this ointment have been spent on one man, or on many who needed it more than he?
Loving people, showing them love, costs us. Sometimes it costs us our time. Sometimes it costs us our money. Sometimes it costs us our reputation. Sometimes it costs us our lives. But the thing is, love returns to us—not in a tit for tat way, so that we’re all even-steven. But in the sense that love is contagious. Kindness is contagious. Love isn’t love until you do give it away, invest in it, show what it is worth to you. And when you do that, it spreads like a beautiful fragrance, until love is the language that is spoken.
When I was young, I was obsessed with Saint Therese of Lisieux, who is often called “the little flower.” She became a nun at age 15 and died of TB at age 24, but the writings she left, especially her Story of a Soul, are filled with the kind of wisdom you would expect from someone with decades and decades of life experience, not a young and sheltered girl. Her spiritual practice was to do small things with great love. On the cost of love, one of her lesser-known quotes is this: “God knows all the sciences, but there’s one science God does not know, God does not know mathematics.”
Judas is doing the math, but it is a kind of math that is nonsensical to Jesus, and to God. Jesus sternly tells Judas to leave Mary alone. He says, you will always have opportunities to help the poor, and well you should. My time here is short. She has anointed me for my burial.
The narrative of the celebration meal breaks off at this point. Soon crowds of people know that Jesus is in Bethany, and they come seeking him out. The religious authorities decide that they had better kill Lazarus, too.
But the love that was poured out in that dim, candle-lit room is still there, moving through the souls of those who witnessed it, moving in Jesus, as he plans for the last supper he will have with his friends. Acts of love and beauty are not frozen in time. They live. They breathe. They move.
You know this. This congregation, the people of this congregation, engage in acts of love daily. Last night’s One Great Hour of Sharing Trivia night was a great, rollicking act of love, in the end. An act of generosity and kindness—and a little competitiveness, but the love undergirded it all. Every kind thing you do—giving someone a ride, calling someone you’ve been thinking about, holding up a sign in a crowd expressing your care for the most vulnerable among us—is an act of love. Every act of beauty and joy in the face of fearful days and fearful events is an act of love, and an act of resistance.
So we, in this brightly lit room, with our own candles flickering, are called to acts of love, and beauty, and joy, every day. Go, and know that these acts will not be frozen in time. They live. They breathe. They move. And they go out into the world…
Happy are those to whom the Lord imputes no iniquity
and in whose spirit there is no deceit.
While I kept silent, my body wasted away
through my groaning all day long.
For day and night your hand was heavy upon me;
my strength was dried up as by the heat of summer.
Then I acknowledged my sin to you,
and I did not hide my iniquity;
I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the Lord,”
and you forgave the guilt of my sin.
Therefore let all who are faithful
offer prayer to you;
at a time of distress, the rush of mighty waters
shall not reach them.
You are a hiding place for me;
you preserve me from trouble;
you surround me with glad cries of deliverance.
I will instruct you and teach you the way you should go;
I will counsel you with my eye upon you.
Do not be like a horse or a mule, without understanding,
whose temper must be curbed with bit and bridle,
else it will not stay near you.
Many are the torments of the wicked,
but steadfast love surrounds those who trust in the Lord.
Be glad in the Lord and rejoice, O righteous,
and shout for joy, all you upright in heart.
~Psalm 32
Meditation
In college I took a philosophy class that was based entirely on The Grand Inquisitor, which was a single chapter in Dostoevsky’s novel, The Brothers Karamazov. The professor was a kind and soft-spoken man, but also anxious. He had a heavy eastern European accent, and he didn’t look particularly well—he was very pale, sort of grey in complexion. During one class, in discussing ethics, he gave an example of someone who really, really needed a pack of cigarettes, but who didn’t have any money, so, wasn’t it, really, ok that he stole a pack of cigarettes from the Star Market? Sort of a modern-day Jean Valjean, I guess. In a later class, he said, “You know, once I really, really needed a pack of cigarettes, but I didn’t have any money. So I stole a pack from the Star Market.”
He ended up taking a medical leave halfway through the course. I don’t know entirely what was going on with my professor, but I believe at least one thing that was going on was a persistent, unshakeable sense of guilt, or maybe shame. He had unfinished business of some kind.
In the Christian tradition, Psalm 32 is one of the seven penitential psalms. Usually, these are psalms in which the writer is asking God for forgiveness for something specific. Psalm 51, the psalm we pray on Ash Wednesday, is an excellent example. Psalm 32 is an odd duck among these psalms, though, because the psalmist is not asking God for anything, but, rather, telling the listener how amazingly wonderful it feels to be forgiven.
And isn’t that true? The feeling of seeing a person who was angry with you, or disappointed by you, and knowing that all is forgiven. It’s… heaven.
For most human beings, feelings of guilt and shame when we have trespassed some ethical boundary are normal. Feelings are simply messages from our bodies. This was wonderful, that was terrible, this is scary… When we’ve done something, even something as seemingly minor as stealing a pack of cigarettes from Star Market, we generally have some lingering feelings, maybe at first, of anxiety. But eventually, it can turn into guilt. Or even, shame, which is guilt’s awful twin, and far more complicated to deal with. Guilt is about an action. Guilt says, I did something bad. Shame is about ourselves. Shame says, I am bad. I hope all of us exist in shame-free zones, because shame is never the answer.
Psalm 32 begins with verses telling how happy, how blessed we are when we’re forgiven. But then it moves into what the experience of what guilt can feel like. It speaks of wasting away. It speaks of groaning in agony, and feelings of weakness, even faintness. It speaks of the heavy hand of God resting upon them.
Then, suddenly, we discover that the psalmist is, in fact praying to God. But then I told you, they say, and you forgave me. May all who feel as I felt pray to God, open their hearts, and be forgiven!
Then, God speaks: I will instruct you, and teach you the way you should go—don’t be like a stubborn animal, who needs to be tied up and restrained, in order to stay near its master. By implication—stay near me because you want to stay near me, a truly beautiful invitation from God, hidden under a homely simile. And then, the joy of forgiveness ends this psalm—which may, really, be a teaching psalm. Steadfast love surrounds those who trust in the Lord.
A simple message: tell God what’s ailing you, and God will heal you, will heal the sin-sick soul. But what about other complications when we are seeking forgiveness?
With only a few exceptions, most stories of guilt and forgiveness in the Hebrew scriptures are about sins against God and human guilt over disobedience, faithlessness, breaking the commandments. But Jesus adds a more consistent focus on the harm we can do one another, on the importance of forgiving one another as we have been forgiven by God. Reconciliation really is at the heart of our faith.
But what happens when it’s too late to reconcile? When the one we have harmed is no longer on this earth? I believe that when we do harm, we should make amends. To me, that means: telling the person that we understand the harm we did, and that we are sincerely sorry. And then, asking the person how we can make amends… how can we make it better, how can we restore the relationship between us?
This is far more complex when the person we have wronged has died. What can we possibly do? We can pray. Speak to God about it and see whether our heart can be eased in that way. But there may be other ways. We can take time to reflect on what the person in question really cared about—what they loved. And then we can connect with that, in some way, as a way of connecting with them. Suppose the person you hurt loved animals… maybe volunteer at an animal shelter. Say they loved music…perhaps encourage young people with musical gifts or attend a concert. Recycle, or contribute to Greenpeace if they were concerned about climate change.
Anything that this person cared about can become a vehicle for remembering your relationship at its best. Beautiful memories can be like a prayer. They can also be the balm your soul needs around the fractures in the relationship. They can increase your trust that, in the end, the good in your relationship outweighed the bad.
God is love, and wants us to live in joy, in hope, and in peace. Steadfast love surrounds those who trust in the Lord. Trusting in that steadfast love can make all the difference when the complications of life leave us with unfinished business.
