How It Would Feel to Be Free

June 26, 2022, Community of Hope UCC

Galatians 5:1, 13-26, Luke 9:51-55

 

During the past week, the nation – that means you and me – has had to confront two of the most polarizing issues facing us – reproductive rights and gun rights. I suspect for many of us here, the outcome on both of those from our U.S. Supreme Court has been distressing. 

 

Maybe our two scripture readings today might offer us bits of wisdom as we try to navigate the days to come. Let me at least try to draw some connections in the hope that the ideas from our sacred writings will offer touchstones as we lament what is happening around us and prepare us for ways to respond.

 

Let’s start with the first words we heard today Paul’s letter to the people of Galatia: “For freedom Christ has set us free.” 

 

And then let’s reflect on the words of a song written in the early 1950s by Billy Taylor and Richard Carroll Lamb and made popular in the late-1960s by the amazing Nina Simone.

 

I wish I knew how it would feel to be free
I wish I could break all the chains holding me
I wish I could say all the things that I should say
Say 'em loud, say 'em clear
For the whole round world to hear

 

That was one of the anthems of the Civil Rights Movement, but it also has so much relevance for us this weekend. Christ has set us free, as Paul wrote, but we need to continually proclaim that freedom from the chains that restrict our human dignity, from the chains of violence that threaten us.

 

Paul went on to cite the most basic ethical principal not only of Christianity but of so many religious traditions - "You shall love your neighbor as yourself." That can be a guiding light in the days ahead.

 

Yes, I know that the issue of abortion is complicated. For people who believe that human life begins at conception, loving your neighbor can include loving that life that has yet to emerge into the world. But when human life begins is both a biological question and a theological question and there are divergent views on both dimensions. When the life of a potential being threatens the life of an actual living woman in many different ways – physically, emotionally, economically - the woman needs to have the freedom to decide her own course of action.

 

Within the United Church of Christ – as with so many other Christian faith traditions - we have long affirmed the right of every individual to follow their personal religious and moral convictions regarding their reproductive healthcare. Our General Synods were taking that position two years before the Roe vs Wade decision in 1973 and have reaffirmed it multiple times since. 

 

But, of course, not all Christian traditions are of the same mind. While political power drove much of the current Supreme Court’s decision on Friday, there has been a raging debate among Christians across half a century about where our faith tradition ought to stand on this issue.

 

Raging debates were not new to Paul. “If, however, you bite and devour one another, take care that you are not consumed by one another,” he wrote to the Galatians. “Live by the Spirit, I say.”

 

With issues like abortion and guns – I’ll get to the guns in a moment – that’s easier said than done.

We know the stories of women whose lives were saved – both physically and in many other ways - because they were able to have an abortion. We know the stories from the times before Roe vs. Wade when women lost their lives seeking abortions that were not safe. We know the people at greatest risk after Friday’s decision are people without the means – economic means, social supports, and more - to travel to a place where abortion is legal. 

 

We know the passion that those experiences engender as we care about the lives of women and justice in our society.

 

And we know that in 1973, when the Supreme Court issued the Roe decision, the abortion rate was at about 16 abortions per 1,000 women of childbearing age. Starting in the early 1980s, it underwent a slow but steady decline to an all-time low of 13.5 abortions per 1,000 women of child-bearing age in 2017. 

 

There are multiple reasons for that, but remember, abortion was legal during that time as the rate of abortions declined. In fact, as the states began tightening restrictions in the years since 2017, the number of abortions per 1,000 women has been creeping up. It’s still below what it was in the early 1970s. 

 

Now, however, we are heading into unknown territory, with the nation divided geographically and the political and religious divisions sharper than ever. And not just over reproductive rights and justice.

The Supreme Court last week pulled the rug out from under a New York law that limited the concealed carry of guns. Even as the Congress passed the first strengthening of gun laws in three decades, the court took us ever closer to a free-for-all for guns. 

 

Author Arianna Huffington had a poignant tweet about all this: “So, to sum up the Supreme Court’s week: life begins at conception and ends in a mass shooting.”

 

Last week, Peter Manseau, an author of 10 books on religion and history, posed this question in an essay in The New York Times: “Is our gun problem a God problem?”

 

He noted that Daniel Defense - the Georgia company that made the AR-15 style rifle used at the elementary school shooting in Uvalde, Texas as well as one of the guns used in the mass shooting in Las Vegas in 2017 -  uses explicitly religious terminology in its advertising, including a picture at Easter of a gun and a cross lying on scriptural passages about the Resurrection. 

But they are not alone. A company called Spike’s Tactical makes a line of AR-15s known as the Crusader that has Psalm 144:1 on it. That verse says: “Blessed be the Lord, my Rock, who trains my hands for war and my fingers for battle.” And their add assures us that this rifle will never be used by a Muslim terrorist to bring harm against another person because it includes that verse from the Hebrew Bible.

And Cornerstone Arms in Colorado says it is called Cornerstone because “Jesus Christ is the cornerstone of our business, our family and our lives.”

 

Speaking of Colorado, many of you probably know of Lauren Boebert, one of the members of Congress from that state. Here’s what she had say recently – in a joking manner, but still: “A lot of the little Twitter trolls, they like to say ‘Oh, Jesus didn’t need an AR-15. How many AR-15s do you think Jesus would have had?’ Well, he didn’t have enough to keep his government from killing him.” 

That takes us to today’s Gospel reading. Jesus sends out some of his followers as a kind of advance team but they are rejected by some of the Samaritans, who were not particularly fond of the Jews in the First Century.

 

James and John knew their Hebrew scripture, so they had a ready solution. They remembered in the Second book of Kings, Elijah called down God’s fire on representatives of a king who had issues with Elijah and the fire from heaven they called down killed the captain and his 50 men.

 

So James and John knew just what to do about those rude Samaritans. "Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them?"

 

And Luke writes of Jesus: He turned and rebuked them.

 

Jesus rejected violence over and over. 

 

He healed the ear of the Temple guard after Peter cut it off in the Garden of Gethsemane. 

 

From the cross, he asked forgiveness for those who were executing him. He did not regret the lack of AR-15s.

 

I suspect that in our polarized times, some of us think calling down heaven’s fire on those we disagree with, even those we find threatening to our core beliefs, seems like a nice option. And with the proliferation of guns and the tensions around issues like abortion, we are living in a powder keg. 

 

On Friday evening at the pro-choice demonstration at the state Capitol, a woman who was part of a Madison anti-racist community group showed up with an off-brand AK-47 and a pistol with the intent of deterring right-wing groups who might try to disrupt the protest.

 

Ah, but Paul.

 

“If, however, you bite and devour one another, take care that you are not consumed by one another. Live by the Spirit.”

 

Paul lists some of the things that cause trouble and often we focus on things like fornication, impurity, licentiousness. You know, the ways we can judge the sex lives of others. But Paul’s list goes on to include idolatry –like making guns our idols – or quarrels, dissensions, factions – the kinds of things that have become toxic in our society.

He offers some alternative ways of being, ways that we now call the Fruits of the Spirit - love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

And he adds: “There is no law against such things.”

 

As we try to figure out what to do after a week like the last one – or after so many disruptive and distressing weeks before the last one – maybe we can take some cues from Jesus and from Paul.

 

It’s not Jesus’ way to call down fire on his enemies. He even once said something about loving our enemies, which may the most challenging thing he ever said. That would include people with whom we fundamentally disagree, but still recognize as people created in God’s image and likeness.

 

And we can nurture within ourselves those Fruits of the Spirit that Paul wrote about. They are not only for our own benefit, our own peace of mind in the midst of turmoil, for the communities of which we are a part.

 

That does not mean abandoning advocacy for our deeply held convictions. It does mean we do that in ways that reflect our commitments to be followers of Jesus, to walk in his way.

 

Mary Ellen Giess, who the vice president for strategic initiatives of  a group called Interfaith America, offered some useful suggestions this weekend.  She began by saying that “My rage is not far from the surface, these days…My rage comes near to boiling over when I consider the fact that my three daughters will grow up with less autonomy over their bodies than I have now.”

And yet she cautions against getting caught in the binary thinking around abortion – or, I would add, gun rights.

 

She starts by noting “the ambiguity that the beliefs of my fellow Americans are complicated.” She adds that she wants “to listen and seek to understand perspectives that differ from my own, because working with those perspectives is now essential.” She does say that she is not seeking out voices who are arguing in bad faith but those who have sincerely held beliefs.

 

And finally, she cautions against humiliating those we disagree with. She quoted South African leader Nelson Mandela, who said, “There is nobody more dangerous than one who has been humiliated, even when you humiliate him rightly.” 

 

In the end, wrote Giess, “My rage motivates me to continue the fight for bodily autonomy.  My curiosity compels me to listen carefully, with attention to nuance, and treat others with dignity.  I choose to carry them both in the days and weeks to come.”

 

In that spirit, I’d invite us to join in together in a hymn. It’s number 582 in your hymnals. It’s called “O God of Earth and Altar.” The title belies the power of the words – words written by G.K. Chesterton and then modernized by Jane Parker Huber – words that I think very much speak to our moment.

So please join with me on all three verses of this hymn.

Taking Care, No Matter What

Acts 16:9-15 and John 5:1-9

Here's a link to a video of the sermon

 

There have been days this week when I have felt like that man Roger just told us about from the Gospel according to John - the man lying paralyzed by the poll called Bethzatha.

“Do you want to be made well?” Jesus asks him – and maybe me.

 

“There is no one to put me in the pool,” he replies. And so he is stuck. He has been stuck for 38 years.

 

It is being in the pool when the water is stirred up that can bring healing. And he is out of the pool. He cannot figure out how to get into it.  He cannot find anyone to help him.

 

That’s what I am feeling this week. 

Think of the pool as the place that can heal so much of the horror that surrounds us right now – a war in Ukraine, the earth in peril from a changing climate caused by our actions, democracy seeming more fragile than ever, toxic misinformation polluting our sources of news.

 

And if that is not enough, a week ago we learned about the murder of 10 people by a white supremacist in a supermarket in Buffalo, N.Y.

 

I feel paralyzed. How can I get into that pool of healing? Maybe some of you are feeling that way as well.

 

When the waters are stirred up in that pool, they can refresh our spirits.

 

When the waters are stirred up, they might bring healing to the deep wounds we see in our world. 

 

When the waters are stirred up, they can give us the energy to get up and walk out to help meet the needs of our world.

But at this moment, we are alone. No one will help us into the pool. We are paralyzed. Too often, all we do is lament our fate. 

 

“Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up; and while I am making my way, someone else steps down ahead of me."

 

We have all had a week to absorb the news from Buffalo, but let me pause for a moment to say the names of those who were murdered, those whose deaths stay with me as I sit at the side of the pool, struggling to move.

 

It is thinking about them – about what happened to them and why and what we might do – that is making me feel sad and angry – and paralyzed.

 

Starting with the oldest:

Ruth Whitfield, 86, was on her way from visiting her husband in a nursing home before stopping at the store to get something to eat.

Pearly Young, 77,  loved singing, dancing, and being with family and she ran a food pantry in the Central Park neighborhood for 25 years.

Katherine Massey, 72, was a community leader, a powerful voice for her neighborhood. Last year, she wrote a letter to The Buffalo News pushing for more federal regulations of firearms.

 

Deacon Heyward Patterson, 67, was loading groceries into his car for a client when he was gunned down

Celestine Chaney, 65,  was a cancer survivor who a grandmother of six and the great-grandmother of one.

Geraldine Talley, 62, was as a devoted mother and grandmother.

Aaron Salter, 55, was a retired Buffalo police officer and the grocery store’s security guard. 

Andre Mackneil, 53, was buying a cake for his 3-year-old son when he was killed.

 

Margus D. Morrison, 52, was at the grocery store that afternoon to buy snacks for a weekly movie night with his family

 

Roberta Drury, 32, helped care for her brother, who is recovering from cancer.

 

They are all dead because an 18-year old white man with a legally purchased assault rifle wanted to pick a place where he could create the maximum fear among black folks. So he chose a grocery store in a predominantly black neighborhood some 200 miles from his own home. He had planned to kill many more but, thank God, he was stopped.

 

We have seen this before.

 

The murder of nine blacks at a Bible study by a white supremacist at Emmanuel AME Church in Charleston, S.C. in 2015. 

 

The murder of 11 Jewish people by a white supremacist at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh in 2018.

 

The murder of 23 mostly Latinos by a white supremacist at the Wal-Mart in El Paso in 2019.

 

The murders by a white supremacist of seven Sikh worshippers at their gurdwara in Oak Creek back in 2012. 

 

Over and over, hatred of those perceived as different has led to this irrational and horrific bloodshed. 

 

Valarie Kaur, the Sikh author and activist who wrote See No Stranger,  said last week that her first thought after the news broke about the shootings in Buffalo was “They’re going to keep killing us.” She talked about her own terror and fatigue and wrote:  “I've organized around white supremacist hate for 21 years, since before this gunman was born. The killings have become more frequent, more effective, and more efficient at taking life.”

 

She is not alone feeling that. 

A Washington Post/Ipsos poll done in the past week that came out yesterday reported that  “three-quarters of Black Americans are worried that they or someone they love will be attacked because of their race.”  It also found that only 10 percent of Black Americans think the problem of racism will improve in their lifetimes.

Racist murder after racist murder. And I feel paralyzed when I wonder what I can do about it.

 

There is no one to put me into the pool, I say.

 

And Jesus says, "Stand up, take your mat and walk."

 

We won’t get past this if we just sit on the sidelines. 

So we start with lament. We continue with seeking ways to support those who are suffering – maybe sending money to help, maybe contacting black folks we know here to let them know that we care about them in this moment when all of their long-held fears are brought back to the surface again.

We engage in whatever political actions make sense to us, whether around guns or reparations or home ownership or simply defending efforts to educate our children and our adults about the depth of the realities of racism and of white supremacy that infect our communities.

 

It never seems like enough. I want the waters to be stirred and make it all better. But I need to get into the pool and help stir the waters.

 

And I don’t need to be there alone.

That takes me to that story we heard from the book of Acts, the story of Paul arriving in Philippi, seeking out a place to pray and to meet with people and tell them about this Jesus fellow who had transformed his life and whose message could change the world.

 

First Paul made this connection with Lydia – a non-Jewish woman who took God seriously. By the end of the morning, Lydia and her household asked to be baptized and extended hospitality to Paul. 

 

The story goes on beyond what we read today. Paul and his companion Silas are going to get in trouble in Philippi and are put in jail. They were praying and singing there when an earthquake shook open the doors. They did not flee, lest they get the jailer in trouble. Ultimately, the magistrates decided to let Paul and Silas go free, but told them to leave that city.

After all that drama, what did Paul and Silas do? In the words at the end of Chapter 16 in the book of Acts: “They went to Lydia’s home; and when they had seen and encouraged the brothers and sisters there, they departed.”

 

It was the community sustaining one another so they could all move forward to join together in making God’s vision for the world a reality instead of just a dream.

 

Valarie Kaur suggests that one of the things we need to do in the wake of all of this horror is to focus on our own bodies and the people in our circles. She writes: “If you can feel how this shooting touches trauma in yourself and in people you love, this is the time to make space for healing. Grieve and rage, wail and scream, rest and breathe. Be with people who make you feel safe. Let in softness and love into the places that ache. Together, we survive this.”

 

Then we widen the circle. Esau McCaulley, who is an associate professor at Wheaton College, wrote in The Atlantic in the past few days: “What do we owe the deceased in Buffalo and all those who preceded them? It cannot be anything less than pursuing the truth and unveiling all the interconnected evils that led to their tragic end.”

Or as Jim Wallis, the founder of Sojourners says, “All white churches in America, must name and condemn white supremacy and the racist white replacement theory from their Sunday pulpits as an evil and a sin.”

So let be clear at this pulpit what you already know and seek to act on in many ways - white supremacy and the racist white replacement theory are evil and a sin.

 

Saying that is necessary, but not enough. 

That’s why like the people gathered with Lydia and Paul at the river in Philippi, I look for a community to share both grief and action with. I need the energy that comes from that to move towards the pool that for so long eluded the paralyzed man,

 

That’s why I need to hear the words of Jesus to that man - "Stand up, take your mat and walk."

 

That’s why together we all have a chance to find something we can do in the midst of all the evil and destruction in our world. 

 

It may be as simple as a prayer to keep us connected to those who are suffering. 

 

It may be a donation to a cause that is making a difference. 

 

It may be a letter either to someone we know or to a stranger who needs words of encouragement. 

 

It may be political action or allyship with an organization or forming a new relationship with someone whose experiences of the world are different than ours.

Whatever we choose, today’s readings invite us to gather at  the river, to enter the pool, to let the healing waters renew our spirits and move us forward in our collective effort to make this world a better place for all.

With that in mind, let’s sing together the first three verses of Hymn #597 – "
Shall We Gather at the River.”

Who Are We Now?

Luke 24: 13-32

Video link to the sermon at Community of Hope UCC.

There’s a problem with the story of these two folks on the road to Emmaus.

They seemed to know where they were going. It seems as though they lived in Emmaus.

 

They were grieving the death of Jesus.  They had no idea what the future held. But they were heading toward this place called Emmaus. They knew where they were going. But we don’t.

 

That’s the problem. Some 2,000 years later, we have no idea where this place called Emmaus was. There are a half dozen places in Israel today that folks say might have once been the village of Emmaus, but nobody knows for sure. 

 

That’s sort of a metaphor we can use for our own lives. These two had  just been thrown into a state of confusion and disappointment and fear. They knew the road. But they did not really know where they were going.

 

They told the stranger on the road about Jesus. “We had hoped he would be the one,” they said. He was “a prophet mighty in deed and word before God.” And now hate had killed him and with it, their hopes had been dashed.

 

Have you ever felt that way?

There has been a pandemic that has thrown all of our lives into turmoil over the last two years. We are watching a brutal war raging in Ukraine. We are painfully aware of the racial disparities in our society. 

 

We are witnesses to the hatred that pervades our politics at the moment. On this Earth Day weekend, we are painfully aware that we are not moving fast enough to ameliorate the causes of climate change. 

 

We are wandering along a road and we do not have a clear picture of where we are going. We are not even sure of who we are now.

Closer to home, I know Community of Hope UCC is going through a period of discernment, looking for your way to an uncertain place like Emmaus, defining who you are now and who you will be in the future.

 

What a perfect Sunday, then, to dive into this story.

 

It is a story 

of walking together through grief and uncertainty, 

of letting the stories of our sacred scriptures serve as a guide along the way, 

of extending hospitality even in hard moments, 

of sharing a meal and seeing Jesus in the breaking of the bread. 

And here’s an added bonus: the word Emmaus means “warm springs” – it’s a place of comfort and healing.

 

Have you ever come across people who look lost, sad, full of anxiety? 

 

Jacqui Lewis, pastor of Middle Collegiate Church in New York City, tells this story in her new book Fierce Love of the night at the hospital in a strange city in Canada. She and her husband had been in a car crash and he was hospitalized with injuries. She was not allowed to  stay at the hospital with him overnight and had no place to go. The terror of the accident and the anguish over his injury as well as the uncertainty about where she could spend the night left her crying in the hospital hallway.

Then, out of seemingly nowhere, a woman wearing a lightweight black coat over a flowered dress walked over to her. She asked if Jacqui was OK. She listened to Jacqui’s story of the accident, of her agony at feeling so alone right then. 

 

Jacqui writes, “She was so present to me, listening closely, making space for my pain. When I finished speaking, she hugged me, and I remember thinking I was ruining her coat with my tears.”

Then the woman asked Jacqui how she could help. She crossed all the barriers that might have been between them. 

 

In Jacqui’s words: “I was a stranger, not a Canadian but an African American stranger in a strange land. I must have been a sight to behold. Tall, skinny, wearing a large afro, likely with little pieces of glass in it. Small cuts on my face, jeans dirty from sitting on the gravel on the side of the road, Paul’s blood on my denim jacket.”

The woman got Jacqui some food, took her to a motel, paid for her room, took her to the insurance company the next morning.

 

On that road to Emmaus, Jesus came across two people – I like to think a man and a woman, although only one of them – the man – is mentioned by name. They were downcast. They were talking about the horrible death they had seen Jesus die in Jerusalem and then the confusing message they had heard that morning about Jesus rising from the dead. They did not know what to believe, what to think, what to do. 

 

And Jesus walked with them. He asked them what they were talking about, what was underneath their sadness and fears. 

That’s the first thing: Walking together in hard times.

 

Then he offered them a new way to think about what happened, giving them a fresh look at the stories in the Hebrew scriptures they surely already new.

 

That’s the second thing: Reinterpreting the story in a way to help make some sense out of the chaos around them.

 

Then they took a step forward as well. “Stay with us,” they said, “because it is almost evening and the day is nearly over.”  They did not take Jesus to a motel like Jacqui’s helper did, but they did extend the kind of hospitality that brought the bond between Jesus and them even closer.

 

That’s the third thing: Offering hospitality to help heal the separations in our midst.

 

And then there was the meal.

Of course there was a meal. So often in the stories of Jesus, there is a meal.

 

There’s the meal on the hillside – that grand picnic – when bread and fish get passed through the crowd and all are fed.

 

There’s dinner with people you might not expect to be at the table with Jesus -  with Simon the Pharisee, with Zacchaeus the tax collector. There’s dinner with his friends Mary, Martha and Lazarus. 

 

There’s that last dinner with his closest followers the night before he died – you know, the one where he broke bread and passed it around and told them to remember him. In one of the stories after the Resurrection, he is cooking fish on the shore and there is bread to share with his apostles.

 

This night in Emmaus, however, we don’t know what else might have been on the menu. But we do know that there was bread.

 

Before we get to the bread, though, let’s pause for a moment for an interesting contrast. Do you remember the story Jesus told about the rich man Lazarus (not the same Lazarus who was Jesus’ friend who died and then whom Jesus brought back to life)? This also from the Gospel according to Luke (16: 19-31). 

 

Lazarus ate sumptuous meals at his table, but would not let the impoverished man at the gate even get scraps from the rich man’s table. Ultimately, both men died. The impoverished man went to be with Abraham, the father of the Jewish people, and the rich man landed in Hades, a place of torment. What if Lazarus had shared the food on his table with the poor man? What if he had invited the man to the table? Would the story have ended differently?

So here we are at this home in Emmaus, three people gathered around a table. Jesus had walked with the strangers and given them a new way to think about the disorientation of their lives. The couple had invited the stranger who walked with them to have dinner with them. 

 

Up to this point, the couple had no idea who they were with. It was just a stranger they met on the road. They could not see clearly who this was. 

 

Then the rhythm at the table got very familiar.

Jesus took bread.

He blessed it.

He broke it.

He gave it to them.

 

They ate together and then then their eyes were opened, writes Luke.  And in an instant, Jesus was gone.

 

They had been comforted by someone who took their grief seriously. Their hearts had burned as they learned a new way to understand the scriptures. They had recognized Jesus in the breaking of the bread.

 

Their energy was restored and they went right back out onto the road to Jerusalem and they found Jesus’ other followers there, all sharing the news that Jesus had overcome death, overcome hate, overcome evil.

 

For me, this story contains some of those central ideas of how we can be followers of Jesus.

We can walk with those who are suffering.

We can help people find meaning by drawing on the stories that guide our community.

We can welcome strangers into our midst.

 

We can let the love of Jesus emerge as we break bread together.

 

Yes, these last few years have been hard. They have been hard on so many different levels. The things that can disorient us are still present today. It’s like we are on the road to Emmaus – a place we hope exists but can seem pretty elusive.

 

People have walked this road before. They have shown us the way. Let’s head out into our lives today, in the days ahead, knowing that we can walk this road in a spirit of hope, with some grains of faith, with the assurance of God’s love as we rejoice not only in the good news of the Resurrection, but in the good news that touches our lives and that we then share with others.

 

There’s a song we often sing at communion time – “Let Us Break Bread Together.” But there’s another song that reminds us that in the breaking of the bread, we get glimpses of Jesus, we get to experience God’s love. It's called “Be Known to Us in Breaking Bread.” 

 

Be known to us in breaking bread, but do not then depart;
O Savior stay with us and spread your table in our heart.

Here share with us in love divine, your body and your blood;

That living bread, that heavenly wine, be our immortal food.

Dinner Guests

Sermon from April 3, 2022 at Community of Hope UCC in Madison WI

Isaiah 43:16-21; John 12:1-8

Welcome to our meal!

Let’s say my name is Lazarus. We are here with my sisters, Martha and Mary. You know them. Martha is the busy one. Mary is the one who likes to listen and learn.

 

We are very honored to have our friend Jesus with us today. He often stops by when he is in the area of Bethany, that village just two miles east of Jerusalem. And he is the reason I am here with you. I had died – yes, I know this is hard to understand – but then Jesus came and brought me back to life! 

 

For many people, that was amazing. But for the religious leaders in Jerusalem, that just reinforced their worry that if they did not do something about this Jesus fellow getting a following among the ordinary people, then Rome would crack down on Israel. 

 

Caiaphas, the high priest, told them, “It is better for you to have one man die for the people than to have the whole nation destroyed.” So that was when they decided to have Jesus killed – decided because he restored life to me. 

It turns out, they also wanted to kill me, since they saw my restored life as the reason so many Jews were becoming followers of Jesus.

 

Anyway, back to our meal together. Yes, there was fear lingering in the background. We all knew that Jesus was a marked man at this point. But we were just glad to have him and some of his friends with us.

 

One of those friends was named Judas. Perhaps you have heard of him. He ultimately would cast his lot with those who wanted Jesus killed. By this point, he was more than a little on edge.

I’d like to invite you to join us for this meal. You could come as yourself – you’ll have a chance to actually do that later this morning in this place. Or you could imagine you are one of the people in this story.

++++++++++++

 

Well, thank you, Lazarus, for getting us into the moment. 

 

There are so many rich themes in this short story. And at the end, it will link back to that brief reading we heard from the prophet Isaiah.  

 

There is the story of what happened at the meal and what that might mean for us. 

 

There is the story of Judas and his … shall we say perhaps…his concern for the poor. 

 

There is the question of whether we can celebrate when there is injustice and sadness around us. 

 

And then we might ask, how can we live out the best of this story?

One of the things that we know about Jesus is that he liked to eat. He ate with many different kinds of folks – folks that others would be reluctant to hang out with, folks that sometimes were his opponents.

 

This meal, with some of his closest friends – and with the one who would betray him – has some amazingly close links to the Passover meal Jesus would be having the next week. 

 

In the Gospel according to John, he uses the Greek word diepnon for dinner only two times – once for this meal and once for the Last Supper.  

The central moment in this story is when Mary takes this very expensive perfume – nard – and anoints Jesus’ feet and then wipes his feet with her hair.  There’s a lot to unpack from that one act.

First of all, it was the job of a slave to tend to a visitor’s dusty and tired feet, not one of the hosts of the meal. And women did not let down their hair – well-kept hair was a sign of a woman’s dignity. 

Yet here is Mary, breaking all the rules to show her appreciation and love for Jesus. It was a lavish, intimate, sensual moment.

 

This foreshadowed what Jesus would do at the Last Supper. The Gospel according to John describes the scene this way: Jesus took off his outer robe, tied a towel around himself and began to wash his followers’ feet, drying them with the towel. 

 

He told them, “If I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.” 

 

Mary had set the example of service to others. Then Jesus carried that forward. 

 

Now the story moves on to Judas. 

Why was Judas with Jesus for this meal anyway? We don’t know, although we do know that Jesus never shied away from breaking bread with people who might be skeptical of him.

 

And when Jesus was washing the feet of his followers at that Passover meal, he washed Judas’ feet along with all the others. It was not until later that he confronted Judas about his plan to betray Jesus. And then Judas’ supposed care for the poor came up again.

 

After Mary does her extravagant act of anointing Jesus’ feet, using nard that would be worth a whole year’s wages, Judas asked why the perfume was not sold and the money given to the poor. John suspects Judas’ motives, suggesting he was a thief, but Jesus defends Mary and then says two puzzling things.

One is that she might keep some of the nard for the day of his burial. Remember, the specter of Jesus’ execution hung over this meal. She was in effect anointing him before his death even though that would normally happen after someone died.

 

But the bigger puzzle is around these words of Jesus: “You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

Does that mean we are not supposed to care about the poor? That they should take care of themselves, maybe pull themselves up by their bootstraps?

 

Nope. No way.

 

This is really an allusion to the book of Deuteronomy in the Torah. Chapter 15 gives instructions for the forgiveness of all debts every seventh year. It was an ancient way to close the wealth gap. And it acknowledges that ending poverty is not easy, even with that system of generous economic forgiveness. 

 

So Deuteronomy adds these words: “Since there will never cease to be some in need on the earth, I therefore command you, ‘Open your hand to the poor and needy neighbor in your land.’ ”

In terms we tend to use these days, the Jewish tradition that Jesus was familiar with called for both justice and charity.

 

But in this story, Jesus also recognizes that even in the midst of threats, fears, injustice, worry, there can still be time to celebrate. Let me take a brief detour to a contemporary story about this. 

 

Scott Girard in a reporter for the Cap Times. Six years ago, his brother died after a long battle with cancer. That day of March 20, 2016, he had walked with his family as they escorted his brother’s body out of Hospice. 

 

That evening, he and his family were watching the Badger men’s basketball team in the playoffs. The game was tied and time was running out when Brian Koenig hit a three-point shot at the buzzer, sending the Badgers to the Sweet Sixteen.

 

Scott wrote about that moment a year later: “I ran across the living room — having already been standing in nervousness at the moment, of course — to hug-tackle my sister on the couch in celebration before returning to the other couch to do the same to my girlfriend.

After the frenzy of about 15 seconds, I sat back down on the couch and a feeling of guilt swept over me.”

He thought about his brother’s death only hours before. He asked: “How could I have even been smiling on this day, I thought, let alone jumping for joy and cheering?”

 

And he concluded with the lesson he drew over time from that moment: “There is never anything wrong with joy, even in the darkest moments. It’s probably more important than ever in those times to find a reason to smile, if only briefly.”

 

That sounded to me like what Jesus was telling Judas – and perhaps the rest of us. Yes, care for those in need. There will always be those in need. But also celebrate those moments when God’s presence is there in a smile or a laugh or a hug – or in expensive perfume being poured on your aching feet.

 

Then there’s Judas at the Last Supper.

At that Passover meal, when Jesus confronted Judas about the impending betrayal, he told him quietly, “Do quickly what you are going to do.” The rest did not understand what he had said and some thought Jesus had told Judas to go out and give something to the poor. Funny how that comes around again.

 

What, then, might we take from this meal we have been sharing with Lazarus and Martha and Mary and Jesus and Judas – and maybe others?

Remember the questions about Mary anointing Jesus’ feet, drying them with her hair, then Jesus washing the feet of his followers? They did not stand on their status. They took a step down to raise the status of another.

 

How do we live out this call to service, growing out of our commitment to be followers of Jesus? How do we do that in ways that might diminish rather than elevate our own status?

 

One of the things I have learned in the past few years is how those of us who have some degree of privilege in our lives, some status in our community, some comfort in our position in society need to be willing to step back a bit, to listen to the people who are on the margins, to not just give them a place at the table – be it a dinner table or a boardroom table – but to create space for them to set the table, to lead the planning. 

 

The technical term for that, I believe, is being an ally. 

 

It sounds simple. It’s not. We all have a lot of experience and knowledge and resources we’d like to bring to bear. And those all matter. So does humility. So does being willing to get down on our knees, to let down our hair, to hold the towel.

 

Another takeaway for me is that message of seeking both charity and justice as we approach the economic disparities in our society. 

 

Jesus was not proclaiming that poverty is a permanent state of being. He was drawing on that rich Jewish tradition of jubilee – of forgiving debts, of giving up a bit of what we think is rightfully ours – in order to have a more equitable society. That’s part of our challenge. And then we still need to reach out to those in need.

 

Let’s loop back to that first reading from Isaiah. The Jewish people are nearing the end of their time in exile in Babylon. Through Isaiah, God tells them not to get stuck considering the things of old because God is about to do a new thing.

 

That’s part of what was happening at that dinner. Judas was clinging to the things of the past. Mary saw what new things God was doing through Jesus, new things that involved both life and death but that were filled with rivers in the desert, with a way through the wilderness.

 

Wherever we are in our lives right now, wherever we see the world in the midst of all the hard things around us, ultimately our story is a story of hope, that God will be doing new things through what each of us do.