“As I Have Loved You”

I’d like to start with a confession: I am fed up, fed up with all of the meanness. You probably know what I mean. I turn on the television or radio news and all I hear is bitter, divisive spin. I hear citizens saying abusive things about their elected officials; I see elected officials dragging each other through the mud; I hear pundits encouraging broken relationships and hard feelings with explosive hyperbole. It is out of control.

And it is infectious. Political views and perspectives on morality cause hatred and anger, splits and fractures. Friendships ended. Families divided. A country alienated from itself – not to mention the world. And it finds its way into churches: rumors spread, distrust festers. This anger and fear: it spreads like termites in a forest of dead stumps; it spreads like silly you tube video of a kitten. It spreads until one day we awake in a spiritual civil war – hating our brothers and sisters because they believe the marginal tax rates should be higher or lower or because of differing views on gay marriage.

As Christians it is impossible to justify. As Paul would say, “How can we say to another member of the body of Christ, I don’t need you?” Each Sunday during the 8am Rite 1 Liturgy, I say before the Gloria, “Hear what our Lord Jesus Christ saith: Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all they heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the Prophets.” That Jesus says that loving our neighbors as ourselves is “like unto” loving God, should clue us in to just how important love is to Jesus.

In the synoptic tradition, the Gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke, we should note, that when Jesus makes this statement, he is actually answering a question put to him by a scribe: Which commandment is first of all? And of course, as we have seen, Jesus answers by quoting two passages from the Torah – one from Deuteronomy and one from Leviticus.

And the truth is it is plenty hard to love God with our entire being, and just as difficult, if not more so, to love our neighbors as much as we love ourselves. But today’s passage from John is not a reflection on the Law or a response to a question. Instead it is Jesus’ commandment for his followers and it is even more difficult.

In response to the scribe Jesus said, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” To his disciples, his followers, his Church, Jesus says, “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.” Jesus said this to his disciples on the night he would be betrayed by one of his own disciples, arrested in the garden, and then, soon thereafter, crucified. And he would do it all for love. “Love one another as I have loved you.”

When we look at the state of the Church in the 21st century, in just the few short years, it is a decade marked by schism and anger, division and accusation. Christians unwilling to co-exist with their fellow Christians. Episcopalians unwilling to co-exist in the same denomination with their fellow Episcopalians. Congregations split in two by ideological disagreement. Theologian Miroslav Volf wonders, “Why do Christians demean each other so often? Partly because we forget that ways in which we seek to achieve goals matter as much as the goals themselves, that means *are* goals.” Jesus primarily commands us to love; the Church’s primary goal so often seems to be to win.

If we cannot love our brothers and sisters in the Church as much as we love ourselves, if we do not value each other, want for each other the love and joy we personally desire for ourselves and our families, what chance do we have of obeying Jesus’ command to love one another as he loves us.?

Loving each other in the Church is a good starting point. If we cannot love our brothers and sisters in Christ, if we cannot love our brothers and sisters in our own parish, we will never be able to love like Jesus. Jesus died for his friends but Jesus also died for those who hated him, who mocked him, who killed him. Jesus says, “Love one another as I have loved you.”

And when I think about the depth of our cultural divides, the brokenness of Jesus’ Church, when I think about the pain and violence that stains our world, it is easy to believe that Jesus’ hope for us will never be realized.

But even when I am at my most fed up with the meanness of our human situation, I still have hope.

Today, besides being Easter 6 and Rogation Sunday, it is, in the secular calendar, Mother’s Day. You might know that today is my wife’s first Mother’s Day as a mom. When Oscar was born in September, he displayed very little of the amazing charm he does now. He could not smile. He did not give us kisses. He cried and ate went through plenty of diapers and, occasionally, slept. If anyone else in the world, especially in those first few days of acquaintance interacted with us in a similar way, that person would be very difficult to love. They would in no way merit love – let alone unconditional, all-consuming love.

And yet, from the moment Oscar was born I watched his exhausted mother love him without reservation. She did not know him, his personality, his future flaws. And yet, I know she would have, without hesitation, laid down her life for that feeble newborn baby.

I’ve witnessed mothers sacrifice, lay down life, for children with disabilities and disease. I’ve witnessed mothers struggle with their children through addiction. Love that is unconditional, persistent, strong. It gives me an idea of the love with which Jesus loves us, with which Jesus wants us to love one another. And it gives me hope. If God, the one who is Love, can mysteriously plant within us a spontaneous, unconditional love, then maybe that spark can grow and spread. If a mother can love a child unconditionally – modeled after Jesus’ love for you and me – maybe there is still hope for us.

It is Jesus’ most difficult commandment: love one another as I have loved you. But it is only so difficult, so seemingly impossible, because Jesus loves us that much. Like the hate that threatens our unity, this love is infectious too. Friendships restored. Families reconciled. And it finds its way into the Church too. And when it does we see that in Christ we are one body knit together in love rather than a collection of scattered body parts dying alone.

Love one another as I have loved you: It is Jesus’ most difficult commandment. It is so difficult, so seemingly impossible, and that is the good news. We are loved. Jesus loves you; Jesus loves me; Jesus every single person with so much love. Love that is so persistent, so all-consuming, so unconditional that it seems impossible. But it’s not.

Looking Like the Vine

I don’t know much about grapes. I mean, I know they taste good. I know they come in many sizes and colors. I even watched the film Sideways – the 2005 Best Picture Nominee starring Paul Giamatti. But I don’t drink wine – except on Sunday mornings. I have never toured a vineyard. I have never pruned a vine in hopes of a stronger yield, of better fruit. I don’t know much about grapes. But I do know this: they are not like apples or oranges. They are not isolated fruits; they come in bunches. And they grow on vines.

Like last week, we get another “I AM” passage from John’s Gospel. Last week Jesus said, “I am the good shepherd.” This week Jesus says, “I am the vine.” These are just two of the many ways in which the early Church explored the complexities of being in an intimate and mystical relationship with one who had been crucified, resurrected and is now ascended out of sight.

As with any 2000 year-old metaphor written in Greek and translated into English, some details are clearer than others. One of the details that is lost in translation is “you.” Not you, but the word “you” which here, in this passage, always plural. And that means this passage is not about you – individual – it is about you – community of the faithful. Jesus’ message is not a personal salvation plan; it is an invitation to the Church.

When we read this passage divorced from the community context, it can easily become a dangerous passage – a justification for cutting off others from Jesus, from the life-source. I remember a story of a particular church in Michigan. A friend of mine attended a church growth conference and the pastor of a mega-church style congregation spoke about their, or maybe his, church growth successes. Not too long before, when this pastor arrived, his church was a small congregation – with an older demographic, like many churches. He wanted to grow that church, to increase the numbers. And so he decided that the best way forward was to start pruning. My friend was shocked that the pastor proudly proclaimed that he grew the congregation by intentionally driving off the people – 80% of his original congregation left. The proof that this was the good and proper thing to do was evidenced by their average Sunday attendance. The church had grown large without the old 80% holding them back.

I don’t think this is the pruning Jesus is talking about in John’s Gospel. I don’t get the sense that Jesus believes people are disposable, that the Kingdom of God would be better off with only the right people, purged of the slow movers, purified of the wrong people. Jesus spent a lot of his ministry with the wrong people. I mean, Jesus even kept Judas around as long as Judas would stay. Jesus’ goal is not to get rid of the many to keep the few winners. Jesus instead invites the many into an intimate relationship: Abide in me as I abide in you.”

The vine and the branches is a love story. In the verses that immediately follow today’s Gospel passage, Jesus continues to invite his followers to abide. Abide in me becomes abide in my love because one can find no distinction between Jesus and Love; he is love incarnate; love in human flesh. The vine and the branches is a love story between Jesus and the Church.

In the heart of Jesus there is a dwelling place for his Church – abide in me as I abide in you. This mysterious community of individuals bound together by baptism, who share in the life, death and resurrection of our Lord, those who are marked as Christ’s own forever, we are invited to abide in Christ – even as that dwelling place promises to transform us. We are invited to drink of the one cup – the blood of the vine. Abide in me as I abide in you. It is an invitation. It is a love story.

Jesus said, “I am the true vine.” It is Christ who binds us together, who is the source of our common life. The Church is then an extension of the presence of Jesus in our world. But we are human and that is why the pruning is necessary. We do not love as perfectly as does Jesus. In the community there grows up branches that are foreign to the love of Christ. I am not talking about people. You might have a few people in mind, but I am not talking about people. I am talking about things like prejudice, hatred, violence, bitterness and jealousy. I am talking about those things that oppose the love of Jesus, that hinder the Church’s witness to his love. Anything that prevents us from loving each other, anything that prevents us from respecting the dignity of every human being, anything that distorts the image of Christ that is in us, those things must be cut off. Any branch that does not bear fruit – those outward and visible signs of our intimate relationship with Christ – has got to go.

Like all relationships, the relationship between the vine and the branches develops and matures. The Church has seen a lot of pruning, many dead branches, and a whole lot of fruit since Christ ascended out of sight twenty centuries ago. And yet, we are not complete, not perfect, still growing and changing; we still need pruned so that Jesus’ love might be better expressed in our world. It takes time and trust; we, members of the Church, branches on the vine, are always in the process of becoming disciples, of looking more like Jesus, more like the Vine.

I don’t know a lot about grapevines, but I pay attention to my bushes. I watch the little branches develop on one of the bushes outside of my house. When a new branch first emerges, it is very obvious – the color is different from the primary branch. It is floppy and weak – can barely support a tiny leaf. But over time, the connected branch becomes stronger; over time, it looks more and more like its source. Until one day it is almost indistinguishable. Until one day – can you imagine it! – the branch looks just like the vine.

The Good Shepherd

The Gospel of John offers us many meaningful images of Jesus. The image of Jesus as light and vine and pre-existent Word, but perhaps no other image has captured the Church throughout the ages like Jesus as Good Shepherd. I suspect if I polled the gathered assembly today – and I am not going to – but if I did, many here would choose the image of Good Shepherd as a favorite – even though most of us have little to no experience of shepherds.

This attraction to the Good Shepherd is nothing new. In the ancient Church, it was this image – not the crucified Christ or Christ as King – that was most often painted on the walls of the worship space: a young Jesus carrying a single lamb on his shoulders. Before the Church moved from the catacombs to the Basilicas of Rome, the Good Shepherd was the most prevalent image in the Church for Jesus.

In some ways Jesus as Good Shepherd was a bold metaphor for John’s community to choose. Before Jesus, the Good Shepherd metaphor, as we see in today’s Psalm, was only applied to God. And so the Good Shepherd metaphor applied to Jesus was actually a controversial theological claim within the 1st century Jewish religious culture. In fact, after today’s passage John’s gospel tells us that some of Jesus’ listeners leave convinced he has a demon for making this claim.

Jesus says, “I am the good shepherd” and the listeners still hear it in many ways. This is one of the reasons the Good Shepherd metaphor has survived the urbanization of the culture and the industrialization of livestock farming: the image has the ability to speak in many different ways, many varied voices; it is full of meaning.

The most prevalent voice has been Shepherd as comforter. This comes, at least in part, from Psalm 23. In today’s Psalm the Shepherd comforts the sheepish psalmist. This is applied also to Jesus in the early Church: Jesus the Good Shepherd carrying the lamb on his shoulders. At various points in the history of the Church the comforting Shepherd has been the most cherished image. In the earliest Church, when the Church was in its infancy, the Shepherd comforted a persecuted Church, facing violence at the hands of the Empire and often isolation from family and friends for Jesus’ sake. And again, in the past century, a century that saw two World Wars and unprecedented technological changes, changes in cultural attitudes toward the Church, the image of the Good Shepherd has again become a treasured picture of comfort for members of the flock. When the Church needs comforted, the Good Shepherd is how we see Jesus.

But while the Shepherd comforts, he does not make comfortable. He comforts; he assures; he dispels anxiety. But the Good Shepherd is not leading his flock into complacency. We know too much of Jesus, from the Gospels, from our own lives, to believe that Jesus is calling us to comfortable complacency. In John, Jesus’ Good Shepherd speech is located between two episodes in which Jesus makes people angry, causes controversy by challenging the religious institution, pushes against complacency.

The Good Shepherd is the one who lays down his life for the sheep. The Good Shepherd cares too much to allow the sheep to perish in the field. The Good Shepherd comforts, but the Good Shepherd also makes the sheep uncomfortable.

One of the responsibilities of the shepherd is to move the sheep. The lamb on Jesus’ shoulders in the 1st century depictions is being carried by the shepherd to a new place. You will not be surprised to know that I have known some members of the flock, in my years in the priesthood who, shall we say, are not terribly interested in changing pastures. But there are just times when the pastures are no longer green. If we trust that the shepherd is good, we sometimes have to trust that Jesus knows where we need to go next.

We in the American Church, in the Episcopal Church, in the Diocese of Ohio, in St. Andrew’s frequently hear about a lack of resources: fewer people and less money. As the culture shifts so quickly around us, as we find ourselves, as the Church, no longer in the center of society, we struggle to find the balance between what has been and what is next. The fields that have long supported us, in some cases, have dried out, run out. And when that happens, we, the flock, must decide, “Are we willing to follow the Good Shepherd into a new pasture?”

It is never easy. The green pastures and still waters, the right pathways are right there with the valley of the shadow of death. The table is set and the cup is running over but trouble is in the scene too. The Good Shepherd is with us but there are still wolves. The pathway to the green pastures is not guaranteed to be easy.

After the resurrection, during that first Easter season, Jesus’ followers had to relate to Jesus in new and challenging ways. They followed him physically first but after the resurrection he came to them in ways that were not always immediately recognizable. And then he ascended and they could only see him with the eyes of faith. And it was the image of Jesus the Good Shepherd that made the most sense to them.

The first followers of the Risen Christ lived in a time in which they needed both a comforter and someone to lead them into new pastures – as they left the synagogues for the world’s mission field. Jesus as comforter and leader. Jesus the Good Shepherd.

Being led by Jesus, trusting that he is leading us into a better future, means that we do not get to lead ourselves; we are trusting one we cannot see, who is not always immediately recognizable. That can create anxiety within the flock. Many of us value stability in here because out there is a fastly changing world. And it is true the Church does offer a stability, something on which we can rely no matter what – but it is not our buildings or our liturgies or our institutions or clergy, as lovely and important as those things are. It is our Good Shepherd. The presence of Jesus is our eternal home. We need not be afraid because our Shepherd loves us with his life; he is always with us. And he comforts us when we are anxious. He leads us when it is time to move on. And in those moments in which we are too scared and just cannot take the next step, it is then that the Good Shepherd finds us and lifts us up and puts his precious lambs on his shoulders and carries us through.

More than Good Morning

Does today’s gospel story sound a little bit familiar? Last Sunday we heard a similar story of the Risen Christ and the disciples. Now you might have noticed there are some differences in the two narratives. The Gospel of John emphasizes the gift of the Holy Spirit; it focuses on the nail marks as proof of the resurrection. And of course, John tells us of the dramatic encounter of Jesus and Thomas – a story of that tells of a journey of faith and conversion.

The Gospel of Luke gives us a slightly different perspective. Luke never mentions the wounds but instead focuses on the physicality of the Risen Jesus: hands and feet and fish. Luke, unlike John, saves the gift of the Holy Spirit for the dramatic Pentecost event in the sequel to the Gospel of Luke: the book of Acts. Luke also omits any mention of specific disciples.

And yet, for the small differences in the two stories, there are some important parallels as well. In both Gospels stories, given to the Church through the disciples, affirmed by independent attestation, Jesus greets his disciples with peace.

In the back of the Book of Common Prayer there is a section titled “An Outline of the Faith”. It is commonly called the Catechism. In a question and answer format, the outline explores topics from Human Nature through Christian Hope. It can be a helpful resource, a good starting place for anyone who might want consider who we are as Christians and why we do what we do. In the section of the catechism called “The Church” is the question: “What is the mission of the Church?”

“What is the mission of the Church?” is an important Easter question. Even our Gospel text today ends with a commissioning. The Risen Christ is sending his disciples as witnesses to all nations to proclaim the Good News. As Easter people, as disciples of the Risen Christ, this is our task too. Jesus calls us to bear witness to the resurrection, to share the Good News.

During our vestry retreat in February, your vestry also explored this important question. What they came up with as a group can be found on the cover of your bulletin. Would you do me a favor: please turn to the cover and read it with me.

The mission of St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church is
To offer ourselves in worship to God as a loving, supportive community
To follow Jesus Christ and share his love with family, friend, and stranger
To serve others as Christ teaches
To deepen our understanding of and relationship with Christ

The statement is our unique way saying what the catechism offers as the mission of the Church: to restore all people to unity with God and each other in Christ. Every minister of the Church, lay and ordained, is called to carry on Christ’s work of reconciliation in the world, to be ambassadors of peace.

For us, the sharing of peace is a liturgical action. It is something we do – week in and week out – as a community. Actually most of Jesus’ interaction with his disciples in today’s passage has a liturgical significance: searching the Scriptures, eating a meal, sharing the peace, proclaiming the forgiveness of sins and even a dismissal. And it all happens on a Sunday – the day of resurrection. This is church; this is Sunday worship. The disciples just did not know that when they all came together. But Jesus showed up and so Let there be Church.

Jesus begins the service with a greeting: “Peace be with you.” Last Sunday I was able to enjoy Sunday worship with my family. It is a rare occasion that the three of us actually get to sit together in a pew. And so for us that shared Sunday is a real treat. At the church we attended though, I noted that there was no opportunity to share the peace of the Lord, instead there was a time to say good morning. It might seem to some like I am knit-picking here, but there is a difference. “Good morning” is a friendly enough greeting. It is polite. It is fine pair of words to offer as you pass a co-worker in the hall. Good Morning is about being nice. But the Peace is about reconciliation. When we pass the peace each Sunday we are living our mission as the Church.

To really understand the peace of Christ, you have to know the back story – what happened before Jesus showed up, before he stood among his eleven remaining disciples. Before this they abandoned him, they betrayed him. And he was killed and they were gone. Together and yet alone – separated. The last time they were all together was in the garden. When you walk away from a dead man, you do not expect to have to face that person again. And yet here he is, standing among them. He could have said a lot of things – rebuke, instruction, expressed his frustration. But he never brings up their failure. They do not deserve it; they did not earn it: he opens with peace; he offers them reconciliation. What was broken is restored. Restore all people to unity with God and each other. Jesus’ mission. And Jesus’ mission for us.

When Steve first shared his interest in the Kairos prison ministry with me, I decided to look into the ministry. I talked with a man who has been long involved. The story he told me about the ministry was all I needed to hear. One of the men who attended the Kairos weekend was on death row. He had committed murder. During the weekend, he encountered the Risen Christ; he had a conversion experience; he became convinced of the power of God’s forgiveness. He believed Jesus wanted him to be reconciled to his victim’s family. And so, he requested a meeting with them. He needed to repent, to ask for their forgiveness, to offer them a gift: his cookies. An offering of peace.

Though it must have been heart-wrenching, the family agreed. They sat down with the man who murdered their loved one. They came to the prison not just once, but they continued to meet with him. They heard his confession. With God’s help, they built a relationship. And then they wrote a letter to the governor and had the man’s sentence commuted. He was no longer sentenced to death. They saved his life. This is the mission of the Church. The man who had committed murder did not earn the peace of Christ the family shared with him. He did not deserve it. But they were called by Jesus to restore all people to unity with God and each other and he was a person. This is what the ministry of reconciliation looks like.

We live in a world that is desperate for peace. Violence and war. Division and strife. This is where people live. And our mission is to share the peace of Christ, to speak peace into the chaos, to be ministers of reconciliation. People are isolated and divided, separated from each other and from God. And they need the peace of Christ.

Every Sunday we practice. Before we present our offering at the altar, before we eat together, we share with each other the peace of Christ. In doing so we are not just saying “good morning” we are restoring unity where there is fracture. The sharing of the Peace is a moment of reconciliation in the context of the liturgy. Restoring people to unity with each other in Christ.

But like with everything in the liturgy, what we practice here, is not meant to stay here. Beyond our doors is a world of chaos and pain, littered with broken relationships. Our mission is not to rebuke or instruct or express our frustration. We are called to share what Christ has shared with us. Something we do not deserve; something we do not earn: peace and reconciliation with God and our brothers and sisters. The Gospel is: What is broken can be restored. We come bearing the peace of Christ. Reconciliation. It is the mission of the Risen Christ. And Jesus’ mission for us.

- The Vestry continued to discuss possible changes in the chancel area of St. Andrew’s. The removal of the old organ console has left holes in the floor which need to be repaired. The Vestry continued to think about whether this might be a good time to make other changes to the chancel since work needs to be done. This conversation will continue during the month and at the May Vestry meeting. All are encouraged to speak to members of the Vestry with any ideas or concerns they have.

- The Vestry approved the installation of a baby changing station in the upstairs restroom. The station was donated by ECW.

- The Executive committee will talk further with the Lucas County Health Department about designating our building as an emergency vaccination facility. The Health Department contacted us about this. We are already designated as an emergency site for the American Red Cross.

- The Vestry gave approval to the Building committee to install wooden hand rails in the Holy Rood chapel.

Respectfully submitted,

Mike Saccoccia, Clerk

No One Ever Gets to Stay

No one ever gets to stay. Like a baby bird pushed from the nest, like an addict emerging from rehab, like a baby in the womb: from comfort to the unknown. It always happens. No one ever gets to stay.

This story begins in the darkness. Mary came to the tomb under the protective cover of darkness. It was as if the darkness was her armor. John does not tell why she came to the tomb so early, but Jesus was condemned and killed as a criminal so perhaps the darkness protected her from the eyes of those who mocked him, who tried him, who put him to death. The darkness can be scary but it also casts a thick covering. And so Mary came to the tomb while it was still dark.

But that would not last; the cover of darkness would give way to light. It always does; no one ever gets to stay. The light will come out and the hidden-ness will fade away. Enough light reveals the mouth of the cave, the mouth that was supposed to be covered by the stone, the stone that was supposed to divide darkness from darkness. And it was gone.

And so she runs. No one ever gets to stay. She runs to tell. She runs as the light, ever-increasing, takes over the darkness. She runs without her cover, without her armor, even though eyes can see her – a little more revealed with each hurried step. She runs now but she will be back. She will be back because the promise of hope never gives up. Because God always pushes light through the cracks. If God is up to something, despair does not get to stay.

She does return. Mary returns to weep because now not only has her Lord been killed, now his body is missing. And the darkness of despair is grown to the point of overwhelming. She weeps. She weeps because there was nothing left – nothing left to say, no one left to tell, nothing left in the tomb. Just emptiness. And no one to save her. Her savior was dead. She watched him die and now even his body is gone. Just nothing.

This is how the first Easter morning began for Mary. If we are tempted to believe Easter is just pure happiness and fun, this Gospel reminds us that Easter is the third day after a death. On Easter Mary still weeps. Easter does not undo the past; Easter makes sense of it.

The Easter story is not creation story; it is re-creation. It is not birth; it is resurrection. Re-creation, resurrection occur after something dies. The Easter story is that God does not just make new things, God makes things new. And for those of us who have lived lives, who have wept beside graves, who have lost something important, the God of resurrection is our only hope.

Mary was not left in her despair. She did not stay there. No one ever gets to stay. Someone called her name. Someone said Mary. There she stood, cheeks stained with tears, and someone called her name. The garden, the place where humanity was born, was the place of re-birth – things made new. A single gardener bringing forth new life in the garden. And that new life was for her too. She knew it the moment he said her name. Jesus said her name.

Who would not want to stay there forever – in the garden, in that moment? At the sound of her name, the sadness, the despair was gone. She was being re-born in that garden. She who that very morning came to that place under the cover of darkness – afraid, ashamed, alone – was transformed. Her own resurrection. She wanted to hold onto Jesus. She wanted Jesus to be her personal Lord and Savior. She wanted to hold on; she wanted that moment – Jesus and Mary and the garden – to last forever.

But no one can ever stay. Because if she stays no one else knows. If she stays the resurrection is just for her. And God’s salvation is not a personal matter. God always wants more. And so Jesus tells her to go. Like Adam and Eve from the first garden, like Abram from his homeland, like the children of Israel from the land of Egypt, like the three disciples from the Mount of Transfiguration: no one can ever stay. Like Mary from the garden. No one can ever stay.

This Easter message, this Easter story, is not something we are meant to hold onto. It is our story to share. Stories of the times we have met the risen Christ in the garden. Stories of the times Jesus called your name. Stories of a God who still does resurrection, who still makes things new, who still overcomes the darkness of despair with the light of hope. You have a story to tell.

There is a reason churches are filled with hard wooden pews: we do not want you to stay here. No one ever gets to stay. If you have seen Jesus, if you have experienced Christ here, then you need to go. There is a world full of people standing in the darkness, staring into the emptiness. There is a world full of people who live as if Good Friday is the end of their story. But you know the rest of the story. You know it does not end with the emptiness; it does not end with the weeping; it does not end in loneliness or despair.

Mary left the garden. No one ever gets to stay. She ran again – just like she did when she found the tomb empty. She runs to Jesus’ disciples again – just like she did when she found the tomb empty. But this time the run has a bounce, the tears are tears of joy, the message is hope and salvation – things made new. Jesus called her name. She saw Jesus. And you cannot leave an experience like that in the garden. Because that experience, the experience that transformed her life, was not just for her. It belonged to her but it belonged to everyone.

If Mary had held onto Jesus, just the two of them in the garden, kept that intimate moment for herself, the story dies, the hope goes unshared, the power of the resurrection is not spread. But Mary risked her heart. She ran with that intimate moment. And the same love that transformed her transformed the world.

No one ever gets to stay and that is a good thing. Jesus wants us to go. Don’t stay here. Share your story – it belongs to you but it belongs to everyone. Shout it into the darkness. Cry out into the emptiness. Tell the world that you have seen the Lord. And he is alive and he has transformed your life and he is still making things new. No one ever gets to stay. And this is why: you have a story to tell. Go.

Water and Blood

This was the same Jesus who said, “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink.” It sounded like a metaphor. And then the spear pieced his dying side. And out it flowed – water. Like a flood, like a promise, like thirst fulfilled. It sounded like a metaphor; it looked like much more.

And not just water. With the water there was blood too. Life-giving water. Life-containing, life-carrying water. The stuff of life: water and blood. The stuff of his life. It was leaving his sacred blood. It was spilling onto a patch of dirt that was rich with death. Out it poured onto the ground – the ground that held crosses, the ground that supported the death penalty, ground in need of redemption. Somehow that blood and water was hope pouring into a moment of hopelessness.

Once I saw this with my own eyes: healing blood, unexpected hope. In a hospital room. It was a self-inflicted gun shot wound to the face. The scene was a mix chaos and anger, ex-wife and girlfriend, property claimed and debated. And in the room we stood around a dying man – to pray, to pause, to say goodbye. The situation was so terrible. What else was there to do? And as the final prayers went up, and as eyes were closed and hands were clasped, I saw the blood emerge. Into that prayer spilled the stuff of life. It was death. But into the chaos, the blood mixed with the prayers, prayers for a sinner of God’s own redeeming, and somehow the Spirit of Peace filled a room in desperate need of redemption like hope pouring into a moment of hopelessness.

We never get to Easter without Good Friday. There is no resurrection without death. And you can ask the question, “Who are we that gaze upon images of our dead Savior, that we sing praises at the grave, that we place our hope in the resurrection of the dead?”

Perhaps we are fools – fools who gather to remember the death of their Lord, fools who believe his death might be called “good.” But from that sacred wound we see our hope, our salvation. Water to make us clean; water that promises to kill us with Christ but then raise us to newness of life in him. Blood to sustain us; blood that we drink as salvation.

Water and blood: the stuff of life. The stuff of his life. From his sacred body into our desperate lives. It is Good Friday. Our Savior is dead. But somehow that water and blood tells us that from the ground of hopelessness hope will rise.

Maundy Thursday 2012

“How could you laugh at a time like this?”  That is what I thought they thought or maybe what someone actually asked us.  Of course I was filled with regret the moment the stifled air passed through my lips, but it was hard not to laugh in those silences, those serious moments, sitting beside my friends in the Pentecostal church of my youth.  It is not as if anything was funny.  But, boy, was it difficult to not giggle when giggling was so inappropriate – never during the loud praise music, always during the sermon or a prayer or the altar call.  “How could you laugh at a time like this?”

The question stings more than a simple cease-fire, more than a firm but understanding look.  “How could you laugh or eat or smile or say that or whatever at a time like this” suggests that the very action is a violation of something important.  It accuses the violator of sins of both omission and commission.  “How could you” is never looking for an answer; the answer is very much in the question.

“How could he eat at a time like this?”  I couldn’t even eat before playing a concert.  And here Jesus is facing death – the culmination of plotting and scheming, of anger and hatred.  And the betrayal was on his mind – one of his chosen, one of his friends.  His disciples were gathered – the final time all of them would be together.  Them with him, he with them.  “That the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed…”  He would leave that meal and go to the garden to wrestle with God and destiny.  But first a meal, a gift, a legacy.  Do this in remembrance of me.  How could he eat at a time like this?

How could he think of cleanliness at a time like this?  In times of extreme stress and busyness hygiene usually finds itself relegated to the back burner.  Could Jesus not have hit the Temple for one final sermon? Or healed a few last people? Or plotted ways to save his own life rather than concede to the inevitable?  John’s Gospel tells us, “Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world.”  And for him that means it is time to wash the feet of his disciples.  He gets up from the meal, takes a basin and a towel and kneels before those who call him Lord.  And he washes.  And he cleans them – not just their feet but them entirely.  He knew the hour of death was upon him but first wash the feet, a gift, a legacy.  “For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.”  How could he think of cleanliness at a time like this?

Eating and drinking and cleaning.  Acts that seem far too common for such a heavy week – so common it is as if they are a violation of something important.  How could he be so common when accusation, passion, death and salvation were so close?  How could he be so common at a time like this?

And, really, how could he love at a time like this?  If ever there was a time to fear, to rage, to fight, this is it.  He will leave that room – that room of eating and drinking and cleaning – and will walk into the arrest, the trials, the beatings and the cross.  That is next and he wants to talk about love, he wants to teach love, he wants to love.  If fight or flight is the natural human choice in that moment, Jesus takes a pass.  He does not fight.  He does not flee.  He loves at the table.  He loves at the feet of his disciples.  He loves to the end.  His gift, his legacy.  It was the love that was so offensive; it was the love that cost him his life.  So how could he love at a time like this?

And how does he expect us to follow his example at a time like this?  Henri Nouwen says, “Jesus calls us to continue his mission of revealing the perfect love of God in this world.  He calls us to total self-giving.  He does not want us to keep anything for ourselves.  Rather, [Jesus] wants our love to be as full, as radical, and as complete as his own.”  But if we did that, if we did not keep anything for ourselves, if our love were as complete as Jesus’ love – the love that was so offensive, that cost him everything – this world would devour us – body and blood, like bread, like wine.  We would be crushed in a world that values only the strong survive.  We might be taken advantage of.  Perhaps others might think us naïve or weak or foolish.  Naïve, weak and foolish like the kind of people who would gather and rehearse, re-member, a two thousand year old ritual.  Eating and drinking and cleaning.  Common stuff.  And believe it is holy stuff.  And ask ourselves the question, “How can we be like Jesus at a time like this?”

Please join us Sunday, May 20 at 4pm for music that will make us smile and tap our toes. American Rhapsody, Charleston Rag, Strike Up The Band, Twentiana and a Salute to George M. Cohan.

Reception with conductor and musicians to follow.

Tickets are $15 each and $10 each for students.

Click on the picture below for a full sized form.

Passion Gospel of Mark

Misunderstanding Jesus

I guess it was all just a misunderstanding.  If they would have known, certainly things would have been different, the story would have ended differently.  Not with a cross.  I guess it was all just a misunderstanding.

Judas must have misunderstood him.  Surely, he would never have handed over Jesus if he really knew who Jesus was.  He betrayed the Son of God for some money, the ability to buy stuff, metals to which a society gives a value.  And he was willing to use a kiss, an intimate gesture.  It was all so crass, so cheap.  I guess it was all just a misunderstanding.

The high priest and the religious authorities must have misunderstood him.  Surely, they would never have treated the Messiah with such contempt.  They were waiting for the Messiah; they were expecting him.  They were searching the Scriptures, combing the prophecies.  This was their life.  It is ironic, isn’t it?  The ones most eager to meet the Messiah are the same ones who successfully plot his death.  How embarrassed they would have been if his testimony had convinced them – especially after the spitting and mocking and beatings.  Religious torture; a kangaroo court.  I guess it was all just a misunderstanding.

Pilate and the Roman officials must have misunderstood him.  Surely, they would not have released Barabbas in Jesus’ place.  Barabbas was a rebel.  He had committed murder.  He was the kind of political insurrectionist whose corpse the Romans would use as a billboard, as a warning.  But the charge against Jesus was that he was making a play for the throne.  “The King of the Jews”: that is what the sign above his dying head said.  In the Empire, there is one Lord, one King.  And the cross was a good indicator of who was not that king.  Jesus came to preach peace and love, to heal the sick and feed the hungry.  It seems that kind of king was a threat.  Treason.  The penalty: death.  I guess it was all just a misunderstanding.

The disciples must have misunderstood him.  Sure, they were his closest friends, his companions but they were always uncomfortable when he talked about suffering and death.  They tried to change the subject, to think happy thoughts.  But it turns out he was correct.  The arrest was happening.  And they should have been prepared; Jesus tried to ready them for the consequences of discipleship but human beings are not great at consequences and so the scene in the garden – with the swords and clubs: they were not ready.  The Messiah is supposed to win, not die.  I guess it was all just a misunderstanding.  All of them deserted him and fled.

And the disciple pulled a sword.  Peter denied him three times.  The temple guards beat him.  The crowd shouted, “Crucify him!”  The soldiers twisted a crown of thorns for his head.  The passers-by derided him.  The crucified bandits gathered the strength to taunt him.  I guess it was all just a misunderstanding.

They could not see the Messiah through Jesus’ humility, through his poverty, through his humanity.  But then after Easter, everything changed.  The ones in this story did not have the key to understanding Jesus.  They had not yet witnessed the vindication of the Messiah.

But then, after that first Easter, still: Roman Emperor Constantine put a cross on battle shield.  The Pope called for the Crusades.  The Roman Catholics and Protestants burnt each other at the stake.  White Christian men formed the KKK.  US Marines were given machine guns engraved with Bible verses.[1]  All done in the name of the Prince of Peace, the humble King.  I guess we are still misunderstanding Jesus.

Every person in the Gospel who should have known Jesus, who thought they knew Jesus, were wrong: Judas, the religious leaders, the political leaders, even his disciples.  But he was not a cash cow, or a failure, or a blasphemer, or a common enemy of the state.

And there was only one man in Mark’s passion who gets that.  There is just one man who stayed, who looked upon the Crucified One.  Anybody else in the story should have known Jesus better – his disciples, the religious leaders, the political leaders – but they didn’t.  Only one person in the story understood: a Roman soldier, an enemy of the Jewish people, the one who pulled the shift at the foot of this Cross, the one who stayed by Jesus when everyone else was long gone.  He was the only one who understood, the only who understood Jesus.  Not cash cow, not failure, not blasphemer, not enemy of the state, but Son of God.  Jesus is only understood at the foot of the cross, and the unlikely centurion was the only one there, the only one who understood.  “Truly this man was God’s Son.”