Good Friday
Pain. Humiliation.
Grief beyond imagination.
Death. This is the cross. There have been hundreds and hundreds of
methods of capital punishment throughout human history, but few have been as
cruel as the cross. It was a fate
reserved for the worst of offenders:
violent seditionists, those who
plotted to overthrow the government.
These were stripped, beaten, and hung high in the air for all the
passers-by to see: Look! This is what happens when you take on
Rome. And after about six hours, when
death finally set in, they were dumped in a dung heap called Gehenna outside
the city walls. No funeral. No family burial plot. Just shame.
That was the legacy of the cross.
Or rather it was
the legacy until this day, this day that we are foolish enough to call Good. Such hopeful nonsense! But as the Lord of Life hangs from the tree,
with two seditionists on either side of him, as he breathes his last and says,
“It is finished!” God wins. The nonviolent resistance of this homeless
street preacher has defeated the most powerful empire on the planet. Through his tears, his sweat, his blood, his
cries of anguish the world sees what true power looks like.
I often wonder
what it would have been like to have been in that crowd on that day. No, this was not the same crowd that chanted
‘Hosanna!’ as Jesus entered Jerusalem on Sunday morning. This crowd was smaller, made up of folks that
needed permission in order to enter the governor’s quarters, so they may very
well have been hand-picked by those religious authorities. They shared a common enemy: Rome, and they shared a common vision: Rome’s eradication and restoration of the
Kingdom of Israel. In Jesus many of them
had hoped that they at last found the one who would start the revolution that
would lead to these two desired results, but what they saw instead was a man
who fought with his words, not his fists, who called out the destructive
behaviors not only of the government, but his own religious authorities who
were conspiring with that government.
His revolution was one that began with the realization that the kingdom
of God was here—a present reality that trumped any other kingdom on earth. The
solution was not to violently overthrow the enemy, but it was to repent—to
change one’s mind and attitudes and return to understanding that there is only
one true kingdom in this world, and that is God's. For this reason, the crowd wanted
Barabbas.
Barabbas as depicted in The Passion of the Christ.
According to the
Gospel of Matthew, his name was Jesus Barabbas. Depending on your account he was a seditionist, or a bandit, or a murderer.
Why would the crowd want to release this man and have Jesus
crucified? Perhaps it was because
Barabbas embodied the kind of revolution that they all wanted. He used force and strength, whereas Jesus
appeared passive and weak. In some ways, Barabbas looked more like the
Messiah that the crowd wanted than Jesus did.
Here lies a great truth and a harsh question for us even now: who do we really want—Jesus or Barabbas?
This day,
standing at the foot of the cross, we are faced with every kind of darkness and
evil that the world can offer. Each time
that we approach this tree we are reminded of the cruelty of our own losses—jobs
that end, relationships that come crashing down, loved ones who die much too
soon—as well as the losses we experience as a human family—children gunned
down, religious extremists violently oppressing others, basic human rights
denied over and over again, even in the so-called land of the free. We come to
the cross and we say “Why, Lord?” We
look for meaning, and when we don’t find it we lash out. Anger fills us. We shut each other out, we shut God out, and
we cry out for Barabbas to be released.
That’s the answer, we say. Let
that righteous anger wash over us, and let us tear down everyone and everything
that inflicts such pain!
But then we look
up, and we see him. We see Jesus bloody and broken, reminding us
that while God is not the cause of our pain, God is the healer of our
pain. God can and does bring meaning and
hope in the wake of our pain. Not a political power, not a religious authority, and not even ourselves. Only God and
God alone. Violence won't do it, nor will righteous anger. The God who reigns in glory, hanging from a
tree, can do it. Pilate asked ‘What is truth?’ to
which Jesus gave no response. And yet,
as we gaze on the cross and behold him in all his glory we know, THIS is Truth,
and we who claim Jesus as Lord are invited to participate in this truth: to lose our life for the sake of the Good
News of God’s love and mercy, to follow the path of nonviolent resistance, and
to understand that true power looks like giving of ourselves on behalf of
others. The world is a cruel place, and
no day reminds us of that better than Good Friday, but while the passers-by
mock and shame him, the Lord of Life reigns from this tree, inviting us to come
and embrace it ourselves.
So as you
approach the cross of Christ, the very throne of God, what burdens, what shame,
will you bring? Perhaps you will bring
deep sadness and heartache. Perhaps you
will bring righteous anger. Perhaps,
even, you will bring joy and thanks.
Bring it all. Embrace this most
glorious tree, for it is here that Christ reigns in humility with arms stretched
out in pain, and in love. This day may
we bring all that we are to this cross, emptying ourselves until the only thing
left is God, and then may we take up our own cross, and follow.
The Great Vigil
Ever
since I found her on the side of the road in southwestern Virginia in 2007, my
dog—your chaplain—Casey,
has taught me many lessons. But lately
she has taken up an interesting habit, and I think there’s
more to it than meets the eye. Routinely
Casey will stand in the doorways of our home.
Sometimes she straddles it, other times she sits in one room while her
tail wags in another. Nearly every time I return home there's Casey standing at the top of the small
staircase that separates the lower and upper levels of our house. She's standing in a liminal
space. I thought it was just a thing she
liked doing at home, but no, earlier this week while we were frantically making
bulletins and working on getting things ready for Easter, I looked up and saw
her standing in the door between the chapel and hallway. The liminal dog, as we have taken to calling her. She’s trying to teach
us something, something about the wonder and mystery and beauty of an
in-between space, a thin space, a liminal space.
For
that is where we sit right now, in a liminal space, in the space between: between Easter and Holy Week, between light
and darkness, between life and death.
This is the place where Jesus resides, for this night is his
Passover. We hear again that familiar
story of the first Passover, when God brought the children of Israel from their
bondage of Egypt, and they passed over from slavery into freedom. In the same way, Jesus is about to pass over
from the darkness of death into the light of life. The word liminal
comes from the Latin limin, which
means “threshold”,
and right now Jesus sits at the threshold.
We sit with him at the threshold
of everything. Like a mother in the
moments before a birth, or the sun in the seconds prior to its rising, we find
ourselves with Jesus ready for what is to come.
But for the moment, we sit in this space.
We
may wish that we could just jump to Sunday morning. To the eggs, the seer sucker suits, the big
hats, and the lunch at the K and W Cafeteria—my Easter tradition
for two years now. Why come to church on
a Saturday night, especially when there’s basketball to
watch? Why sit in the dark with these
candles that are dripping wax and losing their flames by the second? Because right here, brothers and sisters,
this is what it is all about. This is
the Christian experience all wrapped up in one liturgy; beginning in darkness, moving through sacred waters into light, singing
the praises of our God, who is always standing in those liminal spaces. Tonight it’s our turn.
This
night calls us to remember our own liminal spaces, those moments in our lives
where we are in-between. Sitting in the
doctor’s office waiting for the
prognosis. Holding a dear loved one’s
hand as she simultaneously clings to life on this side of the Kingdom while
preparing for life on the other side.
Standing at the door of the next job interview, hoping this will be the
one, unsure of what is coming next.
These liminal moments are not ones that we would choose to embrace. They are terrifying, in fact. Yet this is the lesson that I think Casey is
trying to teach me. She stands and sits
in those in-between places with a calmness, a serenity of sorts. In her example I am reminded that God does
the same thing, albeit on a much-larger scale.
For there is no place that is beyond the reach of God, there is no place
where God’s light can’t
shine, no fearful territory that God cannot stand. God is ever-present in those liminal spaces,
never confounded to once place or one time, but always moving, always being
liminal. Perhaps tonight, as we
anxiously await Easter’s dawn, we might embrace this
in-between space where we dwell. Sit
with it for a second. Feel the darkness
around you, knowing that in mere moments light will break through. We are there, in the tomb with Jesus. We are not just remembering Jesus’
Passover from death to life, no, we are experiencing it ourselves. And in so doing, are able to remember, any
time we find ourselves in those liminal, frightening places, that it is the
very place where Jesus dwells. Leave it
to my liminal dog to teach me that lesson.
The Feast of the Resurrection
Welcome one and all to this very special
April Fools Day!
Don’t let anyone ever tell you that God doesn’t have a
sense of humor. Today proves that! As churches throughout the world proclaim
that glorious affirmation that the Lord is risen indeed, there’s a part of us
that can’t help but whisper, “April fools!”
Because if we think about it from any sort of rational standpoint, the
entire exercise of this day is laughbale.
That God would take an instrument of shameful death and turn into an
instrument of life? That a poor, nomadic
carpenter turned rabbi, with a congregation consisting of protsitutes, drunks,
sleezy accountants, and the mentally ill, preaching a message of nonviolent
resistance, could take on a world superpower?
And what’s more, that that carpenter could actually defeat that
superpower by, get this, being executed by it?! Yeah, it’s all rather hilarious when
you think about it. It is the greatest April
Fools joke anyone has ever concocted!
I can’t help but think of the image of laughing Jesus in its many variations. There was a church I
served in South Carolina before going to seminary, which had a laughing Jesus
in the back of the nave, so every time we would process down we could look up
and there he was hanging from the balcony.
But then folks complained (because it's the church, so of course they did!). It’s
distracting, they said. This is church, and it is serious business; after all, we sing our serious hymns, and our
ministers hold their hands in a serious manner. Excessive laughing, crying, or any emotional expression will not
be tolerated! We Episcopalians are, of course, the frozen chosen. Thus my
rector, an interim who didn’t want to rock the boat too much, caved in and took
laughing Jesus down. Why so serious?!
Laughing Jesus
What we don’t realize, though, is that so much of what we
treat with such an intense seriousness, is actually a joke. That’s right, it’s a joke. Our procession in and out each Sunday morning, mocks
the practice of imperial processions and military parades.. On Maundy Thursday we washed each other’s
feet, the dirtiest job for a household servant in Jesus’ day, which reminds us
that God’s kingdom looks like people serving each other, not trying to one-up
each other, a mockery of the way this world actually works. The Bible itself, our library of sacred texts
revered by Christians the world over, is actually filled with a bunch of humorous
moments--and I'm not just talking about that time God spoke
through a donkey (that's in Numbers, chapter 22). This is especially true for the gospels of Jesus, and none more so than Mark, the first Gospel.
Now Mark is not the earliest writing of what we call the
New Testament--that honor goes to Paul and his letters--but Mark does give us
the first full-length account of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus of
Nazareth. And boy, is it a hoot! You've
got Jesus, over and over again,
lamenting the fact that his followers just don't get it: "Y'all do realize that by following me
you're gonna be killed, right? You sure
about this?" "Oh, yeah, Jesus,
totally. By the way, can my brother and
me have seats next to you in the Kingdom?" Noobs! Or how about after Jesus feeds 5,000 people, and a few days later the same situation comes up with a crowd of 4,000, and his
disciples still wonder "Where are we gonna get enough bread?" Seriously, were you not paying
attention?! Gimme the bread and
fish!
Maybe the funniest part of Mark's Gospel, though, is the
fact that over and over again, Jesus performs these miracles, and then tells
the people not to say anything, and yet each time they do it anyway. See, in Mark's Gospel Jesus is not concerned
with gaining any sort of fame for himself.
He's not about getting people to worship and adore him, he just wants
folks to see that the Kingdom of God has come near. Go and show yourself to the people, he says,
just don't tell them that I did it. Do they listen? Nope! Mark even tells us that the
more fiercely Jesus ordered them not to say anything, the more loudly they
proclaimed it (that's Mark 7: 36). We did
a dramatic reading of Mark on Tuesday of Holy Week, going through the whole
thing in one sitting, and as one participant said afterwards, "I didn't realize just
how funny it is!" Have you seen
that image of Facepalm Jesus, a statue of Jesus with his head in his hand? Yeah, that.
The Gospel is full of that.
Then we come to today, to the Resurrection, the most
serious event, maybe in all of human history, for without it we have no such
thing as Christianity. The stone is
rolled away, the women meet the Man in White, and he tells them the good news,
"He is raised! He's not here. Go and tell Peter, tell the other disciples,
he's gone to Galilee, as he told you."
And what comes next? "They
said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid." All this time Jesus had told them to keep
quiet about him, and they finally listened!
At the worst possible time they finally listened, and just like that,
the original story of Mark's Gospel ends.
Do ya get it?! It's
hilarious! Then again, maybe you just had
to be there.
Now sure, later Gospels will portray the disciples in more
favorable lights, and gradually their post-Resurrection accounts will get
bigger and bigger--Mark only has eight lines to describe Easter, but by the
time John writes a few decades later his Gospel has 56. Today though, all we have is an empty tomb and
a group of bumbling fools who were never really able to listen to their teacher. Yet somehow, here we are, 2000 years later on
the other side of the world, remembering the story and trying to find new
meaning in it for ourselves in our own time.
And that's the final punchline of this grand cosmic joke that God
played.
I write for a blog called Modern Metanoia, and one of my
co-bloggers, writing about today's story of the Resurrection, compares it to a
Choose Your Own Adventure book:
"Will the women eventually go and tell the rest of the disciples
about what they have seen and heard? Will the disciples listen and go to
Galilee? Will they see Jesus there? Will you? If you want to know the end of
the story, you have to live it yourself."
