Into Our Hands (John 19:23-30)

 Today is called Maundy Thursday because traditionally on this day the church has reflected on the final “mandate” that Jesus left his followers. (“Mandate” is where the word “Maundy” originates. You can hear the similarity: “Mandate”...“Maundy.”) A simpler way to think about Maundy Thursday is that it is Jesus’ last lesson. The last “mandates” he gives to his disciples. Typically on Maundy Thursday we read the story of the Last Supper, where Jesus issues several instructions, or “mandates.” Such as when he gets on his own knees and washes his followers’ feet and tells them to do the same. Or when he says “Love one another as I have loved you” (cf. John 13).

But the Narrative Lectionary, the scripture calendar we’re following, invites us this year to read a different set of mandates. Tonight, instead of reading about the Last Supper, we read about Jesus’ last words on the cross. While this breaks with longstanding tradition, it is not entirely without reason. If Maundy Thursday is meant to be about Jesus’ last lesson, his final mandates, then we might indeed look to the cross. Death often reveals the truest character of a person’s life. On the cross, Jesus is not serenely reading from a script. He’s not following a lesson plan he drew up the night before. On the cross, we see Jesus’ most natural reflexes.

When on the cross Jesus beholds his mother and the disciple whom he loves, two of his most cherished companions, he sees beyond the despair of the present moment to the new family that God is creating, a family defined not by blood but by love. And so he says, “Woman, here is your son,” and to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” Which is another way of saying, “In the kingdom of God, we all belong to one another. Like family.” It is not a coincidence that the earliest Christ-followers were frequently accused of living a promiscuous lifestyle. Outsiders could not otherwise understand how it was that people from such different backgrounds of race and class and occupation could regularly come together and care for each other. They could not understand this new family.

Jesus next “last word” is in fact a single “word” in the Greek: “I thirst.” It is a remarkable thing to me, that as Jesus dies, he does not despair of his incredible pain and wish for a quicker death. Instead, he clings on desperately to life, even as he knows it will soon be gone. “I thirst” is a way for Jesus to say—despite all the evil he has encountered, despite all the pain: “I want to live. Life is good. I want more of it!” And is it any surprise that Jesus would say this?  He could never conceal his love for this life.  When he told stories, all he could talk about was this life: the serenity of birds, the beauty of wild flowers, the sun and the rain that fall on us all; children who dance and play flutes, brothers and bridesmaids, weddings and feasts.  On the cross, Jesus was not looking forward to heaven.  He was insisting that heaven had come to earth—was this not his life’s prayer? (Matt 6:10).  He was insisting, despite all appearances, that this life already contains all the goodness of God’s love.

Jesus’ final “word”—“It is finished”—should be heard in the same register as an artist pronouncing the completion of his masterpiece, or a composer declaring her satisfaction upon writing down the final note of her song. In other words, “it is finished” is Jesus’ defiant pronouncement that this death is not about defeat and suffering. Rather it is the ultimate act or deed in his life’s work—the finishing touch to his masterpiece. It is the capstone, the final achievement, completing and fulfilling all that has preceded it. Popular theology has frequently made the cross out to be part of some sacrificial equation, which stipulates that Jesus must die so we can live. This leaves us with some disturbing implications, such as a God who demands the blood of his own child, which in our world we would call “child abuse.” But what I read in this passage is not the outworking of some complicated sacrificial equation. The cross is a symbol not of mortal suffering but of an immortal love. As Jesus himself put it earlier in the gospel: “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13).

The word “mandate” literally means something like “given into one’s hands.” To give a mandate is effectively to say, “It’s in your hands now. I have done what is mine to do, but I cannot do what is yours.” If that sounds rather bleak and lonely, well—I suppose that’s how Jesus’ followers felt when they saw Jesus on the cross. I suppose it’s how we all feel from time to time when it seems we are up against it all on our own. Maybe we feel this loneliness when a loved one or we ourselves receive a troubling prognosis. Or when we see injustice and suffering in our world. Or when our own plans fall to pieces and we can’t see a way forward. Is this difficulty and grief ours alone to bear? Is Maundy Thursday saying it’s all in our hands now, it’s all up to us?

Far from it. Jesus’ last words—his final lesson—are not without hope. First, he gives us to one another, reminding us of our divine heritage and that we are all brothers and sisters in God’s family. We do not walk alone. No burden is ours to bear alone when we live in God’s family. Next, he affirms the goodness of life no matter how dark things get, inviting us to see God’s gracious hand in all creation and to treasure life’s many gifts and to “thirst” for what is good. And lastly, he insists that the cross is not his passive defeat, but in fact the crowning demonstration of his love, the final touch to his masterpiece of a life, a witness to the way God works in the world—not by overpowering force, but by a love that endures to the end.

"Hosanna!" (John 19:16b-22)

“What Is God’s Job Description?”

Within the previous church whom I served, there was a woman named Lu. (She passed away a few weeks ago and has been on my mind lately.) Lu’s mind was as sharp as a tack and her heart as soft as a sponge. She cared deeply for the needful, especially for the homeless and the hungry, and she readily swatted away all of the easy excuses that people give to justify the reality of poverty and to ease their own conscience. Lu had little patience for people who wouldn’t acknowledge the plight of those less fortunate. But when I first met Lu, the person with whom she had the least patience…was God.

I still remember how Lu confronted me after an early sermon. “I really wish,” she said exasperatedly, “someone could tell me what God’s job description is.” Lu had grown up in the church, where she had learned to see God as a divine butler. She recounted her experience as an editor for a religious journal, where she once read a pastor explain the importance of praying as specifically as possible. The pastor wrote, for example, that if a people prayed for rain but did not specify the amount of rain that their fields needed, then they might experience a drought. This pastor also explained their righteousness factored into the equation. If they’d been living sinfully, then God might not hear their prayers.

This picture of a divine butler really troubled Lu. She could not reconcile it with her experience. See, Lu had a father who had a crippling form of mental illness and ended up living on the streets. He had a childlike faith and prayed regularly, trusting that God would provide for his needs. But what Lu saw, was a God who didn’t listen, who didn’t respond. If God really was this divine butler she’d been taught to believe in, then he was pretty miserable at his job.

Hence her question: “Just what is God’s job description?”

Living Up to His Name

Today is Palm Sunday. The Narrative Lectionary—the scripture-reading calendar that we’re following this year—has already advanced in the gospel of John well beyond Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, which is the main event of Palm Sunday. In fact, it has led us to the beginning of the crucifixion.

But not entirely without reason. The beginning of the crucifixion in John echoes with the cries of Palm Sunday. In fact, the gospel of John sees the two events as inextricably linked. Notice how in today’s text the main theme is Jesus’ kingship. Pilate makes a sign that reads, “Jesus of Nazareth, king of the Jews” (John 19:19). But then the religious leaders protest that it should read instead “This man said, I am the king of the Jews” (John 19:21). If we look back to Palm Sunday, however, we see that it is not Jesus proclaiming his own kingship. Rather it is the crowd of people welcoming him to Jerusalem who shout, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord—the king of Israel!” (John 12:13).

All this talk in today’s scripture about Jesus as “king of the Jews” points back to Palm Sunday. It points back, specifically, to the people’s expectations of Jesus. They see him as a king. Their shouts of “Hosanna” are literally a cry for Jesus to live up to his own name (John 12:13). In Hebrew, hosanna comes from the same root as the name Jesus (or Yeshua), the root yasha, which means “to save.” The na on the end of hosanna is an additional particle that conveys a sense of urgency, similar to the words “now!” and “please!” in English. So when the people proclaim Jesus to be “King of Israel,” they’re doing so with the expectation that he’s going to live up to his name, that he’s going to make good on his job description—that he’s going to “save” them…now!

What Is “Salvation”?

But what is “salvation?” How do the people expect to be saved? Remember, this is the day before the Passover celebration. Many of the people in the crowd have journeyed tens, even hundreds, of miles to gather in Jerusalem to commemorate when God delivered their ancestors from slavery in Egypt. I imagine their expectations for salvation are for a repeat performance, a Passover: Part Two, a miraculous deliverance from the Roman occupying forces. Perhaps some of the people gathered have also witnessed or at least heard about some of the extraordinary healings and feedings that Jesus has accomplished, and they expect more such accomplishments—just on a social or political level. Whatever their expectations are exactly, I think it’s safe to say that they are imagining salvation in this life rather than in some afterlife. When Jesus tells Martha that her brother Lazarus will rise again, she responds that she knows he will rise on the last day (John 11:24); her concern is the here and now. In the biblical mindset, the ancient Jewish mindset, salvation is for this world, this life.

Popular Christian thought has largely deferred or postponed salvation to a later time and place—a heavenly afterlife when everything will be fixed. Salvation still rests on the expectation of some desired result; it’s just that the desired result has been delayed or pushed back. In one sense, this postponement of salvation results in a very weak or anemic faith. For some Christians, Jesus “saves,” but not until you die. Before then, you’d be better off trusting in your own savings account than in Jesus’ saving you. Before then, you’d be better off learning to wield the sword than to bear the cross.

But whether we think of salvation as something that happens in this life (as people in the Bible do), or as something that happens in the next (as many Christians do), we humans seem to take it for granted that what “salvation” really amounts to is an expected outcome or result. God’s job description is that of a divine butler, a holy fixer, who ultimately gives us what we want.

Not What We Expect

Whatever else the cross does, it firmly dispels any simplistic notions of God as a divine genie who grants our wishes. In Christ on the cross, we discover that God’s salvation does not look anything like our great expectations.

It’s worth noting that when Jesus first shares with his disciples the news that he will eventually be crucified, he also issues an invitation: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Mark 8:34). In other words, the cross is not something that Jesus bears so we don’t have to. It is, rather, an experience in which Jesus invites us to participate. It is a way of living. (For this reason, the earliest Christ-followers were called not Christians, but members of “The Way.”) Jesus describes the way of the cross as the way of salvation, saying, “Those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who [take up their cross and] lose their life for the sake of the good news will save it” (Mark 8:35).

I find the wisdom of the Desert Tradition especially instructive for how we understand salvation. (By “the Desert Tradition,” I refer to the third and fourth century movement, in which many followers of Christ fled society to practice their faith in the wilderness—in large part because they saw Christianity becoming domesticated by its increasing collaboration with the Roman empire.) There is much conversation in the Desert Tradition about “salvation.” A novice or beginner in the faith will often approach their elder (their abba or amma) with the question, “What must I do to be saved?” Not once does the elder respond with that well-known line from Paul, favored among many contemporary evangelicals, “Believe in the Lord Jesus and you will be saved” (Acts 16:31). Instead they offer practical instructions that are tailored to the individual and that invite them to live more fully in the way of Christ, which is the way of the cross. Listen to a few of their responses: “If you want to be saved, whenever you go to see anybody do not speak until he asks you something.” “Sit in your cell, and if you are hungry, eat, if you are thirsty, drink; only do not speak evil of anyone, and you will be saved.” “Like the dead, take no account of the scorn of men or their praises, and you can be saved.” “Do no evil to anyone, and do not judge anyone. Observe this and you will be saved.” “If you observe the following you will be saved: ‘Be joyful at all times! Pray without ceasing! And give thanks for all things!’”

As I read today’s scripture and reflect on God’s strange salvation, I hear Lu asking her question, “Just what is God’s job description?” The cross suggests that it’s nothing like our expectations. On the cross, Jesus does not give us what we want: namely, control. He gives us what we need: namely, love. And it’s not a transaction, as though our account has received a credit, as much as it is an invitation, as though we are being invited to dance, to give as we have received. “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me” (Mark 8:34).

The beauty (and irony) of Lu’s life is that, even as she frequently voiced her doubts and protests against the divine butler “God” whom she’d been taught, she embodied a faith in the crucified God. Which is to say, she walked the way of the cross, putting love of others before her need for control. In her words, Lu was always contesting a God she didn’t really believe in; but in her deeds, she gave flesh to her true faith—her trust in a God who does not control things but rather cares for all creatures. Always mindful of the plight of her homeless father, she poured her life into ministering to the homeless. She was  a shining example of a motto popular among the earliest Christ-followers in northern Africa, who regularly said, “We do not speak great things. We live them.”

What is God’s job description? I think it is nowhere clearer than on the cross, where Christ relinquishes all control and loves us to the end.

Prayer

Christ Jesus,
To whom we cry, “Hosanna! Save us please!”
…
Grant us eyes to see the cross
Not as the frustration of our expectations
But as the way of your love,
Which is redeeming all things.
Amen.

On Trial (John 19:1-16a)

Insanity 

Years ago, I had a housemate named Ryan who was always trying to scratch some itch. He would spend money he didn’t have on new sports cars. He was regularly dating a new girl, sometimes before he’d ended things with his previous girlfriend. He would change jobs frequently, always looking for a better salary.

I remember conversations we had over dinner. It was like listening to a broken record stuck on a song called, “Poor Me.” Which is to say, Ryan was endlessly dissatisfied. But he never saw the pattern in his behavior. You know the saying, “Insanity is doing the same thing and expecting a different result”? Tragically, Ryan embodied this insanity. He was thirsty, but he kept choosing to drink salt water. He kept trying to scratch that itch in the same old way with the same old result: it just itched even more.

Now, I have a hunch that if we’re honest, we can all see a bit of Ryan in ourselves. Because I think it’s human to keep doing the same thing and to expect a different result. Maybe we can see it in the ways we relate to a boss, or a teacher, or our children (or grandchildren). Maybe we can see it in the ways we spend our money. Maybe we can see it in the ways we consume our news.

Definitely we can see it in our scripture today, where humanity insists on doing things the way it’s always done things. 

A King That Refuses to Fight

1   Then Pilate took Jesus and had him flogged. 2 And the soldiers wove a crown of thorns and put it on his head, and they dressed him in a purple robe. 3 They kept coming up to him, saying, “Hail, King of the Jews!” and striking him on the face. 4 Pilate went out again and said to them, “Look, I am bringing him out to you to let you know that I find no case against him.” 5 So Jesus came out, wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe. Pilate said to them, “Here is the man!”

I’ve often wondered how the crowd who just days earlier had welcomed Jesus to Jerusalem with shouts of joy could turn on him so quickly. How does the tide of popular sentiment turn so fast?

As I read our scripture today, I imagine Jesus presented to the crowd as an absolute joke of a king, with a bloodied royal robe and a mocking crown of thorns, with his face not glowing with pride but twisted in pain. I imagine that the shame meant to be heaped on him is in fact heaped instead onto the crowd. This is not the king whom they desired or expected. This “king” does not act like a king. As we saw last week, this king refuses to fight. This king is weak.

Last year, the soccer team I support, Liverpool, won the Premier League (what is effectively the national championship). The fans were ecstatic. For a full day, the players and the manager rode atop a bus through the city, celebrating with everyone. Supporters chanted the manager’s name with gusto. This year, the team are in fifth place, and the fans are restless. Many of the same supporters who last year chanted the manager’s name are now calling for his head. How quickly the tide can turn when we don’t get what we want or expect.

What the people of Judea want, is a king who will fight, a king who will ultimately liberate them from Rome. This Jesus, already mocked and beaten by the Roman guard, is a shameful pretender of the king the people want.

A God That Refuses to Get His Way

6 When the chief priests and the police saw him, they shouted, “Crucify him! Crucify him!” Pilate said to them, “Take him yourselves and crucify him; I find no case against him.” 7 The Jews answered him, “We have a law, and according to that law he ought to die because he has claimed to be the Son of God.”

8   Now when Pilate heard this, he was more afraid than ever. 9 He entered his headquarters again and asked Jesus, “Where are you from?” But Jesus gave him no answer. 10 Pilate therefore said to him, “Do you refuse to speak to me? Do you not know that I have power to release you, and power to crucify you?” 11 Jesus answered him, “You would have no power over me unless it had been given you from above; therefore the one who handed me over to you is guilty of a greater sin.”

Just as Pilate is probably beginning to feel some reassurance that this Jesus fellow isn’t going to be giving Rome any trouble—he doesn’t seem to be an insurrectionist and in fact popular sentiment seems to have turned against him—the religious leaders finally give voice to their real accusation against Jesus, and it’s a supremely troubling one for Pilate. This man Jesus claims to be “the son of God.” Now, it’s one thing to mock and perhaps even execute a seemingly sincere and innocent man. Pilate is willing to do that if it keeps the peace. But it’s another thing entirely to meddle in the affairs of the gods, who could really wreak havoc. The revelation that Jesus may be divine spooks Pilate. “Where are you from?” he demands of Jesus, apparently asking him to confirm his divine origins.

But just as before Jesus does not act like a king, so too here he does not act like a god. He seems unconcerned with his fate, unconcerned with the prospect of losing, unconcerned with getting his own way. The gods of ancient Rome were a bit like our superheroes today. They might occasionally struggle to get their way, but ultimately their superpowers ensured they prevailed. But Jesus is not flexing his divine muscle. If he has any “superpower,” he’s not using it. He is ready to die.

When Pilate mentions the possibility of sharing his power to avert the impending crucifixion, Jesus might well hear an echo of Satan’s temptation in the wilderness, namely to claim the power that is rightfully his and prove himself to be son of God. But again he refuses. And so just as he was mocked as a king, so too he will be mocked as a god. We have stark evidence of this in an ancient piece of graffiti from around the year 200 in Rome (yes, street artists have been drawing on overpasses and tunnels for thousands of years!). This particular piece of graffiti depicts Jesus on the cross with the head of a donkey and a taunting inscription that reads: “Alexamenos worship his god.” The obvious subtext is: what kind of “god” allows himself to get killed?

A Judge That Refuses to Condemn

12 From then on Pilate tried to release him, but the Jews cried out, “If you release this man, you are no friend of the emperor. Everyone who claims to be a king sets himself against the emperor.”

13   When Pilate heard these words, he brought Jesus outside and sat [him] on the judge’s bench at a place called The Stone Pavement, or in Hebrew Gabbatha. 14 Now it was the day of Preparation for the Passover; and it was about noon. He said to the Jews, “Here is your King!” 15 They cried out, “Away with him! Away with him! Crucify him!” Pilate asked them, “Shall I crucify your King?” The chief priests answered, “We have no king but the emperor.” 16 Then he handed him over to them to be crucified.

Robbie shared with me this some week some historical details that shed a lot of light on these concluding verses. As the Roman governor of Judea, Pilate was on thin ice. Previously he had dealt brutally and insensitively with the Judeans, casually employing violence to get his way. His flippant use of force, however, had backfired, inflaming the Judeans’ anger and resulting in riots and general instability in the land. Pilate had been put on notice by his higher-ups that any further chaos would mean the loss of his position. His command was basically, “Keep the peace, or else….”

The religious leaders cunningly play Pilate as they question his loyalty to Caesar. “If you release this man”—this rabble-rouser—“you are no friend of the emperor” (John 19:12). They effectively force him into a choice: Caesar or Jesus. They make their own choice clear: “We have no king but the emperor” (John 19:15).

The gospel of John dramatizes this choice—Caesar or Jesus—as the culmination of Jesus’ trial, as a scene of judgment. John says, “[Pilate] brought Jesus outside and sat on the judge’s bench at a place called the Stone Pavement” (John 19:13). But John delights in wordplay, and here he employs an ambiguous phrasing in the Greek that could also be translated, “[Pilate] made him [Jesus] to sit on the judge’s bench.” It is a small but striking detail that has the power to reverse the scene entirely, making Jesus not the judged but the judge. It would appear for all the world that Jesus is the one on trial here and the Pilate and the religious leaders are the judges, the ones calling the shots. But John subtly suggests that actually Jesus is the judge and it is everyone else—us, humanity—who are on trial. Before Jesus, our world hangs in the balance.

But if this is the case, then just as Jesus is a “king" who does not act like one, and just as Jesus is of God but does not act like a god, so also Jesus is a judge who does not act like a judge. He’s silent here. He delivers no verdict. He assigns no blame.

I’m reminded of a scene in Luke where a man in the crowd asks Jesus to render a judgment in an inheritance dispute between the man and his brother. Jesus responds, “Friend, who set me to be a judge…over you?” (Luke 12:14). But then he continues, “Take care! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed…” (Luke 12:15). He does not judge in the traditional sense, but he warns nonetheless against a self-condemning way of life (that is its own form of judgment, sort of like what we would call karma). I’m reminded too of earlier in John where Jesus repeatedly says, “I came not to judge [or condemn] the world, but to save the world” (John 12:47; cf. 3:17). His words leave the impression that God’s judgment is less a matter of affixing blame and assigning punishment and more a matter of leaving us to our own judgment. It’s like Moses tells the people of Israel on the cusp of the Promised Land. The choice is yours, between life and death. So choose life (cf. Deut 30).

Popular Christian theology has understood God’s judgment as a single, final verdict on whether a person goes to heaven or hell when they die. But committed followers of Christ have long understood what we see in Jesus’ trial (and elsewhere in his life). Jesus does not act like a normal judge. He does not come to judge and condemn but to save us from the judgment and condemnation we choose for ourselves. He offers us a way out, if we would choose it, and not just for later but for now. It was with this idea in mind that Catherine of Siena, a 15th century saint and mystic, said, “It’s heaven all the way to heaven; and it’s hell all the way to hell.”

The “Odd” Gospel

I think back to my old housemate Ryan who kept doing the same thing and expecting a different result. And I wonder if humanity’s story is not the same.

In Jesus, God presents us with a stark alternative to the way we generally live. In Jesus, we have a “king” who refuses to behave like a king, who refuses to fight. We have a God who refuses to act like the gods, who refuses to flex his divine muscle and get his way. We have a judge who refuses to condemn.

What I see in today’s scripture is that Jesus’ trial is in fact our own trial, the trial of the world, where Jesus exposes our insanity. We as a world keep choosing kings who fight; we keep worshiping gods of power; we keep judging and condemning others. In the broken and bloodied body of Jesus, God asks us, “How’s that working out for you?” Are we scratching the itch but it’s only getting worse? Are we drinking salt water to cure our thirst?

Friends, we have an odd king, an odd God, an odd judge. And I believe this oddness is the heart of the gospel, the heart of the good news. Otherwise, it’d just be more of the same for our world—more fighting, more domination, more condemnation. It’d be more scratching the itch, only for the itch to get worse. We as the church have a unique gift to share with the world. It is not our task to change the world. Even Jesus didn’t do that—not in any immediate sense of the word. It is simply our task to be different. To share this oddness with others—a king who does not fight, a God who does not get his way, a judge who does not condemn but rather saves us from our own self-condemnation.

When Jesus bore the cross, he bore the heavy refusal of the ways of this world, in order to show us a different way. Our message to the world is the same as Jesus’, who proclaimed the kingdom of God. Our message is: it does not have to be this way; it could be different.

Prayer

Strange Christ,
Who refuses to scratch the itch,
And instead trusts in the soothing balm of God’s love—
Inspire us by your sanity
To live not in condemnation of the world
But as joyful witnesses of your better way.
Amen.

"What Is Truth?" (John 18:28-38)

A Foregone Conclusion 

28   Then they took Jesus from Caiaphas to Pilate’s headquarters. It was early in the morning. They themselves did not enter the headquarters, so as to avoid ritual defilement and to be able to eat the Passover. 29 So Pilate went out to them and said, “What accusation do you bring against this man?”

Pilate’s question is one that we may well be asking ourselves. Because at this point in John’s gospel, there have been no formal accusations against Jesus. There has been plenty of conflict or friction, yes, as Jesus has regularly broken with the moral and ritual conventions of his religious tradition. He has eaten with tax collectors and sinners—the outlaws and outcasts of society. He has healed on the Sabbath, showing more care for people than for rules. He has cried out against the greed of the religious establishment, many of whom exploit the poor rather than help them. But so far there have been no formal accusations against Jesus.

I’m reminded of my nephews. Occasionally, one of them will take exception with a boundary or a rule. My most recent memory is of one of my nephews becoming upset because my brother denied him a second cup of apple juice. At first, his protests were inarticulate and incoherent. There was only fierce sputtering and stammering. After about thirty seconds of this garbled griping, however, a more rational protest began to emerge. Soon there were a host of objections. “I think my brother had two cups today!” And: “Mommy said I could have a second cup.” And: “It’s a Saturday, aren’t there different rules for the weekend?” And so on.

I hesitate using my nephews so often for sermon illustrations. The last thing I want is to give you an unfavorable impression of them! But I find that, as children, they mirror a bit more honestly the very same feelings and thoughts and experiences that I have today as an adult. They help me to see myself more clearly. In this particular case, what I catch a glimpse of—and what I really would like to ponder—is the counterintuitive truth that we tend not to think our way to conclusions, but rather to feel or desire our way to conclusions. Another way to put this is that the will comes first, thinking comes second. Thinking is like a detective that arrives late at a crime scene; it must put together a rational story to explain what has already been decided. In this sense, thinking is less about reasoning our way forward to a conclusion and more about rationalizing our way back to what is effectively a foregone conclusion.

A case in point is any sports game ever. Just observe the behavior of fans when the referee makes a call that goes against their team. It is a foregone conclusion that the fans will disagree with the ref. But they disagree not because of a dispassionate, objective analysis of the call. They disagree because they want their team to win. The will comes first, thinking comes second. First, they vehemently reject the call. Then, they look for any possible rationalization to support their view—a foul here, an infraction there, a missed out-of-bounds or offside call. It’s not uncommon to get a set of fans united in their rejection of a referee’s call, only to discover that they have come up with different (sometimes even contradictory) rationalizations for what they all agree was a bad call.

With all of this in mind…watch how the Jewish leaders answer Pilate after he has asked them point-blank for a formal accusation.

30 They answered, “If this man were not a criminal, we would not have handed him over to you.”

Which…is not an answer. That’s like saying, “We wouldn’t have brought him to you if we didn’t have a reason.” But then they don’t give a reason. What is driving their request is not a reason, but an inflamed will—a visceral fear of this man who is threatening their power.

In turn, Pilate seems exasperated. He judges rightly that this is something of a family squabble, a domestic dispute. And so….

31 Pilate said to them, “Take him yourselves and judge him according to your law.” The Jews replied, “We are not permitted to put anyone to death.” 32 (This was to fulfill what Jesus had said when he indicated the kind of death he was to die.)

Finally, the Jewish leaders put their cards on the table. They still haven’t given Pilate an accusation, a reason for their request, but here they go even further and reveal their real desire. They want Jesus dead.

Why not put him to death themselves? Historical scholars debate the finer details. According to some texts, the Sanhedrin (the ruling council) would have needed a unanimous vote to enact the death penalty, and we know there were at least a couple sympathetic councilpersons (such as Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea). So perhaps the leaders fear they will not get a unanimous vote. Another possibility is that they fear the optics of putting to death a popular figure. Either way, they have decided that it is better if Jesus dies by Roman hands rather than at their own.

While Pilate still does not have a formal accusation to judge, he now recognizes the gravity of the situation. If the Jewish leaders feel so threatened by a single man that they need Rome to do their dirty work, then something serious must be afoot.

“Are You a King?”

33   Then Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?”

You might remember that when Jesus was born, Herod was King of the Jews. “King of the Jews” was a role designated by Rome. Rome effectively chose a proxy or client king, someone who came from the region but would rule in the interests of Rome. When Pilate asks Jesus if he is king of the Jews, he is effectively asking Jesus if he is leading a revolution. Evidently Pilate has heard enough about Jesus’ popularity to know that some people have talked about him as a messiah, as a leader anointed by God. Pilate decides he needs to gauge Jesus’ intentions. Rome has already designated the rulers of the region. If there is an insurrection brewing, a rival king emerging, then Pilate, who is the Roman governor of the region, needs to know.

34 Jesus answered, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?” 35 Pilate replied, “I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?” 36 Jesus answered, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.” 37 Pilate asked him, “So you are a king?”

As is often the case, Jesus does not answer the question asked him with a simple “yes” or “no.” Is he a king? It depends. He talks about a kingdom, yes. But then sharply distinguishes his “kingdom” from the kingdoms of this world. The kingdoms of this world rule by force, by violence. But he points out that his followers have not taken up arms. They are not fighting. (We might remember also how elsewhere Jesus insists to his followers that they aspire not to the rulers of this world, who lord it over others, but instead that they serve others.)

One popular contemporary conception of the kingdom of God is that it is identical with heaven. And so the kingdom of God becomes another time. Another place. This quiet dismissal of the kingdom of God quickly becomes a rationalization for us to live instead in one of the world’s kingdoms, to live by means of force, by means of violence, to lord it over others, to get our own way, to legislate ourselves. Lest we consign God’s kingdom to another time and place, to an altogether different realm of existence, I feel it’s important to note that Jesus’ gospel message—the very first words he speaks, according to Mark—is that the kingdom of God is arriving. Here! Now! And when Jesus prays to God, he pleads for God’s kingdom to come on earth. And Jesus already sees the kingdom of God breaking into our very midst in the smallest of things: things as small as mustard seeds, as small as trusting children, not the spectacular things that make people say, “Look at that!”, but the little things like a hug or a shared meal or an open door.

The kingdom of our Lord Jesus might not be from this world, but it is very much for this world. In one sense, the Jewish council and Pilate are right to fear God’s kingdom, because even though it does not take up the sword and do battle with the kingdoms of this world, it does spell their end. Not through conquest, but through care. Not through violence, but through forgiveness. When care and forgiveness reign, hierarchies of force and violence crumble. It is no coincidence that the prophets dream of all nations beating their swords into ploughshares, all nations forsaking their old ways to learn God’s way, all nations sitting together at God’s banquet table. The kingdom of God spells the end of worldly kingdoms, not by their destruction but by their redundance. By their dissolution. There simply is no place for force and violence when we are living in God’s care.

So…is Jesus a king? It depends what you mean by “king.”

Unconcerned with the Truth

Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.” 38 Pilate asked him, “What is truth?”

The irony of Pilate’s final words—“What is truth?” he asks cryptically—is that neither he nor the Jewish authorities really care about the truth. They care instead about power. Jesus’ trial is not about determining the reality of things, but about executing the will of powerful people who fear they’re losing their power. The will comes first.

Earlier in the gospel of John, we learn why the Jewish leaders really want Jesus dead. He’s too popular. He’s a threat to their power. “If we let him go on like this,” they say, “everyone will believe in him” (John 11:48).^[1]

Pilate is little different than the Jewish leaders. He too cares about his power. When he asks Jesus if he is a king, he’s effectively asking Jesus if he’s a threat. Pilate worries about a Jewish revolt that might unsettle his reign and cause him to lose his seat of power.

What Is Truth?:
Power versus Love

I remember that when I played soccer as a child, I was taught early on, “Play to the whistle.” That is, even if you think there was a foul, or even if you think that the ball went out of bounds, don’t stop until you hear the referee blow his whistle. The principle underlying this lesson was simple. Truth is whatever the referee says it is. It doesn’t matter if the ball actually went out of bounds, or whether there actually was a foul. It only matters if the ref blows his whistle.

Our world generally operates by a similar principle. Truth is whatever the most powerful people say it is. History, as they say, gets written by the victors. And so the cynical among us might, like Pilate, ask, “What is truth?” What does it matter if a foul is actually committed? If the ball actually goes of bounds? All that matters is what the most powerful people say or do. Just as earlier we pondered the possibility that the will comes first, and thinking comes second, so we might also consider the idea that, in our world, power comes first, and truth is determined by it.

But Jesus, who shows us God’s truth, insists on an alternative to power: Love. It’s all over his teachings. The greatest commandment, according to Jesus? “Love God. Love others.” His final instruction? “Love others as I have loved you.” Personally, I find really helpful Jesus’ little lesson about how God’s love is reflected in the sun and rain. God “makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous,” Jesus says; for this reason, “love your enemies” that you might be “children of your father in heaven” (Matt 5:44-45).

According to the dictionary, truth is the state of being in accordance with reality. When Jesus stands trial, the world powers of his day are deciding what is the fundamental reality. Power? Or Love?

They decide on power. And they think they have got their way. But here we are, over two thousand years later, haunted still by the reality of a man who loved and forgave the very people who put him to death. I say “haunted…” because our world by and large still insists that power is the fundamental reality. Our world still puts its faith in force, its trust in the sword (or the bomb). Our world would rather enforce its own way (whatever it calls the law) rather than live by the vulnerable way of love. And so Jesus haunts us or spooks us, in the way that a spirit from another world might startle us in all its strangeness or difference.

It’s my personal opinion, so you can take what you like and leave the rest…but I think that the most distinctive witness we give to our world is with our relationship to power. Is that where we ultimately place our trust? Should the church become just another pawn on the chessboard of power? Or do we play a different game entirely, one that’s not about winners and losers, but about all of us as children of a merciful God, as creatures nourished by the sun and rain that falls on us all? Do we place our trust instead in the way of love?

Prayer

Christ Jesus,
Who gives flesh
To the God who is Love:
We are so entangled
In a world of power,
It can be difficult
To hear—much less trust in—
Your gospel.
…
Draw our attention
To the mustard seeds of your kingdom,
Where love is taking root.
In a world of power,
Make us believers in
And ambassadors of
Your love.
Amen.

 

---

[1] They also worry that his popularity might attract the watchful eye of their Roman overlords. Indeed, John has already reported that after Jesus fed the five thousand, the Jewish crowd followed after him and tried to “take him by force to make him king” (John 6:15). Such an event—an unauthorized king—would surely cause Caesar to sit up and take notice. The council expresses their fear in exaggerated terms: “The Romans,” they say, “will come and destroy both our holy place and our nation” (John 11:48).

The Ease of Denial (John 18:12-27)

A Tale of Trial

The Narrative Lectionary advances us rather quickly in John’s gospel to the last day of his life, in which he stands trial before the authorities of his world, both Jewish and Roman. As the gospel of John provides us with more details of Jesus’ trial than any other gospel, it affords us plenty of space to ponder not only Jesus’ trial, but also the trials of our own faith.

If you think about it, Jesus’ ministry begins and ends with a trial. First, there are the temptations—or the trial—by Satan in the wilderness, in which Satan invites Jesus to prove himself. He taunts Jesus, “If you are the son of God,” prove it: secure what you need all by yourself (supernaturally); make a spectacle of your greatness; take the power which you deserve. There is a sense in which Jesus’ final trial is no different. Yes, it is conducted by human players, but through them the spirit of Satan is again inviting Jesus to prove himself. How tempting it must be to turn the tables on his antagonists, as they mock him and beat him and heap shame on him. In a sense, this final trial taunts him with the same gibe: “If you really are the son of God…prove it.”

As we will see, however, Jesus does not stand alone in his trial. His followers undergo a trial of their own. Today as we witness Peter’s trial, I invite us to contemplate how we might stand a similar trial in our world today.

Two Different Peters?

 12   So the soldiers, their officer, and the Jewish police arrested Jesus and bound him. 13 First they took him to Annas, who was the father-in-law of Caiaphas, the high priest that year. 14 Caiaphas was the one who had advised the Jews that it was better to have one person die for the people.

Right before today’s passage, Peter attempts to defend Jesus against arrest by cutting off the ear of the high priest’s slave. It is remarkable that Peter is not himself arrested. Most likely he escapes seizure because Jesus intervenes, commanding him to drop his sword. In Luke’s gospel, Jesus goes a step further and heals the slave, proving to the soldiers that his movement is not toward violence but toward healing.

In any case, it is worth remembering that before Peter denies Jesus, he defends him. These two events seem to stand in stark contrast to one another. Courageous Peter versus cowardly Peter. I will suggest, however, that Peter’s defense of Jesus and his denial of Jesus are two sides of the same coin. They are not in contradiction but in harmony.

 “Possessed by the Crowd”

15   Simon Peter and another disciple followed Jesus. Since that disciple was known to the high priest, he went with Jesus into the courtyard of the high priest, 16 but Peter was standing outside at the gate. So the other disciple, who was known to the high priest, went out, spoke to the woman who guarded the gate, and brought Peter in. 17 The woman said to Peter, “You are not also one of this man’s disciples, are you?” He said, “I am not.” 18 Now the slaves and the police had made a charcoal fire because it was cold, and they were standing around it and warming themselves. Peter also was standing with them and warming himself.

Fifteen years ago, I left Richmond to go study at the University of Sheffield in England. I visited several of the neighborhood churches and settled at St. Mark’s, an Anglican church with a beautiful cathedral (reconstructed after the original was destroyed in the Blitz in WWII) and a small but vibrant student ministry. I quickly fell in love with the thoughtful and poetic liturgy and the music, which often featured an authentic pipe organ. But there were some growing pains. The first few Sundays, I was overwhelmed with a host of ritual gestures that everyone but me seemed to know. There was a lot of unannounced standing up and sitting down and kneeling—it felt a little bit like church Hokie Pokie! And people would do some curtsy-like thing and make the sign of the cross when they left their pew; and they would bow their head when they received communion and say something under their breath (I later discovered they were just saying “Amen”).

Within a couple of months, though, I was doing it all myself. (Well, almost all of it—I never quite got the hang of that curtsy-like sign-of-the-cross gesture.) Thinking back on the experience now, I recognize in my behavior a strong and simple desire: to belong, to be accepted, to not be the odd person out. And so I quickly learned how to do what everyone else was doing.

When I read today’s scripture, I am particularly intrigued by the seemingly superfluous comment about the slaves and police warming themselves by the charcoal fire. Why do we need to know what they are doing? But then John tells us, “Peter also was standing with them and warming himself.” Again, if the only detail John wants to communicate is that it was cold, then this aside seems completely unnecessary. But perhaps John wants to communicate more than the temperature. Perhaps John is showing us a very basic principle of our humanity: the desire to belong, to be accepted, to not be the odd person out. Peter does what everyone else is doing. Peter makes himself one with the crowd.

Of course, all of this happens right after Peter has denied Jesus for the first time. When the woman who guards the gate—which is to say, the woman who is a gatekeeper, both literally, but also figuratively, for she will determine whether Peter is one of “us” or one of “them”—when she interrogates Peter about his allegiance to Jesus, she asks in a negative way: “You’re not one of his disciples, are you?” A negative question invites a negative response. She’s opening the door, so to speak, so that Peter can discreetly step in, so that he can easily join the crowd.

I would suggest that the world operates in a similar manner today. We ourselves are regularly interrogated, “You don’t really follow that radical Jesus, do you?” Of course, people rarely say these words. In part because the world has so thoroughly domesticated Jesus that they no longer associate him with the countercultural kingdom to which he calls us. But every time we are in a crowd that is vilifying and demonizing another person, we are being invited to warm ourselves by the fire with everyone else, while Jesus stands in the cold apart from the crowd, weathering his interrogation with a nonjudgmental heart. Every time we are in a crowd that is clamoring for revenge, for retribution, usually under the holy name of “justice,” we are being invited to warm ourselves by the fire with everyone else, while Jesus stands in the cold apart from the crowd, weathering his interrogation with forgiveness.

Pastor Brian Zahnd shares very vulnerably from his own experience right after 9/11. He insists that that event and others like it remain “a test for the American church.” “Will we succumb,” he asks, “to the temptation of scapegoating? Will the church scapegoat Muslims in the twenty-first century as the church scapegoated Jews in previous centuries? For me it was a personal test of my commitment to the Jesus way of responding to violence and enemies. I failed the test. Miserably.” He then explains what he means: “On that strange and confusing night, I failed in my role as a Christian pastor. I prayed [at a city-wide vigil] a prayer based on anger and vengeance. I prayed a prayer to sanction US military retaliation. I prayed a war prayer. Oh, I’m sure I prayed in appropriate ways as well—for the rescue workers, for the missing, for their families, for comfort from above, etc. But for the most part, my prayer was a petition for God to take our side in the inevitable war to come. Yes, it was a war prayer. And I could feel how my prayer energized the crowd. The crowd certainly did not think I had failed. The crowd thought I had passionately expressed to God the very thing they were feeling. Many in the crowd would have described my prayer as ‘anointed.’ I don’t presume every person present shared that sentiment, but there is no doubt that the crowd was with me. The crowd wanted a war prayer, and that’s what I prayed. I gave the crowd what it wanted. I wish I had done better. I wish my prayer had been more of a broken lament. I wish my prayer had been a tearful cry for mercy. I wish my prayer had been an honest wrestling with Jesus’s call to love our enemies … even if it had only been to express how impossible it seemed at that moment. But I didn’t do those things. I prayed a war prayer.”[1]

Philosopher and theologian Rene Girard, perhaps one of the most influential philosophers of the 20^th centuries, comments that Peter is not a “special case” in today’s story. He is all of us.

“When you are in a crowd,” Girard says, “you become literally possessed by the crowd.” You do what the crowd does. As I did in that Sheffield cathedral. As Brian Zahnd did at that 9/11 prayer vigil. As Peter did around that fire.

In the Garden as in the Courtyard:
Peter Follows the Crowd

19   Then the high priest questioned Jesus about his disciples and about his teaching. 20 Jesus answered, “I have spoken openly to the world; I have always taught in synagogues and in the temple, where all the Jews come together. I have said nothing in secret. 21 Why do you ask me? Ask those who heard what I said to them; they know what I said.” 22 When he had said this, one of the police standing nearby struck Jesus on the face, saying, “Is that how you answer the high priest?” 23 Jesus answered, “If I have spoken wrongly, testify to the wrong. But if I have spoken rightly, why do you strike me?” 24 Then Annas sent him bound to Caiaphas the high priest.

In this first glimpse into Jesus’ trial, we see how the world reacts to its enemies. One of the police strike Jesus on the face for what is considered an antagonistic response. We might remember what Peter did in the garden not long before this scene, striking the ear of the high priest’s slave. The similarity between what Peter did and what the police do to Jesus, hints at the truth about Peter’s behavior. As I suggested earlier, it is not necessarily that Peter was first courageous and then a coward. Rather, both in the garden and also in the courtyard, Peter follows the crowd. In both garden and courtyard, he does what the world does, rather than what his Lord does. When the world comes ready to fight, he fights (until his Lord disarms him). When the world quietly rejects his Lord, he rejects him too.

Jesus Calls Him Peter

25   Now Simon Peter was standing and warming himself. They asked him, “You are not also one of his disciples, are you?” He denied it and said, “I am not.” 26 One of the slaves of the high priest, a relative of the man whose ear Peter had cut off, asked, “Did I not see you in the garden with him?” 27 Again Peter denied it, and at that moment the cock crowed.

Again, negative questions. “You don’t really follow this guy, do you?” Again, an easy capitulation to the crowd. Peter quietly denies his Lord. The cock’s crowing—which Jesus had earlier predicted would happen when Peter denied him—acts almost like an alarm clock, waking Peter up to what has just happened. This simple sign suggests that previously Peter is unaware of what is happening. The crowd has a hypnotic effect. We can quietly fall asleep to our values, to our commitments, to the point that we don’t even realize we’re falling away from our Lord as we deny him. As we join the world in its judgment of others, or its cries for vengeance, or its demonizing and scapegoating of the enemy.

The good news is perhaps difficult to see in this passage alone. If Peter is indeed all of us, are we to leave here today in quiet resignation, in a fatalistic acceptance that we will capitulate whenever we encounter the crowd? Today’s passage is one of those where the best I can offer is, “Stay tuned…” The story does not end here. Peter’s shortcoming does not define him. If nothing else, we might find the good news in his name. Peter, remember, is the name that Jesus gives to Simon. Jesus knows that this man will one day deny him and desert him, and even so he calls him Peter. It is as though, by giving Simon the name Peter, Jesus stubbornly resists what Satan will try to tell Peter after today’s episode. That he is weak, spineless, shifting sand, an unsteady foundation. But Jesus says, no, despite everything, Peter is a rock. A solid foundation. A good person and child of God.

I think he says the same of us. All of us.

Prayer

Faithful Christ,
Who believes in us
Even when we fall short,
Grant us sober hearts
To beware the power of the crowd
And the temptations to stray
From your way of love and forgiveness.
…
Ground us in the assurance
That we are God’s good and beloved children,
Created to live as you lived.
Amen.

 

---

[1] Brian Zahnd, A Farewell to Mars: An Evangelical Pastor’s Journey Toward the Biblical Gospel of Peace (Colorado Springs: David Cook, 2014), chapter 4, “It’s Hard to Believe in Jesus.” 

"You Also" (John 13:1-17)

Love is the Means, No Matter the End

1   Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.

When as a child I first heard the sermon on the mount, where Jesus says things like “Turn the other cheek” and “Love your enemies” and “Pray for those who persecute you,” I became genuinely perplexed about how people might follow Christ in a world that takes war for granted. I remember a Sunday School teacher patiently trying to explain that these teachings of nonviolence and love for the enemy were ideals toward which we should strive, but that sometimes the practical necessities of life called for less-than-ideal responses. I remember him explaining that violent force was sometimes a necessary tool in the service of love. Violence was a legitimate means toward the ends of love. He pointed out that killing others was ultimately about saving life, and that the enemies would more quickly meet with God’s justice. (I’ve since seen militaristic bumper stickers that express this theology: “God will judge; we’ll arrange the meeting.”)

I’m not sure I’ve ever been completely convinced by these rationalizations, but it was not until years later when I learned about the Anabaptists that I discovered words that could compellingly expose the difference between the way of Christ and the way of our world. I won’t turn this into a history lesson. For today, it suffices only to know that the Anabaptists noticed something: every time the church got involved with worldly power, the church lost its own way. They would come to articulate this waywardness by saying that the world prioritizes the ends, while Christ and his followers prioritize the means. The world is an ends-based people and Christ and his followers are a means-based people. They pointed out how obsessed our world is with the ends. The bottom line. The final product. When a candidate runs for office, their platform is not virtue but victory, not process but product, not how they will operate but what they will achieve. The problem with prioritizing the bottom line, however noble it is (and there are many very noble ends out there), is that invariably the ends come to justify the means. The best of ends (e.g., saving lives) comes to justify the worst of means (e.g., killing others).

When John introduces Jesus’ final words to his disciples, he plainly articulates Jesus’ countercultural way: “Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.” In other words, whereas our world is obsessed with ends (and will do anything to get them), Jesus is focused squarely on love. For Jesus, love is the means, no matter the end. Love is the course, no matter the consequence. Love is the way, regardless of the result. A few centuries after Jesus, Constantine turned the cross into a symbol of conquest, parading it before the Roman army whenever it went out to battle—and I can’t help but notice that the cross still shows up in militaristic propaganda today. But originally the cross was a symbol not of death inflicted but death endured. It did not justify violence for the sake of love, a brutal means for the sake of a holy end. Rather it signified the greatness of God’s love for us, that he would love us nonviolently to the end—no matter how horrible that end was.

Living out of God’s Care

2 The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper 3 Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, 4 got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. 5 Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him.

I remember a playground bully from my elementary school days. I learned years later that his home life was chaotic, to say the least. His father was absent. His mother was working multiple jobs. It’s not hard to put the pieces together. When there is an absence of care, there is a desperate quest for control. I don’t think it’s a stretch to see this elsewhere in our world. Not only does it play out on the playground but also in politics. When people are living from a sense of lack, of needing more, the impulse is to bully others and fight for control. The impulse is to secure whatever end one thinks will make one feel better.

How different is our Lord Jesus. Right before he washes his followers’ feet, John tells us what makes Jesus different. Jesus can get down on his knees and care for his followers because he knows “that he had come from God and was going to God” (John 13:3). He knows, in other words, that he belongs to God, that nothing can separate him from God’s care. When a person is secure in the knowledge that they are cared for, they become liberated to care for others.

Our ancestors in the faith regularly boiled things down to a simple choice between two things. Moses tells the people their choice is life or death. Jesus talks regularly in the gospel of John about light and dark. Paul talks about freedom and slavery. For me, it is helpful to understand the choice as one between care and control. Our world operates according to control. But God’s kingdom is cultivated by care.

“You Have No Share with Me”

6 He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” 7 Jesus answered, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” 8 Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” 9 Simon Peter said to him, “Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!” 10 Jesus said to him, “One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.” 11 For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, “Not all of you are clean.”

I’ve heard it said, “The truth will set you free—but not until it’s finished with you.” Perhaps that’s another way of saying the truth is a school of hard knocks. Peter is a living example of this hard truth. As a disciple, he repeatedly hits his head against a truth that looks very different  from what he expects. He must unlearn the way of the world—and that is no easy task. Remember when Jesus tells his disciples that the Son of Man must suffer and die? Peter tells Jesus he must be mistaken. Surely the messiah is victorious, not vulnerable; surely he came to conquer, not to suffer. All of which prompts Jesus’ famous, “Get behind me, Satan.”

Similarly in today’s scripture Peter is so offended by the sight of Jesus on his knees that he refuses to be washed. Again he tries to tell Jesus that he’s got it wrong. According to Peter, it is far beneath the messiah to take on the role of a servant, to do the dirty work of a slave. Leaders stand over their followers, not under them. To put it in terms of our earlier reflections: the prerogative of leaders is control, not care. “Don’t you know how the world works, Jesus?” Peter effectively asks Jesus.

But Jesus rebukes Peter, telling him if he wants to have a share in God’s kingdom, he must leave behind the way of the world and live instead in this upside-down way of caring for others.

I’m reminded of a Desert Fathers and Mothers story, where a younger monk gets angry with several of his brothers and begins to judge them harshly and complain about how they do things. His teacher, or abba, playfully looks up to heaven and begins praying, “Dear Father, we no longer need you to care for us, since we know what is best and would like to control things ourselves.” It is a soft rebuke, a reminder that if we want to live in God’s care, we must let go of this need for control, this desire to be over others.

We Become What We Worship

12   After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, “Do you know what I have done to you? 13 You call me Teacher and Lord—and you are right, for that is what I am. 14 So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.

“You also,” Jesus says…. Imitation is the foundation of how we learn and grow. We become what we worship. If we worship knowledge, we become investigators, thinkers, perhaps know-it-alls. If we worship beauty, we become actors or performers, seeking the attention and admiration of others. If we worship money, we become investors and accumulators. If we worship control, we become fighters struggling for power.

If we worship Christ, we become caregivers. We become servants. “You also,” he says, as he washes our feet. “You also,” he says. On the night before his crucifixion.

“Blessed If You Do Them”

15 For I have set you an example—or this could also be translated as “pattern”—that you also should do as I have done to you. 16 Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. 17 If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them.

It’s not uncommon to see publicity stunts where a CEO or politician or famous actor goes to serve at a soup kitchen or some other charity. It is a token gesture, meant to show that they care. Soon enough, however, we might read about them in the headlines for other, more self-serving behavior. When Jesus says, “I have set you an example [or pattern],” he is not asking for token gestures. He is asking for a change in orientation and lifestyle. That’s why I like the translation “pattern.” Earlier in the gospel, John calls Jesus the logos, meaning word, but also meaning something like logic. That is, Jesus is the defining principle of the universe, the cosmic blueprint, the divine pattern for Life. And here, with a towel and basin in his hand, he tells his followers what that pattern is all about.

Alcoholics Anonymous began in the 1930s. One of its founding traditions is: “For our group purpose there is but one ultimate authority — a loving God as He may express Himself in our group conscience. Our leaders are but trusted servants; they do not govern.” AA groups have since proliferated and generated countless other 12-Step groups, all based on the same tradition of service rather than governance, care rather than control. There are countless other similar communities across the world, founded not from a desire to grow or govern or convert others, but simply to serve. Divorce-recovery groups, grief-share groups, communities for the intellectually disabled, homeless ministries, ramp-building ministries, reading circles (including some Bible studies) and so on. (I’d wager you know one such group, if you have not yourself been a part of one.)

Jesus concludes his lesson by saying, “If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them.” It’s not enough to “know” that God’s priority is care rather than control. Blessing results from aligning ourselves with this divine pattern, this cosmic blueprint. And that’s what I see in these countless little (sometimes anonymous) groups. They are all blessed. They all “do” the simple deeds of caring for one another. Free from the power struggles and fighting that plague our insecure world, they can get on with the work of caring for each other.

I’ve heard it said that following Jesus is simple. Not easy. But simple. The pattern for us is plain. Our “leader” does not lord it over others; he cares for them.

Prayer

Caregiver Christ,
Who comes not with a sword
But with a towel and basin,
May your deeds inspire us
…
Align our hearts
With God’s heart,
With the cosmic heartbeat
That gives us Life.
Amen.

"Deeply Moved" (John 11:1-44)

Disturbed by a Distant-Seeming Jesus

1   Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. 2 Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair; her brother Lazarus was ill. 3 So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” 4 But when Jesus heard it, he said, “This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.” 5 Accordingly, though Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, 6 after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was. …

I’ll confess, this picture of Jesus disturbs me. Having heard that his beloved friend Lazarus is on death’s doorstep, Jesus seems to coolly, distantly weigh his options: go to be with Lazarus and his sisters, or to let his friend die in order to demonstrate God’s power.

This picture of Jesus does not match up with the Jesus I know. This is not the Jesus who is moved to compassion by the sick and the hungry.  Nor is it the Jesus who refuses Satan’s temptation to prove his power.  This is a calculating Jesus who sanctions a suffering friend’s death, and the grief of many other friends besides, all so that he might demonstrate God’s power and strong-arm folks into belief (cf. 11:4, 42, 45).

Now, I’m nearly certain that my own discomfort, my own cognitive dissonance, is missing the point. From the beginning, readers have called John the “spiritual” gospel, recognizing that John seems to take occasional storytelling liberties in order to get to the spirit of who Jesus is. Most commentators also agree that the gospel of John is the last gospel to be written, that much of its material is drawn less from word-for-word memories of Jesus’ short, punchy sayings—“The kingdom of God is near” and “love your enemies” and “do not judge”—and more from the very real but very personal impression that Christ made on John. You could say the gospel of John is more impressionist painting than photograph.

All of this to say, I’m going to let go of my discomfort with this distant, calculating picture of Jesus. I’m going to allow that, like any good storyteller worth his salt, John may be dramatizing events—raising suspense, inviting expectation—in order to highlight what really matters: the glory of God revealed when Jesus encounters Lazarus (John 11:4).

From a Wedding to a Funeral

17   When Jesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb four days. 18 Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, 19 and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother.

Jesus arrives in Bethany in the middle of what we might call a funeral. It is the fourth day of a seven-day mourning period, known as shiva in the Jewish tradition, where the family remain at home to grieve and are supported by people in the community who come to visit.

What will soon follow will be Jesus’ final sign (or wonder) amid the seven signs that John sprinkles throughout his gospel. I cannot help but wonder if it is more than coincidence that Jesus’ first sign—turning water to wine—happens at a wedding while his last sign happens at a funeral. There is a certain full-circle symmetry in these first and final signs, the first sign taking place at the beginning of a new life, the final sign taking place at the end of a life.

As John is a poetic storyteller, making regular use of symbols and images, I would like to think he’s signaling here that Jesus’ signs span all of life, from the beginning to the end. There is no moment in our life that Jesus’ grace cannot redeem, no moment beyond the transforming power of God’s love. Because as we will see, that is the common denominator of these signs. As with the first sign at the wedding, so with the last that we see here at a funeral: love leads to new life.

The Resurrection: Now or Later?

20 When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. 21 Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. 22 But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” 23 Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” 24 Martha said to him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.”

In other words, Martha—like many other faithful Judeans—believes in the resurrection. It’s just a matter of timing: the resurrection is not now but at the end of time. When the Judeans talked about resurrection, they were not talking about isolated instances of resuscitation but about a universal event that would take place at the end of history.

What Martha wants is an exception. She wants her brother back now, in the middle of time.

25 Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life.”

Which is sort of like saying, “I am the end of the world.” Or, “history has been completed or fulfilled, in me. Resurrection is here, now, in me.” To be sure, it’s not the literal resurrection that we might envision, where graves are opened and the dead walk out.

Jesus proceeds to explain: “Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, 26 and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.” Just what Jesus means here is a mystery for those who read without faith. For us who trust in Jesus, however, the baseline meaning is this: In Christ, life—including the life of those who have died—life goes on. Death is real, but life is more real. Or as Paul puts it vividly in 2 Corinthians 5:4, death is “swallowed up” by life. In Christ, death does not have the final word.

“Do you believe this?” 27 She said to him, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”

In the other gospels, it is Peter, an eventual church leader, who confesses Jesus as messiah, God’s anointed savior. In the gospel of John, however, we hear this profound confession from the lips of one of his women disciples.

A Spectacle of Grief and Love

28   When she had said this, she went back and called her sister Mary, and told her privately, “The Teacher is here and is calling for you.” 29 And when she heard it, she got up quickly and went to him. 30 Now Jesus had not yet come to the village, but was still at the place where Martha had met him. 31 The Jews who were with her in the house, consoling her, saw Mary get up quickly and go out. They followed her because they thought that she was going to the tomb to weep there. 32 When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” 33 When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. 34 He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” 35 Jesus began to weep. 36 So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” …

This Jesus—this Jesus with tears in his eyes, visibly moved by the grief of Mary and others—this Jesus is different from the disturbing picture of Jesus that I perceived at the beginning of today’s scripture, the picture of Jesus coolly calculating what configuration of events would most convincingly demonstrate his power, no matter the suffering of his beloved friend or the grief of many others. This Jesus is wracked by grief. This Jesus cares for the grieving.

When Jesus first hears the news about Lazarus’ illness, he comments, “This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory” (John 11:4). I heard that comment as cool and calculating, the words of a man who is in control of everything. Now, however, I’m led to wonder if the gospel of John was not directing our attention (through the words he gave Jesus) toward this culminating moment in the story. In other words, the gospel of John was pointing toward this moment, highlighting that what happens here at the burial site of Lazarus is about God’s glory.

If the glory of God had been simply about God’s power, then Jesus could have walked up to the grieving crowd and said calmly and coolly, maybe even a little smugly, “Go to the grave and see what I’ve just done.” He could have made a spectacle of God’s power.

Instead he weeps. If anything, he makes a spectacle of his grief. He makes a spectacle of God’s love. “See how he loved him!” the crowd says with wonder (John 11:36).

The glory of God is not the brute force or control of the unmoved Mover who sits high above the fray and can do anything he like. The glory of God is a heart broken with love—a love that is stronger than death, as we will see.

The Power of Broken Hearts

38   Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. 39 Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” 40 Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” 41 So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me. 42 I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.” 43 When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” 44 The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

My experience with funerals has largely been that they are paradoxical. On the one hand, there is a certain anxiety and trepidation with which we sometimes approach them. A person might say about them, “This time tomorrow, it’ll all be over,” as though it’s something to get through. On the other hand, there nearly always seems to be a tender catharsis or release at the funeral itself. If one door has closed—and indeed, in a very real sense, it has—then another door has opened. I’ll often hear later from the family about how a meaningful exchange with someone or even just how a serendipitous encounter with the natural world (a bird, a butterfly, a cloud) imparted to them that their loved one was safe and perhaps even in some way still alive. Ralph Echols, who passed away a few weeks ago, told me that after the passing of his wife Molly, he would say a word or two to her every night along with his prayers to God.

I don’t want to detract from the most immediate meaning of today’s scripture, namely that a dead man emerged from his tomb alive. But Lazarus’ spectacular revival should not be mistaken with the resurrection itself, by which I mean, the resurrection should not be contracted or reduced to one isolated miraculous moment. Lazarus, remember, is human like the rest of us. He would die again; and the second time, his body would be committed to the elements for much longer, just like the rest of us.

No, I do not think Jesus’ sign is meant as a one-time demonstration of some strong-armed God. Rather, I think Jesus is signaling to us—that’s what a “sign” does, right; it “signals”—I think Jesus is signaling to us the power of broken hearts. In Psalm 51, the psalm of David that is regularly recited on Ash Wednesday at the start of Lent, we hear, “The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise” (Ps 51:17). Broken hearts bring us closer to God. In his sermon on the mount, Jesus proclaims, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Matt 5:4), indicating that broken-heartedness is what opens us to the care and comfort of God and others. Lazarus’ revival and the joy and wonder that accompanies it, all signal the power of hearts that are broken open—hearts that are moved to tears, like Jesus’, like Martha’s, like Mary’s.

The heart that breaks is open to receive. Conversely, the heart that builds a wall, a defense, may be building its own tomb. It is another gospel paradox. When we avoid our loss—and that may be anything from the death of a loved one or departure of a friend to the end of a career or conclusion of a stage of life—when we avoid our loss, we lose out on the care and comfort that is part of Christ’s resurrection love. When we distract ourselves to avoid the pain, we prolong the pain, pushing it deep under the surface where it may metastasize. But when we accept our apparent losses, whatever they may be, when we allow our heart to break open, we receive the care and comfort of Christ’s resurrection love and discover the loss not to be an absence but a transformed presence. 

Prayer

Dear Christ,
Who is the resurrection and the life,
Inspire us by the spectacle of your grief
…
That we too
May allow our hearts to break open
To receive care and comfort
And to connect genuinely
With others
And with God.
Amen.