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.”

Which Brother? -- Fourth Sunday of Lent

Luke 15:1-3, 11-32

March 30, 2025

 

            A favorite book of mine is A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. The story is about a young girl named Francie Nolan, who is growing up dirt poor in a brownstone tenement in Williamsburg, Brooklyn in the early years of the last century. One of the details you learn from the first pages is that being poor in a tenement in Brooklyn meant that nothing was wasted. Francie’s mother could take stale loaves of bread and turn them into a week of meals. Francie and her little brother, Neely, gathered rags and paper and bits of metal and sold them to a junk man for much needed pennies. The family had a longstanding tradition that whatever money came into the home, at least a few cents of it went into the tin can which was nailed into the corner of a dark cupboard. Francie’s mother, Katie, worked hard to save, scrimp, scrounge and she made sure that nothing was ever wasted.

            Except for coffee. Every day Katie brewed a large potful of coffee with a lump of chicory. She reheated it at midday, and in the evening, and the coffee would get stronger and stronger. Everyone was allowed three cups. Neely and Francie were both given cups too, with a little bit of condensed milk in them. They both loved the coffee for its smell and its warmth, but neither one of them cared much for the taste. While they weren’t allowed to waste anything else in their lives, they could throw whatever coffee they didn’t drink down the sink. Their aunts, their mama’s sisters, thought this was terrible. How could Katie let her children be so wasteful, throwing perfectly good coffee down the drain?! They would lecture her about it, but Katie replied,

            “Francie is entitled to one cup each meal like the rest. If it makes her feel better to throw it away rather than to drink it, all right. I think it’s good that people like us can waste something once in a while and get the feeling of how it would be to have lots of money and not have to worry about scrounging.”

            In Francie’s world, nothing could be taken for granted. Just keeping body and soul together from one day to the next took all their effort. But Francie’s mother knew that being allowed one small bit of wastefulness was a bright spot amid poverty and deprivation. They weren’t rich, not even close to it, but they could feel rich even for just a tiny moment, when that coffee got poured down the drain.

            Wasting coffee was a luxury for Francie and her family in a life that was devoid of luxury, and that puts into sharp relief the wastefulness of the younger brother in this parable of Jesus.

            As so often happened when Jesus came calling, tax collectors and sinners were coming to be near to Jesus and to listen to him. The Pharisees and the scribes who were also near Jesus weren't happy about that. They were grumbling and grousing.

            "This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them."

            Jesus responded to their grumbling with three parables. We only read one of them this morning, but here’s a quick recap. The first was about a lost sheep. There were 100 sheep, but one had wandered away and was lost. The shepherd left the other 99, not in the safety of the fold but in the wilderness, to go looking for the one. When the shepherd found the lost sheep, he laid it across his shoulders and rejoiced. When he had gotten the sheep safely home, he called together his friends and his neighbors, and they rejoiced with him.

            Jesus rounded off this first parable by saying,

            “Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.”

            The second thing to be lost was a thing: a coin. A woman had ten coins, but she lost one. We might not fret over one coin, but we are not this woman. She did not shrug her shoulders and say, "Oh well. It's just a coin." No, she lit the lamp and swept the house. She searched every corner until she found the coin. Then she called together her friends and neighbors and said,

"Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost."

            The third parable, our parable, was about a father and two sons. The younger son went to his father and asked him for his share of the inheritance. Now. This was far more disrespectful than we may realize. An inheritance should only come after death. The younger son essentially said, “Why should I wait till you're dead, Dad? I’d like my money now, please.” So, the father divided his property between his two sons and gave the youngest his share. The minute the money was his, the son took off. He went to a far country and proceeded to have a very, very good time.

But as so often happens, the money ran out. And when the money ran out, the good times ran out as well. Now what would the younger son do? He had wasted his fortune, and now there was a terrible famine. He could only survive by becoming a hired hand, feeding pigs in the fields. This observant Jew had not only wasted his fortune and his life to that point on dissolute living, and now he was forced to feed animals that were considered unclean. This was a comeuppance indeed.

This younger son was so hungry and desperate that even the pig food looked good. But something happened. He came to himself. Maybe that means he realized what a fool he’d been, how he had squandered everything he’d been given. Maybe he woke up from something like a dream and came face-to-face with reality. Perhaps, like someone struggling with an addiction, he had reached rock bottom and knew it. Whatever realization took hold of him, he came to himself. And he thought about his father’s hired hands who had plenty of bread and more to eat. So, this younger son decided to go home. Yet he knew what a mess he had made of everything and wondered if he would be welcome. He rehearsed what he would say to his dad when he saw him.

            "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands."

            Ready with these words of contrition and remorse, the son got up and went home. But he never got to give the full speech he had prepared. While he was still far off, his father saw him. His father ran to him. His father pulled him into his arms and hugged him.

His father, who must have spent hours, days, weeks, staring into the distance looking for his son, did not need to hear his youngest child’s words of contrition. Instead, the father called for the best robe and a ring to be brought. Put sandals on his feet, his father commanded. Kill the fatted calf. Let’s eat and celebrate! My son was dead, but he is alive! My son was lost, but he is found.

            If Jesus had stuck with the formula of the first two parables, this would have been the ending. But this third parable takes a different and unexpected twist. Remember, this was a father with two sons. The younger was home again, no longer dead but alive; no longer lost but found. But there was an elder brother. The elder brother came in from working in the fields, and he heard the music and dancing. He asked about the celebration. When he was told the reason, the older brother was furious. He refused to go inside and join the party. His father came out to him and begged him to come inside. But the son answered his father's pleas with bitterness.

            "Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!"

            But his father would not be deterred.

"Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found."

            By all accounts, the eldest son has a valid point. The youngest son was selfish, a bad son, and not a nice person in general. And the father was foolish. When his youngest son came demanding his inheritance, which was as good as saying, "Drop dead, Dad,” the father gave it to him anyway. When the youngest son wasted everything, and returned, tail between his legs, he should have been greeted with anger and disappointment. The father should have at least demanded that the son pay back all that he owed him. But that foolish father threw a party instead. Well of course the older son was angry. What reward did he receive for being the good kid? What parties were thrown in his honor because he did what was expected of him? Had I been sitting with the others around Jesus, I imagine I would have shaken my head at this father with two sons.

            But remember how Jesus ended the first two parables? When a sheep was found, they all rejoiced. When a coin was reclaimed, they all rejoiced. But when this son, this father's child, was found, there was only anger and bitterness. The eldest son could hear the music and celebration, but he wouldn't, he couldn’t join the party. To him, celebrating the younger brother’s return, throwing a lavish party for him, was not just wasteful but foolish.

            I titled this sermon “Which Brother?” because I thought I would ask the question, which brother are we? I know that there are times when I have been the younger brother, when I have messed up and dug myself into a pretty deep hole. But more often than not, I think I’ve been the older brother. I’ve resented grace shown to others I didn’t think deserved it. I’ve been unforgiving and unrelenting and wanted to see my own form of punitive justice served. I have chafed at the foolishness of this kind of extravagant, wasteful love.

            Yet, maybe, that’s the point. It could be argued that in all three parables, foolishness reigned. Why would a shepherd leave 99 sheep unprotected to look for one lost sheep? Foolishness! Why would a woman sweep the entire house just to find one small coin? Foolishness! Why would a father welcome a wasteful son with extravagant grace, forgiveness, and love? Foolishness! But what about the gospel isn’t foolish, at least in the world’s eyes?

            Isn’t it foolish that we are repeatedly encouraged not to be afraid, when there seems to be so much to be afraid of in this world? Isn’t it foolishness that God forgives us even though we can barely forgive others? Isn’t it foolishness that God showers us with extravagant grace, even though we have very little grace for others? Isn’t it foolishness that God should love us so much, love this whole world so much, long for relationship with us so much, that God became like us, lived like us, suffered like us, and died like us, so that we could have life? Foolishness! If we can only see the gospel through the eyes of the world, than it is nothing but foolishness. But when we see it through the eyes of those who have experienced grace and forgiveness and love, then there is nothing foolish about it at all. So, which brother are we? Are we forgiven? Are we resentful? Are we lost or are we found? Thanks be to God for God’s foolish love and grace, and may we be foolish too.

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

 

 

I Must Be On My Way -- Second Sunday of Lent

Luke 13:31-35

March 16, 2025

            I am not a fan of storms. I am quite afraid of them actually. Seeing the level of destruction that so many communities from Missouri to Mississippi experienced over the last 48 hours, I’m probably not unwise to be nervous around severe storms. And seeing as how storms are getting more severe, my fear of them probably won’t be disappearing anytime soon.

            When I was in third or fourth grade, my class was enjoying its regular visit to the school library. There was a terrible thunderstorm happening outside, and I was afraid. While other kids sat at tables reading their library books, I found a quiet table off to the side, crawled under it, and read my book until it was time to go back to class. My teacher and the librarian apparently thought this behavior was “unusual’ and told my parents about it. My parents asked me about it, and I told them. We were having a bad thunderstorm. I’m afraid of storms, so I crawled under a table and read my book. It made me feel safer, and I was able to keep my fear under control. I have no idea what my parents told my teacher in response, but mom and dad seemed to accept my behavior without worry. What I learned from that incident was that I was going to have to hide my fear in other ways than crawling under tables because that drew unwanted attention.

            I was afraid, terribly afraid of that storm, but I didn’t want to let others know just how afraid I was. It was better to be thought of as different or weird than it was to be seen as afraid. I didn’t want to be called a “chicken.” That was way worse than being called weird.  

            I’m not exactly sure when the word chicken began to be used as a slang synonym for cowardly or afraid. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the first known reference to someone being a “chicken” is found in a William Shakespeare work circa 1616. There may have been references even before that. Whenever this began, clearly using the word chicken to describe a cowardly person has been in use for a long time now, which is why it seems strange to our ears that Jesus would describe himself as a “chicken.” Debie Thomas wrote that if we were asked to draw a symbol or metaphor for Jesus, she doubted that any of us would choose to draw a chicken. Even if chicken was not equated with cowardly in Jesus’ context, it still seems an odd metaphor to use.

            Our story begins when some helpful Pharisees approached Jesus and warned him away from entering Jerusalem. “Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.”

            But Jesus refused to be scared off by their warning.

            “Go and tell that fox for me, ‘Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work. Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem.’”

            “Go and tell that fox for me.” Jesus swatted away their warning as you would an annoying fly. I’m sure his response would have surprised, if not shocked, the Pharisees and probably anyone else privy to that conversation. Herod was a dangerous man and a dangerous ruler. This was the same Herod who, to save face in front of his guests and to placate the desires of his wife and stepdaughter, had John the Baptist – whom he liked – beheaded. He was not a tyrant whose bark was worse than his bite. His bite was bad.

            Some scholars question the motives of the Pharisees who warned him. Perhaps they understood that Jesus going into Jerusalem would cause more trouble for them than they could handle. So if they could keep Jesus out of Jerusalem by warning him about Herod, then it would make life easier for them as well. Or maybe this was the Pharisees’ way of pushing Jesus in a direction that would eventually bring him more trouble than less. But Jesus could not have cared less about their warning or Herod for that matter. He was not going to be bullied into staying away from Jerusalem. Jesus had kingdom work to do. He had a ministry and a mission and a purpose to fulfill. He would not be kept out of Jerusalem because Herod was breathing threats against him.

            His words, “because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem,” makes it clear that he knew the dangers the city held for him. He knew where his path would lead. He had been trying to make that clear to the disciples for some time. In Jerusalem lay the cross. In Jerusalem lay death. Herod’s threats meant nothing to Jesus. He had work to do, and he was going to do it.

            Yet as he pondered Jerusalem, Jesus’ irritation gave way to lament.

            “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”

            There’s that chicken metaphor again. But reading these words of Jesus have made me question our association of chicken with cowardly. Have you seen a mother hen protecting her chicks? She literally covers them with her body, and she’ll face off against any predator with killer ferocity. And that’s what Jesus wanted to do. His words, and the overall tone of this passage is one of lament.

When Jesus speaks these words about Jerusalem, he is lamenting. And his poignant lament tears at my heart every time I read these verses. The imagery Jesus used to describe himself paints a vivid picture of the people in that great city. If a mother hen moves with purpose to protect her chicks from danger, gathering them under her, spreading out her body like a shield over them, chicks seem to do the opposite. They move frantically but without purpose. They may see where they are, but they are lost. They need the mother hen to pull them into the safety and shelter of her wings. They need her to orient them and guide them. But until they are gathered, they are vulnerable and alone.

            So too were the people of Jerusalem. The further we move through this season, the more abundantly clear this will become. The people were lost. They killed their prophets, the people who came to bring them God’s word. They stoned those who came to lead them back to the right path. And they would kill the One who wanted only to gather them together like a hen gathers her chicks.

            It would be understandable, then, if Jesus had walked away from all of it, if Jesus had turned and traveled in the opposite direction of Jerusalem. After all, the Pharisees were warning him about Herod. Jerusalem had a reputation for killing prophets. His cousin John had already been unjustly executed. His disciples still did not fully understand why he did what he did. I don’t think anyone would have blamed him if he had thrown his hands up in despair and frustration and walked away. But that was not Jesus. His irritation, his lament and grief could not keep him from going where he knew he was called to go.

            “I must be on my way.”

            We talked last week about the very real temptation Jesus faced in the wilderness, and I suspect that the temptation to choose another direction, geographically and spiritually, was strong. Jesus was not a coward, but that doesn’t mean that he didn’t feel fear. That didn’t mean that he didn’t feel trepidation and anxiety at what lay ahead in Jerusalem, the city that killed its prophets and stoned those who longed to help.

            But if Jesus felt those very real feelings, he didn’t let them stop him. He knew he must be on his way, and so he was. Jesus may have been afraid – I know I would have been – but he trusted God more than any fear he might have felt. Jesus’ trust in God was stronger than his fears. His trust in God’s call was greater than his anxieties. He understood that Jerusalem would most likely turn on him the same way it had turned on prophets before him, but he never let that deter him from his call, his purpose, his identity as God’s son.

            “I must be on my way.”

            The world feels like an incredibly scary place these days, and there are Herods aplenty. It would be easy to be overwhelmed with anxiety, and sometimes I feel like I am. There are many times when I long for nothing more than a good book and a table to crawl under; a place where I can cherish at least the illusion of safety and security. But we are called to go with Jesus to Jerusalem. We are called to face the Herods of the world. We are called to be on our way.

            My sister, who has traveled all over and made her home in another country for most of her adult life, told me once that she was always afraid to do things, to try things, but in spite of her fear she did the new things, the scary things anyway.

            As the church, we are also called to do things that may feel frightening, that go against the grain of the world. After all we are called to be a light on a hill when the world prefers darkness, and the salt of the earth, when most would prefer a different seasoning. We are called to do what is hard, what is scary, what is right, no matter how much the darkness and fear of the world threatens to overwhelm us. We are called to carry our own crosses. We are called to go with Jesus to Jerusalem. We are called to be on our way.

            In this season of Lent and always, we must be on our way.

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

            Amen.

 

 

 

It Is Written -- First Sunday of Lent

Luke 4:1-13

March 9, 2025

 

            Many years ago, I served a small country church in a temporary pastoral position. They were a nice congregation, and it was a sweet church. I was there during Lent and the church had regular meals together. After one of these meals, a friendly complaint was made by one group in the congregation. The complaint was that when it came to the desserts there were too many chocolate ones. There were folks in the church who had given up chocolate for Lent and would appreciate a non-chocolate dessert alternative being offered. After this “suggestion” some other folks piped up and said they were giving up sweets altogether, so how about not having any desserts at all? I think the dinner coordinators were willing to offer a non-chocolate goody or two, but no desserts at all was not an option. Never gonna happen my friend.

            This was a relatively light-hearted controversy; no one was truly offended or upset by what was offered or not offered at these meals. The folks who gave up chocolate just didn’t want to be overly tempted to break their chosen Lenten fast. And since I used to regularly give up chocolate for this season, I didn’t mind having other sweet treats offered instead. But I began to wonder then about what real temptation is. It’s something I still wrestle with today, especially when I must confront the temptations Jesus faced in his time in the wilderness, the story we always read on this first Sunday of Lent.

            When it comes to Jesus’ time in the wilderness, the oft-quoted phrase is that Jesus was tempted in every way, just as we are, but he did not sin. While this is true, I think that it leads us to interpret it in two ways which are not helpful. First, I think it makes me want to diminish the depth, the seriousness of his temptations, as though the only temptation Jesus faced was trivial, such as “If the devil shows me one more M&Ms commercial, I am going to lose it!” I doubt that the devil would have wasted this golden opportunity to lead the Son of God astray with a temptation that was small or insignificant.  

            And the second troubling interpretation that we turn to is that Jesus was tempted, sure, but he was Jesus, which means he couldn’t sin, not really. I know that I’ve preached on this before, but I think it bears repeating. I wouldn’t be surprised if deep down a lot of folks believe that while Jesus may have been fully human as well as fully divine, when it came to temptation his divinity took over. He may have been human, but his divine side stopped him from doing the wrong thing. But this would mean that Jesus wasn’t so much a savior as he was a superhero. Unlike the rest of us, he could laugh in the face of temptation, because he knew that he was immune to such things.

            But that would mean that he wasn’t really tempted then, just as we are. To be tempted as we are, even if he didn’t fall into the tempter’s trap, means that Jesus was really tempted. Really tempted. He had to be. If this story of Jesus’ time in the wilderness is to teach us something, open our minds and eyes and hearts to something about God and Jesus and wilderness living, then Jesus must have been truly tempted. He must have felt the longing that we feel when we are faced with a temptation. There must have been teeth to those temptations or otherwise what’s the point?

            So, let’s think about what true temptation is, and let’s consider the temptations that Jesus faced. A long time ago, a mentor in ministry told me that true temptation comes disguised as light. True temptation looks like it’s the good thing, the right thing. I talk about chocolate being my temptation, but I already know that too much chocolate isn’t going to be good for me. It won’t be good for my physical health or my mental health, so it’s a temptation, sure, but one that could lead me away from God? Hmm, probably not. It’s more a temptation to feel guilty. But, what if I were offered the chance to feed people – thousands and thousands and thousands of people? There are so many, too many, hungry people in this world, people who are literally starving to death, and what if I was offered the ability to feed them easily and quickly by turning one thing into another. That’s temptation. That’s temptation dressed up as light.

            I read a commentary by theologian Dan Clandennin that mentioned priest and theologian, Henri Nowen. Nowen wrote about these three temptations and the first temptation he termed as “relevance.” Jesus had been in the wilderness for 40 days and he had been fasting for 40 days. So, when Luke writes that he was “famished,” it is a sure bet that he was just that – famished, ravenous, starving. The devil is a wily opportunist, so he sees tells Jesus to prove himself and feed himself at the same time.

            “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.”

            In other words, make yourself relevant, Jesus. Prove your identity, do something that you really need right now, and something that the world needs as well. Be relevant. How does the temptation to be relevant work in our world today? How does it work in the church? I ask myself so many times, what do I need to do to appeal to people? What does the church need to do to be relevant to the world beyond these doors? Note, that the question is not about what God is calling me to do or calling the church to do. It’s not asking about the people who need our care or witnessing to the gospel or speaking truth to power. I mean there’s nothing wrong with wanting to appeal to people, but if the need to be relevant for relevancy’ sake lies at the heart of that, then we need to consider that we are facing a temptation that can take us down a wrong path.

            The next temptation Jesus faces is about power. The devil takes Jesus up – somewhere – and shows him all the kingdoms of the world and tells him that he will give Jesus all their glory, and all authority over every kingdom, over all people. All Jesus must do is worship him. This seems like the most obvious of the temptations. Being offered power of this kind is definitely a temptation. We know this already. None of us would succumb to this, much less Jesus. But power is interesting. One of the first lessons a professor taught us at the beginning of my doctoral work was that power is not good and power is not bad. Power is, in fact, neutral. It’s what we do with it, how we use it, how we wield it against or for others. There’s nothing wrong with having power. Power gives us agency and voice. Collective power can bring about necessary change, good change. But there’s a reason that absolute power corrupts absolutely.

How many leaders, religious leaders, have fallen because of power; their use of it and even more so, their abuse of it? Yet, many people who ultimately abuse power and use it to exploit others may begin thinking, believing that they will use their power for the good. They will use it to do good things, to help others. And that’s where the temptation lies. Jesus could have taken the devil’s offer and used the power he wielded over all the kingdoms of the world for good – at least at first. But when would that power have gone from being a force for good into a force for evil? By his very willingness to go to the cross, Jesus turned power on its head. Jesus chose powerlessness to reveal that the greatest power has nothing to do with kingdoms and authority and control.

            The final temptation that Luke describes is the devil taking Jesus to the pinnacle of the temple in Jerusalem and telling him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’”

            Nowen calls this the temptation to do something spectacular. This is the temptation to spectacle. Do something amazing. Do something showy. Not only will it prove your identity, Jesus, but it will look incredible too. Nowen wrote these words long before social media came into being. But in our social media world, spectacular sells doesn’t it? Spectacular goes viral, spectacle gets the most likes and hits and views. I won’t lie, there is something deeply satisfying about getting a lot of likes for a post or having people share something I wrote or created. It is great for the ego. But therein lies the temptation. Whatever builds my ego up can just as easily tear it down, and if it becomes more and more about me, then it becomes less and less about the One who calls me. You might be able to make the claim that Jesus’s healings and exorcisms and mass feedings bordered on spectacle and the spectacular. Yet, the most spectacular trick he could have done was to get down off that cross, but he didn’t. None of what Jesus did was about spectacle, but it was about furthering God’s kingdom. It is tempting to think that our righteousness can best be portrayed in the spectacular, but maybe our faith is really lived in the quiet, in the everyday, in the ordinary.

            Jesus, hungry and vulnerable and weak, faced three temptations; temptations that don’t seem so strange and foreign to our lives after all. But even in his vulnerability Jesus didn’t give into temptation. He didn’t give into the devil’s deceits. Why? Was it because he was secretly a superhero or because he had the advantage of divinity to help him? I don’t think so. I think that what Jesus had was full knowledge, full understanding, full comprehension of love; God’s love, sacrificial love, agape love. Jesus was fully human, as fully human as we are meant to be, as we are created and called to be. He knew and lived and breathed Love. Jesus was not a superhero savior. He didn’t have a secret ability that we don’t have access to. He was filled with the Holy Spirit, he was filled with God, he was filled with Love.

            The good news is that the power of love that filled Jesus can fill us as well. The good news is that the power of the Holy Spirit is our power too. The good and glorious news is that temptation will return again, but it does not have the last word. Love is the beginning and love is the end, and it is Love that walks with us in the wilderness. It is written. Thanks be to God.

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