Hindering God -- Fifth Sunday of Easter

Acts 11:1-18

May 18, 2025

            There is a high rise where Shakey’s Pizza used to be.

There is a high rise where Shakey’s Pizza used to be.

There. Is. A. Highrise. Where. Shakey’s Pizza. Used. To. Be.

I realize that this statement requires some unpacking to make sense to you, so here goes. Shakey’s Pizza was the “it” pizza place in Green Hills, the neighborhood in Nashville where Brent and I grew up.  Shakey’s was the place where I spent much of my teenage years. It was tradition to go to Shakey’s after football games. If you were on a date, before you would go home, you’d stop by Shakey’s to see who was there. Shakey’s is where I learned how to play two of my favorite video games, Centipede and Joust. Shakey’s is where we stopped by on prom night, before we went for our fancy dinner, because we were friends with the manager and the other employees and they wanted to see us dressed up. Shakey’s is where my longtime writer friend, Keith, would go in the afternoons when he got off work. He’d get something to eat and sit in a booth and write. When I got my driver’s license, I drove to Shakey’s. When my parents decreed that I could only see my boyfriend once a week, I would sneak off for a few minutes whenever I got the chance and we’d meet for a few minutes at Shakey’s. Trust me, my parents were not clueless, they knew what I was doing. Shakey’s is where we watched the premier of Michael Jackson’s Thriller video on the big screen.

Shakey’s was more than just a pizza parlor, it was a huge part of my life. And it wasn’t just a big part of my life only. Brent and my brother and sister and all their friends went to Shakey’s too. It was an institution for several generations of teenagers and families. Shakey’s is forever woven into my memories from that time. And now there is a high rise where Shakey’s once stood. And while I know that everything changes, nothing stays the same, I still get a lump in my throat when I see that high rise, because I remember vividly what was there before, and when I remember Shakey’s I remember being young and full of great expectations.

But … everything changes. Change can be hard. Change can be bad. But change can also be good. Sometimes it is necessary. Sometimes I crave change. I need to do something different – change my hair, rearrange the furniture, anything, just to create a little change. Yet, in the bigger picture, these are relatively small changes, and small changes generally don’t cause the same kind of stress that big changes do. (Although I will admit to having shed many tears over bad haircuts over the course of my life.)  I think though, that change, whether it is good or bad or somewhere in the middle, can be frightening because it represents the unknown and the uncertain. We often don’t know when we lean into change, whether it will be good, bad, or otherwise, and that’s what makes it scary. Maybe this change will be the best thing we ever did, or maybe it will turn out all wrong. We just don’t know. Sometimes what we think of as change that is bad – like a high rise where Shakey’s used to be – might end up being a good change after all. What we perceive to be bad change is really change that is necessary and needed, even though it is hard to go through. I think that is what Peter was faced with in the story we read from Acts.

            The apostles and believers who were in Judea heard that Gentiles – those others – had “accepted the word of God.” Apparently, this was  a change they were not prepared for, so as soon as Peter arrived in Jerusalem the other apostles wanted to know what happened. More specifically, these circumcised believers wanted to know why Peter, also a circumcised believer, ate with uncircumcised believers. They did not ask Peter about the Gentiles acceptance of God’s word or what that acceptance entailed. They wanted to know why Peter shared table fellowship with these others, because if they were not circumcised then they did not keep kosher. These uncircumcised others did not follow the strict dietary laws, so if Peter ate with them, it was a good bet that he had violated the dietary laws too. And if that were true, Peter had better have a good reason for doing what he did.

            Peter did have a good reason and his reason was sound. He recounted to them the vision he received. He was sitting on the roof where they were staying in Joppa. Peter was hungry, and while he was waiting for the meal that was being prepared, he fell into a trance and had a vision from God. In the vision he saw a sheet being lowered by its four corners from heaven. On that sheet was every kind of creature imaginable: mammals, birds, reptiles. Along with the sheet of critters came a voice telling him to get up, kill, and eat. It was the Lord speaking to Peter, but Peter refused God’s command.

            He told the Lord that he had never put anything profane or unclean in his body, and he was not about to start now. Three is a scripturally significant number, and as in other stories, this exchange with God happened three times. Three is also a significant number for Peter. Peter denied Jesus three times before the crucifixion. The resurrected Jesus gave Peter three chances to declare his love for Jesus, wiping out the three denials. And now God called Peter to kill and eat anything on that sheet three times. Three times Peter said, “No.” But after the second time the voice told Peter,

            “What God has made clean, you must not call profane.”

            The sheet was lifted back to heaven and Peter’s vision came to an end. But with the ending of the vision came the arrival of men sent by the centurion, Cornelius.

            Cornelius had also received a divine message. He was instructed by an angel to send for Peter. Peter went with the men. Cornelius and his whole household not only listened to Peter preach, but they also received the gift of the Holy Spirit and believed! Even though they were uncircumcised!

            Peter told Cornelius that it was unlawful for a Jew to associate with a Gentile, but he finally understood what God was telling him in his vision. The vision was not just about food. It was about people. If God commanded that people were clean, then he could not call them unclean. If the Gentiles, the others, the outsiders, could receive the Holy Spirit and believe just as Peter and the other apostles had, then who was Peter to hinder God? How could Peter say, “no” to God’s “Yes”? Who was Peter to hinder God?

            I think it is instinctive of our human nature to draw dividing lines between us and others. We like to create categories and impose labels. This category is good. That category is bad. This group of folks is good. That group of folks is bad. These people are acceptable, and those people are not. These are the insiders and those are the outsiders. We all do it. Certainly, Jesus’ first believers did it. Yet when Jesus was living among them, he spent a great deal of time blurring the lines society tried to maintain between people and groups. Heck, Jesus didn’t just blur those lines, he leaped right over them. If you recall, the cream of the religious crop of Jesus’ day had trouble with the folks Jesus chose to sit at table with. I guess it shouldn’t be surprising then, that table fellowship was causing problems all over again.

            And from the earliest stories in scripture, we learn that while God called the Israelites to be his chosen people, it was to bless not only the Israelites but all the people of the world through them. That was God’s covenant with Abram. Through you, God said, I will bless all the families of the world. No insiders. No outsiders. God’s children.

            So, Peter’s vision did not just dispel the idea of clean and unclean food. It made it clear that the dividing lines we draw between ourselves, and others are our lines, not God’s. They are us saying, “No!” even as God is saying, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” And Peter realized that in pushing back against God’s command in this vision, in trying to say, “No” to God’s “Yes”, Peter was hindering God. And who was he to hinder God?

            Who are we to hinder God?

            Last Sunday I talked about baptism as a sacrament of belonging, and I think it is this question of who belongs and who doesn’t that is the crux of this passage and indeed the gospel. Who belongs? Peter thought he knew. Peter thought he understood who was supposed to be in and who was supposed to be out. Peter thought he grasped belonging, especially when it came to being a follower of Jesus, to being a recipient of the Holy Spirit. But God made it clear to Peter that he did not know, and he did not understand. Do not call unclean what I have made clean. Do not try to dictate who belongs and who doesn’t. Do not say “No” when I have said, “Yes.” Who was Peter to hinder God? Who are we to hinder God?

            Peter realized that when he tried to control who belonged and who didn’t, he was hindering God, and to hinder God was to hinder the new thing God was doing. Peter was hindering God because he was resisting a change he wasn’t prepared for. Peter was resisting a change to something he held sacred his entire life. This must have been terrifying for him. This wasn’t just the change that comes when one business gives way to something new. This was change to something Peter believed to be unchangeable. Don’t call unclean what I have made clean. Don’t say “No” to my “Yes.”

            Who are we to hinder God? It seems to me that discipleship, following this narrow path that Jesus walked, is about embracing change, embracing the new thing God continues to do in our midst. It is about constantly learning and relearning that God will not be put into a box of our making, that when it comes to belonging, we don’t get the final say, that whatever boundaries or lines we draw around people, whatever labels we use and categories we create, God will not be bound or limited or hindered. And that means change and that is good news. It really is. Take it from someone who does not welcome change, this is good news. God is doing something new. We read it in Revelation, we see it in this and so many other passages from Acts, and this deep change is the heartbeat of all four gospels. God is doing something new, what we think is unclean, God is making clean, our no is outweighed by God’s great yes. God is doing something new, and no matter how we might try, we cannot hinder God. But let’s try harder not to hinder God from this moment on. God is doing something new. Thanks be to God.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!’      

            Amen.

           

           

 

 

 

The Lord Is My Shepherd -- Fourth Sunday of Easter

John 10:22-30

May 11, 2025

 

            Some of you may remember the iconic RCA Victor advertising image of the little black and white dog sitting very still in front of the large bell of a gramophone, listening. The caption for the advertisement read, “His Master’s Voice.” The original painting that spurred the later advertisements, was of a real dog named Nipper who lived in Britian in the late 19^th century. There’s an interesting history about Nipper and how the original painting came to be, but I’ll leave that for you to research in your own time. Suffice it to say that the image of the little dog, Nipper, listening to his master’s voice was everywhere – at least that’s how I remember it. It was on RCA record labels, and it was recreated on what we now as “merch.” It is an iconic image.

            When I first moved to New York State – a thousand years ago – I lived south of the capital, Albany, but served a church on the north side of the city. So, I often had to drive into Albany, and in an older neighborhood there was a building that must have once been an RCA building, because sitting on its roof was Nipper! Well, it was a large sculpture of Nipper, listening, even though there was no gramophone in front of him. I started thinking of that building as somehow belonging to the dog, and I drove by it every chance I could. My life was and is a pretty noisy affair most days. It’s filled with a variety of voices and other sounds, music, television, street noises, cars, sirens. And even when I’m quiet and have shut out the sounds from the outside, it’s not necessarily quiet in my own head. My mind feels like it is constantly whirring with worries and questions and to-do lists and random trains of thought traveling in every direction. I find the picture of the little dog listening to his master’s voice not only sweet but peaceful. How wonderful it would be to focus so completely on that one voice, that one sound, and not be distracted by every other sound and noise out there. I wish that I had the ability to do that better, and I wish it because there is one voice that I would very much love to hear more often, but it is a still, small voice. It is a voice that often gets lost in the din of all the other voices. The voice that I long to hear more clearly and more often is the voice of God. If God still clearly speaks to people from the heavens or in burning bushes or through prophets, then I’m not privy to it. Or maybe the voice of God is there, but everything else in my life is so noisy, including all that’s happening in my own head, that I just can’t hear it.

            I can blame my inability to hear the divine voice on all the noise in my life – external and internal. But what about the people who confront Jesus in our passage from John’s gospel? What’s their excuse? It was at the festival of Dedication and Jesus was walking in the portico of Solomon. This was the area of the temple where the kings would sit and issue decrees of justice.  As Jesus is walking, the religious authorities come to him and say,

“How long will you keep us in suspense?  If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.”

One commentator writes that there are two ways to look at this question posed by the people who confront Jesus. One is that this is a politically charged question. The people questioning him may have been trying to give him enough rope in a sense. If he answers that he is in fact the messiah, then they can charge him with blasphemy. The second understanding of their question is that these are people who just want to understand who Jesus is. They don’t ask this question to trick or trap Jesus. They ask him because they want to understand, they want to grasp his identity.

In earlier verses it says that the people were divided over Jesus, so scholars suggest it is reasonable to see both angles at play. But I think that what is more important is how Jesus responds.

“I have told you, and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father’s name testify to me; but you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. My sheep hear my voice.  I know them, and they follow me.”

 My sheep hear my voice. The implication is that if these folks really were believers, they would hear his voice. They would have already figured it out. And Jesus makes it clear that his voice is heard most loudly, most clearly in his works. He does works in his Father’s name and those works testify to him. They testify to his identity. His works proclaim beyond any words he might say that he is in fact the Messiah. The passage then ends with Jesus saying, “The Father and I are one.”

Biblical commentator Gail O’Day writes that the Greek that is translated as “one” in the New Revised Standard Version is not speaking so much about Jesus and God being one person or one essence or one being. Instead it means that the Father and the Son are “united” together.  Jesus’ works are united with his Father’s. When you see what Jesus does, you see what God does. So, if you believe that Jesus and God are united, if you recognize that Jesus’ works of grace and mercy and healing are God’s works, then you are a believer and therefore you hear clearly hear Jesus’ voice. You are one of his sheep. His sheep hear his voice. Anyone who doesn’t is not a believer. After all, Jesus seems to say it plainly.

“You do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep.”

But what about those of us who believe and yet we struggle to hear his voice? What about those of us who believe but also doubt, who wrestle with our faith? Does this mean that we are on the outs, out of the fold, out of the flock?

Theologian Debie Thomas has also struggled with this pronouncement from Jesus. She writes that she could assume it does not apply to her because she is a cradle believer, knows the bible, reads her prayers, engages in the liturgy, etc. And yet there are many times when she struggles, struggles to hear the voice of Jesus in a world that is not only noisy but violent, in a world where death strikes down innocents and justice seems but a dream. Does that put her outside of the fold just as I worry it does me? As Thomas wrote, Jesus’ words suggest that belonging is predicated on believing, but in fact he is saying the opposite. In Thomas’ words, “You struggle to believe because you don’t consent to belong.” It isn’t the belief that comes first, it is the belonging.

“You struggle to believe because you don’t consent to belong.”

Time and again, Jesus has shown the people around him, including the religious authorities, that he and the Father are one. The works that he does are possible because he and God are united. But still people don’t believe because they refuse to belong. They refuse to submit to the possibility that through Jesus God is showing them a different way – to be, to live, to love. They refuse to belong so they cannot begin to believe.

We long to belong – to something, to someone. I don’t think there is a human in this world who doesn’t want to belong somewhere, somehow. It seems to me that Jesus is trying to tell those who question him that they choose to belong to groups that give them power and groups that give them prestige, but they refuse to belong to the One who gives them life. Belonging comes first and belief follows. If we are willing to belong, we will find our way to belief.

In a few minutes we will baptize baby Noelle. There are folks at different points along the theological spectrum who argue with infant baptism, saying that it must be a conscious choice on the part of the believer. I understand their thinking. A baby cannot make that choice, so those who don’t support infant baptism view it at worst as invalid, and at the least lacking in theological soundness. My standard response to this argument is that the reason we baptize babies and children is because we believe that God’s grace is alive and working in our lives whether we know it or not, and baptism is the sign and seal of God’s grace. I still unequivocally believe this to be true. But I also realize that our baptism is also a profound act of belonging. In her baptism today, we know that Noelle cannot make a profession of faith for herself. We know that she cannot answer questions about scripture or tell us in ten words or less why she believes, why she loves Jesus.

But what we do in this moment is tell her, even though she cannot understand it on an intellectual level yet, that she belongs. She belongs to her family, she belongs to this family, she belongs to the Church Universal, she belongs, most importantly to God. She is a child of God and a child of the covenant, and she belongs. Belief will come, and all the struggles and the joys that come with it. But she belongs. So do we all. Wherever you are on this day with your faith, whether you are struggling or doubting or wrestling or resting, you belong. That still, small voice is speaking, calling us to come into the fold, to trust, to allow ourselves to belong to the One who is our Shepherd. We belong. Belief will come. But we belong and that makes all the difference. Thanks be to God.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

Amen.

Blinded By the Light

Acts 9:1-20

May 4, 2025

 

            The first car that I ever purchased for myself, by myself, completely by myself, was my Ford Fusion. It was the car that I was driving when I first came here to the church. I drove the heck out of it, then I passed it onto Phoebe who drove it not quite into the ground, but pretty close. We made that car go for as long as it possibly could. As I said, this was the first car I ever purchased just me. Before that I had others along to help me. But I bought this car all on my own. It was a momentous step for me, and I was proud that I negotiated it by myself. I did call my dad a few times to get his thoughts, but he was not there with me during the negotiations. It was just me and I was proud of me and proud of the car. But I hadn’t been driving it very long when I realized there was one design issue that I didn’t like. That car had terrible blind spots. I bought it before backup cameras were commonplace, and I quickly learned that I had to be extra cautious when I was backing out or changing lanes, because other cars could zip up on me and I wouldn’t see them until they were right there. Every car has some blind spots, but the blind spots on that car could be challenging.

            Blind spots are not reserved for vehicles only. We humans also seem to have built-in blind spots. I won’t make the claim that these blind spots are design flaws, but everything that goes into making us us – our families, our culture, our education, our region, our entire context – influences how we view the world around us, and these things can contribute to our blind spots. We see and interact with the world through particular lenses; and while those lenses allow us to see so much, they also make it easy to block things out as well. Blind spots.

            When I was studying this passage from Acts, I thought I knew everything about it. After all, the story of Saul’s conversion experience on the road to Damascus is one I know well. At least I thought I did. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know or was aware of this story. I remember seeing this story enacted on felt boards when I was a little girl in Sunday school. And felt boards were the height of technology when I was a kid. I probably heard this story read in picture books. It’s just one that I’ve always known – or thought I did. Here is the way I have always heard it.

            Saul, who was the bad guy because he hated Christians, was on the road to Damascus. He had permission from the church leaders – also bad guys – to round up even more of Jesus’ followers when he reached Damascus. But while he was on the way, he was suddenly blinded by a great light, the light, from heaven. The light was so bright and so strong it knocked him down, and he was lying, blind, on the ground when a voice spoke to him from the heavens. It was Jesus’ voice. And Jesus asked Saul, this bad guy, why Saul was persecuting him. Saul did not understand. He asked who it was that talking to him from this great heavenly, blinding light. Jesus answered that it was Jesus, and then he told Saul to get up and go to the city and he would be told what to do. Saul, who could not see because he had been blinded by the light, was helped by the others around him and taken to Damascus. A man named Ananias, who had also heard instructions from Jesus, went and met him. When Ananias laid hands on Saul, and told Saul that he had been sent by Jesus so that Saul could regain his sight and be filled with the Holy Spirit, scales fell from Saul’s eyes. And, just as Ananias said, he could see again. Only this time, he really could see. He could see that Jesus was the true Son of God. He could see that he was now called to a different way, the way of discipleship, the way of following. He could really see. Saul, the bad guy, would be transformed to Paul, the good guy. In being blinded by the light, his blind spots about Christians were gone.

            As I said, I thought I knew this story frontwards, backwards, and sideways. I’ve preached it. I’ve studied it, and Saul was always the bad guy. But then I read an essay by a biblical scholar who pointed out that Saul did not consider himself to be a bad guy. Saul was doing what he thought he was called to do. He thought he was ridding the faith of corruption. He thought he was purifying the faith from evil. He thought he was saving the Jewish people, God’s chosen ones, from being led astray and led to their destruction. Perhaps the first thought that crossed his mind when he was knocked down and blinded by the light, when he heard Jesus’ voice speaking from heaven, was, “Who me? I’m not persecuting anybody. I’m doing God’s work.” Because maybe, just maybe, Saul thought he was the good guy.

            This new aspect on Saul reveals two things to me: Saul had his own blind spots; he was beset by them. And I also have a big blind spot when it comes to this story. I thought I knew it so well, but how could I have never considered that Saul thought that he was in the right and doing the right thing? Saul thought he was executing God’s will. Saul probably thought he was the good guy. He had a big blind spot, and when it comes to Saul, so do I.

            I know that I have many more blind spots than just this one concerning Saul. At this point in my sermons, I will often say, “And I don’t think I’m alone in this.” I’m going to say that now. I don’t think I’m alone in this. I don’t think I’m alone in having blind spots. We all have blind spots. When my eyes were opened to this revelation about Saul, I realized that this story has many more layers to it than I’ve given it credit for.

            It is a story of transformation, true. It is a story about God working through unlikely people, true. After all, Ananias and the other believers knew about Saul and didn’t want anything to do with him. But perhaps there is another layer of meaning to this story as well. Perhaps it is also a cautionary tale. It warns us of the dangers of thinking that we know God’s mind and that we are privy to every working of God’s heart. It reminds us that because we don’t know fully, we need to check ourselves when we try to decide what is pure and what is not; and more importantly who is pure and who is not. Saul was on a purity campaign. He wanted to get rid of the negative elements he believed were leading Gods’ people astray. He thought he was a good guy, a faithful guy. He thought he knew what God’s will was, only to find out that he had been wrong. He found out that he had been blind long before he was blinded by the light.

            Our blind spots can cause us to wreak havoc on one another and on God’s creation. The Church as a body, an institution, has had many blind spots and caused great harm because of them. We, none of us, and I’m pointing the finger at myself, can know the fullness of God’s heart, and the bible is full of stories about God working through the unlikeliest of people. Saul is one of many. But in saying this, I’m not saying that everyone is just all okay and groovy and if we think someone is wrong about something, it is only because of a blind spot on our part. No. People do wrong things, terrible, evil things. And we are called to speak out against evil. But we are also called to remember that we have blind spots, all of us, and that we only see in part. That’s why being a disciple is so difficult.

            Recognizing that we all have blind spots and that there are many other perspectives is not an excuse for allowing injustice to continue. But calling out injustice, working against it, is not the same as trying to rid a community or the world of people we think are wrong. Blind spots, when taken to the extreme, have resulted in some of the greatest atrocities in history.

            Yet acknowledging that we have blind spots, we all have blind spots, is the first step in seeing that God’s will and God’s understanding is so much bigger than we can grasp. Anne Lamott, one of my personal heroes, wrote that she knows she has made God in her image when it turns out that God hates all the same people she does. Blind spots.

            Realizing that we have blind spots and accepting that God works through people we consider to be unlikely is the fist step in trusting God more than we trust in ourselves. Recognizing and acknowledging that we have our own blind spots, that we cannot fully see what God sees, sit to remember that we are made in God’s image and not the other way around. We all have blind spots. But the good news is that God does not. God sees what we cannot see. God understands what we cannot understand. And the really good news is that God sees us, sees our every flaw, sees our sometimes misguided good intentions, sees in us what we cannot always see in ourselves. God sees the whorl of God’s fingerprint in us, all of us. Because in spite of our blind spots, our flaws, our missteps, our sins, God sees us and loves us. May we do our best to overcome our blind spots and see others and ourselves in the same way.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.

Back to the Boat -- Stated Meeting of the Presbytery of Middle Tennessee

John 21:1-19

May 3, 2025

 

            When my daughter, Phoebe, was just a few months old, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. She and my dad were coming to visit their new granddaughter in just a few days, when she called me to tell me that her treatment would require a mastectomy. But her oncologist agreed that the surgery could wait to be scheduled until after their visit to us. This was good news and a tiny thread of a silver lining in the midst of such unwelcome and unnerving news about her health. Just fyi: my mom’s cancer was caught very early, she made it through the surgery fine, and we had her in our lives for almost another 30 years.

            But none of us could predict the future at the time of that call and that traumatic diagnosis, so when I hung up with my mom, I did what I often do when everything around me seems out-of-control and unmanageable – I vacuumed. It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that we control very little in our lives. And I confess that in my heart of hearts what I want most of all is control. I want to control my future. I want to control my present. I want to control the context and circumstances that surround the people I love. Yet when confronted with my mom’s cancer and, even more so, her mortality, which pushed me to confront my own, I did the one thing I knew to do – I vacuumed. Fretting and worrying over mom was not going to get my rugs clean, so it was back to the vacuum for me. And a funny thing which I found out later was that my mom did the exact same thing on her end. She hung up the phone with me and started to vacuum. Like mother, like daughter. I guess some things just don’t change.

            But almost two weeks ago, we remembered and celebrated an event that is supposed to change everything. As it happens every year, Easter arrives with great flourish, ceremony, celebration, music, singing, alleluias, joy, crosses filled with flowers, church pews overflowing with family and friends – and then on Monday the world seems to move inexorably on. Friends and family continue to be diagnosed with cancer. People still die tragically and too young. Wars and violence seem to overwhelm any of the work toward peace. The chains of poverty and oppression remain unbroken. And there are times during this life inexorable that our attempts to be faithful, to answer the call to be disciples seem futile at best. And even though we, all of us believers, declare every year that we are Easter people, and that we will live every day from now in the light of the Easter promise, our lives return to “normal” too. We return to our routines and go about our daily lives with their work and play, joy and sorrow, and nothing really seems to have changed at all.

            From our passage at the end of John’s gospel, it looks as though even the disciples, the ones who were the immediate witnesses to these dramatic events – crucifixion, resurrection – have also returned to life as usual. In these verses before us, John gives an account of a third post-resurrection appearance by Jesus to the disciples. The risen Christ appears to them once more. But where are they? And what are they doing? Seven of the disciples are gathered by the Sea of Tiberius. They are not there preaching to anyone who might be with them on the beach. They are not there brainstorming the ways they will take the good news of the gospel to the crowds. They just seem to be there – maybe waiting, quite possibly feeling lost, confused, and afraid. We don’t really know what they are doing or why, but in a somewhat impulsive move Simon Peter decides to go fishing. In my imagination, Peter is restless and agitated. He can’t just sit there anymore; he must do something. It must have felt like his whole world was crumbling, and everything he thought he understood no longer made sense. So, he did the one thing he knew he could do – fish. I vacuum. Peter fished. Peter announces that he is going fishing. The others follow his lead. It’s as if they all think, “Well, Jesus may be resurrected, whatever that means, but that won’t put food on the table so let’s get back to the boats.”

            And back to the boats they go. They sit in the boat all night but catch nothing. Just after daybreak Jesus stands on the shore. Although the disciples have already seen him twice before, they do not recognize him. Jesus speaks to them about their predicament and tells them to cast their nets to the right side of the boat. They do what he tells them, and suddenly there’s more fish than they can haul into shore. This is the moment when the beloved disciple recognizes Jesus. When the disciples drag their full nets ashore, Jesus is waiting for them with a fire, saying, “Come and have breakfast.” In a eucharistic moment, Jesus breaks the bread and the fish and gives it to them.

            After this breakfast of fish and bread, Jesus asks Simon Peter three times if he loves him. And three times Peter answers, “I love you, Lord.” The third time Peter is hurt because Jesus continues to question him about Peter’s love for his teacher. So on this third go round, he answers, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” Jesus responds as he has twice before, “Feed my sheep.”

            I believe that it is widely accepted that Jesus’ purpose in asking Peter this question of his love for him three times was to cancel out Peter’s three denials of him before the crucifixion. Peter denied Jesus three times, and in turn, Jesus gives him three chances to restate his love. Jesus offers Peter forgiveness and commissions him with a ministry and mission. Feed my sheep.

            I think a lot about Peter in this moment. I think the guilt and shame he must have been feeling when this story begins was overwhelming. No pun intended; he must have been swimming in guilt. I find it interesting that before Jesus meets them on the beach, Peter not only decides to go fishing, but he also decides to do the work without clothes on. While this may be strange to us, it probably wasn’t to them. Perhaps it was hot. I suspect that trying to haul in large nets of fish in a robe, especially a robe with long sleeves that hindered movement would have been challenging.

            But I also think that Peter’s nakedness reveals his vulnerability and his shame. When he realizes that it is Jesus on the shoreline calling them in, Peter jumps into the sea to hide himself. It reminds me of the moment in the Garden of Eden when Adam and Eve hide themselves from God because they are naked and feel ashamed. So Peter is vulnerable, and Peter is ashamed, not just at being caught without clothes, but because of what he did and what he didn’t do. But Peter is given another chance. Peter is shown grace. For every time he denied Jesus, he is given another chance to declare his love, and to accept his call to serve. Feed my sheep.

            Perhaps this is part of the deeper meaning of this third resurrection appearance. It’s not about proving that Jesus is actually risen. The disciples have already seen him twice before. It seems to me that this third appearance was to offer Peter the grace he needed to do the work that lay ahead. It was to show Peter and the other disciples that just as death was not the end, resurrection is not an end in itself either. It is a new beginning. Peter and the others have a new call now. They must go back to their boats and fish for people. They must share the good news of the gospel. They must feed Jesus’ sheep. There are still so many people, so many sheep, who need to be fed, flocks that need to be gathered, lost ones who need to be found. It may seem that nothing had changed, that life and its sorrows had gone relentlessly on, but Jesus’ presence with them on that beach tells them otherwise. Everything has changed. And they are called to be a part of it. They must go back to their boats. They must try again.

            This ministry, their work and mission and call, will require all their persistence, all their determination. all their love and fortitude and perseverance. Most of all, it will take courage.

            We know that the disciples find their courage, because they go on to teach and preach and heal and participate in the miraculous ways of God empowered and emboldened by the Holy Spirit. Peter and the others feed Jesus’ sheep and so much more.

            But what about us? Was two weeks ago a dressed up, hopped up version of just another Sunday or has everything changed? And if it is the latter, then we also must find our courage. It takes courage just to live these days, especially these days. It takes courage to follow the gospel. It takes courage to lead and teach and preach and to try and be the human that Jesus was and to follow the Christ that Jesus is. It takes courage to live the gospel, because it is counter-intuitive to everything else in the world around us. And some days its really hard to do. It takes courage to try, and it takes even more to try again because no amount of vacuuming on my part will give me the control I so long for. I need to find my courage to trust God more than I trust myself. I need courage to do the work that I am called to do, to feed God’s sheep. I need courage, the courage that can only be found in God, and so do you. In this work we do today, may we find the courage we need, the boldness we need, the power we need – from God and from one another – to share the gospel, to speak truth to power, to live into the promise of Easter, to feed Gods’ sheep.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.

           

The Living -- The Resurrection of the Lord

Luke 23:50 – 24:12

April 20, 2025

 

            The women rose in the fading darkness to do the work of death.

            There are probably as many different traditions surrounding death as there are countries in this world. Some of them are ancient. Some are newer. Some are based in religious belief. Some are cultural. For some there are clear origins to the tradition, and for others the beginnings are unknown or lost to time.

            I have heard stories from older folks that when someone died, all the mirrors in the house were covered with cloth. In Ireland, when someone died all the clocks in the house were stopped at the time of death out of respect for the person who died. In Mexico the festival of the Day of the Dead, Dia de los Muertos, is celebrated every year to honor and remember the dearly departed with gifts and stories. In New Orleans there is the jazz funeral, where mourners process from the church to the cemetery, filling the streets with music. In Greece when someone dies, there is the initial funeral two or three days after the death. Then there is another memorial service 40 days after the death. When my mother-in-law died, the caregiver sitting with her was from an African country. At the moment of Nana’s death, the caregiver opened the window, so my mother-in-law’s spirit could go out.

            As I said, there are probably as many different traditions surrounding death as there are countries in the world. There are specific prayers, last rites, services, symbols, and traditions. But their common denominator is that they help those who remain in this world to grieve, honor, respect, and remember the loved one who has died.

            The women rose in the fading darkness to do the work of death.

            Their work was to prepare Jesus’ body for his final rest, and the spices and ointments they used were part of their tradition surrounding death. So, taking with them these spices and ointments, the ones prepared before the Sabbath began, they walked to the tomb where they knew Jesus had been laid.

The women rose in the fading darkness to do the work of death.

But when they reached the tomb, instead of finding it closed, the stone blocking the entrance had been rolled away. Instead of finding the lifeless body of Jesus, their teacher, the tomb was empty. While they were trying to make sense of what they were seeing, two men dressed in dazzling clothes suddenly stood beside them.

The women were perplexed when they found the stone rolled away and the tomb empty, as though they thought some clerical error had happened and Jesus’ body had been moved to another gravesite, or that they themselves were mistaken about where he had been lain. They were perplexed by this, but the appearance of these strange men in gleaming garments terrified them. They bowed low to the ground, out of fear, out of shock, shielding their eyes from the brightness of the men’s clothing.

In Mark and Matthew, the angel waiting at the empty tomb basically had the same message for the women, “Do not be afraid.” But these two heavenly visitors ask a question of the women instead,

“Why do you look for the living among the dead?”

“Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to the hands of sinners and be crucified and on the third day rise again.”

Clearly these women were not random followers but had been with Jesus and the other disciples for a while. They were with them in Galilee. They were with them when Jesus tried to teach the disciples about what he would endure, about what it meant to be Messiah. But that was a while back. A lot had happened since Jesus spoke those words. They had walked with him into Jerusalem in triumph only to experience the shock of betrayal, the trauma of his arrest, and the shattering grief of his crucifixion. The words that Jesus spoke to them about suffering and death had come to pass, but the message he relayed about rising again from death to new life had slipped their minds. Until the men said, “Remember.”

And then they remembered. They remembered all that Jesus told them, all that he had spoken and prophesied. They remembered resurrection, and perhaps with a piercing bolt of insight, they understood the angels’ question: “Why do you look for the living among the dead?”

They were looking for the Jesus they believed to be dead, but he was alive, alive, alive, alive, and no longer among the dead! He was among the living! They left the tomb, these women, Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James and the others, and they went to find the apostles. They went to tell them what they had seen, what they had witnessed, what they now knew. Jesus did not rest among the dead but walked with the living! They remembered! He is risen! He is risen indeed!

But if the women expected the men of their group to jump for joy at this good news, they were surely disappointed. Instead of leaping to their feet in exultation or falling to their knees to give thanks, instead of celebrating and shouting alleluias, the men dismiss the women’s news as “an idle tale.” The women were either delusional from grief or just experiencing collective wishful thinking. There was no way that their rabbi was alive. They knew better. There was no living among the dead. There were only the dead.

However, Peter did jump up. He didn’t exactly believe the women, but he didn’t disbelieve them either. He ran to the tomb and stooped to look inside. He saw the linen clothes that Jesus had been wrapped in. They were lying there unwrapped and discarded. Jesus was not there. The living was not among the dead. Perhaps the women’s idle tale wasn’t so idle after all. Peter left the tomb and returned home. Our translation says that he was amazed at what had happened. There is another translation of this verse where Peter is left wondering instead of amazed. He wonders to himself about all that he has now seen. Perhaps Peter’s wondering is like the women’s perplexity. While Jesus’ words about his suffering and death had come to pass, his words about resurrection and new life were forgotten because they were too implausible to be believed. After all suffering and death is with us always, but resurrection? New life? That sounds nice and everything but come on. Resurrection? Really?

So, Peter is left wondering, the women’s story is dismissed by the others as an idle tale, and no one of Jesus’ closest followers seems to know what to do next.

Why do you look for the living among the dead?

Maybe the answer is because we don’t really believe that the dead could be otherwise.

Maybe with all that Jesus told the women and the disciples about resurrection, his resurrection, his new life from the ashes of death, they just could not believe anything else, except that death meant death. Maybe, if we’re honest, we feel the same way. It isn’t that we don’t have faith. It isn’t that we don’t trust in God’s promises. But resurrection seems like something that is far off, beyond the veil of this world and in the realm of a world we cannot see and cannot fully understand. We too look for the dead among the dead because we expect the dead to stay that way. The women had no idea that they were looking for the living among the dead. They could not grasp that the resurrection, that new life, was right there in front of them. They thought they were going in the fading darkness of that early morning to do the work of death only to find that God had been doing the work of life. They went to prepare a body for its final resting only to find that death had been discarded like those linen cloths. The women went to the tomb expecting to do the work of death, instead they found that God had uncovered the mirrors and wound the clocks and called for the music to be played in celebration and joy instead of mourning.

Perhaps that’s what we need to take with us this Easter morning, the expectation that no matter how much we expect to do the work of death, God never stops doing the work of life. God never stops doing the work of life, the work of creation, the work of newness  and wholeness and hope. Resurrection is not just reserved for the sweet by and by, but it is here now. Every time we cling to hope even as despair tries to hold us in its clutch, we experience resurrection. Every time we allow our hearts to be filled with love instead of hate, or worse, indifference, we experience resurrection. Every time we see Christ in someone else, really see Christ in the person who doesn’t look like us or believe like us, we experience resurrection.

God is doing the work of life, the work of resurrection, right now, right here in our midst. We are not called to fully understand or grasp or logically rationalize this resurrection, this newness that we feel and believe and trust, we just have to remember. We just have to remember what Jesus said and did and does. Because the one who was dead is living. The one who was crucified is risen. Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Thanks be to God!

Let all of God’s children shout, “Alleluia!”

Amen.

 

           

To The End -- Maundy Thursday

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

April 17, 2025

 

            “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.”

            Even as early as elementary school, I understood the intricate workings of school cafeteria dynamics. These dynamics indicated power or the lack of it. Often the tables where a class had to sit were already designated, but where you sat at those tables and with whom mattered. There was some anxiety about this in the early grades, but it was not until Junior High that the lunchroom table power structure really became important. You had to have the right place at the table. You wanted to sit with the popular girls, because the popular girls had all the power. They had the power to make your life miserable or not. They could make life miserable either by not letting you sit with them or by letting you sit with them and finding ways to mock you. And you were terrified to sit next to or even near a boy you liked, because someone, probably one of the popular girls, would figure out that you liked him, and then you would be teased about that, and teased loudly, which would ruin any chance you might have had to get the boy to like you back.  

            That’s just the seating arrangements. What you ate for lunch was a whole other source of anxiety. If you brought your lunch from home, it couldn’t include anything that might be considered weird or icky. No leftovers. No strange sandwich choices. It should be basic, simple, and unremarkable. If you’ve ever seen the movie, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, you may remember the scene where the young Tulla brings her Greek lunch to school. While the other girls brought peanut butter sandwiches on white bread, she had moussaka; an eggplant delicacy and very different. The other girls immediately pounced on that difference and teased her for it. Sometimes it was less risky to buy your lunch. The quality of the school lunch was iffy at best, but at least it leveled the playing field when it came to the power dynamics of the junior high cafeteria.

            But these lunchroom table power plays didn’t begin with school children. They have existed since people began to sit at tables for meals. I read one commentator who told the story of the Roman emperor, Domitian. Domitian was most likely the emperor when the gospel of John was being written. He hosted what was known as the “Black Banquet.” The room and the all the serving people were draped in black. The meal was food typically served at funerals, dyed black, and each guest was seated next to their own personalized tombstone. As the commentator wrote, each person seated at that table must have been scared stiff, awaiting what would surely be a summons to be executed. Instead, it was an elaborate prank. Each guest was sent home with gifts, that included enslaved human beings.

            That is not a practical joke that I would have found funny, and I imagine the guests didn’t either. While they may have laughed on the outside, the laughter didn’t reach the inside. It didn’t reach their eyes. This strange and ghoulish meal may have been pronounced a prank, but in reality it was a highly crafted display of power. Domitian was making sure that everyone at that table knew that he held all the power, including the power to decide if they lived or died, in his hands.

            Then we come to our gospel reading for tonight; John’s recounting of the last supper Jesus shared with his disciples. If the table was and is a venue for displays of power, then Jesus turned that idea of power upside down. As the supper was underway, Jesus stood up and took a towel, then kneeling he began to wash the feet of his disciples. As I understand it, foot washing was a common display of hospitality. With foot coverings that were like our open sandals and roads that were more dust than road, a person’s feet would be constantly dirty and grimy. So, when you arrived at someone’s home, it was customary to have your feet washed as a way of being welcomed.

            However, the foot washing was not done by the host. The foot washing was done by a servant, and it would have happened upon arrival, not after everyone was at the table with the meal before them. We don’t wash our hands midway through supper. We wash them before we eat. Yet Jesus does not call upon a servant to wash the feet of his disciples, which would have been the custom. He washes them. He does what a servant would do. And he does this during the meal, at the time reserved for entertainment or a planned program. Jesus takes on the role of service and he makes it, as one commentator described, the main event.

            If the disciples expected a power hierarchy at this meal, they didn’t get it. If they expected their teacher, their rabbi, their messiah to act as a guest of honor would have acted, they were doubly surprised and maybe disappointed. Jesus turned the power dynamics of table fellowship upside down. He did not flip this table over as he did with the tables and booths in the temple, but in many ways his actions at this last meal accomplished the same thing. He disrupted the powers and principalities. He overturned social mores that dictated who was in and who was out, and he taught his disciples that if they want to follow him, to truly live into the kingdom of God, then they must serve others. If they want to have a share with him, abide in him, then they must be willing to do the work of a servant. They must be willing to wash the feet of others.

            After he washed their feet, he reclined with them at the table once more and told them that he had set them an example. They should do for each other and for others what he has done for them. The old understanding of hierarchy and power structure is now gone. To follow Jesus is to serve.

            To follow Jesus is to love. Jesus follows his example of serving others with a new commandment. “Love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

            These are beautiful words, but what did Jesus mean when he told them to love one another? Was he talking about feelings? Was he talking about performative actions that resembled love but really didn’t reveal love or were grounded in love? Or was he connecting this new commandment to the act of service that he did for them? Was he teaching them that to love is to serve and to serve is to love? It makes me think that when Jesus knelt and washed their feet, it was far more than an object lesson. It truly was an act of love. “Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.”

            And included in that was Judas who would betray him, and Peter who would deny him, and all the others who would misunderstand and hide in fear and question what they had witnessed, and what Jesus told them. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.

            Jesus sat at table with them and loved them. He loved them even though they would break his heart. He loved them even though they would deny and abandon him. He loved them, even knowing all that lay ahead. He loved them.

            If I were seated at a table with people I knew would turn against me, hurt me, abandon me, betray me, would I be able to love them? Would I be able to kneel and wash their feet? Would I be able to sit with them and break bread with them and not want revenge, not want to berate them or accuse them or hurt them before they could hurt me? Could I sit at table with them and love them as Jesus loved the disciples, as Jesus loves you and me and all of us? Even with my best intentions I doubt that I could. Yet that is what Jesus did and that is what we are called, no, commanded to do.

            “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” And this love that he commanded is love that puts its work boots on and goes out into the world. This love that Jesus commanded is love that takes the lowest seat at the table and washes the feet of others and upends expectations about class and hierarchy. This love that Jesus commanded is love that reveals that true power comes from giving power away and true strength comes from being vulnerable. This love that Jesus commanded is love that does not seek to harm but to heal, that does not distinguish between friend and enemy, that does not seek revenge but forgiveness.

            Jesus sat at table with those closest to him, with the ones who had been with him since the beginning, with the ones who would betray and deny him, and he loved them to the end. May we love as Jesus loved. May we reveal ourselves to be his followers through our service which is love, and our love which is service.

            Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.

            Thanks be to God. Amen.

           

           

Which Crowd? -- Palm/Passion Sunday

Luke 19:28-40/Luke 23:1-25

April 13, 2025

 

            My first memory of attending a parade was when I was a very little girl, probably three or four. It was the Christmas Parade in Nashville, and my dad took us up to his office so we could watch from above. If I’m remembering correctly, and I might not be, his office was right along the parade route, so, even just a couple of stories up, we could see the entire parade unfold. It was exciting for us to watch the parade from this bird’s eye view, and for my dad, who was a quiet, sweet introvert, it meant that he didn’t have to be jostled and squeezed in a huge crowd of people to enjoy the spectacle.

            When my kids were little, we braved the crowds at the Christmas Parade in our town each year. The crowds didn’t bother me as much as they did my dad, but regardless of what date the parade fell on each year, it was always the coldest night in December. So, attending the parade meant bundling up in long johns, heavy coats, gloves, scarves, hats and then jumping around just trying to keep warm.

            Parades are ubiquitous in our culture, so universal and common that I have never given much thought to their origin. According to what I found in a brief search on the internet, parades first began around 2000 BCE. They were processions used for religious or military purposes. The Babylonians used a parade or a processional to honor deities. Parades were a means of displaying military strength and might, especially to people conquered by that military might, as if to say, “Do you see how powerful we are? Don’t even think about trying to overthrow us. It’s never going to happen.”

            The heading in many of our bibles for these verses from chapter 19 in Luke’s gospel reads “Jesus’ Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem.” Jesus, who had set his face toward Jerusalem a while back, had finally arrived at the gates of the great city. Jesus, referring back to prophecy from Zechariah, arranges his entrance by sending his disciples to take a colt that has never been ridden and bring it to him. He rides that colt into Jerusalem, and as he and his followers process, more and more people line the route. They take off their cloaks and throw them onto the ground before him – a spontaneous red carpet – and the disciples and the people began to chant,

“Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!”

The crowd of people must have taken up the chant because they grow louder and louder, causing consternation among the Pharisees who were among the throng of folks. They tell Jesus to order his folks to be quiet. Shhh! Quiet down! You’re too loud! You’re going to bring trouble on our heads! But Jesus tells them that even if every person there went quiet, silent, and still, the noise would still be deafening because even the stones would shout. Creation won’t be quiet, even if all the people are.

If this story were to proceed as we expect stories should, then Jesus would have entered Jerusalem, faced the powers that be in a mighty battle, vanquished the oppressors, run the Romans out-of-town, and it would end with another, even greater, parade, only instead of riding on a colt on hastily thrown cloaks, Jesus would have been hoisted on the shoulders of the people. He would have been lauded as a conquering hero, a mighty warrior, the once and future king – to borrow from T.H. White.

But that’s not how this story goes. The crowds that hailed Jesus’ triumphal entry with praise and shouts of joy become the crowds that shout, “Crucify, crucify him!”

Crucify, crucify him! I realize that we can never know precisely who was in each crowd. But I think it is fair to speculate that there was overlap between them. The crowds hailed Jesus as the one who would save them, deliver them from the occupation and oppression of the Romans. Jesus would be their mighty warrior and conquering hero, their new king. But that’s not what they got because Jesus was and never proclaimed to be that kind of king. He told his disciples multiple times that being the Messiah meant something else altogether. It meant suffering. It meant death. It meant rising again. But they could not fully understand that, and to be fair, neither can we.

We don’t have the time in this one worship hour to read all that happens between Jesus triumphal entry into Jerusalem and where our story picks up in chapter 23. We don’t even have the time to read through to the crucifixion itself. We don’t read about Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane or Judas betraying Jesus or Peter trying to defend Jesus from the guards who come to arrest him. We just see these two moments, these glimpses, when the crowds who welcomed Jesus become the crowds who demanded his death.

In the first the religious leaders tried to quiet them and in the second the religious leaders riled them up. But I suspect it didn’t take much effort to rile them. These were people who were bitterly disappointed. These were folks who thought that finally they would no longer have to live under the brutal hand of Rome. Yet nothing seemed to have changed. Rome was still in power. Jesus did not fight back, and what’s worse, he submitted willingly to his arrest.

While the first crowd was hopeful and joyful the second crowd was angry and vengeful. While the first crowd welcomed Jesus the second crowd turned on him. And even without a roll call of attendance for both crowds, it is more than probable that the same people who shouted acclamation became those who demanded death.

Our second passage from Luke begins with the assembly rising up against Jesus and bringing him before Pilate. This assembly was the council of the elders of the people. It was both the chief priests and the scribes. In the verses before they have been questioning Jesus, saying to him, “If you are the Messiah, tell us.”

But Jesus’ response was, “If I tell you, you will not believe; and if I question you, you will not answer. But from now on the Son of Man will be seated at the right hand of the power of God.”

They asked him to clarify. “Are you the Son of God?” But Jesus would only answer, “You say that I am.”

This was all the justification the authorities needed. They bring Jesus before Pilate, accusing him of inciting the people, forbidding them to pay taxes to Caesar, and claiming that he is the Messiah, a king. Pilate questions him then, asking Jesus if he is the king of the Jews? Jesus answered Pilate in the same way he answered the Pharisees and scribes, “You say so.”

It’s as if Jesus was refusing to be labeled or categorized or put into a box of the people’s making. If you want to call me king, then call me king, but you don’t understand what that means. If you choose to call me Messiah, then call me Messiah, but you have no comprehension to what being the Messiah really is. Pilate can find no wrongdoing by Jesus, and when he finds out he is a Galilean, he sends him to Herod.

This is not the Herod who massacred innocent babies trying to kill Jesus. This is Herod’s son, and clearly Herod has heard about Jesus. He has been hoping to meet him so he can see Jesus perform a miracle. But Jesus isn’t a performer, and his signs and miracles are not magic tricks. Herod questions Jesus too but receives no answers from him. The chief priests and scribes continue to accuse Jesus. Then Herod jumps on board and he and his soldiers mock and deride Jesus. They put a robe on him, maybe a robe that a king would wear, and return him to Pilate.

This is where we see this second crowd. We already know that the religious authorities are determined to see Jesus die, but now the people get involved. And they are angry and riled up, and with the religious authorities spurring them on, their voices join in the demand for Jesus’ execution.  

Pilate repeats that he has found Jesus guilty of nothing. He will have him flogged and released, but the people demand that Barabbas, a prisoner guilty of insurrection and murder, be released instead. Their cries for Barabbas’ release and Jesus’ crucifixion overwhelm Pilate’s declaration of Jesus’ innocence. So, Pilate gives the people what they want. Barabbas is freed and Jesus goes to the cross.

Two crowds. One that welcomed Jesus as the longed for Messiah Warrior, Savior and Deliverer. One that turned on Jesus and shouted for his death. I’ve quoted this in past sermons, but I think it bears repeating – we should never assume that we are always the good guys when it comes to what we read in scripture. We should never assume that we were only present in the first crowd and not the second. Just as I asked which brother are we when we read the story of the Prodigal Son, I ask now which crowd? Which crowd have I joined? Certainly I have been in crowds that were joyful and excited and welcoming. But have there been times when I have habited the second crowd? Have there been times when I joined the chorus of voices demanding a justice that wasn’t just? Even as I examine momentous times in history and wonder what side I really would have taken, I must ask myself this question of the crowds. Which crowd would I have joined? Would I have been in one and not another, or would I have gathered in both? Would I have offered welcome then betrayal? Would I have experienced hope then bitter disappointment?

It would be easy to just read about Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, celebrate the Last Supper on Maundy Thursday, then leap for joy on Easter Sunday. It would be much easier to go from joy to joy. But this holiest of weeks leads us inevitably to Good Friday. We must enter into that suffering, that betrayal, that terror. We can’t go around it. We who know the rest of the story are indeed Easter people, but we live in a Good Friday world.

So as we move through each day of this week, my prayer for all of us is that we ask ourselves which crowd, not out of shame and degradation, but honesty. I pray that we gather at the table one last time on Maundy Thursday and that we face the suffering and death of Good Friday. Because we believe that Jesus lived and died and came into life for our sakes, then for his sake, we walk through the fullness of this week. But we do not walk alone. We never have and we never will. We face the darkness of this week together, with God and with one another. And that is good news indeed.

Let all of God’s people say, “Amen.”

Amen.

Anointed -- Fifth Sunday in Lent

John 12:1-8

April 6, 2025 

            One time when my two oldest nephews were maybe six and seven they raised quite a stink. I mean that literally. They are both adults now, fully grown men with children of their own. But at one family meal, they raised quite a stink. Everyone was gathered at our house in Nashville. After dinner, my nephews – my sister and brother’s oldest children – had gone upstairs to play in one of the bedrooms. My mom loved pretty things. She always had carefully placed glass bowls and vases and delicate little sculptures all over the house. In the bedroom where the boys were playing, she had a small, silver-edged mirror with pretty bottles of perfume sitting on the dresser. My mom didn’t wear a lot of perfume, but these bottles were pretty, so she kept them.

            My nephews had been playing quite happily upstairs, laughing, giggling, talking. But then their happy noises stopped. They didn’t get into an argument. They just stopped playing and started walking down the stairs, very, very quietly. When they hit the bottom step, everyone sitting at the dining room table which was right next to the entryway where the stairs were, suddenly smelled them. Smelling them is an understatement. It was more like being punched in the stomach by eau de parfum. Remember the bottles of perfume upstairs? They had been spraying the contents of those bottles at one another, dousing each other in fragrance. Now in small doses, any of those perfumes would have smelled fine. But being drenched in all of them all at once made your eyes water. The combined smell filled the whole house, and no one could get away from it – at least not for a while.

            I wouldn’t think that the aroma of the nard poured out to anoint Jesus’ feet was a bad smell like the smell created by my nephews, but it was strong. It was so strong that as soon as Mary poured it out the entire house, every nook and cranny, was filled with its fragrance. You might argue that perhaps it was a small house, so it wouldn’t take much scent to do that, but I also suspect that small or not the house would have open windows and doors. And still the fragrance from this pure nard permeated the home of Lazarus, Martha, and Mary. Even if people were in other rooms, they would have known that something had happened because the fragrance of that nard infused the air, the floor, the walls, everything.

            This is a story, an event in the timeline of Jesus’ life on earth, so important that each of the four gospel writers include it. In both Matthew and Mark, the woman who anointed Jesus with precious nard did so for the same purpose as in John’s gospel; it was about Jesus’ burial. However, in Luke’s gospel, the woman who anointed Jesus was a sinner who realized how forgiven she truly was. Anointing Jesus was a response to this forgiveness. In each version, the woman’s actions are scorned. And each gospel writer records that Jesus told the people who grumbled about her to leave her alone. But in the other gospels, this woman is nameless. In John’s gospel, this woman is Mary, the younger sister of Martha. Her brother was Lazarus. In Luke’s gospel this same Mary also sat at Jesus’ feet and listened to him teach while her sister, Martha, worked frantically to prepare the meal and clean the house for the Rabbi.

            There’s a lot that has been happening leading up to this moment. Lazarus is at home with his sisters, awaiting Passover, because Jesus has raised him from the dead. Raising Lazarus from the tomb after four days when the smell of death was becoming noticeable caused quite the commotion. Some of the people believed in Jesus because of it. Others went straight to the Pharisees and told them what had happened. The Pharisees were so concerned that they called a special meeting of the council to discuss what they should do.

            The religious authorities were worried. They thought that if they let Jesus continue, the Romans would come and destroy them and their holy places. But in verses that we rarely if ever read in worship, Caiaphas, the high priest that year, told the other Pharisees that they didn’t know what they were talking about. It was better to let one man die for the people than to have the entire nation destroyed. John writes that Caiaphas had prophesied that Jesus would die for the nation, and not only for the nation but would gather in all the dispersed and displaced children of God. So it was decided at that meeting that they would make sure Jesus died. Because of this Jesus no longer traveled openly among the people. Instead he and the disciples retreated to a town called Ephraim near the wilderness, and they waited there.

            People were wondering where Jesus had gone, and there were orders from the chief priests and the Pharisees that if anyone should see him they should report it immediately. Jesus was a wanted man. But six days before the Passover, as the preparations for that sacred feast were well underway, Jesus and the disciples leave their safe place in Ephraim and travel back to Bethany, to the home of Lazarus, Martha, and Mary. That was a risky move already, but while they are reclining, waiting for the meal, Mary comes and pours a pound of pure nard on Jesus’ feet. Then she wipes his feet with her hair. She anoints him in an intimate, bodily way. As Debie Thomas wrote, Mary touched Jesus skin to skin, fingers to toes. Social boundaries were not only crossed, they were completely obliterated. And this pure nard that Mary used for anointing was so fragrant it filled the whole house. Everyone in the house knew what she had done, so it wouldn’t be long before people outside the house knew too.

            But safety for Jesus, nor social mores, seem to be a concern. Instead, in each gospel, the disciples or in this case Judas, were angry about the waste. That nard was expensive! It could have been sold, the money given to the poor! What a waste! What an extravagant, unnecessary waste!

            Jesus understood Mary’s actions differently, and he quickly shushed the complainers.

            “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

            Leave her alone. What she just did was important and kind and compassionate. It was not wasteful. It was extravagantly lovely and loving. Leave her alone. It seems that Jesus suddenly turns a callous eye to the poor with his statement about them always being there. But we know that Jesus came for the poor, for the marginalized, for the outcast, and for those shunned by others. Was he telling the disciples and everyone who was there to ignore the poor or was he reminding them that every moment they had was an opportunity to serve the poor, the least of these? But in this moment they had him.

Mary understood that. In this moment Mary recognized that Jesus was in need. In this moment she knew that she could not protect him from what was to come; she knew that she could not keep him there, safe and sound; maybe she even realized – at least a little bit – that she would not be allowed to go near him at his death. So she did what she could. She anointed his feet because she would not be allowed to anoint his body. She wiped his feet with her hair, just as Jesus would soon wash the feet of his disciples. She treated him with kindness and compassion because in this moment he was there with her, with them, and she knew this moment might never come again.

Mary anointed Jesus not only with pure nard but with compassion. Kindness and care for their rabbi, their teacher, their friend, their savior, was more important than anything else. Every moment should be given to caring for the least of these, for God’s children who are poor and marginalized and oppressed, but in that moment Jesus needed care. In that moment, Jesus needed compassion. In that moment, Jesus needed the anointing of kindness. So, Mary seized the moment, and anointed Jesus’ feet and filled the house with the perfume of life and love.

Mary understood what was required of that moment. Do we? How many moments have I let slip by – moments when I could choose kindness and compassion but don’t? How many moments did I miss when I could have chosen to care for someone else but didn’t?

Last Wednesday night during our intergenerational bible study, we watched a video from the BBC about kindness. It featured a woman who made the intentional decision to be kind to a stranger every day for a year. Her decision came when she was feeling despairing and helpless in the face of the big problems of the world, but then in a small moment of kindness she gave a stranger at the post office fifty cents for a stamp. His gratitude for this small, seemingly insignificant act, seemed out of proportion to what she had done. And she wondered what it would be like to spend a year looking for those moments when she could choose to be kind. She stated that it was absolutely life transforming. The overall point of the video was that kindness in small ways, in small actions, adds up. It is the ongoing small actions of kindness and compassion that ultimately make a big difference.

Maybe Mary thought her choice to anoint Jesus was a small thing, a small action, that wouldn’t make that much difference in the long run. But that’s not how Jesus saw it. He knew it was the most important thing she could do. She anointed him in preparation for his death while she still had him with her, alive and whole. It was one moment of kindness and compassion amid so many other moments that were not. But that one moment of kindness and compassion made all the difference. It was a moment of ministry. It was a moment of love.

What moment can we seize? What small act can we do? What kindness and compassion can we offer? In a world where unkindness seems rampant and compassion is on the chopping block, it is these moments, these small acts of compassion, kindness, and love that can make all the difference, that can anoint the world in the fragrant aroma of love.

Let all of God’s children say, “Amen.”