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.”

 

           

           

           

Weighed Down -- Transfiguration Sunday

Luke 9:28-43

March 2, 2025

 

            Getting a glimpse of the top of the mountain, the peak of a mountain is not as easy as you think. Not always. We might see the summits of a mountain in movies, because they have airplanes and videographers who can capture the moment when the peak of a mountain can be seen clearly in glorious sunlight. But when you are looking to see that peak from the ground, it can be much harder. It was in Alaska. Many years ago, I took a train trip on Alaska Railway from Anchorage to Fairbanks and back again with a stop in Denali National Park. All the way up to Fairbanks, there was no clear glimpse of the top of Denali.

The stayover in Denali National Park did not provide me with a clear glimpse of the peak of the mountain. I remember when we stopped in the National Park, there was an older gentleman who had been on the train as well. He was talking to a person who was booking helicopter rides that promised to get you as close to the summit without actually climbing to it as possible. The person booking the flights asked the man what he hoped to get from his experience riding in a helicopter, and he replied, “I want to see the top of the mountain.” She smiled and laughed a little nervously, and said, “ Well, sir, there’s no guarantee of that.”

She was right. There was no guarantee. After staying in the park for a couple of days, I went on to Fairbanks, stayed there overnight, then headed back down to Anchorage. I had given up any hope of seeing the top of Denali and was thinking about other things. Suddenly one of the conductors on the train ran through the cars crying, “You have a clear view of Denali! You can see all of Denali!”

I’ve never seen so many passengers jump up at one time with cameras ready and start taking pictures. But there it was – this elusive mountain with its peak usually hidden in clouds. There it was, right in front of us, shining in the sun that had emerged from the clouds at just the right moment. And it was visible for a long time after. That beautiful mountain casts a long shadow across that landscape, and I watched it until finally the train took us out of view.

I’ve spent more time than I care to admit as a pastor trying to explain the transfiguration of Jesus on that other mountaintop so long ago. I’ve searched for analogies and groped for metaphors, trying to envision what this strange occurrence of transfiguration might have been like, what it might have looked like. But I still have nothing. There is no explaining it, there is no analogy or metaphor available to me in the English language – or any other language – that can effectively capture what happened on that mountaintop. All I can really say for sure is that the disciples got a glimpse of Jesus in the fullness of his glory, glory that must have seemed as otherworldly and elusive to them as seeing the top of Denali was to me.

Jesus takes only three disciples with him to the top of the mountain – Peter, James, and John. Jesus wants to go up the mountain to spend time in prayer. While he was praying, his appearance changed. His face changed. His clothes became dazzling white. Elijah and Moses suddenly appear with him in their glory, and they talk to Jesus about his departure which will be accomplished in Jerusalem. The disciples were weighed down with sleep. I’d probably be sleepy too if I had just hiked up a mountain. But they managed to stay awake and because they did, they witnessed this strange transfiguration of Jesus into his glory. 

We know how Peter tried to capture this moment. He wanted to make three dwellings, one for Jesus, one for Elijah, and one for Moses, but even before the words left his mouth, a thick cloud overshadowed and enveloped them. If they weren’t already bewildered and scared at what they were seeing, they were now completely terrified. I don’t know if they could see anything in that cloud, but they could hear. From the cloud comes the voice of God, a voice that proclaimed,

“This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”

Just as quickly as the cloud had enclosed and shrouded them, it was gone. The voice was gone. Elijah and Moses were gone. Jesus was the Jesus they thought they knew once more, standing there alone. In other gospel accounts, as they make their way back down the mountain, Jesus tells them not to tell anyone about what they’ve seen and heard. In Luke, that warning seems to be unnecessary or just unrecorded. In Luke’s account the disciples keep silent all on their own.

The next day they head back down the mountain to the valley, and there they were greeted by a mess. A crowd of people rushed up to them, and from the crowd a man, a father, emerged and begged Jesus for help for his son. According to the father, a spirit seizes his son, convulsing him until he foams at the mouth, mauls him, and will not leave his poor boy in peace. The father told Jesus that he begged Jesus’ disciples – we suppose the other nine who did not go up on the mountain – to heal him but they could not do it. Jesus’ response to this father’s agonizing plea is not what we’d expect. He becomes impatient, even a little angry, and says,        

“You faithless and perverse generation, how much longer must I be with you and bear with you?”

Then in my mind I hear him almost growl at the father, “Bring your son here.”

Jesus rebukes the spirit, heals the boy, and gives him back to his father, whole and healthy once more. And our part of the story for today ends with, “And all were astounded at the greatness of God.”

But why does Jesus seem angry and impatient? With whom was he angry and impatient? Was he frustrated with the remaining disciples for not being able to heal the boy? Was he impatient with the crowds for closing in on him and demanding he care for them once more? Maybe Jesus had needed his transfiguration, not just to enlighten the disciples, but to reassure him. After all he and Elijah and Moses were not just chatting about the weather in their glory, but Jesus’ impending departure from this world. They were discussing Jerusalem. They were speaking of the cross. Jesus knew what lay ahead. He knew where he was going and why, but surely our fully human Messiah experienced moments when he was weighed down not only with sleep but with apprehension, anxiety, and fear. Maybe some part of him wanted to remain on that mountaintop as well. Maybe Jesus felt the shock of returning to the valley as keenly as the disciples must have.

Theologian Debie Thomas points out that we, all of us in the church, tend to think of these two stories as separate incidents. But while Jesus and the three disciples were on top of that mountain, the valley was not frozen in stasis. It’s quite possible that the other disciples spent a sleepless night trying to heal the man’s son and failing. It’s quite possible that the crowds of folks waited all night for Jesus to return. It’s highly possible that the father held his son as tightly as he could until another convulsion took hold of him, and then he could watch in horror as the seizure shook his child. The mountaintop and the valley don’t happen separately from one another. They happen at the same time. As Thomas wrote, one person could be sitting in a pew having a mountaintop experience, filled with the power of the Spirit, while another person just a few pews over could be living in the agony of the valley. In a few minutes we will gather for communion together. One person could come to this meal filled with the power of the Spirit, and another could come overwhelmed in pain and grief.

And let’s expand this from individual experiences to communal, to cultural, to national and international.

While some countries may believe they are experiencing a mountaintop moment, other countries, other children of God, are living in valleys that are shadowed by war and oppression and ongoing violence. And none of us know when we will be called or forced back into that valley, while others climb the mountain in our stead.

The two do not happen separate from one another – the mountaintop and the valley are simultaneous. There is not one without the other. But even so mountaintop experiences are far more fleeting than life in the valley. Jesus did not stay on that mountain. He came back down to the valley. He may have been weighed down with trepidation, with anxiety, with fear, just as we all are, but he never resisted what the valley asked of him. He didn’t stay on that mountaintop, nor can we.

The season of Epiphany ends today with the Transfiguration. This has been a season of revelation, of seeing the light of God, the glory of God, but now we are called back down to the valley. In Lent we are called to face the valley of the shadow of death, to walk as closely as we can where Jesus walked, to pick up our own crosses and follow him. We are called to walk in the valley, trusting that we are not alone, hopeful that the light will return on the other side.

We are called to be in the valley, even if we feel weighed down and afraid, because most of life happens in the valley. God’s children, all of God’s children, need us in the valley. Suffering is real in the valley and so is our call, our command to serve. The voice of God may be thundering in a cloud on the mountaintop, but we are called to be in the valley, with Jesus, walking, working, and waiting, and trust that even in the valley we will still be astounded by the glory of God. Thanks be to God.

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

            Amen.