"They Know His Voice" (John 10:1-10)

The Meaning of a Voice

“The sheep hear his voice…and the sheep follow him because they know his voice” (10:3-4). They know his voice….

Jesus uses the metaphor of sheep, but you don’t have to be a shepherd to understand what he’s saying. If you have a pet, you probably already know what he’s talking about. Your pet knows your voice. And this knowledge has nothing to do with the words you say. You could be reading Shakespeare to it, or you could be speaking nonsense. You could tell them about the weather or about work or about some deep, dark secret—and it wouldn’t make a difference. What they hear is not the content of your speech, but the sound of your voice. And that sound immediately hits their heart, not their head. It results in a feeling and a response. Your voice means safety, food, petting, playing. Recent studies have confirmed this for cats and dogs alike.[1] When you come home, and your pet hears your voice outside the door, they become happy to see you. Maybe they position themselves smack dab in front of the door, wagging their tail. Maybe they stand demurely at attention a few yards back, waiting to rub up against your leg once you enter. Or maybe they’re lazy…and they just open their eyes from wherever they are, content to see that you’re back.

But what if they hear a stranger’s voice outside the door? Chances are, their reaction is different. My parents have a couple of cats, and I’ve seen their reaction to strangers firsthand. One of the cats instantly retreats to the back bedroom closet, completely avoiding any encounter. The other stands back cautiously to assess the newcomer before deciding on an appropriate proximity. If the newcomers happen to be my four-year-old nephews, who are, like many four-year-olds, rather loud little humans, she will climb to the highest point in the house, where all parts of her (most importantly her tail) are out of reach.

If you’ve never had pets, maybe you’ve had experience with babies. Have you ever tried to quiet someone else’s baby? It is, in my opinion, a poisoned chalice. You will always be shown up by the mother. Because the baby, who does not yet know the contents of our speech, who can’t tell the difference between nouns and verbs, knows voices. The baby knows the voice of its mother, the voice that means safety and snuggling, the voice that means food and warmth.

What the Baby Knows

I wonder if what the baby knows (and what pets know), is actually the most important knowledge there is. A baby, of course, will grow up and go to school, where it will learn the alphabet and big words and math, and it will learn theories and laws and how to solve all sorts of complex mechanical problems. It will gain knowledge upon knowledge. But what is the value of all that knowledge, if it does not know what a baby knows. If it cannot distinguish the one voice that matters most. If it does not know where it is safe and loved and cared for.

I guess what I’m realizing, as I read today’s scripture, is that the knowledge of a voice is pre-cognitive. It’s heart knowledge, not head knowledge. It has nothing to do with intelligence or know-how or ability. It has everything to do with being honest and trusting what our body already knows. When the baby hears its mother’s voice, its body relaxes. The sobs subside into deep breaths. That voice means shelter and nourishment and companionship. That voice means “I shall not want” and “surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life” (Ps 23:1, 6). That voice teaches trust. It is the basis of faith.

Other Voices

The surprise for me in Jesus’ metaphor is that he does not differentiate between the sheep. There are not right sheep and wrong sheep, believers and unbelievers. We are all God’s sheep. We all already belong. Jesus is not urging us to be good sheep, as though that were a condition of God’s love. His point is not about us but about the voices we hear and follow. He distinguishes between the good shepherd and the thief. Can we, like sheep, recognize the voice of the good shepherd, the voice that means provision and guidance and care? Can we recognize this voice viscerally, in the depths of our bodies, just as a sheep (or a pet or a baby) instinctively knows?

Trauma is becoming a popular word these days, as psychologists come to recognize that it’s not only catastrophe that shapes us, but also little events that lodge themselves into our body and our memory in a big way. Some people talk about “lower-case ‘t’ trauma” to refer to these little events, which could be a friend’s disapproving frown or scowl imprinted on your memory, a harsh word from a teacher that echoes in your mind every time you think you’ve failed, or a parent’s refusal to acknowledge your pain. These little things become a very familiar voice. We instinctively know the voice of the thief, a voice that means fear and shame and separation, a voice that can “steal…and destroy” our life (John 10:10).

Some of my peers who have left the church have confessed that the sound of preaching or singing or prayer can make them feel uncomfortable in their own skin. They suddenly feel ashamed. They feel pressured to be someone else, to be someone better, to hide who they really are. They feel fear. Worry. Uncertainty. The voice that they hear does not put them at ease, as a mother’s voice puts her child at ease, but rather leaves them wondering if they truly are loved.

Now that’s not exactly been my experience, and I know many who would say that these folks are just thin-skinned or too self-concerned. But I wonder if maybe they’re just being honest about the voice that they heard. Because I do remember gratuitous descriptions of hell that left me doubting God’s love. I remember prescriptive prayers that filled me with shame. I remember friends giving their lives to Jesus every summer, out of dread that their sin had invalidated their previous conversion. So I wonder what voice I was hearing then. And I wonder now what the substance of faith really is. Is it what I learn and know in my head? Or what I learn in my body and know in my heart?

“Where Do You Expose Your Belly?”

What our pets know, what the baby knows—this, I think, is the most important knowledge there is. More important than knowledge of the Bible, knowledge of creeds or confessions, and knowledge of sacred rituals.

I know some pets, in the presence of their owner, will turn on their backs and expose their belly in a show of profound trust. Where do you expose your belly? It might not be at church on Sunday morning—that’s okay! What’s more important is that you can distinguish the voice of the shepherd.

I know some infants, in the presence of their mother or father, will close their eyes in a show of deep comfort. Where do you close your eyes?

[I’m going to pause for a moment and invite you to reflect on these questions. If something comes to mind, I’d invite you to write your answer anonymously on the notecard in your bulletin, and then to put your card in the offering plate when the offering is collected. I’m just curious to know where people hear the voice of the shepherd. And maybe we can make this space one where we hear that voice even more often.]

I’ve asked these questions because I believe that the risen Christ is in all our lives and that if we’re honest with ourselves, we can distinguish between his voice and other voices. Because other voices may make grand promises about happiness, about power, about eternal salvation, but leave us feeling discontented or ashamed or fearful. The voice of the good shepherd does not leave us feeling this way. It leaves us feeling safe, cared for, guided. It is a voice that genuinely fills us with hope, so that we stand at the front door and wait expectantly for it to open, so that our bodies relax in a posture of trust. Because we know the most important thing: the voice that means life, and life abundant.

Prayer

Dear Christ,
Whose voice means safety and nurture,
Warmth and companionship—
Sometimes we become distracted
By our quests for higher knowledge
And more control
…
Help us to know what babies know,
What our pets know;
Help us to know your voice,
So that we might eat at the table that you have prepared before us
And so that we might share its goodness and mercy with others. Amen.

 

---

[1] E.g., Carrie Arnold, “Your Cat Can Recognize Your Voice. Yes, Really,” National Geographic, https://www.nationalgeographic.com/animals/article/your-cat-can-recognize-your-voice, accessed April 23, 2023; A Gabor, N Kaszas, T Farago, et al., “The Acoustic Bases of Human Voice Identity Processing in Dogs,” Animal Cognition 25 (2022): 905-916.

Broken Open (Luke 24:13-35)

Of Broken Down Planes and Broken Down Plans

I haven’t been on a flight since the pandemic, but I’ve heard plenty of horror stories from people who have, everything from flights cancelled and not refunded to baggage lost and never returned. But these stories begin to blur together. If you’ve heard one, you’ve heard them all. The story that I remember most clearly is different. Someone was telling me about when their flight was delayed for hours. When the news initially broke that the plane was broken down and needed a repair, pandemonium ensued at the gate. A long line formed almost instantaneously, filled with angry people who were demanding their due, anxious people who were frantically seeking to make a tight connection, tired people who just wanted to be home already.

But toward the back of the line was a man whose face was unlike all the others. He wasn’t exactly cheerful, but there wasn’t a scowl or a frown or a worried look on his face either. He merely waited. Occasionally, his daughter, who was maybe five or six years old, would run up to him and whisper something in his ear, and he would smile. The daughter would run back to her mother and her siblings, who were sitting on the floor some distance from the gate, playing cards. After a while, the card game broke down as the youngest child began crying. Her mother stood up and gathered everyone into a caravan, took them on a trip to the nearby bathrooms, and then returned and sat down again. As the youngest child began to nod off in the mother’s lap, the others organized a game of charades, acting out various animals and characters for the mother to guess.

Finally, the father who was waiting in line made it to the front of the gate. The person who shared this story was within earshot of the conversation and was taken aback at the man’s demeanor. Everyone else in the line had spoken with some measure of resentment, feeling aggrieved at their inconvenience and insisting that they were owed something. But not this man. There was no story of grievance or hardship. No demands or justifications. Simply put, every person in front of him had brought their case against the airlines. But this man had no case. Instead, he began by commiserating with the gate clerk, acknowledging the strain that this situation must have put on him. He lamented broken down planes and broken down plans, but then he shrugged his shoulders and smiled, as though to say, “Here we are.” He then discussed options with the gate clerk and made alternate plans for his family’s flight home. What stood out to the observer who shared this story was the gate clerk’s face as the man thanked him and left. The clerk was smiling, the strain momentarily gone from his neck, his face relaxed. This conversation had somehow opened him back up from the closed, defensive posture he’d been holding. Was it a coincidence, the observer wondered, that the clerk’s posture resembled the man and his family, who had held themselves so openly?

A Broken Messiah

The two disciples who are walking the road to Emmaus are broken down. When the stranger approaches them, Luke tells us that “they [are standing] still, looking sad” (Luke 24:17). What has broken them? They share with the stranger that their expectations have met a bitter end. Jesus of Nazareth, whom they had hoped was the messiah, the one who would “redeem Israel,” the one who would make Israel great again, had been crucified (24:19-21). In their mind, the crucifixion settled the matter. No messiah of God would suffer such a fate. The messiah would be victorious over the unjust powers of the Roman empire and the temple elite, not their victim.

But the stranger has the strangest of responses. “Was it not necessary that the messiah should suffer these things?” (Luke 24:26). In other words, was it not necessary that the messiah be the victim rather than the victor?

This one question turns the entire scriptures upside down for the two disciples. In their mind, Yahweh is a conquering God, the victor not the victim, the one who had defeated the Egyptians and the Canaanites and all who opposed the faithful of Israel. A broken messiah makes no sense. Yet, for this stranger, it is a broken messiah that makes sense of everything. He goes on to show how a broken messiah breaks open “all the scriptures” (24:27).

Let’s just sit with that for a minute. How often do we hear that the God of the Old Testament is different than the God of the New Testament? That the Old Testament God is angry and vengeful and violent? And no doubt, there are depictions of such a God in the Old Testament. But this is not the God whom the stranger sees in the Old Testament. I can’t know for certain, but I think that Jesus must appreciate scripture as human witness to divine encounter, which means that sometimes it shows us the culture of its human authors as much as it shows us the character of the divine God. Sometimes it shows us violence and patriarchy and slavery. And sometimes, through these dark clouds, a divine light shines through. So, as this stranger on the road shows us, interpretation is crucial. For every depiction of violence and vengeance in the Old Testament, there is also the repeated declaration that God is “merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love” (Ex 34:6; cf. Num 14:18; Neh 9:17: Ps 86:15; 103:8; 145:8; Joel 2:13; Jon 4:2). There’s no doubt which of these opposing images is foundational for the stranger’s interpretation of God.

According to the stranger, the God of the Old Testament is no different than the God of the New Testament. They are one and the same: a crucified God. That may be hard to imagine. It certainly was for the disciples on the road. But it is a curious exercise with surprising results. When I read the Old Testament looking for a crucified God, I begin to see him everywhere. In the suffering of the ancestral family, who must live for generations as sojourners in a foreign land. In the suffering of the Hebrews under Pharaoh in Egypt. In the suffering of the poor Israelites in the land, who are enslaved by their own kings and exploited by the rich. In the suffering of the psalmist, whose prayers regularly recount trouble. In the suffering of the exiled Israelites, who lose their temple and their family and their friends and must live in a foreign land. The Old Testament is a history of Israel’s deliverance, but it also a history of their suffering. Yes, God is a deliverer, but God is also a sufferer. Those two things are not contradictions, but counterparts of a single reality. A God who loves is a God who suffers, because love does not get its own way through force. It forgives, it heals, it declares peace, it welcomes. Love does all the things Jesus did, and it finds itself in the same place Jesus found himself. Suffering.

“Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things?” the stranger asks. From his point of view, God has been suffering from the start, because God has been loving humanity from the start. It is only natural this would happen to God’s messiah.

Accepting Brokenness as an Opening

The stranger’s interpretation of God is indeed strange in a world that idolizes power and control. But what also strikes me as strange is that the stranger, who is in fact Jesus, bears no grievance toward the people who put him on the cross, toward the temple leaders or the Roman authorities. He breathes no resentments or threats against them. I think back to that airport, where many people bore what I would consider justifiable anger against the airline. How easily I can relate to their experience. It’s natural to feel owed something when you are wronged. Yet this man was wronged in an extraordinary way, and his response is, “Was it not necessary…?”

Again I find myself asking, “How was it necessary?” It’s just so difficult for me to wrap my head around the crucifixion as a necessity. To be clear, I don’t subscribe to an atonement theory that has a divine father demanding the blood sacrifice of his son. I expect a loving God to be at least as loving as a loving father or mother here on earth, who would never demand such a thing. So, I don’t think Jesus’ death was demanded by God in order to satisfy some metaphysical equation of salvation. But how else could Jesus who was so gravely wronged, insist that it was necessary?

Today’s passage concludes with the stranger breaking bread, and then the disciples’ eyes being opened. Those two words “break” and “open” jump off the page at me. Typically, I think of brokenness as an undesirable thing. I would rather avoid it, ignore it, pretend it’s not there. For me, “broken” means “broken down.” It is the end of things. It is a flight cancelled, plans ruined. But in this passage, “broken” means something else. The broken bread “opens” the disciples’ eyes (24:31). The idea of a broken messiah and a suffering God “opens” the scriptures to the disciples (24:32).  Here, “broken” means “broken open.” “Broken” is not the end, but the beginning of something new.

Perhaps it is necessary for Jesus to suffer because he enters into our brokenness to show us that it is not the end that we think it is. He shows us the way out. It’s not through control or force, by demanding our due. Rather, it is through our brokenness. As Jesus shows us throughout his life, and the man and his family show us at the airport, love accepts the brokenness of our world. It does not resent it or fight it. Rather, it finds that brokenness always has an opening that leads to new life. (As Leonard Cohen put it, “There’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”)

To some, the idea of a crucified messiah or a weak God seems like utter foolishness. But for me, it is honest-to-goodness good news. God is with us precisely where the world and our lives are broken. And because of his love, what seemed “broken down” is in fact “broken open” with possibilities for new life.

Prayer

God of the cross,
Whose love bears all pain
And redeems it—
Meet us, please,
In the places where we are bitter
Or resentful
Or despairing
…
Open our eyes,
As you opened the disciples’ eyes,
To know brokenness
As the place where your love is revealed,
And to receive your life-giving embrace.
In Christ, crucified and risen: Amen.

The Meaning of His Scars (John 20:19-31)

Not a Safe Bet

There was a young man who fell in love. After some time, he began to wonder about marriage. But he agonized over the idea. How could he know beyond a shadow of a doubt that his beloved was in fact “the one”? So, one day he visited his father and asked, “How can I know if she’s the one?”

His father smiled and said, “You can’t.”

“What do you mean?” the son asked. “Didn’t you know Mom was the one?”

His father shook his head. “Love is not something you know. It’s not a safe bet. It’s something you do, come hell or high water. If I had known everything that would have happened between your mother and me, then marriage wouldn’t have been such a big decision. It would have been about as big as deciding to go to the grocery store, where I know exactly what I’m going to get. But with your mother, I had no idea what was coming.”

Over the next hour, his father opened up and shared about several disappointments. He shared how, in moments of misunderstanding, he and his wife had said and done hurtful things, things that had since been forgiven but could never be forgotten. He shared how their desires for the future sometimes conflicted and how they had both given up on some of their own dreams. He shared how raising children and caring for parents had placed a heavy tax on their own time together.

“No,” he said, “I had no idea what I was getting into. There’s been a lot of hurt along the way, hurt that I wouldn’t wish upon anyone. And yet, I don’t regret a thing. Yes, I’ve got a lot of scars now. But a scar is not just a wound. It’s a wound that has been healed. And what heals a wound, is love. Every scar I’ve got is a sign of our love.”

“Love is not a safe bet,” he concluded. “It’s not something you know. It’s something you do. And it changes you, and it changes the world.”

The Desire for Certainty

Today’s scripture is celebrated for its depiction of a particular character, Thomas. “Doubting Thomas,” as he has come to be known in Christian tradition. We all have a little sympathy for Doubting Thomas, because we can all relate to the desire for proof. “Seeing is believing,” as we sometimes say. Or as the kids are saying these days, “Pictures, or it didn’t happen!” But even as we have sympathy for Thomas, we shun him too. “Oh, he’s just a Doubting Thomas,” we might say to describe someone who expresses reservations or has not fully committed to an idea. No one wants to be singled out as a Doubting Thomas. We would prefer to be grouped with the other disciples.

But today I wonder: are the other disciples really any different than Thomas? Remember, they have already heard the good news from Mary Magdalene that Jesus is risen. But where we do find them? Behind locked doors. They are too afraid even to leave the house. At this stage, they are just like Thomas. They have heard the good news that love is stronger than death, but they do not trust in it. Just like Thomas, they desire certainty.

Thomas desires the certainty of knowledge, the certainty of proof. “Unless I…put my finger in the mark of the nails…” (John 20:25). The rest of the disciples desire the certainty of safety, the certainty of locked doors and known quantities. They are holed up in a small space, “for fear” of other people, John says (John 20:19). Thomas and the disciples are the same. It’s not doubt that characterizes them. It’s the desire for certainty. They both want to know—to know that they will be safe, to know that Jesus has been raised from the dead.

When Jesus speaks to Thomas, he does not chastise him for doubting. Rather he suggests that a need for certainty is the real hindrance to a vibrant, blessed faith: “Have you trusted because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to trust.” (John 20:29).

Empowered, Not to Know but to Love

It’s a little bit like the father’s advice to his son, who wants to know if his beloved is in fact “the one.” The father suggests that such a question misses the point. Love is not about a safe bet. It’s not about knowing what you’re getting. Love is something you do, not something you know.

There’s a curious pattern in today’s scripture. Jesus repeatedly does the same two things. He shows his scars, and he says, “Peace be with you.” He does this first with the disciples, and then again with Thomas. What is going on with this demonstration? I wonder if it is a response to the disciples’ desire for certainty. He shows his scars not only as evidence of his identity, but as evidence that love is indeed a risky, uncertain thing. “Here’s what you can expect,” he seems to say. Yet he follows it with a stunning proclamation, “Peace be with you.” In other words, you have nothing to fear. “Look, I was wounded. But these wounds have been healed. They are scars now. Trust me. Love can bear the pain, and it can transform it.”

Jesus is empowering his disciples. But he’s not empowering them as knowers, as people who can plan and calculate and be secure in everything they do. He’s empowering them as lovers, as risky agents of love who can heal and transform the wounds of the world. “As the Father has sent me, so I send you,” he says, meaning that he is sending them outside their locked doors into a perilous world of power struggles and hurt feelings and crucifixion. It’s not that God does not care for them or their safety, but that God cares for the world and has empowered them to help the world in the same way that Jesus has helped the world. When Jesus breathes on them, on this first day of the week, he is doing the same thing that God did at the beginning of creation. He is empowering them with the divinely creative spirit. God empowered Adam, the earth creature, to become a partner in caring for creation. Jesus empowers his followers to become partners in a new creation, companions in welcoming the kingdom of God on earth as it is in heaven.

And right after he breathes on them, he reminds them of their secret power as agents of love. “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained” (John 20:23). Forgiveness is the strongest demonstration of love. It is what turns wounds into scars. It is risky, and it is messy, and it is the only way our world will ever be healed. If we only ever stay behind locked doors or do what is a safe bet, if we never risk love for others because of all the liabilities that it entails—and as an aside, I am convinced that the true mark of ministry is liability; if there’s no liability in a ministry, if we only ever do what is fully protected, then how loving and selfless are our deeds really?—…if we never take the risk of love, the wounds of our world will only fester and we will be further and further divided against every potential threat or difference. And worse, we will never know real love and real life.

The good news of the risen Christ, is that love can bear the pain that it will encounter, and indeed it can heal it. Wounds can become scars that tell the story of love. If it’s difficult to see this in the risen Christ, then perhaps we can begin with stories closer to us, which are no less real and reflective of God’s love. Perhaps we can look at the saints around us—maybe our parents, or good friends, or mentors—whose love was indeed wounded and yet jubilant and undefeated. For like Jesus, they show us their scars, not as warnings, but as reassurances of love’s power. Like Jesus, they can say, “Peace be with you” as we leave the locked doors and embark on the risky way of love.

Prayer

Wounded God,
Whose love is not a safe bet,
Sometimes we, like the disciples, are afraid.
Sometimes we desire the certainty
Of knowledge or safety
…
Help us to see your scars
As emblems of healing.
Inspire us to trust in your love and forgiveness
And to be agents of your healing.
In Christ, crucified and risen: Amen.

"In Christ, the World Arose" (John 20:1-18)

Missing Out on the Experience

I have an aunt and uncle who are diehard Kentucky basketball fans. They don’t just watch the games. They read every scrap of news and rumor that they can find. But there is a tragic affliction in their fandom. The pain of losing is so great for them, that they cannot bear to watch any of the games live. What they do instead is record the game, check the score afterward, and then watch the game only if Kentucky wins.

It's a little bit like watching a movie only after you’ve read the spoilers. I have a friend who does this. She insists on reading detailed summaries of a movie’s plot before she agrees to watch it, because she wants to be prepared for unexpected tragedies.

But I wonder. Is something lost in the experience if you already know what will happen? I wonder if my aunt and uncle shout at the players on the television screen, if they argue with the officials’ bad calls, if they bite their nails in the final few minutes. I wonder if my friend jumps out of her seat when danger leaps out of nowhere, if she tears up at unexpected departures, if she breathes a sigh of relief at a happy end.

And I guess I wonder the same thing about us at Easter. We think we already know the story. Could it be, then, that we are missing out on the full experience?

Because it seems to me that everything in the Easter story hinges on experience rather than knowledge. It seems to me that Easter is not about some objective event that we either believe happened or didn’t happen, but about a transformative encounter. Have you ever noticed that the gospels never show us the moment that Jesus himself rises up in the tomb? If Easter were all about that decisive historical moment, then surely the gospel writers would have told us about it. But instead they leave that moment blank and show us what happens afterward. They show us the disciples’ encounters with the risen Jesus. In their estimation, those are the decisive moments. What matters most is the disciples’ experience of the risen Jesus.

If we count ourselves as disciples, then surely that is what matters most for us too. If the Easter story is only something we know about, and not something that we ourselves experience, then we may be missing out on the fullness of the good news.

Jesus Is Risen, But No One Can See It

To experience Easter and the fullness of the good news, we must begin with the crucifixion. It’s not a scene that anyone of us would ever wish to watch in a movie, but it is a fundamental experience for Jesus and his disciples. And it is no different for us who also live in a world filled with violence, injustice, and terrible suffering, a world of lynching trees, concentration camps, war, ghettos, astounding inequality, disease, hunger—the list goes on. It is no accident that every piece of ancient art depicting the resurrected Christ is sure to show him with a cross nearby and often with visible wounds in his feet and hands. We are never allowed to forget that the resurrected Christ is always also the crucified Christ.

So the experience of Easter begins with the experience of the crucifixion, which casts a dark shadow on the world. Now, everything that follows hinges on the disciples. Christ is risen, yes, but if they do not recognize the risen Jesus, then the resurrection will have meant nothing. In John’s gospel, we first arrive at the tomb with Mary Magdalene and then Peter and another disciple. John tells us that it is “still dark” (20:1), meaning not only that it is literally dark but also that the disciples live in the shadow of the crucifixion. Jesus is in fact already risen, but in the darkness of the terrible crucifixion no one can see it.

Mary sees the stone removed from the tomb, but she doesn’t even peer in to see what’s happened. She assumes the worst, that the body has been stolen (20:2). Peter and the other disciple do peer into the tomb, but they also do not understand (20:9). Like Mary, they live in fear and uncertainty. Again, Jesus is already risen, but in the midst of doubt and fear no one can see it.

After Peter and his companion leave, perhaps to retreat to behind closed doors where they feel safer, Mary stays at the tomb and weeps. Soon Jesus is standing right in front of her. There is no doubt for the audience. Jesus is risen. But in the blurry vision of grief, no one can see it. Not even when he is standing right in front of them.

I don’t think all of these failures to understand or see the risen Jesus are meant as a critique of the disciples. If anything, I think these failures are meant as good news for us. Because it is a fundamental human experience to live in darkness, to live in doubt and uncertainty, to live shrouded in grief. The crucifixion is real. Its scars are all over our world. It cannot be escaped. The good news of Easter is not that we will live happily ever after, and never doubt or be sad or worry again. The good news of Easter is that even when we do find ourselves in darkness or doubt or grief, God’s love is alive and afoot in our world. It may even be staring us right in the face, calling our name.

The Surprise of Easter: Resurrection Now!

That is much better news than the conventional message that I have often heard at Easter. The message that I hear regularly at Easter is pretty simple. We know Christ has risen; therefore we believe in Christ as the son of God; and therefore we too will be raised up at the end and will live forever in heaven.  

But that is not the good news of Easter. It may be true, and it may be good, but it is not news. Many of the Jews, specifically the Pharisees, already believed that there would be a universal resurrection at the end of time (cf. Dan 12:2). Remember what Martha says when her brother Lazarus dies? “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day” (John 11:24). Like many of her Jewish brothers and sisters, Martha already believes in a resurrection, when God’s kingdom will come and justice will be done and the faithful will live forever in paradise. The good news of Easter is not what Martha and her Jewish brothers and sisters already believe.

The surprise of Easter—its real good news—is that resurrection is now, in the midst of time, rather than later, at the end of time. This is why Paul declares that Jesus is the “first fruits” (1 Cor 15:20). His resurrection is not just a singular, heroic ascension, like when God took Enoch and Elijah to be with him in heaven. It is part of something larger happening right now. It signals a universal harvest. It marks the beginning of God’s justice and restoration now. It is the commencement of a new creation.

All through Lent, we have been extinguishing candles as we have let go of unhealthy thoughts that distort life and our true identity. When we die to these thoughts, we do not lose ourselves. Rather, we find our true selves in Christ. We are, as Paul says, “a new creation.” I am struck by how often Paul makes the contrast between our old lives and our new lives. It is a beautiful portrait, I think, of the resurrection unfolding right now in us. It is a glimpse of God’s love raising us up and drawing us into a new world right now.

A World of Difference

I have included in your bulletin insert the picture of a sixth-century fresco found in a church in Italy. You’ll notice the cross above Jesus, reminding us that the resurrected Christ is the crucified Christ. But what I also want to point out is the vibrant and lush life that surrounds Christ. It is an earthly paradise of sheep, shrubs, doves, calm waters, and starry skies. The message is clear, and it is one that we see again and again in the ancient art of our faith. Christ is alive, and all the world in him. (Or as Ambrose, the fourth-century bishop of Milan, puts it: “In Christ, the world arose.”) Paradise is not confined to some heavenly afterlife. It is now, for us who trust and follow in the way of Christ, a way of crucifixion and resurrection.

Sure, we can also believe in an afterlife of happiness. But that is nothing new. What is news this Easter is that the resurrection is already here. God’s love is alive and not in vain, even when it has been crucified, even when we dwell in darkness, doubt, or despair and cannot see it. In fact, it is precisely at these moments that God’s love may be staring at us in the face. How we respond…well, it makes a world of difference.

Prayer

God of resurrection,
Whose love is crucified in our world
And all the more alive—
Help us to take heart
In the experience of the first disciples,
To trust that moments of darkness, doubt, and despair
Do not define our lives
But may be the very scenes
In which we encounter
Your life-giving, life-transforming love.
In Christ, crucified and risen: Amen.

"A New Commandment" (John 13:1-5, 12-15, 34-35)

“Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Leviticus 19:18.

It is an old commandment.

 

But Jesus does it in a new way.

 

Think on these images:

 

Feet. This new love gets low.

A basin of water and a towel for wiping. This new love gets dirty.

A cross. This love gets bloody.

 

The world loves in a rational way,

Expecting something in return.

The world gives and expects to get back.

 

This new love is foolishness.

It gets low, dirty, bloody,

Without expecting to get anything back.

 

…

 

This new love is not motivated by external reward

But is propelled from within.

It is not a concerted effort, a superhuman white-knuckling.

It is inspired by some unutterable sense of being loved by God

That is so compelling, it becomes a way of life.

 

As we are loved, so we love.

 

Jesus sensed this love at his baptism.

That is the beginning point of his ministry,

The moment when his love really got low, dirty, and bloody.

 

…

 

At this time in the service,

We remember our own baptism

And our belovedness in the eyes of God.

 

If you are willing, I invite you to come forward at this time

To dip your hands in the basin in front of the altar,

And to remember your own baptism.

"A Colt Never Ridden" (Luke 19:28-40)

A Tale of Two Processions

Probably everyone in the west of the city would have heard it. The sharp crunch of grit and rock under hundreds of marching feet, the scraping and squeaking of leather, the heavy huffing of horses, and behind it all, the rhythmic pounding of drums. People would have looked out from their windows and would have crept around to the side of the street to see men with arched backs high on their horses, foot soldiers with frosty eyes trained ahead of them, leather armor and helmets and weapons, banners and poles of metal and gold, with eagles mounted on the top. The silent onlookers would have beheld this spectacle with a range of emotions: curiosity, wonder, fear, resentment. Like it or not, the Romans were here, and they would have their way.

Around the same time, a man rode a donkey down the Mount of Olives and through the eastern entrance of Jerusalem. A rag-tag crowd brimming with smiles and laughter threw their threadbare cloaks and leafy branches onto the road, shouting, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Luke 19:38). It was a strange procession, nothing like the daunting show of force that was happening at the other end of the city. The donkey hee-hawed, bucking this way and that, occasionally stopping and pausing the parade in its steps. It is almost as though the man on the donkey planned it this way, to be so different from the imperial procession happening on the other end of the city. Some historians have since suggested that it was a bit of ingenious “street theater.” After all, wasn’t the man on the donkey the one to choose this young, untrained colt? He knew what he was doing.

He was orchestrating a message. He was aiming for more than absurdity, although the obstinate, low-riding donkey and the shabby, unarmed guard of honor would certainly have conveyed a ridiculous image. And he was aiming for more than a response to the imperial procession on the other side of the city, although historians tell us that Pilate and his troops would have been entering around the same time as Jesus, for it was the start of the Jewish festival of Passover, a festival celebrating liberation from an oppressive empire, and the Romans needed to ensure that there was no insurrection. The message that Jesus was orchestrating was not just a comical counterthrust to the imperial procession. It was a holy act of remembering God’s promise. For the prophet Zechariah had envisioned just such a royal entry into the city of Jerusalem: “Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem! Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey” (Zech 9:9). The prophet Zechariah had gone a step further to anticipate that this king would be unlike other kings. He would not achieve his way through force but through peace: “He will cut off the chariot from Ephraim and the war horse from Jerusalem; and the battle bow shall be cut off, and he shall command peace to the nations” (Zech 9:9-10).

Of Pride and Running the Show

This Lent, we have been exploring the eight thoughts that early Christ-followers identified as deadly. Today, we come to the final thought, which many considered the deadliest of them all, the root from which all the other thoughts originated. Pride. It is, essentially, the thought that I am in the place of God. I am in control. I can do it on my own. It’s not difficult to see the pride of the Roman empire in their spectacular military processions, which were designed to overwhelm and send the clear message, “We’re in charge here.” Indeed, the emperor was considered by many to be a god himself.

It is, perhaps, a bit more difficult to see our own pride. Most of us don’t march around in such ostentatious fashion, commanding honor and respect—or else! Our pride is of a subtler sort. The desert fathers and mothers observed that much of their own pride showed itself first through speech. They noticed that their words were often crafted to assert their authority over the surrounding world. Words of judgment, argument, justification, flattery, slander. It’s probably easier to see this in others. Have you ever known someone who could get their way by charming others with compliments and cheerful words? Or maybe you’ve known someone who could get their way by whining, with bitter laments and accusations? Or maybe by threatening, with shouting and intimidation? The tactics are endless, but the thought underlying them is the same. Pride. I am in control. I will get my way.

One of the most compelling, relatable pictures of pride that I know is the twelve-step tradition’s portrait of “an actor who wants to run the whole show.” He “is forever trying to arrange the lights, the ballet, the scenery and the rest of the players in his own way. If his arrangements would only stay put, if only people would do as he wished, the show would be great. Everybody, including himself, would be pleased. Life would be wonderful. In trying to make these arrangements our actor may sometimes be quite virtuous. He may be kind, considerate, patient, generous; even modest and self-sacrificing. … [But] what usually happens? The show doesn’t come off very well. … Admitting he may be somewhat at fault, he is sure that other people are [still] more to blame. He becomes angry, indignant, self-pitying. What is his basic trouble? Is he not really a self-seeker even when trying to be kind? Is he not a victim of the delusion that he can wrest satisfaction and happiness out of this world if he only manages well? … Our actor is self-centered—ego-centric, as people like to call it nowadays. He is like the retired business man who lolls in the Florida sunshine in the winter complaining of the sad state of the nation; the minister who sighs over the sins of the twentieth century; politicians and reformers who are sure all would be Utopia if the rest of the world would only behave; the outlaw safe cracker who thinks society has wronged him; and the alcoholic who has lost all and is locked up. Whatever our protestations, are not most of us concerned with ourselves, our resentments, or our self-pity?” This metaphor concludes with a succinct realization that pride doesn’t work. We cannot control the world, even with all the swords of Rome. Thus the final acknowledgment: “We had to quit playing God.”

The God Who Quits Playing God

The biggest surprise about Jesus, both in the ancient world and today, is not that he is the embodiment of God. It is that, in Jesus, God quits playing God. In the rest of the world, the gods are always duking it out, engaged in a battle against chaos or evil, promising us that in the end they will win. It is the story of good versus evil, us versus them, and we see it all the way from Greek mythology to American destiny, from ancient stories to Star Wars. In all these stories, there is a force that will eventually triumph, a will that will win out. In all the world, the story of God is a story of control.

But not in Jesus. In Jesus, God quits playing God. That is, in Jesus, we don’t see the kind of God that we desire, the kind of God that we fantasize about. We don’t see a God of control, a God who gets his way. We see a God riding a cranky donkey, surrounded by the riff-raff. We see a God whose passion for nonviolent justice will become the passion of an unjust crucifixion. We see a God who will profoundly disappoint the crowds, who proclaim his greatness but expect a conquering messiah.

Christian tradition identifies humility as the remedy for pride. And I think humility characterizes the crazy, scandalous, ever-surprising nature of the God whom we worship. We worship a humble God, a God who quits playing God, a God whose way is not force and control, not swords and guns, but care and service. How many times does Jesus turn the tables on his disciples, telling them to become like little children, to become the least, the last, servant of all? Our God is a humble God, who revels in the company of children, who pays special attention to the foreigner, who breaks bread with the outcast, who hugs the sick and diseased, who spends time with the poor.

Our God is not enflamed with conquest and control, with power and possessiveness. All of these candles—anger, greed, lust, and so on—all are extinguished. Only one candle remains. It is the candle of God’s love. Which is who Christ is. And it’s who we are too.

Perhaps you have heard the saying, “Humility is not thinking less of yourself, but thinking of yourself less.” Well, that is our God. It is not that our God is a doormat, but that our God is continually thinking of others and seeking their welfare. Make no mistake, Jesus is not killed for being kind. He is killed for insisting that everyone is a child of God and deserves treatment as such. And it is precisely this insistence that orients his way—a way not of force and destruction (for no child of God deserves that), but rather a way of care and restoration. His way is love, whatever the consequence.

Prayer

Humble God,
Whose nonviolent justice
Challenges egos and empires alike—
When we are willful
And preoccupied with control,
May your strange procession—
Your colt never ridden,
Your vulnerable, rag-tag followers—
Shock us out of old habits
…
Teach us what it means
To walk the way of Christ
In a world bent on control.
In Christ, who bears his cross: Amen.