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.

 

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[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.

"Watch What You Worship" (John 10:10-15)

Of Sheep and Voices

Sheep are notoriously dense and easily distracted creatures. They can be stubborn, deeply set in their ways. I don’t think Jesus uses the metaphor of “sheep” as an insult but as a gentle reminder of our nature, namely that we too are creatures easily distracted and deeply set in our ways.

By referring to himself as “the good shepherd,” Jesus implies that there are other characters in our world—bad shepherds, for example, and others who might not have our best interests at heart. He says as much. There is, for example, the “hired hand” who runs away when the wolf approaches. There is the thief, who cares not for the sheep’s well-being but only for his own.

It’s easy to hear about these characters and immediately externalize them into real-life enemies. But as Paul reminds us, our enemy is not flesh-and-blood but spiritual in nature. Some of the earliest Christians read this scripture and interpreted the thief and the hired hand not to be actual people in their world but rather to be their own selfish impulses toward money or status or security or power (e.g., Origen). The good news according to Jesus is that sheep, for all their thickness, can distinguish between the voices they hear (between his voice and others). This implies that we can be attentive to the voices or impulses within. We can discern which voices are selfish, goading us into quests for possessions, prestige, and power, and which are the voice of Christ, leading us toward connection with God and others. 

Jesus also says that what distinguishes “the good shepherd” from all the other characters is that the good shepherd comes “that [the sheep] may have life, and have it abundantly” (John 10:10), which provides us with a helpful criterion for sorting out voices. Namely, will this voice, which is to say this impulse, lead me (and others) toward the fullness of abundant life? This criterion of abundant life is not too different from the more colloquial, “How’s that working out for you?” that a friend might ask when we’ve made a short-sighted choice that seemed good but is actually turning out rather poorly.

BS

I have heard of an AA group in an in-patient treatment center that welcomes and initiates its new members in a unique ceremony. The initiate enters a room that is bare except for chairs that line the four walls and two chairs facing each other in the center of the room. The chairs along the walls are already filled. One person is sitting in the middle. The other chair in the middle is empty. 

The room is deathly silent as the initiate makes his way toward the empty chair. All heads are bowed; everyone is looking at the ground. When the initiate finally takes his seat in the middle, the person across from him raises his head and looks him evenly in the eye before asking, “What do you love more than anything else?”

Typically the initiate answers with a nervous, uncertain voice. “My wife,” he might say. Suddenly the room around him erupts, as everyone raises their head and shouts, “Bullshit!” Just as quickly, the room falls silent—a silence as serious as death. The host asks again, “What do you love more than anything else?” The initiate may try another variant of his previous answer. “My children?” Again the room erupts with cries of BS. This exchange may continue for another two or three iterations before finally the initiate realizes the truth. Finally, he is defeated—and at the same time, liberated. “What do you love more than anything else?” the host asks, and he answers: “Alcohol.”

This time there is no outburst. Instead everyone stands up silently, forming a line. One by one, they give the initiate a full embrace, as tears stream down the initiate’s eyes.

Everybody Worships

“All we like sheep have gone astray,” laments the prophet Isaiah in a well-known verse of scripture (Isa 53:6). For many of us, our wandering does not take the obvious shape of a single addiction. Instead it is diffused into many little wanderings or distractions. Either way, the principle holds: we are enticed by voices other than the good shepherd’s. 

I’ve heard it said that, on a practical level, there is no such thing as atheism. Which is really to say, “There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship.”  What we choose, makes all the difference. There is a story in the Old Testament about the people wandering in the wilderness. Although God has provided manna and water for them, they complain, desiring some of the foods they remember in Egypt. The story ends with a great plague, and many of the Israelites are buried in what become known as “the graves of craving.” A perfect title. Because almost everything in this world that we could worship, will eat us alive. Or as Jesus said, will “steal and kill and destroy” our very souls. Worship money and possessions, and you’ll never have enough. Worship beauty and appearance, and you’ll always feel ugly. Worship power, and you’ll always feel weak and afraid. The tragedy that results is what could be called a living death. The opposite of what the good shepherd has come to bring: life before death, a life stronger than death.

Lent—and Ash Wednesday in particular—is a time for honesty. A time for calling BS on ourselves (only and ever on ourselves). Not so that we retreat to the corner of the room and curl up in a ball of shame, but so that we might stand tall in the center of the room and receive the full embrace and care of the good shepherd. Our honesty today about our limits and our failings invites us to worship the One who will not eat us alive but will instead lay down his life. The One who loves us and will not let us down. The One whose way leads us into Life before we die.

A Betrothal (John 4:1-42)

A Familiar Storyline

Imagine you’re watching a sports movie, and a ragtag team of down-and-out players get clobbered in their first game. Or imagine you’re watching a romantic comedy, and the female lead has just met a man who is the opposite of her in every way. These scenes are so common in our culture that you can guess what’s going to happen next. In the first case, we have an underdog story. The scruffy sports team are going to be whipped into shape, and they’re going to rise from the ashes and win the championship in dramatic fashion. In the second scenario, we have a classic opposites-attract comedy. Through a series of awkward but increasingly endearing encounters, the woman and man are going to fall in love and get married.

Every storytelling culture has familiar plots like these with various cues that indicate to the discerning audience what is going to happen next. In the Old Testament, one of the most cherished storylines tells how a man meets his future wife. There are six essential ingredients to this storyline. To illustrate, I’ll refer to the story of Jacob in the book of Genesis.

First, a man makes a journey to a foreign territory. Jacob, you’ll remember, has fled home to escape his murderous brother, Esau. Second, the man meets a woman at a well. Jacob, you’ll recall, meets Rachel when she comes to a well to water her father’s flock. Third, someone draws water in a gesture of care for the other. Fourth, there is a hurried sharing of news as the woman rushes home to tell of the encounter. In Jacob’s story, Rachel runs to the tell her father, Laban. Fifth, there is a show of hospitality to the traveler, usually an offer of food and lodging. In Jacob’s case, Rachel’s father, Laban, welcomes Jacob to stay for a month. Sixth, and last of all, the man and woman are betrothed with the blessing of the surrounding family or community.

While we’ve looked only at Jacob’s story, there are several others that follow this pattern, most notably the betrothal of Isaac and Rebekah in Genesis 24 and the betrothal of Moses and Zipporah in Exodus 2. (The betrothal of Ruth and Boaz follows a similar pattern, although it makes a few minor adaptations.)

With these six elements of the betrothal-at-a-well storyline fresh in our mind, let’s turn now to this morning’s scripture, John 4:1-42.

A Woman at a Well in Foreign Territory

5 [H]e came to a Samaritan city called Sychar—in other words, Jesus is now in foreign territory—near the plot of ground that Jacob had given to his son Joseph. 6 Jacob’s well was there, and Jesus, tired out by his journey, was sitting by the well. It was about noon.

In foreign territory, Jesus stops at a well. Is it a coincidence that John tells us it’s Jacob’s well? Could he be inviting his audience to remember what happened long ago when Jacob stopped at a well?

7 A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink.” 8 (His disciples had gone to the city to buy food.) 9 The Samaritan woman said to him, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?” (Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans.) 10 Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.” 11 The woman said to him, “Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water? 12 Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well and with his sons and his flocks drank from it?” 13 Jesus said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, 14 but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.” 15 The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water.”

Here we see a twist on the third element of the betrothal-at-a-well storyline. A tired Jesus first asks the Samaritan woman for a drink of water. (Even though John doesn’t make it explicit, I assume she gives Jesus a drink even as they continue their conversation.) The twist comes when Jesus in turn offers the woman water of his own—“living water,” that is, water that will ensure a person never go thirsty again. (We’ll learn in a moment just how spiritually thirsty this woman has been.)

A Mismatch

16 Jesus said to her, “Go, call your husband, and come back.” 17 The woman answered him, “I have no husband.” Jesus said to her, “You are right in saying, ‘I have no husband,’ 18 for you have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband. What you have said is true!”

Traditional interpretation takes a rather dim view of the woman for having five husbands and living now with a man not her husband. But it’s equally possible—especially in that time and place, in that deeply patriarchal society where women were regularly talked about as property and could be divorced at the smallest whim of a displeased husband—it is equally possible that this woman has been severely mistreated and is desperately seeking some security in life. A grown, unmarried woman in the ancient Near East was in a particularly vulnerable position and would likely not be able to provide for herself. I don’t think it would be a stretch to say that this woman is spiritually parched—spiritually thirsty to the point of death, wondering each night how she was going to make it in what seemed like a cruel, unkind world.

19 The woman said to him, “Sir, I see that you are a prophet. 20 Our ancestors worshiped on this mountain, but you say that the place where people must worship is in Jerusalem.” 21 Jesus said to her, “Woman, believe me, the hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem. 22 You worship what you do not know; we worship what we know, for salvation is from the Jews. 23 But the hour is coming and is now here when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father seeks such as these to worship him. 24 God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth.” 25 The woman said to him, “I know that Messiah is coming” (who is called Christ). “When he comes, he will proclaim all things to us.” 26 Jesus said to her, “I am he, the one who is speaking to you.”

If this encounter at a well is leading to a betrothal, it cannot be overstated how mismatched this couple is. First, the woman is not quite what you’d call eligible in her culture, as she has been married five times. She has perhaps herself given up on the idea of marriage. Next, she is a Samaritan, which as we see in the preceding verses means she is not only ethnically different than a Judean but religiously different as well, worshiping on a different mountain and with some different traditions. In short, then, she would appear to be ethnically, religiously, and morally disqualified from a betrothal to this man.

Which makes it all the more astounding what Jesus does here. Jesus reveals himself completely—gives himself to this woman in a way he has not given himself to anyone else. This is the first instance in the gospel of John where Jesus reveals himself to be the messiah. And he says it not to his disciples or fellow Judeans but to a foreign “heathen” of ill repute. Thrice disqualified in the eyes of her world, but she is the one to whom Jesus chooses to give himself completely. If we take nothing else from this story, this one point would be enough. Nothing disqualifies us from God’s love. No misdeed, no failure, no habit, no addiction—nothing disqualifies us (or anyone else!) from the advances of Christ, who gives himself completely to us.

Transformed by Love

27 Just then his disciples came. They were astonished that he was speaking with a woman, but no one said, “What do you want?” or, “Why are you speaking with her?” 28 Then the woman left her water jar and went back to the city. She said to the people, 29 “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah, can he?” 30 They left the city and were on their way to him. …

If you’ll remember, after the drawing of water comes the hurried sharing of news, which is precisely what we get here. That the Samaritan woman leaves her jar of water suggests just how much of a rush she’s in. She can’t wait to tell others in her town what’s happened to her. (As the CWF group who studied this story on Tuesday pointed out, leaving her jar of water behind may also symbolize that she is leaving behind her old life of despair. She now has water that satisfies.) While many readers take the woman’s proclamation—“Come and see a man who told me everything I’ve ever done!”—as an exclamation of wonder at Jesus’ omniscient or all-knowing character, I’m inclined to think her wonder has more to do with Jesus’ all-accepting character. That is, this man knows everything I’ve ever done and instead of judging and condemning me (as everyone else does), he has given me himself completely. Or in more basic terms: “He loves me!”—rather than “he loves me not.”

A Transfiguration

39 Many Samaritans from that city believed in him because of the woman’s testimony, “He told me everything I have ever done.”

Jesus’ acceptance transforms the Samaritan woman to such an extent that her neighbors look on her with a wonder similar to her own wonder. “How she has changed! How she holds herself, how brightly she beams! Whatever she’s encountered, it must be real. How else would she be so different?” And so they believe too in this incredible love and acceptance—that the messiah would come to them!

As a brief aside, it’s worth noting that today is Transfiguration Sunday. Traditionally we read the scripture where Jesus ascends a mountain with Peter, James, and John, and he is suddenly transformed into a bright, shining figure, his glory completely revealed. But today’s scripture reminds us that Jesus’ glory is not an isolated reality over and against us. It is rather a revelation of all creation’s glory, including our own. John calls Christ the Word, the “logos,” which is to say, Christ is the underlying logic of reality, the pattern of the universe, the fabric in and from and through which we are all woven. He reveals our true nature as beloved, glorious children of God. Thus Paul says, “All of us…seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed [or transfigured] into the same image from one degree of glory to another” (1 Cor 3:21-23). I like how Bernard of Clairvaux, a 12^th-century monk, puts it: “In giving me himself, he [Christ] gave me back myself.” We see this in the Samaritan woman, to whom Jesus gave himself completely—and see how she was transformed—transfigured. How she came to inhabit her true self as a daughter of God.

“…and the Soul Felt Its Worth”

40 So when the Samaritans came to him, they asked him to stay with them, and he stayed there two days.

Here we have the fifth, penultimate element in our betrothal-at-the-well story, the show of hospitality. I imagine much of Jesus’ two days was spent with the Samaritans sitting at tables, breaking bread.

41 And many more believed because of his word. 42 They said to the woman, “It is no longer because of what you said that we believe, for we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this is truly the Savior of the world.”

The final element of the betrothal-at-the-well story is the betrothal itself. And that’s the one element that seems to be missing. Its absence threatens to undo this entire comparison I’ve been making.

For those who may doubt the case I’ve been trying to make or need a little extra convincing that John intends to portray this scene as a betrothal, I would point out that only verses before today’s scripture (back in John 3:29), Jesus is referred to by John the baptizer as a “bridegroom.” That’s a curious coincidence. And it’s not the only one. In the chapter before that, John 2, Jesus performs the first sign of his ministry. Where? At a wedding.

All of this leads me to believe that a betrothal does take place at the end of today’s scripture. Not a literal betrothal, to be sure, but a spiritual one. “Betrothal” comes from the old English word for “truth,” and it means something like “to be true.” When Christ betroths himself to us, revealing his true self and his desire for us, we learn our own true selves as blessed and beloved children of God. His transfiguration kindles our own.

Or as it is put so beautifully in the Christmas hymn, “O Holy Night”: “Long lay the world in sin and error pining, till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.” His glory…reveals our own. He appeared…and the soul, finally, felt its worth.

Prayer

God of longing,
Who knows everything we have ever done
And still looks upon us
As the apple of your eye—
Open our hearts to receive and believe
The good news that you love us
As we are
…
May the woman at the well inspire us
To leave behind our old jar of water—
Our old, false self of shame and fear—
And to drink instead
From the living water of your love,
Where our soul knows its worth.
In Christ, whose glory reveals the glory of all creation: Amen.

 

Seeing God's Kingdom (John 3:1-21)

“By Night”

I have a hunch that most major life decisions are made, unofficially at least, at night. Contracts may be signed in the daylight. But before any handshakes are made, the heart must in its own solitude make a critical decision. In any major life decision, the heart must decide to leave behind what it knows.

Sometimes, it’s simply a case of leaving behind less for more: a lesser role at work for a bigger role; a smaller salary for a larger one. Other times, however, it’s a case of leaving behind a community, a place of belonging, a secure way of life. Either way, the heart often makes its deliberations under the cover of night, when it is alone, when there is space to think, when there is freedom to ask questions and consider possibilities. Ask someone how they feel about their job while they’re surrounded by their boss and work colleagues and you’ll likely get a very different answer from what you would hear if you asked them later that night in a quiet kitchen or a deserted bar. And sometimes the heart needs even more cover. Not until we are asleep, sometimes, does it feel free to ask the hard questions and to explore alternatives that might otherwise seem impossible. Hence those sudden awakenings at 3 am, the heart beating fast, having itself stumbled upon the truth that the mind was working so desperately to avoid.

Some people label Nicodemus a coward for visiting Jesus under the cover of night. I have a lot more sympathy for him. I would call him “human.” It’s human to fear what other people will think, to feel the pressure of their judgments. It’s human to weigh heavy decisions privately, away from prying eyes.

“Churchy” People

As a Pharisee curious about Jesus, Nicodemus would have found himself between a rock and a hard place. As you know, the Pharisees were considered experts of the law. The name “Pharisee” derives from a Hebrew word that means “to separate” or “divide.” The word characterizes the Pharisees by their most distinctive behavior, namely dividing between what is good and bad, what is right and wrong, what is lawful and not lawful. In a word, “judging.” The Pharisees were always judging. And they were scrupulous to keep themselves on the side of what was right and lawful, to the point that they would often avoid associating with anyone who might have fallen afoul of the law.

It’s easy to write the Pharisees off as the bad guys -- "those self-righteous hypocrites!" -- but I think we do so at our own risk. They actually serve as helpful mirrors for typical religious behavior. When people refer to certain behaviors of Christians as “churchy,” I think they’re referring to a Pharisaical impulse that is common to all religion: namely, judgment. For reference, dictionaries define “churchy” as “marked by strict conformity or zealous adherence to the [laws] of a church” and consequently marked also by intolerance and narrow-mindedness. Sounds a bit like the Pharisees, doesn’t it?

Anyway, the point is that Nicodemus belongs to a community that is sometimes prone to judge and condemn. If they catch wind that Nicodemus is consorting with the Jesus who just overturned tables in the Temple, the Jesus who quickly makes a name for himself by sharing the same tables as impure and impious “sinners and tax collectors,” then Nicodemus will quickly fall on the wrong side of their judgment. Just like that, he could lose his entire community. His teachers and friends—gone, ashamed of him. Maybe even some of his family.

So he visits Jesus by the cover of night. Not because he is a coward, but because he is human. Afraid, careful…and most importantly, curious about Jesus. His heart has a decision to make. Is it worth leaving behind everything he knows?

Seeing “from Above”

When Nicodemus confesses to Jesus that he knows God is with Jesus, Jesus has a surprising response. He does not commend Nicodemus for getting it right; nor does he acknowledge the truth of Nicodemus’ statement and claim some special privilege for himself. Instead, he makes an invitation: “No one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above” (John 3:3). In other words, yes, God is with me, and God is with you too—if only you are “born from above,” you will have the eyes to see it. Jesus essentially invites Nicodemus to see the world differently. As God does. “From above.” To do so—to see as Jesus sees, to see as “from above”—will place him on the same plane in which Jesus lives, the kingdom of God itself, not up there in the clouds somewhere, but right here on this very ground.

Nicodemus gets bogged down in the language here. The phrase “from above” is a double entendre that can also mean “again,” which is what Nicodemus hears. When he presents Jesus with the impossibility of getting back in the womb and being born a second time, he also unwittingly presents the gospel of John with a beautiful metaphor that remains to this day. “Born again.” This seeing differently—seeing as “from above”—into which Jesus invites us, is so different from the conventional way of looking at things that it is indeed like being “born again.”

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the most famous conversion experience in the Bible shows us a man (Saul of Tarsus) who is blinded from above and then later has something like scales fall from his eyes (cf. Acts 9:18). How we see the world is crucial to this new life in the kingdom of God.

Seeing Our Sin (Melt into the Sea)

Personally, I believe that Jesus has some sympathy for Nicodemus, who struggles to understand his words. Jesus proceeds to explain this new sight, this being born from above, in terms that Nicodemus would know. He refers to a story in the book of Numbers, when the Israelites have rebelled against God and then a slew of fiery serpents enter their camp and begin to bite them (cf. Num 21:4-9). God tells Moses to create a statue of a serpent and set it on top of a pole, explaining that everyone who looks upon the serpent will be healed. It is a cryptic story at first glance. Serpents are the problem, and…a serpent is the solution? But a closer look suggests that this story directly addresses the situation of a people who are mired in the repetition of hurtful habits. The message of the story seems to be that only when they have looked their own sin and its consequences squarely in the eye will there be healing. A wound can only be healed when it is seen and acknowledged and exposed.

The strange thing is that Jesus then compares himself to that serpent on the pole. Just as Moses lifted the serpent in the wilderness so that people might see their sin and be healed, so Jesus says he himself (“the Son of Man”) must be lifted up. The implication is that when people look upon Jesus crucified, they will see their own sin, their own woundedness, and somehow will be saved.

How? Well, Jesus follows this immediately with one of the most quoted verses of scripture, John 3:16, insisting that all of this flows from God’s saving love. Christ on the cross, refusing to judge and condemn anyone—refusing to condemn the Romans who have crucified him, refusing to condemn the Jewish leaders who have judged and condemned him, refusing to condemn his own followers who have denied and deserted and betrayed him—this nonjudgmental Christ shows us the depths of God’s love as it confronts the worst of humanity’s sin. Jesus ends up on the cross because humanity needs a scapegoat, someone to blame their problems on, someone to judge and condemn. But in Christ on the cross, we see an innocent man scapegoated; we see the error of our sin. And we see it meet a God who refuses to do the same thing, to accuse, to blame, to judge and condemn. What a contrast! The horror of a human blame game that ends in death, met with a God who refuses to play the game, a God whose love is too great for something like judgment and condemnation.

One desert father of the 7^th century, Isaac of Syria, says that the sins of all humanity are like a handful of sand thrown into the ocean when compared to God’s mercy. We see this ocean of God’s mercy in Jesus lifted up, in Christ on the cross, refusing to condemn the Romans or the Jewish leaders or his fickle followers—and not because he’s better than all of them, not in some “I’m taking the higher road” sense, but because his love for all of them is bigger and truer than any of their wrongs or faults. 

God’s Tear upon Our Neck

If you think about it, Moses’ serpent on the pole schtick in the wilderness isn’t so different from the way we sometimes discipline our children. “Go think about what you’ve done.” In other words, consider your wrongdoing, your sin; look it square in the face. See what you’ve done.

Sometimes when my nephew does something that he knows he shouldn’t have done, he literally hides his face—a little bit like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand. Or, he’ll immediately shift his attention away from the misdeed, saying, “Anyway…” before he’s off to a completely different subject (perhaps one in which others have done wrong but he is a shining example of virtue). His reaction, I think, is completely human. As adults, our evasion tactics have evolved into more sophisticated practices, such as flipping on the TV or checking our phones. But the principle holds. Seeing our own misdeeds—our sin—is perhaps the hardest thing to do. We so fear the shame and judgment that we avoid looking at our own woundedness and sin. And so “go think about what you’ve done” rarely seems to have any transformational effect. (It’s much easier and safer to stay a Pharisee or a “churchy” person, to judge and condemn and see all the wrong around us.)

But in today’s scripture Jesus hints at a crucial difference in the way God responds to us. Christ on the cross is not just saying, “Go think about what you’ve done.” In a sense, Christ isn’t pointing us at all toward what we’ve done. Christ is pointing us toward God’s love.

There is an old Japanese tale about a teenage son who is beginning to act out in more and more destructive ways, stealing his family’s money and spending it toward dishonorable pursuits. A little bit like the prodigal, except that he’s living at home. Finally the father, who is something like a town mayor and so very concerned not only for his son’s behavior but also the family’s good standing, calls for his brother, who is a monk, to come and help. His brother, the monk, comes and spends a day with the family. All day he says nothing to the nephew, while his brother and sister-in-law are nudging and prodding, hoping he’ll offer some stern reprimand. But he stays silent. Finally it is time to leave, and he says, “I must be getting old.” Turning to his nephew, he says, “Would you help me tie my sandals?” And the nephew, a little miffed, shrugs and then bends down before his uncle and begins to tie his sandals. As he’s doing this, he feels a warm drop on his neck. He looks up toward his uncle…and finds him gazing at him tenderly through tearful eyes. The story ends almost abruptly at this point, indicating simply that the uncle departed and that the nephew changed for the better.

Seeing our own sin is almost impossible, afraid as we are to feel the shame and disapproval. What enables us finally to be honest is a love that eclipses that shame and disapproval. The nephew changes not because he shamed into it, but because he finally feels the safety of his uncle’s love.

Christ on the cross is God’s tear upon our neck. Christ on the cross is God’s love, enabling us to do what we otherwise are unable to do: to see our own sin. To see that our judging, condemning, blaming—it may make us feel good for a moment, but it doesn’t get us anywhere. It keeps us divided. It doesn’t heal wounds. What does heal, what does reconcile, is love.

And it’s like a whole new world. This extraordinary ocean of love that swallows our sins like sand—this love opens our eyes to see much more than just our sin. It opens our eyes to see the kingdom of God right here. “No one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above,” Jesus tells Nicodemus (John 3:3). Once we truly know we are loved, we know the same truth holds for everyone else. And it’s like we’re swimming in entirely new waters. An ocean of mercy where judgment and condemnation dissolve and have no place.

Prayer

God of boundless love,
Who looks upon us
Not with judgment
But as on sons and daughters
Who will always be first in your heart:
Where we remain under the impulse
Of our world,
To judge, to condemn, to exclude
…
Turn our eyes upon Jesus,
Whose eyes look with compassion
Upon us all.
In Christ, our Lord and savior: Amen.

A Tale of Two Tables (John 2:13-25)

Scripture: From One Festivity to the Next

13   The Passover of the Jews was near, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem.

Jesus and his disciples have just finished celebrating at a wedding, where there has been singing and dancing and drinking and eating. When the wine runs out and the festivities are in danger of drying up, Jesus performs his first “sign,” according to the gospel of John. He turns water into wine. The whole episode reverberates with joy and affirmation. It is a little reminiscent of creation, when God looks upon the earth and its creatures and sees that it is good. Jesus looks on the people gathered for this celebration of love, and he sees that it is good. He says, “Yes!” He blesses it.

Just as the wedding wraps up, it is time for the annual Passover pilgrimage to Jerusalem. From one festivity to the next—except this one will look a lot different.

In the other gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), Jesus only travels to Jerusalem once during the time of his ministry. It is a momentous occasion, as he is effectively walking to his death. You might remember how when he arrives, the air is charged with conflict. He enters the Temple and quickly becomes upset at the economic injustice that he sees, as the very institution that was meant to support the poor and disenfranchised is now instead exploiting them. He quotes from Jeremiah, calling the Temple a “den of robbers,” before turning over the moneychangers’ tables.  

But the gospel of John records multiple visits to Jerusalem. And interestingly, John remembers Jesus overturning the moneychangers’ tables at the beginning of his ministry (during his first visit) rather than at the end of his ministry just before his death. Why this incongruity? Does John simply remember the sequence of events differently than Matthew, Mark, and Luke? Or did Jesus overturn the tables two different times? Ultimately, we don’t know. And perhaps that’s just as well. The truth that the gospels want to convey has less to do with historical accuracy—what happened when—and more to do with the message of Jesus that each of them received. The message of Jesus that John receives, that he remembers, involves a stark contrast between Jesus’ “table manners” at two events. On the one hand is a feast far away from the Temple, where Jesus blesses the people gathered around tables and makes sure every cup is filled. On the other hand is a festival in the heart of the religious world, in the Temple itself, where Jesus disturbs the gathering and overturns the tables.

Scripture: Turning a Profit

Before exploring this contrast—Jesus’ joy outside the Temple and his profound exasperation within it—let’s listen to how John tells the story:

14 In the Temple he found people selling cattle, sheep, and doves, and the money changers seated at their tables.

For most Passover pilgrims to Jerusalem, it was difficult to bring their own animals for sacrifice. But the Temple met this need by selling its own sacrificial animals. Now, it’s important to pause here and remember that Jesus is not opposed to Temple sacrifice itself. According to John, he made festival pilgrimages to the Temple more than once, worshiping there with fellow Jews. So I don’t think Jesus would have been irked by a fair trade that allowed pilgrims from far away to participate in Temple worship. What would have irked Jesus were some reported practices by which the merchants and money changers at the Temple turned a profit at the expense of the people, practices such as wrongfully identifying some pilgrims’ animals as “blemished” and requiring them to purchase a new animal from the temple, or more simply hiking up the prices. Jesus would have been similarly upset with money changers who added an unnecessary fee for their exchanging currencies. Many pilgrims from far away would only have Roman or Greek coinage on them, but the Temple only accepted shekels for its annual tax. The money changers would have had ample opportunity to pad by their pockets by exploiting pilgrims who were obligated to pay their dues but did not have the proper currency.[1]

Scripture: A Tale of Two “Houses”

15 Making a whip of cords, he drove all of them out of the Temple, both the sheep and the cattle. (It’s worth noting here that Jesus with his whip is not acting violently against the Temple merchants but rather driving out the herd of animals.) He also poured out the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables. 16 He told those who were selling the doves, “Take these things out of here! Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!”

More literally, that last statement is, “Stop making my Father’s house a house of trade.” In other words, Jesus distinguishes between the conflicting purposes of two different “houses.” In a house of trade, the goal is profit. More. Accumulating. In the house of God, the goal is much simpler: to make space for God. If anything, this purpose is opposite the purpose of trade. It’s not about more but about less. It’s not about accumulating but about emptying. To make space for God is to “let go” of all the interests and concerns that get in the way.

Scripture: Two Different Lessons about Money

I can’t help but think here of two other gospel passages that are not especially popular but seem especially relevant here. In his sermon on the mount, Jesus says, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth” (Matt 6:19). A little bit later in his ministry, he reiterates this point in the story of the rich fool who builds barns to accumulate his surplus harvest. When Jesus reports that his fate will be to lose everything including his life, he adds, “So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves” (Luke 12:21). Jesus is clearly not a capitalist. He is not keen on “storing up,” or accumulating, on making a profit beyond what is needed. Schooled in the Jewish faith, he knows well the story of God’s provision of manna in the wilderness, how God provides according to the need of everyone, and anything saved or kept goes rotten. To take more than we need in a world of limited resources is to take away from others. It spoils or rots the fabric of our community. Basil of Caesarea, a 4^th-century bishop, who took this lesson to heart, articulates it in cutting fashion: “If you want storehouses, you have them in the stomachs of the poor.” “If we all took only what was necessary to satisfy our own needs, giving the rest to those who lack, no one would be rich, no one would be poor, and no one would be in need.” And perhaps sharpest of all: “The more you abound in wealth, the more you lack in love.”

I share these difficult scriptures and Basil’s jaw-dropping words not as someone who has followed them, but as someone who stands convicted by them. I grew up in a world that taught me a very different message. I learned that profit is earned and therefore just and good. I learned that many poor people are lazy and only have themselves to blame. But more than anything, I learned that money is what makes the world go around. That the more of it you have, the better. That it’s a powerful resource, and if you want to do good in the world, you have to leverage it.

But I think back to last week’s wedding, where the wine ran out early and the tables around Jesus went momentarily dry. Why was that? The host family clearly did not have the resources to meet the demands of the crowd. They were poor. But does that deprive them of a joyous occasion? Jesus’ first “sign”—and remember, Jesus’ miracles were not meant as demonstrations of power but as “signs” that signify an important message—Jesus’ first “sign” seems to suggest that where there is love, there will be enough for everyone at the table. That where the priority is not wealth but relationships, there will be enough for everyone at the table. It is an entirely different lesson from the one that I learned growing up in this world.

Scripture: Turning Things Around

17 His disciples remembered that it was written, “Zeal for your house will consume me.” 18 The Jews then said to him, “What sign can you show us for doing this?” 19 Jesus answered them, “Destroy this Temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” 20 The Jews then said, “This Temple has been under construction for forty-six years, and will you raise it up in three days?” 21 But he was speaking of the Temple of his body. 22 After he was raised from the dead, his disciples remembered that he had said this; and they believed the scripture and the word that Jesus had spoken.

23   When he was in Jerusalem during the Passover festival, many believed in his name because they saw the signs that he was doing. 24 But Jesus on his part would not entrust himself to them, because he knew all people 25 and needed no one to testify about anyone; for he himself knew what was in everyone.

Today’s scripture concludes on something of a damp note, namely Jesus being wary of the attention and acclaim that he is receiving for his signs—because he “[knows] what [is] in everyone” (John 2:25). He knows how people see his signs: as a promise of power and control, not as an invitation into a gratuitous love.

The festival of Passover celebrates the story of an enslaved people’s liberation. Unfortunately, as Jesus enters the Temple, he sees plenty of evidence to suggest that the people are enslaved again. By the shekel. By the dollar. By the promise that more money will make things better.

In a way, his overturning the tables becomes a marker for a new Passover, a new liberation, as Jesus invites people into God’s priority. Not profits but people. Not control but care. The money changers and merchants in the Temple had been turning a profit at the expense of people. In so doing, they had turned the Temple from a house of God into a house of trade. But Jesus comes to turn things around, to liberate people from this enslavement. And as we see so often, Jesus does his work at tables.

We see this first in the wedding in Cana, where Jesus’ sign shows that love supplies what is lacking at the table, that the joyous union of relationships supplies make up what is missing at the table. We see Jesus’ liberation next at the Temple. This time the picture is a negative of the original, as Jesus overturns tables of profits and greed.

John chapter 2 is a tale of two “tables”—the table of the wedding feast and the table of the Temple merchants. But both tables tell the same story. Whether he’s turning water into wine or turning tables upside down, Jesus is turning the world right side up as he invites us away from the quest for profit and into the care for one another. He teaches us a fundamental lesson which runs counter to what our world teaches. He teaches us that God’s love does not trickle down from wealth, but rather surges up from willing hearts and open hands.

Prayer

Lord of the feast,
Whose love sets the table
And supplies our need
…
Here in your house,
Help us to let go
Of thoughts that do not serve us or others
And habits of needless saving.
Grant us faith in the power of your love
To turn this world right side up. In Christ, who invites us to turn around: Amen.

 

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[1] Feasting on the Gospels: John (Eds. Cynthia A. Jarvis and E. Elizabeth Johnson, et al.; Vol. 1; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2015), 54.