Singing a Song of Sheep (Reflections on Easter 4, Year B 2024)

 

“I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” (John 10:11)

So here we are again at the Fourth Sunday of Easter, traditionally known as “Good Shepherd Sunday.” Why is it called “Good Shepherd” you ask? I never knew the answer myself, so I did a little research. You can find just about any arcane fact on the internet, but I have to confess a total failure—even from that font of all knowledge Wikipedia—in learning why we have this day set aside for images of ovine husbandry. I guess some early church authorities were really into raising sheep, and we never had a good reason to change the appointed readings. I did discover, however, that Good Shepherd Sunday marks the change in the seven-week celebration of Easter from stories of Jesus’ resurrection to stories about his ascension. So, we get three weeks of “Jesus is risen!” and three weeks of “Jesus is leaving and going to the Father,” separated by one week about sheep. Okay. Why not?

The Revised Common Lectionary appoints different Gospel passages every year to commemorate our Good Shepherd, but we always use Psalm 23 as our psalter responsive reading. The 23^rd Psalm is probably—out of the 150 psalms in the Bible—the most famous. I don’t know how old you are, but if you’re old enough to remember “memory verses” in Sunday school, you probably committed this short song to memory—out of the old King James Bible, of course! The psalm is often used for funeral liturgies, I suspect because it ends with that wonderful promise, “I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever[i].”

I think folks like this psalm because it’s supposed to have been composed by King David. Granted, 3,000 years distant from David’s time, we have no way of knowing that he really wrote it, but that’s our tradition. We remember that David started his working life as a shepherd caring for his dad Jesse’s flock. He began his illustrious career in politics and the military after visiting the front to bring supplies to his big brothers and discovering King Saul was afraid to fight the dreaded Philistines. Saul had to sit and endure the other side’s trash talk until a really, really big dude named Goliath made the proposal he’d fight any soldier in Israel’s army one-on-one, winner take all. I think you know the rest: David wasn’t afraid of this guy because, as a shepherd, he’d had to fight off all manner of sheep-hungry carnivores. Once you’ve taken on wolves, lions, and other assorted predators, a loud-mouth Philistine won’t scare you. David may have been young, inexperienced in war, and small of stature compared to the behemoth Goliath, but we like to cheer for the underdog, don’t we?

David did a lot of other good and not-so-good things, but I think many of us may have this sentimental picture of the shepherd boy facing down an overpowering enemy. In this song we get a poetic image of one man’s experience of God. God is the one with the rod and staff who protects us from danger. God provides for us. God leads us because God knows what’s best for us. You’ll notice, too, that the psalm gives a second image of God, that of a generous host. Verse 5 says,

“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil, and my cup is running over.”

This might actually be my favorite verse in the psalm. The practice of anointing the head with oil was an ancient middle eastern form of hospitality. If you visited a tent in the desert, your host might put olive oil on your head to sooth any sunburn you might have. This personal, generous act made you part of the host’s family. That is why we anoint (or “christen” to use the Greek term) a baby at baptism. We’re welcoming that child into the family.

I also like the image of the cup running over. It’s like a host who can’t do too much for you. He refills your wine glass or tops off your coffee mug. “Want some more?’ he asks. “Let me give you a refill.” He overflows with generosity, just as our Lord does.

The line I think is truly significant, of course, is the one about preparing a table in the presence of enemies. In David’s day, there were lots of enemies—Philistines and other tribes who took a less than welcoming view of the Hebrew people. I always think of how this psalm was used by soldiers during the Christmas truce of 1914 during World War I. Germans and British and French troops came out of their trenches and greeted one another in “No Man’s Land” to celebrate Christmas and bury their dead. They exchanged rations with one another, literally creating a feast in the enemy’s presence.

I like to interpret this passage as God’s ever-bountiful generosity to us even when we, ourselves, are surrounded by “enemies.” The enemy could be sickness, old age, inter-personal or family conflict, money trouble, or just weird stuff rattling around in your brain. We all have our enemies which lead us away from ourselves and our love of God. But God continues daily and abundantly to see to our needs. The lousiest day we’ll ever have will still be filled with God’s providence. God never stops being good—even when our enemies keep us from realizing God’s goodness.

After my father’s death, my mom chose to live the last years of her life in an assisted living facility. She was suffering from emphysema and could no longer live on her own. My sisters and I did the best we could for her, but her real help came from a small platoon of elderly Lutheran widow ladies who were more than willing to do favors for a member of their congregation. They’d take Mother to her doctors’ appointments, or take her shopping, or just pick up prescriptions or other supplies she might need. Mother was deeply grateful for their help and called them her “Guardian Angels.” The last favor she asked of them was to help her memorize the 23^rd Psalm. I find comfort knowing she exited this life reciting these 3.000-year-old words of comfort.

The Psalms were written by believers who needed poetry and music to express their gratitude, frustration, needs, joys, and praise to God. Our words to God have now become God’s words to us.

Thanks again for dropping by this week. Leave me a note, won’t you?

[i] Actually, the Hebrew literally translates “for length of days.” I guess this could mean forever, but it could also mean “all my life.” Those poetic Jacobeans used “forever” in the KJV, and I guess this stuck.

Can I Get a Witness? (Reflections on Easter 3, Year B 2024)

 

“You are witness of these things.” (Luke 24:48)

You gotta love Peter. He’s such a doofus in the Gospels, but in the book of Acts the dude really steps up his game. In the First Lesson in the Revised Common Lectionary for Easter 3, Year B (Acts 3:12-19) we have Peter giving a speech after having accomplished a pretty impressive act of Christian mercy. At the start of chapter 3 he and John are strolling through Jerusalem on their way to worship at the Temple when they encounter this poor physically challenged gentleman begging at the main entrance.[i] The guy can’t walk so he has to ask for alms. Peter wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t see him. In fact, the Bible says he looked intently at the man. I imagine Peter making some serious eye contact, so the guy felt he was being seen as a person and not as some annoyance folks had to get past on their way to worship (not unlike the way many folks might avert their eyes from the guy holding up the “Homeless” sign at the freeway entrance). Peter and John don’t have any spare change in their pockets for this guy’s solo cup. “I have no silver of gold,” Peter says, “but what I have I give you.”[ii] He takes the guy by the hand and raises him up, healing him of his lameness in the name of Jesus.

As you might imagine, this filled the beggar with great joy. He celebrated by jumping and leaping and praising God in the Temple—which, naturally, caused a bit of a stir and gave Peter a chance to preach a little Jesus to the folks. He’s careful to point out that he and John didn’t heal the beggar by any magic power of their own. It was faith in Christ that gave the man his legs. Peter is also careful not to scold people for choosing Barabbas over Jesus when Pilate gave them the chance to set a prisoner free. Peter tells them he knows they didn’t really understand who Jesus was. In fact, Peter never really understood Jesus himself until after the resurrection. You can see why he was so magnanimous.

Both this lesson and the Gospel appointed for Easter 3 (Luke 24:36b-48) deal with witnessing. They’re about making Jesus known by sharing what we know of him. In the Gospel the disciples see the resurrected Jesus, they observe his wounded flesh, and they even see him eating a piece of fish to demonstrate that he’s really alive and not a ghost. Jesus tells them, essentially, “You guys have seen me, so go and tell people about me.” In the lesson from Acts the people see a man healed in Jesus’ name. Peter tells them he and John are witnesses of the risen Christ, but now they have seen this wonderful act of mercy, and they can testify to it themselves. Jesus is revealed through compassion, through healing, and through understanding and forgiveness.

This, of course, begs the questions: how do we witness to Christ?

First, I think we have to be aware that there is a false witness out there. We’ve heard a great deal in the news lately about Christian Nationalism. That’s the belief some folks have that God has specially appointed the United States to a position of world leadership because our nation was founded on solid Christian values (Which it wasn’t. Just check out the First Amendment to the Constitution). Christian Nationalists believe they are called to restore our country to a state of godliness by outlawing abortion and gay marriage, making sure schoolteachers never talk about sex, and electing only Christians to public office. The ELCA and other Christian bodies soundly reject this belief system.

If we are to be a witness, we should witness as Peter did. We witness by being understanding and inclusive, by being forgiving, by acknowledging our past mistakes, and by being the healing presence in a hurting world.

I find it significant that the two resurrection appearances in Luke’s Gospel both involve eating. The disciples who encounter Jesus on the road to Emmaus see him revealed in the breaking of the bread. The disciples to whom he appeared in Jerusalem shared their fish dinner with him. What better witness can we have than in sharing our food with the needy?

Our congregation has a history of witnessing through food donations to the local Lutheran food bank, by supporting a food service for elderly homebound in the community, and by growing organic vegetables to help feed our neighbors in need. This year, when we plant our garden, we hope to receive help from the Girl Scout troop that meets in our facility. Our plan is to introduce them to the director of Feast of Justice, our Lutheran SMO, and give them a tour of Feast’s facility, acquainting the young women with the way we witness to Christ here in Northeast Philadelphia. When these young ladies help us weed or harvest, they'll know they're being part  of our witness to God's love and mercy.

We should also be willing to be witnesses to one another through our fellowship. At a recent church council meeting it was noted that our congregation has gone a long time without observing what I’ve jokingly referred to as the “Fourth Sacrament of Lutheranism”—the potluck dinner. When we break bread with one another, we grow stronger as a church.

We can’t all be Peter and John. I know I haven’t miraculously healed any disabled people. But not all healing requires a miracle. Sometimes it just requires a small act of generosity, a moment of loving forgiveness and understanding, a simple act of service, or a bit of eye contact and a listening ear. Jesus can speak through all of these things.

May God’s peace be with you.

---

[i] The Bible says the mendicant was begging at the Beautiful Gate. This was the main entrance between the outer “Court of the Gentiles” and the first vestibule of the Temple, the “Court of Women.” Non-Jews weren’t allowed to pass through the Beautiful Gate, and women couldn’t go much beyond it. There was a pretty tight class system in place in the Temple.

[ii] I use this line whenever I give a buck or two to a street beggar. I hope it’s a good witness of Christian charity.

From Imagine to Believe (Reflections of Easter 2, Year B 2024)

 

“Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” (John 20:29)

John Lennon would like this passage. In his classic song “Imagine” the ex-Beatle conjured a future and asked us to

“Imagine no possessions.

I wonder if you can.

No greed or hunger,

A brotherhood of man.

Imagine all the people

Sharing all the world.”[i] 

Great song. It fits nicely with the First Lesson in the Revised Common Lectionary for Easter 2, Year B (Acts 4:32-35). The text describes the first experiment in Christian Socialism. Those early Christians were, the Bible tells us, of one heart and shared all their possessions. They gave according to their ability and received according to their need. It was an earth-shaking new kind of economy in a world which pretty much defined itself in terms of “haves” and “have nots.” But these were people who had Jesus’ example of humble service without regard to status or position. They were taught to love one another as Jesus had loved them, to love their neighbor as themselves. They created an economy and a society built on love, compassion, mutual respect, empathy, generosity, and righteousness.

SPOILER ALERT: It didn’t last long. Just read down to chapter six in Acts and you’ll see when things started to fall apart. Why, you ask? Because of our age-old enemy: sin. You see, the idyllic, utopian society requires that everyone is loving and selfless just as Jesus asked us to be. Unfortunately, we’re not.

As liberal as I’ve been in my politics, I have to be honest and explain that a completely socialist society like our lesson describes just isn’t practical or possible. It might work just peachy-keen for a large family, but once you get to a community, a city, or a whole nation you’re going to have some trouble with administration. If everything is held in common, you’ll need—as the Apostles soon found out—some administration. That’s where the trouble starts. When the Administration—just a small number of elected officials—controls the means of production and the distribution of wealth, it won’t matter if you’ve elected Mother Teresa, Mr. Rogers, and Santa Clause. There’s going to be favoritism or greed or both. It’s human nature. We are by nature sinful and unclean.

But this doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to be the people Jesus wanted us to be. We can’t shrug our shoulders and make a golden calf out of the free market system, preaching “Love thy neighbor” on Sunday and “Every man for himself” the rest of the week. We have to keep trying, and we have to keep believing even when we don’t see the perfect results we imagined.

We can’t become like old Doubting Thomas in our Gospel reading (John 20:19-31). Of course, if you look at things from his point of view, you can kind of see why Thomas feels the way he does. He must’ve really loved Jesus, and he must’ve grieved tremendously when his friend was killed. Not only did he lose his teacher and friend, but he lost the whole slang-dang mission, too. This means he’s just spent three years of his life for nothing as far as he can tell. You have to wonder what else he gave up to be a follower of Jesus. No wonder he adopted a cynical attitude and didn’t want to believe in the resurrection even when he was told by the friends he’d lived with, worked with, and trusted for three years.

This is, of course, the work of Satan. Remember, the Hebrew word “Satan” is best translated as “an adversary.” That is, someone or something which works against you. You don’t have to believe in a devil with horns and a pitchfork to know that our emotions are easily crushed and our sense of self-preservation very easily impels us to curve inward on ourselves. We develop a selfish armor of cynicism which stands like the Great Wall of China between us and the will of God.

We start to believe crappy little lies: Things never get better. The game is rigged. All politicians are crooks, so it’s no use voting. You can’t help the poor because they’ll just use that money for liquor and drugs. All those immigrants want to do is steal our jobs and mooch off our economy. You can’t trust anyone now of days. Kids don’t learn anything in school. The Church is irrelevant and filled with hypocrites.

You get the idea.

I think the late Mr. Lennon overlooked something in his classic song. In one verse he asks us to imagine a world without religion. A world without religion is just a world of imagination. But a world with faith is a world with belief. We are Easter people, and we believe. We are called to believe in a world without poverty, a world in which our climate crisis is solved, a world at peace. We are called to believe that the future will be worth living for. We are called to believe that relationships can be mended, that past hurts can be healed, and that joy is possible.

We are called to believe that with God all things are possible. But if we don’t believe, we will never act. And if we never act, things will never change.

Yes, Thomas, seeing is believing. But blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.

Thanks again for visiting my blog. Believe in God. Believe in yourself. See you next time.

---

[i] John Lennon, “Imagine” from the album of the same name. 1971.

Welcome Home (Reflections on the Resurrection of Our Lord, 2024)

 

“But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.” (Mark 16:7)

Once upon a time Faith Lutheran of Philadelphia had a well-beloved and much venerated pastor named Johannes Skarsten. I’ve heard it said of him that he was in the habit on each Easter Sunday of announcing the worship schedule for the following Christmas Eve. This he did as a courtesy to those members of the congregation who only showed up on Easter and Christmas and were MIA the rest of the year.

Like the late Pastor Skarsten, I have a sneaking hunch I’ll be seeing some folks in the pews on Easter morning whom I shall probably not see until it’s time to croon “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” For such individuals, I’d like to say the following:

First, I don’t consider you to be slackers, lukewarm Christians, backsliders, unbelievers, or any such unflattering epithets. I’m not accusing you of figuring you can suffer through a sixty minute worship service once or twice a year to please an elderly parent or grandparent. I’m acknowledging that this world is messy and full of demands and an elective activity such as church is easily squeezed out by the stuff that isn’t so elective.

Secondly, even though it would tremendously massage my ego—to say nothing of what it would do for the church finances—if you were here every Sunday, I further acknowledge that you might still be very holy and pious people in your own way. You still pray, you still ponder the meaning of your life, and you still wrestle with ethics and the nature of God. You just don’t require a building like this or a ritual like this in which to do those things.

Thirdly, if you do find you have doubts and serious questions about all that jazz you were taught in Sunday School—welcome to the club. There may be people who sit in these pews week after week who might have exactly the same questions and doubts you have. This doesn’t make you a bad person or any less of a brother or a sister in my eyes, and certainly not in God’s eyes (however you conceive of God).

But perhaps you’ve come here on this festival day to hear a story. I think it’s a pretty good one. Every Easter in our formal liturgy we get the option of reading either John’s account of the resurrection narrative or the account from the synoptic gospel we’re focusing on this particular year. I love John’s very sentimental story of Mary Magdalene weeping at the tomb before encountering the risen Jesus, but this year, other than John’s melodrama, I think I want to hear Mark’s unsolved mystery.

Does it sound odd to you that Mark’s account of the Easter story (Mark 16:1-8) ends the way it does? I mean, if the women were seized with terror and amazement and told no one what they’d seen because they were afraid, just how did the story get out?

Perhaps we should back it up a little. Mark’s story begins with Jesus coming as a disciple of John the Baptist, being obediently washed by the senior prophet on the scene. Then he felt the spirit of God upon him, but, instead of glorying in that feeling, he was pushed out into a wild and deserted place to know hunger, fear, and temptation. He began is his ministry when John was arrested—not running from the danger of the authorities, but returning to the place where he was needed. He taught, he healed, he made friends and detractors, he taught that God was not far off but near. And he humbly ordered his followers not to speak of him as the Anointed One of God, because the people just wouldn’t understand.

He told the truth in love, welcomed those who had been left out of society, and confronted the powers that oppressed the poor. Jealous leaders denounced him, a friend betrayed him, another denied him, and almost everyone except a few faithful women deserted him. A tyrannical regime put him to death.

Then, when the Sabbath was over, three faithful women came to do the thing women did in those days. They came to anoint his body, but they were told by a mysterious young man in white that God had raised him from the dead. They were given the instruction to tell this story to the faithless men who had fled from arrest when Jesus was captured—even singling out the one who, in shameful cowardice, had denied he even knew Jesus.

What strikes me even more than the overture to the ones who have deserted Jesus is the instruction to tell them “he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.” They are reminded—as are we—that Jesus has gone ahead through everything. He’s gone ahead through joy, through temptation, through hunger and frustration. He’s gone ahead through love of friends and disappointment and betrayal. He has gone through adoring praise and lonely abandonment. He’s gone through pain, immobility, despair, and death. And there is no place we will ever go where he hasn’t gone. And yet he rose.

He’s also calling his friends to go back home. Back to the place where they were just plain fishermen, back to the place where they first recognized there was something special in the carpenter’s son from Nazareth. They are called back to their first ideals, back to the mission they believed in before the fame and the politics and the persecution and disaster happened. They are called back—as we are on Easter—to the things they most valued and believed in, and they are called to start over again.

The Easter story is a story of renewal. It’s the story of death giving way to new life and new hope. For me, it’s a reminder that the shrinking of our American Christianity is really just a precursor to a new life for our faith. We’re going back to the margins of society, back to where the outcasts and the poor, and the needy are waiting. Back to where Jesus wanted us to be. Back to where we shall behold him in all the unexpected people and moments God will put in our path. Back to where we shall experience his joy.

Alleluia! Christ is risen indeed!

Free Food. Free Family (Reflections on Maundy Thursday 2024)

 

“I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” (John 13:34)

Back in my LA days I rented a flat in this funky, Spanish courtyard-style apartment complex in the Studio City neighborhood. While waiting for Hollywood to discover me, I made ends meet by teaching at the junior high next door. My landlady, a sweet, elderly woman with great maternal instincts, always felt I was too skinny and often invited me over for meals. One particular summer evening she decided to order a pizza. This was an invitation I’d never refuse. Unfortunately, just as the Pizza Guy showed up in the courtyard, another guy—coming from who-knows-where—also showed up, stuck a gun in Pizza Guy’s face, robbed him of all his cash, and vanished back from whence he came. Pizza Guy dropped his warming bag and dashed to his car.

This incident (just part of the charm and excitement of living in Los Angeles) caused me and my landlady no small amount of anxiety. It also left us with the dilemma of what to do with three large pizzas and a warming bag. We called the pizza place. They told us we didn’t have to pay for our pizza and we could keep the other two in the bag. We’d just have to return the bag at some point and tell the police everything we’d witnessed—which was practically nothing as the whole episode had happened very quickly.

My landlady, never one to let good food go to waste, instructed me to bang on the doors of the other tenants and invite them to dinner. This complex housed a bunch of show-biz types: a musical theatre performer, a voice-over actor, a movie extra, and a couple of cartoon writers who provided the dialogue for Sonic the Hedgehog. We’d all pass each other and say our hellos, but we didn’t really know each other very well. That night, however, sitting around the courtyard eating free pizza and trying to deal with the fact that our neighborhood wasn’t as safe as we’d thought it was, we became something of a family. Sharing a meal will do that.

As Christians, we share a meal every Sunday. In fact, Jesus was pretty well-known for dinner parties. He’d eat with tax collectors, prostitutes, and others who were considered unclean by the established folks. When some were excluded from making a temple sacrifice because they were female or not fully Jewish or disabled, Jesus offered a meal of his body and blood in which everyone could partake.

On Maundy Thursday we remember that night when Jesus had his last supper with his disciples. I’m sure they felt even more nervous and unsafe than I and my neighbors felt on that summer night when a crime was committed in our courtyard while it was still daylight. The disciples knew Jesus had his enemies, and they knew someone among them would be the betrayer. It might’ve been difficult for them to remember, in the midst of all that was going on, that they ate this meal to remember God’s goodness in delivering God’s people.

But Jesus was about to drive home the point. Before dinner was over he got down on his knees and did this incredible, humble act. He, the teacher, washed the feet of his students. It was not uncommon in that day for students to honor their teachers by washing the master’s feet, but Jesus put an end to the ego, the hierarchy, and the love of status. He gave his disciples two commandments which we celebrate and remember on this festival day: share this meal and love one another. Love one another the way he loved—in sacrifice and humility and service.

Poor Peter, of course, was still a little hung up on protocol or status and felt really uncomfortable with Jesus loving him in such a humble way. Maybe he couldn’t stand to see someone he respected so much take a servant’s job, but, more likely, he didn’t feel himself worthy to be served by Jesus. So Jesus had to set him straight once again. God’s love doesn’t depend on our human standards of self-worth. God’s love is free and unconditional for all of us. When we come to the table, we’re all family. No questions asked. Nothing to prove. We just let ourselves be loved, and in that way we learn to love and accept and honor one another.

That’s even better than free pizza.

Palms or Passion? (Reflections on Palm Sunday, Year B 2024)

 

"Jesus Enters Jerusalem" (Giotto, It. 14th Cent.)

Then those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” (Mark 11:9)

When I remember Palm Sunday back in the day, I have a semi-nightmarish vision of me as a Sunday school teacher and Chairman of Altar Servers at St. Luke’s Lutheran in Long Beach, California attempting to wrangle unruly little Lutheran kids into some semblance of a procession. The challenge was to get twenty or more kids—all of whom were squirming around like squirrels on Red Bull—to stop hitting each other with their palm branches, walk in a straight line, and proceed down the nave of the church following the crucifer while the adult choir followed behind bellowing “All Glory, Laud, and Honor.[i]” The results of my labors always garnered a smile on the faces of the congregants. Lutherans love to see little kids in church. We also love to get those blessed palm fronds, so Palm Sunday usually turns out to be a pretty cool event.

As a Lutheran, I was never used to calling the Sunday which begins Holy Week the Sunday of the Passion. Nope, it was always Palm Sunday for me. I’ve come to find out, however, that our Roman Catholic brothers and sisters have been observing this Sunday as Passion Sunday for centuries. In fact, older liturgical traditions observed both Lent 5 and Palm Sunday as part of a two-week observance of Jesus’ final days. About 1962 Pope John XXIII figured two weeks to think about Jesus suffering and dying might be a bit excessive, so the Passion observance was cut back to just Palm Sunday and Holy Week.

I’ve always figured that good, church-going folks would observe the drama of this week the way I always remembered it. We’d wave palms on Sunday. Then we’d wash the feet, eat the meal, and in some way remember Jesus’ betrayal on Thursday—that last part traditionally being done by the removing of all ornamentation from the chancel and processing out of the worship space in mournful silence as we contemplated the really nasty stuff that awaited Jesus after that Last Supper. Finally, we’d return to church on Friday night for the gloomy (but super cool, if you ask me!) Tenebrae service in which the seven candles—one for each time Jesus spoke from the cross—were slowly extinguished, the church was slowly darkened, and we’d all leave wordlessly in pitch black, trying not to trip on anything until we got safely out to the parking lot.[ii]

It wasn’t until I got to seminary that I was introduced to the very ancient practice of reading the entire passion narrative on the Sunday before Easter. Part of me still rebels against this, but I can also see the wisdom. We miss the whole point of the Gospel if we just want to go from triumphal entry and loud Hosannas to resurrection and that other word of acclamation we’re not supposed to say during Lent. I was actually a bit shocked when I first began my ministry at Faith Lutheran of Philadelphia to discover the congregation actually held no service at all on Good Friday. The worship space was left open for prayer, but I only remember one person ever taking advantage of this. One parishioner told me they didn’t like Good Friday because it was “too depressing.”

That’s rather the point.

The truth is, there is suffering in this world, and Jesus came to share in our pain, to take it on himself, and, through his empathy, to bring us to a place of healing. But we can’t be empathetic if we don’t admit to our shame and our weakness. We need to hear the passion story.

I’ll admit that Mark’s description of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem seems a little silly and anti-climactic. Jesus rides on a colt, a baby horse or donkey. He doesn’t enter on a magnificent stallion as a conquering hero might. Rather, he comes on this tiny animal which might just barely be able to carry his weight. He’s not at a trot or a gallop, just the slow plodding of this little beast of burden. The palm branches, traditionally waved to welcome a victorious hero, are spread for Jesus as are the cloaks of “many people,” but Mark only says those in the procession are cheering. When Jesus reaches the Temple, he has a little look around, then decides it’s late and goes home. Nothing spectacular happens. The whole business seems a little pathetic as Mark tells it.

You have to wonder if those spectators in Jerusalem felt a trifle disappointed by the low-key arrival of the rabbi from Nazareth. Were they expecting more flash, more spectacle, more drama? Were they looking for a superstar? Did they want a macho man who would come at the head of an army, ready to kick the snot out of their oppressors? Perhaps they felt so let down in their expectations that five days later, when given the choice by Pontius Pilate between Jesus or Barabbas, they’d shout for a violent insurrectionist and bandit over the man who healed the sick and welcomed the sinners.

We don’t like to look at weakness or pain. Perhaps it’s because we’re too afraid of our own. We might think that, if people only knew who we really are—how scared or disappointed or powerless or unsuccessful we feel—they’d want nothing to do with us. We want to cover up our hurts, but Jesus came to show us our pain and love us anyway.

I still love the traditions of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. I love to wash the feet of the first-time communicants and act out the servanthood Jesus humbled himself to demonstrate. I still love to sit in the growing darkness of a Good Friday Tenebrae service and remember how the sky turned black when the Redeemer of the World was murdered on the cross. Of course, I understand there are reasons why others aren’t in church for all of this. There are work schedules and family commitments and some just don’t drive at night anymore. So I would be remiss if I didn’t remind you that this little parade we celebrate on Palm Sunday was only a tiny moment of victory which—like so many tiny victories in our own lives—would soon be eclipsed by sorrow, pain, and death.

The bright green palm fronds we carry from church on Palm Sunday will soon turn dry and brown. The Gospel story will also turn from bright victory and cheering to betrayal, cowardice, cruelty, and mourning. It will show us all the things of this world and of our sinful selves we’ll need to confront before we can appreciate the final victory of God.

---

[i] Evangelical Lutheran Worship hymn number 344, in case you’re interested. The music was composed in the 17^th century, but it’s been Number One with a bullet for Palm Sunday processionals as long as I can remember.

[ii] A Tenebrae service is creepy, but really effective.

A Death with Meaning (Reflections on Lent 5, Year B 2024)

 

"The Crucifixion" F. Zurbaran (Spanish 16th Cent.) 

“And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.” He said this to indicate the kind of death he was to die. (John 12:32-33)

There’s a big chunk of the Gospel lesson for Lent 5, Year B (John 20:20-33) which I can recite by heart. Verses 23 – 26 are found in the Lutheran Occasional Service Book for the burial of the dead. I guess this passage was chosen by the OSB’s editors because of that particular image of the grain falling into the earth. The passage is to be read at graveside for an in-ground burial.

As I think I’ve mentioned, I do a lot of funerals. I consider it an honor to tell the tale of the departed and to offer the comfort of eternal life to the bereaved. Sometimes, however, the honor carries an emotional weight. Last week I was called on to say a service for a young man who took his own life. Quite aside from the fact that none of us should ever have to face the agony of burying one of our own children, the sudden loss and the soul-numbing shock of a suicide create a state of grief which, unless you’ve experienced it yourself, is unfathomably dark. There was nothing of consequence I felt I could say to the grieving parents, family members, and friends of this young man other than to implore them not to allow the manner of his death to define his life.

That exhortation came to me a few years ago when I was asked to memorialize two sister. These women were savagely butchered by a controlling ex-boyfriend. The killer violated a restraining order, attacked his ex as she visited in her sister’s home, and knifed both women to death. When I sat with the women’s parents, I felt as helpless as I’ve ever felt. There was nothing I could do or say that could possibly lesson their pain. I only knew I did not want the act of a selfish, violent man to be the last word on the lives of two wonderful, caring, intelligent, and accomplished women, both of whom left children as well as parents behind to mourn them.

The manner of a death should not define a life—except sometimes it does. Jesus taught his followers to love one another. He healed the sick, touched the untouchable, dined with the despised, welcomed the foreigners and the outcasts, lived in poverty and humility, and taught us all about the Kingdom of God. But what matters most is that he died on the cross. He was lifted up to draw all of us to himself.

It is when we see him on the cross that we know the depth of his love. When we hear him forgive his enemies with a dying breath, when he cares for his aging mother, and when he comforts a condemned sinner with a word of love—that’s when Jesus speaks most profoundly to us.

It is the power of Jesus’ sacrificial love. It is knowing that he defied the powers of this world and accepted the torment of their punishment. This is what makes everything he did prior to Calvary resonate with unutterable depth.

Alexei Navalny may have been dismissed as just another idealist attempting to expose and reform a hopelessly corrupt government. Even after being poisoned by Putin’s agents, he returned to Russia—knowing he had been marked for death. His death in an arctic prison camp has reverberated around the world, underscoring his courage determination, and honor while further exposing Putin’s ruthless barbarism.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was a great reformer and theologian. His stirring speeches about civil rights have inspired generations, and his activism changed the course of history. Nevertheless, King’s willingness to confront the powers of oppression and racism at the cost of his own life to an assassin’s bullet forever enshrines him as a man of overwhelming integrity. The bullet which took the life of Mohandas Gandhi and the Nazi noose around the neck of Dietrich Bonhoeffer similarly elevated the righteousness of their causes.

Sometimes the manner of death does, indeed, define the life. Every police officer, firefighter, or warrior who has fallen in the line of duty is a witness to this. It is their deaths which gave meaning to their lives.

The coming of the Greeks—foreigners who have heard of the wonderful words and deeds of Jesus of Nazareth—is the signal to Jesus that his fame has grown to the point where his opponents will want him dead. “Now my souls is troubled,” he confesses, “and what should I say—‘Father, save me from this hour?’ No, it is for this reason that I have come to this hour.”

This is the final covenant, God’s last treaty with humankind. No longer do we need a book of rules. Rather, we are to remember the cross and remember Jesus’ sacrifice, forgiveness, humility, and compassion which shone from that horrible symbol of death and oppression. That’s the Law which is written, not with words, but on the heart.

Look to the cross, my friend. Thank you for stopping by. Please come back next week.