Lent Day 35: Monday in Holy Week: The Fig Tree

Then they came to Jerusalem. And he entered the temple and began to drive out those who were selling and those who were buying in the temple, and he overturned the tables of the money changers and the seats of those who sold doves; and he would not allow anyone to carry anything through the temple. He was teaching and saying, “Is it not written,

‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’?
     But you have made it a den of robbers.”

And when the chief priests and the scribes heard it, they kept looking for a way to kill him; for they were afraid of him, because the whole crowd was spellbound by his teaching.  And when evening came, Jesus and his disciples went out of the city.

~Mark 11:15-19

The gospel of Mark provides a pretty clear day-by-day description of Jesus' comings and goings in the days after Jesus' arrival in Jerusalem. Mark's gospel is the earliest in the canon of scripture, closest in time to the earthly ministry of Jesus. Mark places the cleansing of the Temple on Monday.

This must have been a shocking event for the people of Jerusalem. The people loved and revered the Temple. It was considered God's literal home on earth. They supported it with their offerings.

But it appears that Jesus sees the practices of buying and selling in the Temple as a worldly presence in what should be an other-worldly place, pure and dedicated only to the worship of God. 

Recently a member of the congregation I served expressed discomfort with the fact that she was selling homemade jam in the back of the church. Was this akin to the presence of the buyers and sellers in the Temple? The proceeds were going to the One Great Hour of Sharing offering, which supports the Presbyterian Hunger Program, Presbyterian Disaster Assistance, and the program for the Self-Development of People. I assured her that her motives meant everything.

But surely the motives of the people selling animals for worship and changing unacceptable Roman coin for the Temple currency are also worth considering? The Temple was a place for sacrifices-- that was its purpose-- sacrifices designed and believed to make right the relationships between God and God's people. It's interesting to note that the seats for those who traded doves were overturned. Doves were the acceptable offerings of the poor, who could not afford the larger animals required.

In the next chapter of Mark, Jesus accuses the Temple authorities of stealing from the people, and he specifically names poor widows as those who are harmed, as their "houses are devoured" by those in charge. 

Context is everything, of course. And verses before and after the cleansing of the Temple concern a fig tree.

On the following day [Monday], when they came from Bethany, he was hungry. Seeing in the distance a fig tree in leaf, he went to see whether perhaps he would find anything on it. When he came to it, he found nothing but leaves, for it was not the season for figs.He said to it, “May no one ever eat fruit from you again.” And his disciples heard it...

...In the morning [Tuesday] as they passed by, they saw the fig tree withered away to its roots. Then Peter remembered and said to him, “Rabbi, look! The fig tree that you cursed has withered.” 

~Mark 11:12-14, 20-21

When a story is broken up, with another story disrupting it, we think of it as a "sandwich story;" scholars call it an inclusio. The story that makes up the "bread" of the sandwich is definitely related to the story that makes up the filling.

Jesus comes upon a fig tree, and he is hungry, but the fig has no fruit to offer. In what seems like a fit of pique, he curses it. The next day, as he and his disciples pass by, they can see that the curse has taken effect. 

What does it all mean? Does the biblical adage, "By their fruits you shall know them" apply? By enclosing the story of Jesus cleansing the Temple with a story about a fig tree that doesn't live up to its purpose, is the evangelist offering commentary on Jesus' attitude toward the Temple? That by its fruits we can see that it is not living up to its purpose?

We Christians have two thousand years of death-dealing anti-semitism to account for--to atone for, to make reparations for. Despite the plain text of the Christian Testament, we must be cautious when interpreting what can amount to anti-semitism in our texts. The text about the cleansing above (as well as the one I read aloud in church yesterday) attributes deadly motives to the Temple authorities. Millions of Jews have been murdered for the past two thousand years in outrage over such allegations.

Was the Temple not living up to its highest purposes? Maybe a better question is: is the church living up to its highest purposes? By our fruits, will people know that we intend to share the love of God as we see it reflected in Jesus Christ? If any word we write or preach or teach leads anyone to consider Jews less-than or no longer embraced by God as God's people, we are utterly failing, and we are a fig tree that ought to be cursed.

Maybe the best response to a text that seems to critique a place or manner of worship is to look at our own places and manner of worship. Are we bearing good fruit? Do our worship and witness convey the essential truth, that God is love?

"Tree of Hope" by Julie Leuthold *

* Leuthold, Julie. Tree of Hope, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. https://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=57033 [retrieved April 11, 2022]. Original source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/julieleuthold/7521645058 - Julie.

Lent Day 26: The Women Who Anointed Jesus Part 1

Sermon Prep

There are some gospel stories that are one-of-a-kind--the parable of the Prodigal Son comes to mind, a beloved tale that is reported only in the Gospel According to Luke. There are other gospel stories that are told over and over; there is something so essential about them, it seems the gospel wouldn't be the gospel if they were missing.  The feeding of the multitudes is one such story, told six times across the four gospels. Jesus predicts his death three times in the synoptic gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), and talks about it extensively in the second half of the Gospel According to John. And, of course, the crucifixion and the empty tomb are recounted in all four gospels, with varying details. 

The anointing of Jesus is another such story.  It is told four times, once in each gospel, providing us essentially, three versions of the story. As I prepare to preach on the version found in John's gospel, I thought I'd clarify my thoughts. Today I'll talk about the version found (with only slight differences) in the gospels of Matthew and Mark; tomorrow I will address the version found in the Gospel According to Luke, and on Saturday, I will talk about the version I'll be preaching on this Sunday, as found in the gospel as John.

Again, the versions told in Matthew and Mark are nearly identical, with only a few details changed. The setting is the same--the home of Simon the leper, in Bethany. Both passages take place during Holy Week, most likely on Wednesday. Both passages take place immediately following the news of the religious leaders plotting to kill Jesus, and immediately prior to Judas acting on his decision to betray Jesus--what textual critics call an inclusio, a kind of thematic sandwich. Betrayal is all around this story, but the story itself is about an action that is the opposite of betrayal.

Jesus is dining at Simon's home, and at some point during the evening, an unnamed woman enters. She brings with her a jar of costly ointment, and proceeds to pour it on Jesus' head. 

Matthew and Mark both have the woman anointing Jesus' head (as opposed to his feet, as portrayed in Luke and John). This evokes the anointing of a king, a priest, or a prophet-- all roles associated with the ministry of Jesus and subsequent theological understanding of his role as Messiah. 

Matthew includes the detail that it is Nard, a product of the spikenard plant; he also includes the detail that the woman breaks the jar open.

Immediately anger ensues. In Mark's gospel, it is attributed to "some who were there," but in Matthew, it is the disciples. Why such a waste? This ointment could have been sold for a large amount of money (Matthew: 300 denarii, about a year's wages for a day laborer). The money could have been given to the poor. Matthew has the disciples scolding the woman directly, while in Mark, the comments are all directed at Jesus.

Jesus' response is strong: Leave her alone (Matthew). Why do you trouble her? She has done a good service for me (as so strongly contrasted with the evil service cooked up by the religious leaders and Judas). Jesus identifies this anointing as preparation for his burial. As I mentioned earlier, all four gospels show Jesus predicting his passion and death. The disciples push back on his predictions (especially Peter), Only this unnamed woman acknowledges what he has predicted, and, by his interpretation of her action, ritually prepares for that moment.

A breathtaking statement ends both accounts. The goodness of the woman's action is so profound, Jesus states that it will live on in the memory of the church.

"Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her." (Mark 14:9; Matthew 26:13)

The memory of the unnamed woman lives on. 

Lent Day 11: Mother Hens and T. Rex

This week's Sunday text from the gospel of Luke was Jesus' lament over Jerusalem, in which he gives us a startling image of himself.

Jerusalem, Jerusalem... How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! 
~Luke 13:34 

A chicken is not exactly an august, stately, lordly image for Jesus Christ, whom the Church confesses to be truly human and truly God. Chickens are rather... silly. They make silly noises. They are ungainly, inelegant, and graceless. 

Still. A friend's daughter sits in the henhouse with their chickens and holds them on her lap, and finds great comfort in them. There is something soft and vulnerable about them. They are lovable.

And maybe an inelegant, ungainly, homely image of Jesus is good for us. A large percentage of those who claim the Christian label have bought into an image of a buff, muscular Jesus, looking very much as if he's gone overboard with steroids, and who vaporizes nonbelievers with X-ray vision... or something like that. (I confess: I couldn't get through three chapters of the first book, the writing is so bad... but I digress.)

But news flash: The incarnation is not about God coming as The Rock, or Arnold Schwarzenegger, circa 1988. The incarnation is about God taking on human flesh, becoming, not like us, but one of us. Maybe the image of Jesus as a slightly silly bird, who nevertheless has strong protective instincts towards her young, and who gives of herself prolifically... maybe that's not the worst image of Jesus we could have. Maybe it's an improvement on Royal Jesus, and Buff Jesus, and X-ray Vision Jesus.

But, also, there's this: 68 million year-old Tyrannosaurus Rex DNA was compared with the DNA of 21 modern species, and guess which modern species was the closest match? Read about it here.

Most of us non-DNA experts might have assumed rhinoceroses and alligators would be stronger candidates for a direct lineage to the T Rex.  (I'm imagining at least some DNA experts would have expected something similar?) But no. The most direct lineage comes to the humble, not very impressive chicken. The large and, apparently, terrifying (if Steven Spielberg is to be believed) carnivore to whom scientists assigned a name that included Tyrannosaur (Latin for "Tyrant lizard) and "Rex" (Latin for "king") was displaced by the little, feathery, and, apparently, cuddly bird. Nature rejected the tyrant, and went with the protective mom.

(I know. I might not exactly have the clearest picture of natural selection here... but work with me...)

But back to Jesus... and his selection of the mother hen for an image of his loving protectiveness. The more I meditate on it, the more it delights me. The more I ponder it, the more I welcome it as an image for God's love. 

Jeffrey Vallance, Divine Mother Hen (2018), Stained glass

Lent Day 27: Feet

I'm looking right now at a pretty great pedicure I obtained a couple of weeks ago. Especially in the months of the year when our feet are never exposed (unless we go to the gym), I love taking off socks or tights to find: my toenails look lovely.

Not on their own, mind you. But decked out in their aqua gel polish, for today, they look pretty wonderful.

Feet are so awkward. Especially as we age, we can become profoundly uncomfortable with our feet. In fact, feet might be the distillation of all we dread about aging. They might start to twist in funny ways. They might require more attention from doctors. They might even require us to knock it off, in terms of shoes that are purely decorative, and to clothe them in something sensible, that gives actual support to our arches and our backs, for God's sake. (And our feet's sake.)

People are shy about their feet. I'd go as far as to say, people really, really dislike exposing them to anyone, for any reason.

So, here we are in Lent, and looming ahead is a story that is an essential part of our identity, and it has to do with Jesus-- JESUS!-- washing his disciples' feet. And some churches are bold enough to re-enact that. (I haven't even asked.)

But before that, at least in this year (for those of us who follow the Revised Common Lectionary) there is another story, a story about a woman anointing Jesus' feet. Many of us will share that story in worship tomorrow.

The motivating question in the passage seems to be: What do you get the man who has raised your brother from the dead? I mean, what is an appropriate thank you gift?

The brother in question is Lazarus. His sisters Martha and Mary sent for Jesus when Lazarus was sick, but Jesus delayed coming until after Lazarus had died.

He did this deliberately. And he tells us why, exactly, he does that.

He says, “This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.”

Now, it may appear that Jesus means that raising Lazarus from the dead will give him glory. And, that is what he means... except, you have to understand what Jesus means, in the gospel of John, by the word "glory."

He means his death. He means, his crucifixion, that moment when he will be raised up on the cross, arms outstretched, and gathering all the world to himself. For Jesus, that is the moment of the Son of Man being glorified.

Each "sign" Jesus performs in John's gospel reveals a facet of Jesus' identity, tells us more of who he is. This sign, raising someone from death to life, completes the picture, reveals Jesus as one who is at one with God, perfectly in tune with God's power for life. This sign will also be a provocation to the local powers-that-be to call for his, Jesus', death.

Jesus knows this. Jesus does this intentionally.

And the family of Lazarus are aware of the danger hovering over all this. But still, they are so grateful-- of course they are! How do thank him?

Do they simply say "Thank you?" I feel confident that has already happened.

Do they throw him a dinner party? Check.

But what else could you do... is there some kind of grand gesture that would get your gratitude across?

Oh, there surely is.

Lent Day 20: Heaven

Scripture (2 Corinthians 4:16-5:5) can be found here.

So we do not lose heart. Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.  For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. 
                                                                                                                        ~ 2 Corinthians 4:16-5:1

I don't talk about heaven much, and I don't preach about it on a regular basis. I am most likely to speak from the pulpit about heaven during a memorial service or funeral, because I believe at that moment, the loved ones of the deceased need to hear words of hope that include that promise. But I don't preach about it most Sundays because I believe the people, on the whole, need words of hope and encouragement that are about the here and now, which, after all, is what Jesus meant by the "kingdom" or "reign" of heaven. He was talking about God's inbreaking and transforming presence for us, now, in this life. The heaven that is here already, but not entirely, not yet.

But today I read this passage in 2 Corinthians, so let's talk about heaven! Paul is using these words of encouragement, not for a grieving congregation, but for a fighting congregation, in the midst of power struggles, and, particularly, in the midst of rejecting him. And here, in the middle of addressing those concerns, he moves into a long and very beautiful description of the way in which the promise of heaven can encourage those who are suffering-- whether physically or mentally. He does not want his people to lose heart, in the midst of a world that can be so ugly, so harsh, and so devastating. Even in physical decline, even when faced with illness or the challenges that can come with aging, he asks the people to consider it a preparation for that moment when it will all be transformed into a glory he can't even quite describe.

This is not it, he insists. This pain. This sorrow. This is not it. And if you do not see the joy and transformation in this life, he holds up God's promises that we surely will see it in the next.

This image comforts me so. The soldiers have their limbs again, and whole and perfect brains. The children no longer have the wounds of war. The infirm are hale, and walk upright. Everyone has their original knees and hips!

I don't mean to be glib, or silly. Physical suffering in this life is no joke. I read last night about a ten year old boy, named Seven Bridges, who took his own life because he was mercilessly teased by school bullies about having a colostomy bag. The suffering that child endured makes me weep. And my hope is in the Lord who promises he is not only whole, but in the arms of a loving Father-Mother God who has removed all that pain and even the memory of it.

I don't know that that would be a comfort to his parents, though.  Even believing what I do, I don't know that I would be comforted by it, if that were my child.

We have these promises, and they are beautiful and they can be a source of strength under certain conditions.

But I don't want us to give up on this world. Right now a dream of peace among nations; justice and equity/equality for every person; peace among peoples of differing complexions, ways of worshiping God, ways of loving; a world in which there are no hungry or homeless people; a world in which the air is clean and the water is pure and human beings are the priority, and not profits.... right now this dream seems so very far away.

But I don't want us to give up on it. I can't. I won't. I won't give up on this world, no matter how beautiful the promise of what is next may be.

Lent Day 19: Yeast

And again he said, “To what should I compare the kingdom of God? It is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.”  ~ Luke 13:20-21

Yeast.

My first experience with it was in college: I bought something called the Tassajara Bread Book, and taught myself how to bake bread. This was in an era when I was buying books about holistic health practices and imagining my life to be taking a kind of hippy-ish turn. Earthy, crunchy granola girl. Goals.

I was a junior in college, in a six-person suite, and my friend Jean was witness to my efforts. I'd grown up in a household in which my mother was self-described as being "NOT a baker." She sent me to her friend, Cecily's house at Christmastime, to learn how to bake cookies. She never made cakes or cupcakes; why should we, when there was Minos bakery in Atlantic City? The one thing I remember my mother baking was an apple pie, that was hot and fresh one day when I got home from school. But bread? Never. Not in a million years. You could buy bread anywhere.

But there I was, 19 years old and learning how yeast "proofs," or gets activated. It needs fluids and food to bring it alive-- like anyone, I guess. So, I provided, as the book instructed, lukewarm water and honey, and mixed in the tablespoonsful of yeast and watched as it spread, and bubbled, and declared: I'm ready.

Same baking book, thirtysomething years later. 

What followed was work, a kind of work I still love. Measuring and stirring, sure. But what makes bread is the kneading, and kneading is a whole-body experience. You do it with your hands, and elbows, and shoulders, and back, and hips. You put your whole self into kneading, and it is an exquisite workout. Kneading is what gives the bread its texture. Kneading helps the bread to rise by ensuring lots of air is also mixed in with what by the end of the 15 minutes (prescribed by the book) must be a thousand layers of dough folded in upon itself, again and again.

The work the yeast does is to help the bread to rise. By the time I was finished with my four fragrant honey-whole-wheat loaves, it was three in the morning and Jean and I were both delirious, me giddy with baking and the prospect of sitting down to cut into a loaf; and Jean, with French reflexive verbs.

"I've had a vision," Jean said. "The verbs are little ferrymen."

And we sat together, laughing, dipping hot bread in honey, and ate.

Jesus tells this tiny parable, only 24 words in the Greek (35 in English), and, as in so much of Luke, a woman features as the main actor in the miniature story. In the original Greek she "hides" the yeast/ leavening in the flour, until it all is leavened. Maybe "hides" because ancient people weren't so comfortable with leavening. It freaked them out. It was alive in an unpredictable way, and so it actually, for most people, symbolized something insidious, something uncontrollable, that could make mischief or even mayhem.

But Jesus doesn't use it that way.

Because now, bread is possible-- bread, the staff and stuff of life; bread, the word we use to indicate all sustenance; bread, the very least that every human being has a right to have, because no one in a civilized society should be denied it.

That, Jesus says, is what the reign of God is like.

Something unexpected, done by someone unexpected, makes something good.

Not only good, needed.

Not only needed, loved.

Not only good, needed, loved: but a source of life itself.