More Than a Memory (Luke 24:1-12)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on Mar 27, 2016, Easter)

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How Distant That Easter Morning

“Perplexed.” “Terrified.” “In disbelief.” “Amazed.” These are the words that today’s scripture uses to describe how the women and the other disciples react to the empty tomb. The other gospels use similar words: “Alarmed.” “Afraid.”[1] And if the gospels tell us how they felt on the inside, we can imagine how they looked on the outside that morning: their tired footsteps, their unkempt faces, their sunken eyes from the anxious nights.

How distant that Easter morning! Could our experience today be any further from theirs? We are happy, well rested, comfortably and nicely dressed. We arrived this morning at ease, maybe even casually, and why shouldn’t we? We already know how the story ends.

How can we possibly conjure up the sense of surprise that Jesus’ followers felt on that Sunday morning? We may sing “hallelujah,” but how do we feel “hallelujah” the way that they would soon feel it? We can honor that first morning of the week the way we honor an anniversary, but how do experience it firsthand? How can we discover that empty tomb the way that the women did?

A Tomb Is a Memory, a Memory Is a Tomb

The truth is, that empty tomb is not nearly as far from us as we might expect, even though we are separated from it by thousands of years and miles. In the Greek, the word “tomb” is literally something like “memorial”; it’s a close cousin of the word for “memory.” All of which is no coincidence. The two are nearly interchangeable. A tomb is a memory, and a memory is a tomb. Both enshrine what is past.

And so I imagine that, as the women were visiting the tomb in the morning, they were also revisiting a host of memories. “Remember the way he would gently rest his hand on your shoulder? Remember how we felt such peace, how our anxieties and even our illnesses just dissolved? Remember the stories he told? I love that one about the dinner feast where strangers off the street are invited in. Remember the way he would recite scripture and then bring it to life with words of his own? Remember…?”

There they are, stumbling through their memories, stumbling into the tomb. And then suddenly two strange men appear, asking, “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” In other words: “You will have about just as much luck finding a living, breathing Jesus in your memories as you will in this tomb. He’s neither among the dead in the ground nor among the dead in the past. He has risen. He’s out there in the world.”

Following the Women into the Tomb

Here, I believe, is where we step into today’s scripture. Here is our bridge into the story, what makes the story real for us too. Because we have all followed the women into the tomb. From time to time, we all stumble back into our memories, which is just to say, we all stumble back into those tombs of ours that mummify the past—and sometimes us too in the process.

Growing up, my family had two cats: Whiskers and Tigger. Whiskers passed away first. And for weeks after that, Tigger would curl up and sleep in Whiskers’ favorite resting place. I won’t pretend to know the psychology of cats, but my best guess is that Tigger was resting in the memory of his deceased brother. He had followed Whiskers into the tomb, and for weeks he could do nothing more than sleep there.

In the last few weeks, a friend of mine who lives in Libya, whom I help to practice English, has been on my mind. A close uncle of hers died recently in an automobile accident. Ever since then, her correspondence has been sparse, sometimes messages of one or two words. I imagine that her grief has led her into a swirling mix of memories. I imagine that right now her life is little different than a tomb.

We have all been there. A dear friend passes away. A close relationship ends. A great dream dies. And early in the morning, when we wake up to this loss, we follow our memories into the grave. We travel to the tomb—carrying spices so that we might dress it up and dwell there, so that we might try to preserve the memory and pretend for just a little bit that the life we knew has not ended.

But upon arriving, if we listen closely, we will hear an otherworldly voice ask: “Why do you look for the living among the dead?”

Celebrating in a Tomb 

(When Christ Is Outside)

And I think we may hear that same question this morning. It’s tempting to celebrate Easter the way we might celebrate a memory, as we might a birthday or anniversary. It’s tempting to say, “On this day in history, Christ was resurrected. On this day in history, Christ defeated death.” But to treat the resurrection as merely a day in history, merely a memory, and to hold onto it as we would a time-stamped ticket for heaven, is, in a way, to keep the risen Christ entombed, to keep the resurrection buried in memory. And so the question that the women hear, becomes a question that challenges us: “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” Why do we look for the risen Christ in a memory, among the events of history? That may be for the historians and the philosophers, who occupy their time with the words and deeds of men and women long dead, but it is certainly not for us. Why do we fixate on something that happened in the past, if it’s not something that’s happening right now?

And it is happening right now. At least, that’s what the two strangers say: “He is not here, but has risen.” Try as we might to entomb Christ in a single memory, in history, we find that Christ has risen and gone elsewhere. Christ is outside—God knows where!

And that is the perplexing, terrifying, amazing, alarming, fearful, unbelievable gospel of Easter. Christ is alive in our world—in yours and mine. Let’s not fool ourselves. This is the gospel we need: not the feel-good story that Jesus triumphed over death some two thousand years ago and one day we’ll all be in heaven, but the real and good story that Jesus is alive right now. Because right now is when we need Jesus. Our lives are full of brokenness. Our world is full of death. And if Easter doesn’t feel real, that’s probably because we’re celebrating in a tomb, in a memory thousands of years ago.

“Let Us Not Mock God with Memory”:

Christ Is Alive

Novelist John Updike once wrote about the resurrection, “Let us not mock God with metaphor.”[2] While I appreciate his concern for the ways we overspiritualize and dilute the resurrection, I would suggest a slight revision: “Let us not mock God with memory.” Let us not play at celebrating something that happened only in the past. Because it’s here in the present. Christ is alive. You have felt it, I’m sure of it! Just as Tigger felt it one day, when he got up from Whiskers’ resting spot and discovered new life. I don’t know how the spirit of the risen Christ entered into him—perhaps through a squirrel spotted through the window, perhaps through a shadow playing on the wall. Christ is alive, I’m sure of it! Just as my friend in Libya will feel it one day, when she will step outside the tomb of her uncle’s memory. I don’t know how the spirit of the risen Christ will revive her—perhaps through the inspiration of her uncle’s good gifts to this world, perhaps through the call she feels to practice peace and compassion amid the anger and division of her world in Libya.

Christ is alive, I’m sure of it! Search your own life for the risen Christ, for resurrection, for unaccountable moments of new life. When have you gone to the tomb of your memories, carrying spices to dress them up as a lifeless stand-in for life? When has the risen Christ raised you to new life? Are you living right now in a tomb? Then as farmer and poet Wendell Berry says, “Practice resurrection.” Look for the risen Christ.[3]

Today we stand in exactly the same position as those women at the tomb. Whether we are dwelling in the memories of good things gone by in our own lives, or simply in the memory of what happened nearly two thousand years ago, we hear an otherworldly voice: “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen.”

Prayer

Risen Christ,
You are the resurrection in all things—
In that tomb thousands of years ago,
In our lives today.
It is a gospel so terrifying, amazing, alarming—
So unbelievable—
That sometimes we prefer
The security of our memories.
Raise us to new life, even in our fear and doubt.
Inspire us to practice your resurrection
In the world around us.
In the name of our life, Jesus Christ. Amen.

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[1] Mark 16:5, 8, respectively.

[2] John Updike, “Seven Stanzas at Easter,” in pp. 72-73 of Telephone Poles and Other Poems (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1962).

[3] Wendell Berry, “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front,” In Context 30 (1991): 62.

"Do You Know What I Have Done to You?" (John 13:1-17, 31b-35)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on Mar 24, 2016, Maundy Thursday)

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Where We Normally Hear This Question

“Do you know what I have done for you?”[1] By itself, this question paints the scene of confrontation. We can easily imagine a parent uttering these words in response to a son or daughter’s flippant request for more money. Or we can hear these words coming from a long-suffering spouse who demands to be appreciated. “Do you know what I have done for you?” It calls to mind a friend who feels taken for granted. It conjures up a hard-working manager who feels from her employees only resentment, and not a trace of gratitude.

“Do you know what I have done for you?” It’s the kind of question that’s followed up with an appeal for recognition, if not reciprocation. “Do you know the sacrifices I’ve made?” “The least you could do is show some appreciation.”

“Do you know what I have done for you?” It’s the sort of exclamation that can stop a dinner in its tracks, that can leave forks suspended in midair, jaws hanging open.

John’s Memory:

Not the Last Supper, but Its Interruption

Which, apparently, is what it did on that last night—according to the scene that John paints us. Of the four gospels, John is the only one that passes over the poured cup and the broken bread. There’s no mention of holy communion in John. John’s memory is fixated not on the meal itself, but on the interruption of the meal, when Jesus stops it in its tracks.

According to John, “during supper, Jesus…got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself,” and began washing his disciples’ feet (13:2-4). One moment, he was their teacher, presumably sitting at the head of the table, and the next, he looked like a slave, moving about the table, kneeling before each disciple. Peter’s reaction registers how much of a surprise this was. In the Greek, he responds initially in stunned, fragmented phrases: “Lord, you? Me?” (13:6). We can almost imagine his fork suspended in midair, his jaw hanging open.

When Jesus finishes, he returns to his spot at the table and asks that pregnant question: “Do you know what I have done to you?” But when he asks it, he is not asking it the way we normally do. He’s not saying, “Do you know the sacrifices I’ve made? The sacrifice I’ll make?” He’s not saying, “Do you appreciate what I’ve done?” Or, “The least you could do is say, ‘Thanks.’”

Not a Demand for Recognition or Reciprocation or Reverence:

Love Without Why

What Jesus does on that last night is not a demand for recognition or reciprocation or reverence. What Jesus does is without why. It is completely contrary to our logic of give-and-take, of cost and benefit. He washes our feet not so that we, in return, wash his; not so that we fully appreciate just how much he has sacrificed for us. He washes our feet, according to John, because he loves us (cf. 13:1, 34).

Tonight is as simple and as mysterious as that: love. Tonight Jesus does not just tell us about love. He embodies love. He shows us love in bent knees and splashed water, in open hands and shared food, in a heart that beats for us right to the very end. Maundy Thursday is not simply a night to remember the same way that we might remember the famous last words of a great teacher or the compassionate last act of a leader. It is a night to plant deep within our hearts, to let grow within us, to let animate us. It is a night to turn over and over—for everything is in it. The shadow of death did not distort or darken the life of Christ. If anything, it enlivened it. He lived fully in the face of death, loving us to the end, loving us as he always had, as he always will.

Prayer

God who carries towel and basin,
Who kneels before us,
Who loves us even in the face of death,
Especially then—
May your love inspire us
To take up our own “towels and basins,”
To live for others,
To serve them with bent knees and open hands.
In the name of our hope, Jesus Christ. Amen.

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[1] In the Greek, the “you” is in the dative case, which allows for both the translations “to you” and “for you.” I make use of this variability, first imagining how the question sounds with “for you,” then reimagining how Jesus uses it in the sense of “to you” (which is also how the NRSV translates it).

Where Jesus Is (Not) Welcome (Luke 19:28-40)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on Mar 20, 2016, Palm Sunday)

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“Just Think of All the Adventures”

“Can we keep him?” one of the kids asks. “He’s been hanging around our house for weeks now.” The mother remains quiet. This is a delicate matter. The kids have always wanted a pet, but do they really understand the responsibility that a pet would mean? “See how well-behaved he is?” the child appeals. “He purrs when you pet him.” The mother tilts her head, trying to find the right response. The child continues, “And he’ll make life funner. He’ll do silly things that make us laugh. When it gets boring, he’ll surprise us. And we’ll have all sorts of adventures together.”

“Well”—the mother finally ventures to speak—“I can see how excited you are about all the possibilities of having a pet. But all those possibilities are exactly why we need to be careful. Even if he is fun and well behaved, there are many possibilities about him that we are not prepared for. Having a pet means big changes: feeding him, changing his litter box, taking him to the vet when he’s sick. And those adventures that you’re imagining—they might not all be fun.”

“Are you saying no?” the child pouts. Slowly the mother nods, “At least for now. Maybe when you’re a bit older, and your dad and I have more time, we can reconsider.”

Tales of Mixed Welcome

It’s a familiar conversation, and chances are, sometime in your life you’ve been on one side or the other of it. Sometimes, as a compromise, a family will sort of adopt a stray animal: they’ll put food outside, tolerate its napping on the back porch, and maybe even allow it indoors during a bad storm. They offer it hospitality—but only up to a point. Only up to the point where it requires little change, little responsibility on the family’s behalf. Up to the point where it doesn’t become a threat or risk to the family’s lifestyle. But as soon as the stray animal trespasses against the family’s personal time or invades its personal space, it is rejected.

In a curious way, it’s a bit like today’s scripture. The tale of our stray cat and Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem are both stories of mixed welcome. Both are stories of just where the line is drawn, just how far hospitality is extended.

Jesus and Jerusalem

At first glance, Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem is modest enough, even humble. Like the stray who’s content to hang out on the deck, he appears happy enough just as he is. He enters on a lowly colt—and not his own colt or his disciples’, but a borrowed one.[1] This is not someone bearing privilege and presumption. The powers that be in Jerusalem, the metaphorical heads of the household, would presumably not be so worried by someone like this.

But there’s more to the story than meets the eye. In the Old Testament, entering Jerusalem on a colt is a powerful symbol signifying victory. It’s basically a claim to the throne, a declaration of kingship. And if Jesus’ entry on a colt would have raised the eyebrows of the Pharisees, who were the self-appointed religious authorities in Jerusalem, then seeing him received enthusiastically by crowds of followers would only confirm their suspicions. This man could turn things upside-down if they’re not careful.

Whatever misgivings the religious authorities may have had, the crowds of commoners are beside themselves with happiness. The scripture says that they are crying out with joy for all the “deeds of power” that they had seen. In the Greek, the word for “deeds of power” is a lot simpler. It’s a noun that comes from the word “to be possible.”[2] So in a basic sense, it means that the crowds are crying out with joy for all the possibilities that God opens. They are praising the God of Perhaps, the God of Maybe, the God of what lies beyond our dreams, the God of things to come. Like the children who want to adopt the stray cat, the crowd is focused on the adventure in front of them, on the wild possibilities of the future. They welcome Jesus because they desire new life.

And it’s for this very same reason that the powers that be in Jerusalem protest Jesus’ entry, telling him to pipe down. They don’t want new life. They are content with the way things are, with the order that they’ve established. They’re happy enough with the God of their Temple, the God of security and stability, the God of what they know. What else would the powers that be want except to stay safely in power?

Receiving Jesus with the Crowds and the Pharisees:

With Joy and Terror

Every year, thousands of churches celebrate Palm Sunday by re-enacting the story: bringing palms into church, singing “Hosanna,” proclaiming Christ as king. Part of the reason we do this, I think, is because it feels more natural to identify ourselves with the crowd who celebrates Jesus’ arrival to Jerusalem. Why would we re-enact the grumbling of the nay-sayers? We’re the followers of Jesus, not the religious authorities who protest him.

But I think if we read the story a bit more graciously, we’ll see that these authorities have a place in our heart too—perhaps even in the center of our heart.

If you traced the story of Luke, it would be one long journey from Nazareth to Jerusalem, from some podunk town to the center of the world, the seat of power. Is that not the story of faith? Does not Jesus journey from the outskirts of our lives to the center of our heart? And just like the family who is alternately excited and anxious about the stray cat, just like the crowds and the Pharisees who are alternately awed and afraid about Jesus, we too receive Jesus with both joy and terror.

Security or Faith

At first, we cannot help but be overjoyed by all the things Jesus does and says. We feel new life pulsing through us as we hear him proclaim good news to the poor and freedom to the oppressed, as we see his compassion for the ill and the blind and the needy, as we are caught up in his stories of redemption and hope. With Jesus, there is always more to life: more than we’ve seen, more than we’ve heard,[3] more than we know, more than we can know. We’re like children on Christmas Eve or on the cusp of a new pet. There’s just so much possibility. How could we not be like the crowds who receive Jesus with such joy?

But the closer he comes to the center of the heart, the more we begin to think seriously about what this means—or more precisely, about how we cannot know exactly what this means. The closer he comes, the more we become like concerned adults: the more his words become a threat or a risk to our way of life. “Deny yourself and take up your cross”? “The first will be last”? “Sell all you own…and come follow me”? “Love your enemies”? “Forgive those who persecute you”? The closer Jesus comes to the center of our life, to the temple of our heart—where “God” becomes another name for what we know or what we want—the more we are inclined to reject him. Because to welcome him would mean to welcome new responsibilities: not a litter box or a food bucket, but an embrace for strangers and enemies as well as friends. To welcome him would mean to welcome change and risk: not a furry ball occupying our favorite seat, but love and forgiveness, the kind that expose us to a future we cannot control, the kind that opens us up to hurt and heartbreak. To welcome him would mean not security but an adventure.

Prayer

God who comes,
So humbly and yet so insistently,
Whose way of love inspires us to joyful praise
Even as it threatens us with change,
With hurt and heartbreak:
Welcome into our hearts.
Welcome into the temple of our lives,
Where sometimes we confuse what we want with who you are.
Surprise us. Confront us with the holy risk that leads to abundant life.
Amen.

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[1] This would appear to be consistent with the way Jesus identifies himself. He links himself to the poor and the needy, and describes himself as someone who has no place to lay his head (Matt 8:20; 25:35-36).

[2] The plural noun in our story, dunameon, comes from the verb, dunamai.

[3] 1 Cor 2:9.

A Smell of Many Tales (John 12:1-8)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on Mar 13, 2016, Lent V)

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Smell: A Portal to Other Worlds

Recently one of my friends was asking me about my experience in England. I mentioned that I had had the opportunity to travel a little bit, and that, yes, I had made it to London a couple of times. She jokingly asked, “Did you find Hogwarts?” I was saddened to reply, “No…. I didn’t.” Platform Nine and Three Quarters may exist in the imagination of J. K. Rowling, just as the enchanted wardrobe may exist in the imagination of C. S. Lewis. But in our world, or at least in my experience, there are no such things as portals that magically transport you to another place.

Today’s scripture, however, reminds me that perhaps I’ve spoken too quickly. Perhaps there are such things as portals that whisk us away to another time and place. Perhaps there are unseen doorways that drop us off in a different dimension. For what else is smell, if not an invitation into the enchanted reaches of our mind, into images and emotions that lie obscured in the misty distance of our memory?

Consider for a moment how “immediate and invasive” a smell can be.[1] It’s just like a magic portal, where a single touch (intentional or not) instantly transports you somewhere else. When I smell freshly cut grass, I am swept back to a summer haze, soccer in the backyard, burgers on the grill, my mom snapping off mint leaves for the tea. When I smell a certain musty scent of long-closed closets or old books, I am hurtled back to my grandpa’s basement, where my brother and I would sit for hours on the cold, bare floor and play marbles, where we’d sleep on two beds side-by-side and wake up to the welcome clamor of a pancake breakfast being made upstairs. When I smell the fragrance of crayons and chalkboards, I am whisked away to Short Pump Elementary, and all of the sudden, I am flooded by a host of uninvited feelings: the nerves I felt every morning stepping through those big metal doors, the excitement I felt when we’d sit down for a new story, the fear I felt whenever a teacher would call on me.

The list of smells goes on and on. Some are deeply unique, and others are shared. I would hazard a guess that among the smells that transport you elsewhere, there would be the brackish scent of salt water and sand dunes, or the friendly fragrance of freshly washed linen, or the sweetly smoky aroma of a woodstove, or the smell of a childhood friend’s house. We may all be sitting in church right now, but chances are the mere mention of one of these smells has transported us somewhere else as well.

“The House Was Filled with the Fragrance”

They say a picture’s worth a thousand words. If that’s the case, then perhaps a smell is worth ten thousand. I’d imagine that the original storyteller of today’s gospel story would agree. Reading today’s scripture, I get the distinct sense that as he tells the story, he can recall the striking scent of Mary’s perfume. I get the sense that he is reliving this story and many stories, all at once.

Listen again to his telling of the climactic scene. Martha is serving supper, Lazarus is eating alongside Jesus, and then all of the sudden—this: “Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume” (12:3). Who else would report a detail like that, make such a claim—“the house was filled with the fragrance”—except someone who was there in the house and was himself overpowered by the fragrance?[2]

And I imagine that our storyteller is overpowered by more than just the fragrance. Mary’s act itself is extravagant and reckless. What she does is unparalleled. In a culture where women would normally refrain from touching men in public, and would certainly refrain from letting their hair down—they left that to ladies of the night[3]—it’s no wonder that what Mary did becomes memorialized. I’d bet this is the kind of thing the disciples would recount years afterward. “Remember the time that Mary…?” And I imagine they’d follow that up with a pensive silence, or perhaps a remark like: “I’m still wondering what she meant by that….”

The Many Meanings of Mary’s Anointing

The storyteller hints at one possible motivation. He says that Mary “anointed” Jesus. To anoint someone with oil in ancient Israel was to appoint him or her to a special role, especially a role like king. Mary would have undoubtedly heard Jesus talking about the kingdom of God. Perhaps she is anointing him king of the kingdom. Perhaps…. But as the storyteller would know, and as we do too, this was a very different king, and a very different kingdom.

Which is perhaps why Mary anoints Jesus differently than most kings. Most kings are anointed on their head. But in rather bizarre fashion, Mary anoints the opposite end of Jesus’ body. She anoints his feet. Why? She never says. But only a chapter later, we will find Jesus himself washing his disciples’ feet. So perhaps Mary overturns the tradition of anointing—exchanging feet for head—because Jesus is overturning the world’s idea of a king and kingdom. It’s only fitting to have an upside-down anointing for an upside-down king and kingdom. What else could you call a king who washes his followers’ feet, or a kingdom where the last is first, where the true leaders are the servants—if not “upside-down”?

Indeed, this kingdom is unlike any other on earth. It would begin not with the death of its enemies…but with the death of its own king.[4] Which presents yet another reason why Mary would have anointed Jesus: in fact, it’s a reason that Jesus himself points out. Mary’s oil is anointing him not only for kingship, but also for burial. Would Mary have known what was going to happen to Jesus? They say “a woman knows.” And I suspect that a woman would have known better than a man, in that day in age, just what would happen to someone who challenged the authority of men in long robes and men wearing crowns and the men who made judgments at the city gate, someone who instead gave pride of place to the sinners and the tax collectors and the prostitutes.[5] I suspect Mary would have known what would happen to such a man.

A Smell That Unites What We Would Separate

So I imagine that the smell of nard would have been more than just a single portal for whoever told today’s story, more than just a flash of remembrance. I imagine that for him, that perfumed fragrance would have been a crossroads of memories, that it would have whisked him away into several different stories at once. Perhaps the aroma’s first floral notes would have sweetly recalled Jesus’ anointing as a king. But then the subtle spicy tones that followed would perhaps have recalled the strange—one might even say spicy—act of footwashing: first Mary washing Jesus’ feet, then Jesus washing his disciples’. So this king’s kingliness was not in power or force but rather in loving and serving others. And then, I suspect, there would be detected a sharp trace of bitterness in the smell, and this could not but remind the storyteller that this king’s love was selfless and sacrificial to the point of death. And of course, whoever told this story originally must also have known that death was not the final word of these stories. And so contained within this scent is also the unbelievable story of new life.

So many stories contained within this single smell. And they cannot be separated, one from the other, just like you can’t separate swimming and sunburn and sandy feet from the smell of saltwater, just like you can’t separate grilling out and games and good friends from the smell of hamburgers on a charcoal fire.

The significance of this single smell is that it unites what we prefer to separate. We talk about Jesus as king or Lord all the time, but when we do that, we tend to repress the idea of Jesus as a humbled and dirty footwasher, or a convicted criminal on a cross. But for Mary of Bethany, this anointing captured in a single scent who Jesus was: king, selfless servant, and crucified criminal, ultimately convicted of challenging this world’s self-centered ways.

And for the storyteller? I imagine that the fragrance of this story was dear to him because it brought Jesus back to life, in a way that was very different but just as real as Jesus’ resurrection, in a way that reminded him of what it actually meant to step foot into the upside-down kingdom of God.

And for us who do not know the smell quite so personally, how do we understand the story? I think we honor it by honoring its many stories, and especially at this time of Lent: we recall Jesus entering Jerusalem on Palm Sunday as a king, but we quickly discover on Maundy Thursday that this king leads by love and service, and then on Good Friday that this love and service will lead him to death…and then on Easter, to new life. And perhaps we’re honoring these stories already, every Sunday, when we gather at the table. For there our king serves us, demonstrates the depths of his sacrificial love for us, and invites us into new life.

Prayer

Master of the universe,
Humbled and dirty servant of the world—
May our memories of you be
Exalted and lowly, bitter and sweet,
Reminding us that the way of life
Is also the way of the cross.
And may our lives be a gospel aroma
In a stagnant world desperate for good news. Amen.

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[1] Maria Popova, “The Poetics of Smell as a Mode of Knowledge,” https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/10/28/lewis-thomas-on-smell-long-line-of-cells/, accessed Mar 9, 2016.

[2] Leon Morris, The Gospel According to John: Revised Edition (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), 513, considers that this notice may be “a reminiscence of someone who was there.”

[3] See the Mishnah—Ketubot 7:6—for how important it was for a woman to keep her hair bound. A woman who “goes out with her hair unbound” may be divorced without the return of the dowry.

[4] Inspired by a remark from Rachel Held Evans, “Woman of the Passion, Part I: The Woman at Bethany Anoints Jesus,” http://rachelheldevans.com/blog/women-of-the-passion-anoint-oil, accessed Mar 9, 2016: “Clearly, the Twelve struggled to conceive of a kingdom that would begin not with the death of their enemies, but with the death of their friend.”

[5] See, again, Evans, “Woman of the Passion.”

The Gospel of Recklessness (Or, Forgiveness According to Jesus) (Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on Mar 6, 2016, Lent IV)

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“I’m Sorry”

The little girl gets up from the dollhouse to fetch another toy. When she returns, a bona fide horror confronts her eyes. A boy has commandeered the dollhouse. And just like that, the tranquil domestic scene that she had worked on so painstakingly has been overturned. Now there are dinosaurs stalking the living room, Batman is cooking up some kind of trouble in the kitchen, and the master bedroom is so acrawl with soldiers it resembles Gettysburg more than it does a bedchamber.

The little girl lets out a scream of dismay and points a trembling finger at the offender. “Look what he’s done to my house.” The teacher takes stock of the situation, and after a moment’s pause, addresses the boy, “Jonathan, what do you say?” The boy quickly realizes there’s no way out. He replies sheepishly, almost inaudibly, “I’m sorry.” “Don’t say it to me. Say it to Emily.” The boy raises his eyes toward the little girl, and says again, “I’m sorry.” The little girl’s suspicious eyes appraise the boy’s face. “He doesn’t mean it.” The teacher allows herself a quick roll of the eyes, before addressing the boy again, “Do you mean it, Jonathan?” The boy repeats his line, this time adding a little extra for insurance, “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” The girl begrudgingly sighs, turns, and gets to work on the gargantuan task of renovation. But only for a moment—because the teacher is there, now, tapping her shoulder. “And what do you say, Emily?” Emily turns and mutters, “I forgive you.”

Before I go any further, allow me to clarify: I am not the holy terror of this story. Even so, I have lived through countless iterations of this encounter, as I’m sure you have, as I’m sure countless children do every single day, whether out on the playground or inside the classroom or out back in the backyard. This scene is as old as Adam and Eve, as old as the first couple—I’m sure of it—for how else can a relationship survive if not for the words, “I’m sorry,” and equally, “I forgive you”?

The Finance of Forgiveness

This ancient, time-tested exchange of “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you” has deep roots in religion. We can find it in the practice of Temple sacrifice. The sacrifice effectively says, “I’m sorry,” and provided that it’s done in the right spirit, God is near-obliged to respond, “I forgive you.” We can find it in the prophets, who implore the nation of Israel to repent, to say, “I’m sorry,” for then, who knows, God may respond, “I forgive you.”[1] And even today, in a world that is fast losing religion, at least in its traditional forms, we find this logic of forgiveness all over the place. In fact, it might be better called a financing of forgiveness, for there is a certain exchange going on in it. Whether it is brokered by priests and rabbis, or by folks on the street, it operates like a financial transaction. The offender “pays” for his crime in order to “earn” forgiveness. Because he’s shown adequate remorse and made reparations, he is “owed” forgiveness.

Think about the little girl who complained, “He doesn’t mean it.” What she’s actually protesting is the insufficient funding of forgiveness. To “earn” forgiveness, a person must meet the asking price, which commonly involves the following: to (1) acknowledge the wrong, (2) say “I’m sorry,” (3) mean “I’m sorry,” and (4) resolve not to do it again. The little boy may have admitted his wrong and may have verbalized as much, but in the little girl’s judgment, he fell short of the asking price: he hadn’t meant it, nor had he yet indicated that he wouldn’t repeat his offense.

In this sense, then, forgiveness follows “the logic of banking, which tries to keep risk to a minimum.”[2] To forgive someone means to strike a worthwhile and perhaps even profitable deal, to insure yourself against future loss and perhaps even grab an extra bit of compensation on the side.

Only for the Non-Sinners?

I imagine that it’s this business of forgiveness that gives today’s scripture its wheels, that sets it rolling. Because everything gets started when the pious religious folks grumble about Jesus “welcom[ing] sinners and eat[ing] with them.” In other words, Jesus wasn’t gathered around the table with repentant sinners, with sinners who had sufficiently funded their forgiveness. He wasn’t hanging out with sinners whose debts had been cleared by the bankers of reconciliation. Jesus was eating and drinking with sinners, plain and simple.

And that was scandalous. Because for the religious leaders, and for many of us, “forgiveness is [actually] reserved for non-sinners,” for folks who have said sorry and made amends and cleared the sin from their name, while for all we care, “the sinners can go to the devil unless
and until they shape up and stop sinning.”[3]

The Parable of a Reckless Father

And so, as Jesus is wont to do in moments of conflict and confusion, he tells a story. An incredibly rich story, a story that I’m afraid to touch lest it lose its passion and punch. Any interpretation, I’m afraid, would only water it down. So allow me to say only a few words, and perhaps you’ll want to go back later and sit with the story on your own, to ponder its many gaps and questions.

The story is familiar to many. A reckless son—tradition calls him “prodigal”—demands his inheritance from his father. He then liquidates his inheritance, and travels abroad, recklessly spending all he has. When he comes to his senses, he decides to return home. Like most of us, the son holds an economic understanding of forgiveness. He rehearses what he will say to his father, and it includes every requisite payment: the confession, a genuine show of remorse, and a sizable penance fee (he will forfeit his status as a son and become as a slave!).

But his anxious rehearsal comes to naught. As Jesus tells the story, “While he was still far off”—in other words, before he even had a chance to say, “I’m sorry”—“his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and puts his arms around him and kissed him” (15:20). Then the son begins what he’s rehearsed, but it’s as though the father isn’t listening, because before the son can finish his lines, his father is already orchestrating the servants to prepare a feast. For the father, forgiveness is not a financial transaction, an exchange of freedom for remorse. For the father, forgiveness is a gift, pure and simple.

Of course, that’s not how the older brother sees it. The older brother cannot make heads or tails of this exchange, cannot balance these crazy accounts. He has been working all his life and never gotten a party, and here is his wasteful, reckless brother, who has done absolutely nothing to merit a party…and his father is throwing a grand celebration. And herein lies the beauty of Jesus’ parable, I think. This father is no banker. He’s no accountant. He is a father. And he loves his children, gives them good gifts, and desires to see them alive and happy. He is a reckless man.

Forgiveness Is Reckless

If the parable that Jesus tells today is any indication, the ancient and venerated exchange of “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you” is not the whole story of forgiveness. In fact, the “I’m sorry” may obscure the story of forgiveness, because according to Jesus, to forgive someone is not about getting the teacher to extract an apology from the domestic intruder, nor is it about insuring yourself against future home invasions. It’s not about changing another person’s heart, but about changing your own, opening your own heart to the possibility of a different future. To forgive is to give a second chance, a chance over which you have no control. Forgiveness may desire transformation, but it never demands it. Such a demand would deprive forgiveness of its heart; it would freeze forgiveness into a cold calculation, a heartless logic, make it more like a piece of accounting software than the warm, full-blooded heart of a loving parent.

Forgiveness is reckless. It is not for the faint of heart. In a world that is all about winning, forgiveness is foreign. It guarantees not winning but weakness—the kind of weakness that carries a cross, that crosses out unforgivable sins. Forgiveness foregoes power, gives up control over what will happen next. It is not a good deal.

But it is gospel, good news. And like all gospel, it is risky, but well worth the risk. If the world turns solely on what people deserve, is balanced solely according to a never-ending account sheet of wrongs and mistakes, then we will never be free. We will remain captive to cycles of hurt and resentment. We will never step foot into kingdom of God. In the kingdom of God, the only currency of exchange—if we can even speak of such a thing—is precisely that which frees us from an economy of exchange: forgiveness.

The Table: God’s Ministry of Reconciliation

Today’s scripture begins and ends in the same place: a table. Jesus welcomed sinners, repentant or not, and ate with them. The reckless father welcomed his wayward son before he could even say a word and ate with him. It is fitting, and no coincidence, that all of this happens around a table. For we too will gather, in just a few minutes, around the table.

The table, it seems, is the centerpiece of God’s reconciliation. Bread broken and a cup passed: these are perhaps the simplest signs that we are welcome just as we are. There are the table we are recklessly forgiven. And there we hear the call to go and do likewise.

Prayer

God of compassion,
Who runs to us while we are still far off:
Open our hearts to the reconciliation
You are weaving in all things.
Guide us through our resentment and anger and hurt,
To discover deeper desires, desires for reconciliation.
Stir our spirits to join yours.
In the name of our forgiveness, Jesus Christ. Amen.

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[1] See, e.g., the mechanics of the sin offering described in Lev 16:15-19, or the prophet Ezekiel’s outline of repentance and forgiveness in Ezek 33:14-16.

[2] John D. Caputo, The Weakness of God: A Theology of the Event (Indiana Series in the Philosophy of Religion; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006), ebook loc. 4433.

[3] Caputo, Weakness, loc. 4429-4430.