"Not to All the People" (Acts 10:34-43)

Sightings of the Departed 

Simon had only ever really connected with his father over one thing. “Football”—or soccer, as we Americans call it. His father had played soccer in his younger days, and in his older days he watched it profusely.  Simon followed the same team as his dad (Liverpool), and he would go on to indoctrinate—or “raise”—his own children to share this loyalty as well.

Some years after his father had passed away, Simon went to a match with his nephew. It must have been cold. Before the match, he got in line for a cup of steaming Bovril, which is like beef bouillon on steroids. Rich, thick, beefy. (I enjoyed a cup myself once at a freezing cold match, and it was like having lunch in a liquid.) As Simon waited in one line, he noticed in the line next to him a man who looked familiar—“the shape of his face, his nose, olive pock-marked skin, his double chin, his hair, his gait. Everything was identical.” It was his father. He stared at this man for the longest time, and although the man was looking back in his general direction, he never returned Simon’s gaze.

Later that night, in the quiet of the car as he drove his nephew home, he shared his story. His nephew said he’d seen him too.[1]

I’ve heard many similar stories from friends. Sightings of a departed loved one. Sometimes it is in an animal that the loved one adored, like a butterfly or bird. Sometimes it is in a feature of the natural world, like a tree or a cloud.

What is it that we see, I wonder, when we see a dear one who is gone? For one thing, we are seeing something very special. Anyone else who looks upon the same sight would see just a butterfly, or just a man with olive, pock-marked skin. But we see more. In the very same image, we see an eternal depth, a life that we loved and love still. We see our love. We see what our heart really believes in.

From Doubters to Believers

If you’ll permit me one further indulgence, to speak just a moment longer about Liverpool…. In 2018, they lost in the final match of the Champion’s League, which is the like the European soccer equivalent of the World Series or the Super Bowl. (It's a big deal.) Later, some footage emerged of the Liverpool coach dancing and singing with fans after the match. For outsiders, this was unfathomable. Didn’t they just lose? How could they be singing? When the Liverpool coach had first taken on the job, he had made a bold declaration that he hoped to turn the fans from “doubters into believers.” And clearly he had. Because these fans with whom he was singing, were not looking at their loss. They were looking upon something deeper. They were looking upon their love for the game, their love for their team, and their eternal joy, their eternal hope to return to that same summit. And in fact that is what happened. The next year, Liverpool made it back to the final match of the Champion’s League, and that year they won. (But if you ask me, their victory began much earlier. As early as a year before, when they lost.)

Are not our sightings of loved ones a similar phenomenon? Is it not that they touched us in a special way and transformed us, so that even in our loss we find ourselves singing? Is it not that they turned our hearts from doubters to believers? … And by “believers,” I do not mean thinkers who have accepted a set of doctrines. I mean hearts-on-the-sleeve followers, like fans who follow their team all across the continent, or like lovers who have given themselves in trust to each other. Our loved ones made us believers, and so we see them everywhere. We cannot not see them.

More Than a Divine Magic Trick

I could understand if, hearing all of this on Easter Sunday, you were led to wonder—But isn’t the resurrection of Jesus different than the sightings of our loved ones? Isn’t it more “real”? The gospels make clear that it was not simply an apparition of Jesus that his followers saw, but that it was Jesus in the flesh, a Jesus who ate and drank with them, a Jesus who invited them to touch his scars.

It is certainly true that the resurrection we proclaim is not a ghostly Jesus but a Jesus in the flesh. But if we were to reduce the resurrection to a divine magic trick of bodily resuscitation, to a supernatural phenomenon that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt God’s power, then I fear we would miss out on its good news. In today’s scripture, Peter is proclaiming the good news of Christ in a nutshell to a Roman (gentile) audience. Much of it is familiar, but one line jumps out at me. “God raised him on the third day and allowed him to appear, not to all the people but to us who were chosen by God as witnesses” (Acts 10:40-41).

Not to all the people…. Other scriptures attest similarly to this fact, namely that only the followers of Jesus saw the resurrected Jesus (e.g., 1 Cor 15:5-8). If the point of the resurrection was to prove to the world, particularly to the doubters, that Jesus was the messiah, then we have to conclude it did not accomplish its objective. But maybe that wasn’t the point.

No Resurrection Scenes…

Think back to the gospels and their portrayal of the resurrection. Not a single one shows us the moment that Jesus’ life returns to his body, the moment when breath enters his lungs again and he sits up and exits the tomb. The gospels do not show us the resurrection.

Instead, they show us scenes of recognition. In John, we have Mary Magdelene in the garden suddenly crying out in joy, “Rabbouni!” before she runs to tell the other followers, “I have seen the Lord!” (John 20:16-18). In Matthew, we have Mary Magdelene and Mary the mother of Jesus brought to their knees in wonder and worship when they recognize the risen Christ (Matt 28:9). In Luke, we have the Emmaus travelers whose hearts are suddenly set aflame when they realize they have seen Christ (Luke 24:3). And later in John, we have Simon Peter half-naked jumping into the sea, unable to wait until the boat reaches the shore where Jesus stands (John 21:7).  The joy of the disciples in each of these recognition scenes practically leaps off the page—just as Peter has joyfully leapt off the side of that fishing boat.

Not Resuscitation, But Recognition

For me, these stories make clear that the resurrection of Jesus is not about resuscitation but about recognition. His resurrection is not presented as a physical miracle that decides our faith for us, but rather as a reality that flows from our faith. It’s not that seeing is believing, but that believing is seeing. We see that in which our hearts really believe. To whom does the resurrected Jesus appear? The very people whom he has already touched and healed, whom he has transformed from doubters into believers. And it’s no coincidence that they recognize him in precisely the same deeds of love that touched them in the first place, that turned them from doubters into believers. They recognize him in the breaking of bread, as on the road to Emmaus (Luke 24:35). They recognize him in the proclamation of peace and forgiveness, as in the locked room filled with fearful followers (Luke 24:36-37; John 20:19, 21-23). They recognize him in his tenderness and compassion, as with doubting Thomas (John 20:26-27). They recognize him in his invitation to love, as with Peter in his seaside conversation with Jesus (John 21:15-19).

Scripture tells us that soon enough—40 days later—Jesus would ascend into heaven. But his followers continued to see him. Okay, not the bodily Jesus—but the results are no different. Acts tells about Jesus appearing in dreams and visions, giving guidance and encouragement (Acts 9:10; 18:9-10; 22:17-21; 23:11). And repeatedly the writers of the New Testament claim that the followers of Jesus give flesh to his body. The point of these claims, that Christ remains with us spiritually, is not to give anyone proof of God’s power, but rather to show us that the followers of Jesus are real believers. Again, not as thinkers who accept a set of doctrines, but as hearts-on-the-sleeve followers, like fans who follow their team all across the continent, or like lovers who abandon themselves in trust to each other. They are true believers, and so they see Christ everywhere. They cannot not see him.

Easter, then, is not about a single event that happened in the past. It is about a new reality, a new way of seeing the world, that begins not with the resurrection but with a love that transforms us, a love that is as real in Jesus’ teaching and healing as it is in his death on the cross as it is in his resurrection after the cross. Jesus in his love has changed us in our hearts from doubters to believers, and so we see the possibilities of his love in all the world. The world is filled with eternal depth. We cannot not see him. This is the song that Paul is repeatedly singing, that God’s love is alive and transforming everything for the better. “See,” he says, again reminding us that resurrection is inextricably connected with recognition—“See, everything has become new!” (2 Cor 5:17).

Like the sightings of our departed loved ones, the recognition of the risen Christ is special. Anyone else looking upon the sight might see nothing of interest, nothing other than a ray of sunshine or a simple hug or a smile. But we see more. In the very same image, we see an eternal depth, a love that loved us and loves us still. We see what our heart really believes in.

Prayer

Christ of our hearts,
Whose love is transforming us
From doubters to believers—
Today we celebrate your resurrection,
The way your love lives on and inspires
All creation with possibility and new life.
Where doubt or despair lingers,
Help us to see beyond the surface, beyond the grave, beyond closed doors
…
Help us to see your love
Making all things new.
In Christ, crucified and risen: Amen.

 

---

[1] Simon Critchley, What We Think about When We Think about Soccer (New York: Penguin, 2017), 34-36.

"You Will Never..." (John 13:3-8, 12-15)

“An Insulting Depiction”

In 2014, St. Albans Episcopal Church in Davidson, North Carolina, installed a statue on the church grounds that depicts a homeless person sleeping on a bench. If you get close enough to the statue, you can see that the homeless person is Jesus—there are the marks of crucifixion on his feet.

The response of the neighbors to this newcomer in the community was mixed. One neighbor called the cops on this homeless person. Another who got close enough to see who this homeless person really was, wrote in to the editor to express their displeasure. The statue, they said, was “an insulting depiction of the son of God.”

In the Beginning and at the End

“Insulting.” I imagine this word or a similar one flashed through Peter’s mind when he said to Jesus, “You will never wash my feet.”

There at that last Supper, Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem ends exactly as it started—with Peter (of all people) rebuking him.

At the beginning, Peter rebukes Jesus for talking about suffering and death. At the end, Peter rebukes Jesus for getting on his knees like a slave.

Of all the rejections that Jesus endured, perhaps Peter’s at the beginning and the end are the most important. They are a sobering reminder that Jesus’ closest followers continually mistake the messiah for their own aims. They confuse Christ with getting their way.

Peter’s Humiliation

Our familiarity with tonight’s foot-washing scene has domesticated it into an appealing illustration of what we have called “servant leadership.” Servant leadership, in our world, often masquerades as selflessness when it fact it serves its own self-interest. We only have to think of how individuals and companies make altruistic gestures as a way to build their brand, boost their profile, and get ahead. If we had done a foot-washing service tonight, whoever did the foot-washing (whether it was me or an elder) would likely win a little favor in the eyes of others, if for no other reason than being willing to handle the feet of others, which is an intimate and somewhat uncomfortable thing in our world.

But what Jesus is doing here is no publicity stunt. In the ancient Greco-Roman world, washing feet was something slaves did. (“Slave leadership” doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, does it?) We do not have slavery today in the form that we so shamefully did, so the meaning may be lost on us a little bit. But what Jesus is doing, is taking on the role of a slave. In Peter’s mind, Jesus has just overstepped the boundary. Jesus is not doing a good deed, like holding open the door or allowing others to first. Such things might buy a person the good favor of others. Jesus is humiliating himself.

The foot-washing scene is not a tender picture of a servant’s heart. It is a humiliating picture of a messiah who seems to have it all backwards. And this is why Peter rebukes Jesus. When he began following this rabbi, he yoked his identity with him. Jesus’ glory would be his glory. Jesus’ shame would be his shame. “You will never wash my feet,” is not merely Peter being a bit embarrassed for Jesus or trying to protect his reputation. It is Peter being embarrassed for himself. He’s protecting himself.

An Example of Shameless Love

“I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you” (John 13:15). The example Jesus sets us, is not just doing good deeds. It’s not just selfless behavior. It is unashamed love. It is a love that is willing to be identified with the wrong crowd. A love that is willing to be branded “insulting.”

In our world, the lines between social groups have shifted. We stand little risk of humiliating ourselves as a slave. But we do stand the risk of being caught watching the wrong channel, reading the wrong news source, rubbing shoulders with the wrong crowd. Our tribes demand loyalty. Our tribes say that it is more important to be right than to be caring.

But the example of shameless love that Jesus sets for us, is otherwise. Jesus invites us to care for others, even if it puts us on the wrong side of the fence. The “slave Jesus” invites us to see people before we see problems, to see Christ in them instead of our contempt, whether we’re looking at the homeless, the immigrant, the addict, the protester, the black sheep of the family, the counter-protester, the criminal, the atheist, the Russian—the list is endless.

As endless as Christ’s unashamed love.

Prayer

Dear Christ,
Your example sometimes looks like losing,
Like humiliation,
Yet you are unashamed.
…
Ground us in the same love
In which you are grounded,
That we might bear unto others
Your unashamed care.
Amen.

"The Stone That the Builders Rejected" (Mark 11:1-11)

Unseen Possibility and Growth

In fourth grade, my class read The Secret Garden together. Everyday, we’d sit in a circle and the teacher would read several pages. It became my favorite part of the school day, rivalling even recess. The thought astonishes me today—that I would have been transfixed by the story of a garden. Where I’m living now, there are a couple of raised beds in the backyard, but I’ve left them untouched. Gardening is not a hobby that I’ve learned to enjoy.

Why, I wonder, was I so fascinated by this book? I remember that in the spring of my fourth-grade year, I was so inspired by the story, that I asked for a little plot of the back yard in which to grow something. My mom happily obliged. Day after day, I would wander by that patch of ground to see if anything had happened. Slowly but surely, a plant did emerge. And not by my power. I was hardly doing anything.

I wonder, in fact, if that were not the root of my fascination with The Secret Garden. Beneath the story of a garden, is the story of unseen possibility and growth. Beneath the story of shrubs and flowers, is the story of an unseen energy, an unseen spirit. The “secret garden” becomes a metaphor for the secret power and possibility of love. Not only do the plants in the garden grow, but the children in the story, who each have a tragic background, come alive in a new way. The children come to refer to the unseen energy and power of the garden as “magic.” But Mrs. Sowerby, a motherly, salt-of-the-earth figure in the story, refers to it simply as “the Good Thing.” “I never knowed it by that name [magic] but what does th’ name matter? I warrant they call it a different name i’ France an’ a different one i’ Germany. Th’ same thing as set th’ seeds swellin’ an’ th’ sun shinin’ made thee a well lad an’ it’s th’ Good Thing. It isn’t like us poor fools as think it matters if us is called out of our names. Th’ Big Good Thing doesn’t stop to worrit, bless thee. It goes on makin’ worlds by th’ million—worlds like us. Never thee stop believin’ in th’ Big Good Thing an’ knowin’ th’ world’s full of it.”

“Save Us! … Give Us Success!”

Today’s scripture is a familiar one. We read the same story every year on this Sunday, Palm Sunday. Jesus enters Jerusalem ahead of the Passover festival, and a crowd lines the road and cheers him, with leafy branches and shouts of praise. But the shouts of praise are interesting. They’re not the spontaneous exclamations of inspired individuals. They are quotations drawn from Israel’s prayerbook, the Psalms. In fact, it is quite possible that they are sung, that the crowd are not just shouting their praise, they’re singing it.

The psalm that they are singing appears to be Psalm 118, which in Jewish tradition is sung at the conclusion of the Passover meal. It is, therefore, a song that would have been on the people’s mind as they prepare for the Passover feast. Of course, it would have had a special meaning for the followers of Jesus. “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!” would refer not to some nameless savior in the future, but to the man in front their eyes, Jesus.

“Hosanna” means “save us, please.” It comes from the very same root that Jesus’ name comes from. In the Hebrew, you can hear the resonance. “Hoshi’a” and “Yeshua” (Jesus) come from the root word yasha, which means “to save.” The crowd are calling for Jesus to do what his name says he will do. In the song that they are singing (if it is indeed Psalm 118), the cry for salvation is expanded into a plea for success: “Save us, we beseech you, O Lord! O Lord, we beseech you, give us success!” (Ps 118:25). It’s a small detail, maybe, but a significant one, in my thinking. Do we not often ourselves conflate salvation with success, rescue with what we want? When the crowd moves on to sing, “Blessed is the coming kingdom of our ancestor David,” I hear echoes of a tribal battle cry, a partisan proclamation, “Make us great again, and our enemies small.”

Just Resentments Waiting to Happen

The recovery community has a helpful adage, “Expectations are just resentments waiting to happen.” To be clear, expectations are different from hope. Hope is not so definite, so controlling. It does not prescribe what happens next, but only trusts in the possibility of goodness, the possibility of growth. In my view, the story of Palm Sunday is not about hope, but about great expectations. Expectations that will be dashed and ground to disappointment, expectations that will fester into resentment and resignation. The crowd that cries, “Hosanna,” will in several days cry, “Crucify him.”

It seems, in fact, that every expectation is reversed in Holy Week. All of the kingly, messianic symbols sit askew on Jesus. He processes in, not on a war horse, but on a beast of burden. He will wear not a crown of jewels, but of a crown of thorns. People will proclaim him king (“hail, king of the Jews!”), but in a mocking tone accompanied with spitting and hitting. He will be high and lifted up, but on a cross. Most kingdoms begin with the deaths of their enemies (as was the case in this nation), but his kingdom will begin with the death of the king.

“Give Us Control”

There is an extremely prescient, prophetic line hidden in Psalm 118, the song of praise that the crowd sings on Palm Sunday: “The stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone”  (Psalm 118:22). We’ve been talking this Lent about the rejections that Jesus endures en route to the cross. Well, in a single line, this song tells the story of our rejection of Jesus. The builders have a plan. A blueprint. A vision for the building. They see a stone that doesn’t fit, and so they throw it away. Reject it. And yet it is this very stone that will become the cornerstone of their salvation.

I believe this single line tells a universal story. We humans are like builders. Which means we have our plans, blueprints, tools. We want to be in control. In control of ourselves, in control of others, in control of the circumstances around us. Is this not the prayer we hear in Psalm 118? “O Lord, we beseech you, give us success!” Give us control.

Building Vs. Growing

But as I ponder this line—“the stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone”—as I turn it over in my heart, I become aware of its oddity, its strangeness. When Jesus talks about the kingdom, he uses a very different metaphor. He repeatedly talks about sowing and growing. This agricultural metaphor harbors a host of suggestions about the kingdom. Chief among them is the suggestion that we are not in control of the kingdom. We are not its builders. We do not have the master plan. As Jesus says in one of his parables, “[The farmer] would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how” (Mark 4:27).

Elsewhere Jesus talks about the kingdom as something we receive, whether as little children who trustingly receive a gift from their parent, or as a person who receives an invitation to enter a banquet. Again, it is clear, the kingdom is not something we build. Rather, it is already here, sometimes as small as a seed. Our duty is not to build it or construct it, but to trust in its growth and to receive it as though it were already among us, as Jesus says it is.

What We Need:
The Unseen Power of Love

I think back to how The Secret Garden captivated me as a fourth grader. The secret, unseen energy and growth and possibility that was bigger than me, bigger than my control, was not a threat but in fact good news. It was, as Mrs. Sowerby called it, “the Big Good Thing.” The irony of Palm Sunday is the irony that what we want is often the opposite of what we need. We want control, we want to be builders. But the cornerstone of God’s salvation is the opposite. It is trust and dependency, care and nurture. God is love, not power.

For much of Lent, I’ve referred to Jesus’ brokenness, which, admittedly, can risk giving the wrong impression. I do not think Jesus is helpless. Rather I think Jesus is infinitely helped by the Spirit of God who dwells within him. I think Jesus’ brokenness is in fact his greatest strength. I think it shows us a very different kind of power than the one we want, than the one that we cry for when we cry, “O Lord, we beseech you, give us success!” Jesus’ brokenness is the poverty of spirit, the need, that draws him into the care and nurture of God, which is the Big Good Thing, the unseen energy and growth and possibility that brings life from death, that turns a single grain of wheat into much fruit, that renews the face of creation.

In the Lenten Bible Study small group, we talked recently about the symbolic significance of gardens in the Bible. Whatever else they are, they are also reminders of that original goodness and intimacy that we humans enjoyed with God. Is it a coincidence that Jesus’ metaphors of seeds and growth present God’s kingdom as a garden?

This Palm Sunday, as Jesus enters Jerusalem and the crowd dreams of control and fantasizes about its blueprints for success finally realized, I’m thinking it may be worthwhile for me to pause and ponder the difference between what I want and what I need. It may be worthwhile to ponder how Jesus disappoints my expectations, how my expectations may even become resentments and resignation. But if I ponder this, I hope I do not stop there. For the good news is that the stone I reject, is in fact my salvation. This seemingly powerless man Jesus, in fact bears witness to an extraordinary power, the Big Good Thing. I may take a page from Jesus’ book, and look for God’s kingdom right here, not as something I build, but as seeds growing by the unseen power of love. As the child Mary declares in The Secret Garden, and I think she’s onto the gospel of God’s love here—“If you look the right way, you can see that the whole world is a garden.”

Prayer

Dear Christ,
Sometimes we look toward you
With great expectations
Instead of with hope
…
This Palm Sunday,
Help us to distinguish
Between our wants and needs.
Help us to relinquish our blueprints
And instead to marvel
At the growth in our midst,
At the Big Good Thing of love,
Fallen like a grain of wheat
And bearing much fruit.
Amen.

"For This Reason I Have Come" (John 12:20-33)

Glory

A couple of weeks ago, I got a phone call from my brother. Well, really, it was from my nephew, Nathan, whose voice interrupted my brother’s with an enthusiastic announcement. “Hey Uncle Jonny. Did you know that Liverpool plays tomorrow? If they win, they will be in first place. But if they lose and Arsenal wins, then they will be in second place. We hope they win! We want to be in first place, not Arsenal.” It is immensely gratifying—more gratifying than I would have expected—to have my nephew Nathan share this sports passion of mine for Liverpool.

A few months ago, Nathan knew nothing about soccer. Then, something sparked, and he has suddenly become a sponge for our family pastime. He’s always asking questions about the teams, the players, the rules of the game. My brother tells me that every morning he asks to see a schedule of the matches being played that day. He even knows the names of clubs in the lower divisions—the minor league teams, so to speak. “Shrewsbury”—he said to me once, out of nowhere, referring to an obscure team in the third division. “That’s a funny name!”

Where did this sudden fascination with soccer and Liverpool come from? My brother and I have always had Liverpool games on the TV. Why did Nathan so abruptly sit up and take notice of this family interest now? I can’t know for certain, but I think it has to do with his beginning to grasp the idea of competition, of winning and losing. Games like Chutes and Ladders and Connect Four have taught him that it is fun to win. It feels good to come in first. Now that he is oriented toward the basics of competition, he can appreciate what’s going on in a soccer game, in a league. He has begun to identify with a team, and he wants them to be champions, because he wants to be a champion.

All of this is to say, Nathan has not only been learning about soccer. He has been learning about the meaning of glory. He has been learning the traditional values of the world, whether we’re talking about sports or politics or the job world. Glory is the synonym that ties together all the things we desire: ability, achievement, recognition, winning, strength, success.

Glory.

Theology of Glory

When Martin Luther issued his criticisms of the church in the early 1500s—jumpstarting the Reformation, from which our own tradition would eventually emerge—he seized particularly on this word: glory. He said that the church had confused glory with God. Which is to say, the church confused success, size, prosperity, power, winning and so on, with God. It viewed the world in the simplistic terms of good-things-as-rewards and bad-things-as-punishment. If good things happened, it meant God was with you and rewarding you for your virtue. If bad things happened, it meant God was not with you and punishing you for your sins.

He called this way of thinking and looking at the world, a “theology of glory.” A theology of glory has to have victory at the finish line. So it tends to dismiss pain and difficulty and look instead to what purpose they might serve. When something bad happens, a theology of glory will rationalize it as a means to a glorious end. A bad thing becomes a lesson from which we learn or an experience that toughens us up. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” is part of a theology of glory.

In contrast to this theology of glory, Martin Luther held up what he called a “theology of the cross.” In a theology of the cross, God is not confused with success. Rather, God is the free gift of love, which sometimes meets with great suffering. Luther did not see the cross as a gruesome means to a glorious end, as a transaction by which Christ paid for our entry into heaven. Luther saw the cross as a show of love. A theology of glory says that God must have a card up his sleeve when he goes to the cross. Luther says, No. Love does not have a card up its sleeve. It’s not a trick or a transaction. It is a good thing, in and of itself, even when it meets with the worst thing in the world. 

Redefining Glory:
The Glory of God

In our scripture today, Jesus has reached Jerusalem, and anticipation is building. News of Jesus’ teaching and healing has spread to the point that even Greeks—outsiders—have journeyed to Jerusalem. They implore Philip in today’s scripture, “Sir, we wish to see Jesus” (John 12:20). People want to see Jesus. They want to see with their own eyes what he’s all about.

What Jesus is all about—well, that’s something Jesus himself ruminates on in today’s scripture. He refers repeatedly to “the hour [that] has come for the Son of Man to be glorified” (John 12:23; cf. John 12:27-28). But he’s not anticipating a victory or a triumph, not in the traditional sense. He’s not anticipating the glory that the crowds are hoping to see.

“My soul is troubled,” he says (John 12:27). He is wrestling with himself: “What should I say—‘Father, save me from this hour’? No, it is for this reason that I have come to this hour” (John 12:27). Jesus affirms the cross. He says “Yes” to it. Not as a means to an end. Not as a transaction. But as the reason itself that he is here. The cross is the glory of God.

The Cross

It’s very easy, and very tempting, to look beyond the cross, to look for resurrection. Jesus himself talks about a grain of wheat, and how it must die in order to bear much fruit (John 12:24). Ah!—we might think. The card up his sleeve. This is what it’s all about. His death is really a detour to a greater destination. A stepping stone to a glorious end.

I don’t mean to challenge the promise of resurrection, not at all. But I do want to point out that Jesus anticipates “the hour…for the Son of Man to be glorified” not as the moment of resurrection, but as the moment of crucifixion. I want to point out that “the judgment of this world,” of which he speaks, when “the ruler of this world will be driven out,” is not identified with the moment of resurrection, but with the moment of crucifixion. Something happens on the cross that is valuable in itself, that is in fact more valuable than anything else. Resurrection may be an outgrowth of the cross, just as a seed gives root and grows, but the cross is the thing. The reason Jesus has come. The judgment of the world. The driving out of the devil. The glory of God. It’s all in the cross.

The Moment of Truth

Jesus’ repeated references to “the hour” toward which he has come and his mention of “the judgment of this world” lead me to think about the cross as “a moment of truth.” A moment of truth is a pivotal event, a “crucial” event, at which point something is revealed and also something must be decided. What is revealed on the cross is God’s love. What must be decided for all who have gathered to see what Christ is all about, is, “Do I trust in this love that has ended up on a cross?” What must be decided is, “Is this a moment of victory, or a defeat? Is this a moment of glory, or shame and disgrace?”

One of the earliest artistic representations of the crucifixion is a piece of Roman graffiti. (See here.) It depicts a man with a donkey’s head on a cross, and the inscription, “Alexamenos worships [his] God.” Needless to say, the graffiti artist has made his decision about the cross. It is a shameful, mockable defeat. A God who dies? A joke. People who worship him? Losers. There, in the heart of Rome, the center of power, the graffiti artist shakes his head and thinks, Pitiful. Could you get any further away from the idea of glory?

Again, the temptation is to jump to what we as readers long familiar with the story already know, which is the resurrection. It is tempting for us, in turn, to mock this graffiti artist, to say, “A-ha! But we know something you don’t.” It is tempting to make our judgment based on what happens next, to treat the cross as a means to an end, as a temporary stopover en route to a glorious eternal destination. But this is not the way that Jesus sees things. For Jesus, the cross is the reason he’s here, the hour of glory, the victory over the devil. The thing itself. It is confounding. It sounds like foolishness and weakness to the world, who checks the scores each morning to see who won, the papers to see who’s leading in the polls, and the stock market to see who’s ahead.

The Glory of the Cross

And yet to us, the cross is good news. Our faith is not based on a miracle that decides matters for us. It is based on our own decision that this love, exemplified in Christ on the cross, is worth it. It is based on a very different understanding of glory—not success, but steadfast love.

I have a friend who is going through a difficult divorce in the wake of a grand deception that is only now coming to full light. I see in her situation the glory of the cross, a dogged faith that love is worth it even when it meets with pain and difficulty.

I have another friend in the hospital who is suffering from a disease that the doctors cannot explain. I see in his situation the glory of the cross, a determination to bear love to his family and others even though it does not bring an ounce of physical relief.

I think of all of us in times of loss and grief, and I see the glory of the cross. To put it plainly, I see the victory of love. In our gratitude for the gift of another’s life. In the care we show for one another.

We haven’t made it to Easter yet, so I’m hesitant to say much about resurrection. But I think in light of this difficult glory, it’s worth saying this. For Jesus, the resurrection was not a victory dance. He did not parade himself in front of his doubters, in front of the religious leaders, in front of the future graffiti artists who would mock him. If they couldn’t see his glory on the cross, they wouldn’t see it properly in his resurrection either. For Jesus, the glory of the resurrection is one and same with the glory of the crucifixion. It is cut of the exact same fabric—namely, love. The glory of love is the same on the cross as it is on Easter morning. It is the glory of a love no matter what. Its no-matter-whatness is what is stronger than death.

The followers of Jesus who trusted in this love, saw it in both places: the crucifixion and the resurrection.

Prayer

Dear Christ,
We have at various points
Tasted the glory of this world,
Success, achievement, wealth—
And it does not satisfy.
We are hungry and thirsty
For something else.
…
Give us eyes to see the cross
As the victory of your love,
And hearts to trust in the goodness of your way,
Even when it is hard and narrow.
Amen.

"Lifted Up" (John 3:14-21)

Tales of Denial

Today’s scripture reminds me of a comical sketch in a popular TV sitcom.

At the beginning of the episode, two characters who are in a relationship are faced with a significant decision, one that neither of them wants to face. (To be honest, I can’t remember what the decision is! Maybe it was about a pregnancy or a career change.)  From one scene to the next, we find them avoiding the one conversation they need to have. Instead, they’re munching on chips. Grabbing a snack from the refrigerator. Ordering a basket of fries at the restaurant. Each scene makes evident that the characters are getting bigger…and bigger…and bigger. Exaggeratedly so.

Toward the end of the episode, when they cannot avoid noticing their mushrooming waistlines, they accept that they have a problem. But even then, they misdiagnose it. They think they have an eating problem, when in fact their eating is merely a symptom of their denial, a coping mechanism to help them avoid a painful conversation. In fact, it will take them several more episodes to acknowledge and address the deeper issue.

While I might chuckle at the humor of this scenario, there’s a part of me that squirms. Who among us does not know this pattern of events, this avoidance or denial, this rejection of a painful reality? Not studying for a test because of the anxiety it arouses. Putting off a doctor’s visit for fear of what might be found. Staying late at work to avoid an uncomfortable conversation at home.

The Israelites’ Denial

When the Israelites were in the wilderness, they did not have the luxury of surplus food. They could not eat away their stress. But their anxieties and their fears find another outlet. Impatience and negative chatter. They reject the hardship of their reality by complaining about it. Instead of being honest about their deepest doubts and fears, they are embittered and hard-hearted, closed and guarded. In today’s Old Testament scripture, their words are not an open-hearted prayer but a closed-minded prosecution. “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? For there is no food and no water, and we detest this miserable food” (Num 21:5). The people emphatically reject their painful reality, denying that it should be so, avoiding its implications of the need for help and trust. As in the sitcom scenario, they misdiagnose their problem. They say it’s a matter of food. The truth is, it’s a matter of fear. They are afraid they will never make it out of the wilderness. They’re not sure they really trust in God.

What happens next is an episode that requires careful interpretation. Scripture says, “The Lord sent poisonous serpents among the people, and they bit the people, so that many Israelites died” (Num 21:6). This chain of events seems simple enough, right? The Israelites complained, and God punished them. But the God whom Jesus reveals, of whom Jesus is the very image, is a God of mercy, not punishment. (“God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world” but to save it, as our gospel text says today.) It helps, I think, to appreciate that the idea of punishment in the Old Testament is less the idea of an authority punishing a person for their misdeeds, and more the idea of a natural consequence for a person’s actions. Sometimes, the Old Testament will say God “visits” a person’s sins “upon them”—which is to say, the person experiences the natural consequences of their actions. In this case, the Israelites’ rejection of their painful reality, their avoidance and denial, makes them vulnerable to a painful reality. (It’s sort of like when we deny a problem, and it only gets bigger and bigger, until we can’t avoid it.)

What is instructive to me about God in this wilderness episode, is not the idea that God sent poisonous serpents among the people, but what happens next. When the people cry out that they have sinned and Moses prays to God, God responds with mercy, with healing. When the people get honest about their painful reality, God brings healing.

The Problem Becomes the Cure

Now, God’s deliverance in this episode is…strange. God instructs Moses to make a bronze serpent and lift it up high on a pole. Everyone who has suffered a snakebite may then look at it and live (Num 21:8). Again, we could interpret this rather literally, as though it depicted some form of ancient magic. But I think we would be missing the deeper point. Readers have long pondered a remarkable resemblance in this scene. Snakes are the problem; and a snake is what brings healing. The problem becomes the cure.

Readers in the medical field have observed that this resembles the practice of homeopathy, or curing “like with like”—that is, treating a disease with a substance that elicits similar symptoms. Vaccines are technically not homeopathic, but practically speaking they function in a similar way. They imitate an infection (which is why you might feel a bit tired or sore after getting a vaccine) in order to engage and boost the body’s immune system. To put this otherwise, they force the body to get honest about the effects of the disease, so that it might be prepared and protected against future occasions. The problem becomes the cure.

“May Not Perish but Have Eternal Life”

In case you were wondering if I would ever get to our scripture today in the gospel of John, well, I’m finally there. You probably recognized in our scripture reading earlier one of the Bible’s most well-known verses, John 3:16. As a child, this was one of the first verses I memorized. I learned that it was effectively the promise of salvation. Which it is! I’m not about to contradict that claim. But the picture of salvation that I was largely taught, was the picture of a future destination, of an escape (one might even say, of a denial). This verse was about getting my ticket punched. Salvation was in the afterlife, not this life.

But that picture of salvation is very limited. It’s one-dimensional. The scripture itself presents a much richer picture of salvation, one that has to do with taking responsibility and receiving healing, here, now. It all starts with the verses that precede John 3:16. “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes [trusts] in him may have eternal life [the life of the ages, the life where you’re really living]” (John 3:14-15). “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent….” In other words, Jesus is comparing what will happen on the cross directly with what happens in the wilderness scene. He’s saying it’s the same phenomenon.

Just as Israel was invited to look upon its own sin, its own painful reality, in the form of that bronze serpent lifted up, so the world is invited to look upon its sin in Jesus on the cross. Jesus on the cross holds a mirror to the brokenness of the world. The violence of the cross reflects the violence of the world. Distrust, fear, hate, greed, impatience, the desire for control—violence is their end. We see all these diseased patterns of thinking in the violence of the cross.

The Best Way Out Is Through

This Lent we have been exploring the rejections that Jesus endures en route to the cross. Today’s scripture reveals that the rejection of Jesus is in fact an act of denial or avoidance of our own painful realities. The serpent on the pole, Jesus on the cross—they are held up that we might acknowledge our hurt and the ways we hurt others. Only when we accept our painful reality and our sin, only when we expose our wounds, can they be healed. And that’s precisely what Jesus promises in today’s scripture. The problem becomes the cure. When we look upon the cross and see our sin and finally acknowledge the hurt we have been avoiding or denying, there suddenly appears an opening for God’s healing love.

Robert Frost once wrote in a poem, “The best way out is always through,” which I think echoes the salvation of the cross. Trusting in Jesus is not the salvation of an escape, of going around. It involves acknowledging and taking responsibility for our painful realities and trusting that in so doing God’s love will heal us. The problem becomes the cure.

Another way I’ve heard it put, is, “What you resist, persists.” What we avoid or deny or run away from, will linger and fester and persist. But when we accept a painful reality, we open ourselves up to the possibility of transformation. The problem becomes the cure.

Getting Honest

The history of our faith is rich with spiritual practices for getting honest. The Catholic tradition has confession. Twelve-step recovery has checking in with a sponsor. There is a prayer called the Examen, which some people pray daily or weekly, which involves recalling both helpful and hurtful moments in the recent past and inviting God’s guidance and care in navigating them. And then there are a host of informal practices, such as journaling or visiting with a spiritual mentor or just calling a friend. The important thing is not the precise form of any one practice, but the getting honest that happens in them.

The paradox of salvation is that we really don’t do anything in the first step. We just get honest, which is a way of opening ourselves up to God’s healing love, which is always there. The desert fathers and mothers observed that the moment they confessed a struggle, the moment they got honest, the burden of the struggle was lightened. Maybe it was still there, but it was bearable now. In the acceptance they found from God and others, they felt relieved. They also often found that further guidance and support would be received in due time when they needed it.

The story of the bronze serpent in the wilderness is weird and unforgettable. And I’m grateful for that. Because now when I hear John 3:16, I do not hear the promise of an escape. I hear the promise of a richer salvation, the promise of life now. I hear the hard invitation to get honest and the gentle assurance that God’s love is always here to help.

Prayer

Dear Christ,
Who comes not to condemn,
But to deliver us who stand condemned already
By the things we avoid or deny
…
Grant us the courage
To look upon your cross
And acknowledge our sin
And our painful realities,
So that we might know your love
Where we need it most,
And so that we might bear witness
To the good news of your healing.
Amen.

"What Sign Will You Show Us?" (John 2:13-22)

What Is a Sign?

What is a sign? The answer may seem obvious, but it’s a question worth revisiting.

Let’s say we’re driving on the road, looking for a particular place. We see in the distance, mounted on a pole, a large board with words on it. Do we judge the board on how high it stands? Or what material it is constructed from? Do we judge it according to its craftmanship, its neatness? Is the board itself our concern? Or are we more interested in what the board tells us? Do we pay attention instead to the words on the board? If we’re looking for a particular place, if we are not where we want to be, then no matter how glorious a board may look, it is useless if it does not point us somewhere, if it does not guide us in the right direction.

Or those of you who have been married and who wear a ring on your finger, consider your ring as a sign. What is its significance to you? Are you most concerned with the material of the ring—silver, gold, a precious stone set within it? Are you most concerned with how it looks in and of itself? Does its value consist in its costliness or its elegance? Or does it have a deeper value? I remember as a child learning that the significance of a ring was not its material but its shape. It is a circle. Eternal. Sure, we get caught up sometimes in the material of it, but its real value, what is signifies, has nothing to do with the material. The ring could be pure gold or it could be wood, but it would ultimately mean the same thing.

To answer the question, then: a sign signifies. What matters is not the material of the sign, but the meaning of it. To fixate on the material of the sign, would be like looking only at the finger and not paying attention to where it is pointing.

“What Sign Can You Show Us?”

Today’s scripture is a familiar scene: Jesus overturning the moneychangers’ tables in the Temple. The other gospels place this scene right before Jesus’ crucifixion. John, however, places it earlier in the timeline, a year or so before Jesus’ death. It is possible it happened both times. But it is equally possible that it happened once and the gospels have remembered the event a little bit differently, in the same way that several family members might remember a cherished moment differently. The differences in memory here are a not a conflict that need to be reconciled but are rather distinctions in meaning. Each family member remembers the event in a unique way that captures the event’s meaning for them.

For John, Jesus’ table-turning demonstration in the Temple is a sign that the religious leaders miss. John’s gospel is the only one that gives a voice to the religious leaders in this scene. Jesus declares, as he is driving out the money-changers and their animals, “Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!” The religious leaders respond, “What sign can you show us for doing this?” (John 2:18).

The gospel of John is fascinated with signs. Many readers have noticed that John identifies a handful of Jesus’ miracles as signs. In fact, there are six miracles that John designates as “signs.” Six is so close to seven—and seven is a sacred number (symbolic of the seven days of creation)—that some readers have speculated that there are actually seven signs in John, and one of them simply did not receive the formal designation.

In any case, today’s scene in the Temple raises the question of the meaning of these signs. When the religious leaders demand a sign from Jesus, saying, “What sign can you show us for doing this?” they seem to be asking for a miracle. Which is to say, a demonstration of power. What Jesus has just done does not seem right in their eyes, but if he has the might to back it up, if he can prove his power, then they will perhaps change their minds. Their thinking is a reflection of the cliché, might makes right.

Neither Miracles Nor Calculations:
Christ Crucified

In our other New Testament lectionary text today, we find Paul talking about perhaps the greatest sign or symbol of our faith, the cross. He says, “Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles” (1 Cor 1:22-23). Paul is painting with a broad brush here. He’s not talking about the essentials of Judaism or Greek culture, but about two basic ways of living in the world. The “Jews” who “demand signs” represent a religious orientation that focuses on power—that is, miracles, signs. The “Greeks” who “desire wisdom” represent a worldly orientation that focuses on wisdom—that is, good sense, logic. If you would permit a paraphrase, here’s how I would put what Paul is saying when he says, “Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom.” “Religious people demand miracles, mighty deeds that prove their point; and people of the world desire spreadsheets and sound calculations, evidence to back up their decisions; but we proclaim love crucified, which is nonsense to the religious people demanding miracles, and bad sense to the worldly people desiring a profitable bottom line.

Have you ever wondered why Paul proclaims Christ crucified and not Christ resurrected? Or why at the Lord’s Table—“as often as we eat this bread and drink the cup, we proclaim the Lord’s death” and not his resurrection (1 Cor 11:26)? Doesn’t that seem a little odd?

I can’t know for certain, but I think Paul highlights the cross because as a sign, it signifies so much more about God’s love than the resurrection alone. If all we did was proclaim the resurrection, or if all we did was talk about the signs of Jesus in terms of his power and might, as though the healings and feeding of the thousands had to do with a demonstration of his godly strength, then we would miss out on the good news completely. It would be like looking at a sign and marveling at its height and craftsmanship, or looking at a ring and thinking its significance consisted in its material value, or fixating on a pointed finger and not looking toward where it’s pointing. I think Paul proclaims the cross because there’s no mistaking its significance. The cross does not show us power or wisdom, not by the world’s standards. It only shows us one thing: God’s love.

The Lenten Bible Study group is reading a book about the seven last words that Jesus utters from the cross. Susan Robb, the author, points out that Jesus’ final words on the cross exemplify the compassion, forgiveness, and love that Jesus showed people throughout his life. In a way, the cross highlights those qualities. It lifts them up and makes them unmistakable. It’s one thing to love others when life is going well. It’s quite another to do that in the midst of cruelty, in the midst of one’s own certain death. As a sign, the cross shows us more than anything else who God is. Not power. Not logic or common sense. But love.

Only a Sign of Love

This Lent we’re focusing on the rejections that Jesus endures en route to the cross, and how these rejections effectively present us with a learning opportunity. (That is what it means to be a disciple, by the way. “Disciple” simply means “learner.”) The rejections that we read about are moments of decision at which we all find ourselves from time to time. Like the religious leaders in the Temple, we might cock an eyebrow at Jesus’ crazy behavior, such as loving enemies or turning the other cheek or forgiving again and again without end. “Yes, but what sign can you show us,” we might ask, “that all of this isn’t just nonsense, that in the end you’re gonna trounce the bad guys and we will be mightily rewarded?”

In today’s scripture, the religious leaders at the Temple effectively reject Jesus because instead of seeing Jesus’ signs for their deeper meaning, they’re looking only at the surface. They’re looking at how high the billboard is, or how expensive the ring is, rather than considering what it means, what it points toward. I think this is why, when they ask for a sign, Jesus does not try to gratify them. He does not point toward the miracles. He does not say, “Haven’t you heard about what I did at the wedding at Cana?” Or, “Just follow me for a few days and witness the healings.” If they’re only looking for power, they will misread these signs. They will not see beyond their surface. They will see a powerful man instead a loving man. So instead, Jesus responds cryptically with a reference to the ultimate sign: his crucifixion and resurrection.

Granted, the resurrection of a dead body may seem like precisely the kind of sign that the religious leaders would appreciate. That’s a miracle! That’s real power! But the curious thing about the resurrection, is that only Jesus’ followers see the resurrected Jesus. Jesus does not parade his resurrected boy in front of the religious leaders, or those who were looking for a sign of power. Only the people who experience the crucifixion, only the people who see in the crucifixion the depths of God’s love, see its heights as well.

“What sign can you show us…?” the religious leaders ask (John 2:18). Perhaps we ask the same thing from time to time, looking for a show of God’s power, for certainty that will dissolve our doubts. But instead all we get is love.

It’s a little bit like the rings some of us wear, if we could go back to them for a moment. When wedding vows are made, they are not made because the two parties have run all the calculations and determined with absolute certainty what will be, or because one person has absolute control over the other and rests assured of a profitable arrangement. (Either of these theoretical circumstances would make a mockery of the marriage, making it a matter of spreadsheets or cold, callous control.) The vows are made not with knowledge of what is to come, not with control over the future. They are made only with love, which is quite vulnerable, which has no guarantees of what is to come. “In good times and in bad, in sickness and in health…” Or as we could perhaps imagine Jesus saying, “In grateful companionship around the table and on a hateful cross…I will love and honor you.”

The signs of Christ, of which the cross is the greatest, are not demonstrations of power or proof of a good investment. They are pointers toward what matters most: God’s love.

Prayer

Dear Christ,
Who points us toward God’s love—
We see in our world your many signs:
Moments of healing,
Moments when our hunger is nourished,
Moments when the water of ordinary life
Is transformed into the wine of the kingdom,
Moments of love amid great suffering,
When life feels like a cross
…
Help us to accept these signs
Not as proof of power, or certainty of control,
But as reminders of what matters,
Your great love for us, your children…
So that we might not proclaim the signs alone,
But the good news toward which they point.
Amen.