The Easter Prayer

The Easter Prayer

Text: Luke 24:13-35

(Gary W. Charles at Cove Presbyterian Church on 4-30-2017)

          Emmaus is not as much a destination as it is a state of mind. Emmaus is “the place we go in order to escape,” writes Fred Buechner, “Emmaus is whatever we do or wherever we go to make ourselves forget that the world holds nothing sacred: that even the wisest and bravest and loveliest decay and die; that even the noblest ideas that people have had – ideas about love and freedom and justice – have always in time been twisted out of shape by people for selfish ends.”^[1]

          For Luke, Emmaus is not just where the two despondent disciples are going; it is what they are doing. They are getting out of town, doing whatever they can to get Jesus off their minds, out of their hearts. They are on the way to wherever they can go to forget that whatever is lovely and sacred dies; they are headed to Emmaus – that place of forgetting, just when someone makes them remember.

Luke tells us that the unannounced stranger on the road is really the risen Jesus, but for the two disciples who are Emmaus bound, he is an ignorant stranger, the only person on earth who has not heard about the horrendous and horrifying execution of Jesus. The two disciples pour out their hearts to this utter stranger. They tell him how much they had hoped Jesus was the one to bring in God’s promised reign.

The stranger on the Emmaus road listens to their woes and then he speaks. What he says is surprisingly curt. He does not comfort them, saying, “I know you must be really hurting now. I can feel your pain.” He says nothing nearly so trite. In fact, he is downright rude. He calls them: “Idiots!  Fools!” Then he asks them: “Have you never read your Bible?” By the time, he has explained the story of Abraham, Moses, David, the Exile, and the return to Jerusalem, they have reached the disciples’ home. 

          At the house, Jesus bids them farewell, but they say: “No. Stay with us for evening is coming.” Actually, by this point, they may well be ready for this biblical know-it-all to move along, but instead, they offer this stranger their hospitality and the stranger stays – at least, for a while.   

Do you remember that story in Genesis when Abraham and Sarah in their great old age are visited by two strangers? Little do they know that these aliens are actually angels. Abraham and Sarah offer them their hospitality and the angels stay long enough to tell this old couple that the next pregnancy test will be positive.  Years later, in The Letter to the Hebrews, the hospitality of Abraham and Sarah is described as “entertaining angels unawares.”

           Inside the house of the two despondent disciples, the story begins to sound something like what you and I often hear inside this sanctuary, what we will hear with old friends returning home next Sunday. The sage, talkative stranger takes bread and blesses it and breaks it and gives it to the two disciples. At that precise moment, the fog lifts and they recognize that he is no stranger; he is the risen Jesus.

Then two things happen almost simultaneously. The risen Jesus vanishes from their sight and yet he does not vanish from their hearts. They experience a serious case of religious nostalgia as they revisit all he said to them while walking along the road from Jerusalem to Emmaus.

          That is not all they do. Within the hour, they leave Emmaus. If Emmaus is the place to go when hope has decayed and died, then they cannot stay there, because hope has been reborn in them. It is not just that they want to leave; they MUST leave. You cannot stay in Emmaus once you have seen the risen Lord.

          I love this story. I love its powerful reserve. I love the way it challenges the typical pious Christian comment: “I’m on a sacred journey to find Jesus.” The Emmaus story is not about our search for God, but God’s search for us, even when we are deep in denial, lost in grief, on the run.  

          I am not an Episcopalian, but I do admire many Anglican and Episcopalian prayers. During those times when I have walked the Emmaus road, I have turned to the Book of Common Prayer for words of insight and inspiration. In Luke’s Emmaus story, two disciples invite Jesus to, “Stay with us, for it is almost evening and the day is nearly over.” The Book of Common Prayer captures this ancient act of hospitality in a moving prayer: “Lord Jesus, stay with us, for evening is at hand and the day is past; be our companion in the way, kindle our hearts and awaken hope that we may know you as you are revealed in scripture and the breaking of bread. Grant this for the sake of your love.” 

           “Stay with us” is the invitation by the two hospitable disciples. It is not just their prayer, but the prayer of the church, the Easter prayer, a most plural prayer. This prayer is born in hospitality and issued in gratitude, not from a desire to keep God captive here, but to celebrate God’s grace out there. 

           When we pray for Jesus to abide with us, we pray that you and I will be changed from despair into hope, from sorrow into joy. It is to pray that our eyes be opened to God’s risen presence in the most unlikely places, among the most unexpected strangers.

If we pray the Easter prayer, “stay with us,” we will no longer be able to drive by bombed out city neighborhoods as if they were not our problem or stare at a panhandling stranger as if she were an anonymous intrusive nuisance. To pray the Easter pray is to follow Jesus out of here to wherever God’s children cry out in misery, follow him to jail cells and hospice rooms and civic meetings. The tomb could not hold Jesus, neither can any church building – no matter how old, no matter how historic. He is risen! He is not only here! He is out there!

          To pray the Easter prayer, then, is to hear Jesus shouting for shalom over the separation wall dividing Israel from Palestine, to see Jesus walking the halls of Congress like a mad man who knows that peace is possible for those who desire it more than they desire the economic boom of war. To pray the Easter prayer is to watch Jesus holding a calculator and announcing that the real federal deficit is a deficit of compassion for the working poor, the disabled, the sick, and the aliens who pick our crops, clean our houses, and staff our stores. To pray the Easter prayer is to follow Jesus to wherever the gifts of clean air, water, and soil are being spoiled by greed or neglect. Pray the Easter prayer and we will most likely find the risen Jesus walking along Rte. 29, strolling the streets of Crozet and Charlottesville with our sisters and brothers struggling to find a safe and affordable place to live.       

          “Stay with us” may sound like a nice, sweet, innocuous church prayer. “Sweet hour of prayer.” “Sweet hour of prayer.” But the Easter prayer extends long beyond Sunday morning worship hour and intrudes long after into every part of our day and into every aspect of our lives. Just ask the two disciples walking the road from Jerusalem to Emmaus. They probably wondered: “What bother can this stranger possibly be?” “How much can it cost us to give this guy some bread and wine?” “Sure, stay with us tonight.” 

How much did it cost them? It cost them their lives. They would never again walk that Emmaus road assuming that they were alone; never walk that familiar path resolved that life is one long extended disappointing replay. They would never again listen to scripture read or break bread and drink wine without remembering how the risen Christ came alive in their midst.

What about us? Are we ready to pray the Easter prayer? I wish I could jump up and down and say, “Yes, Lord, I am ready,” but I have walked too far along the Emmaus road, am too well acquainted with Emmaus, too often comfortable in Emmaus, too stubborn to let go of all my disappointment and despair and fear.    

What two despondent disciples discovered in the comfort of their own Emmaus home was that it is not so much about whether we are ready or not, but that the risen Jesus is ready for us, ready to open our eyes to see his life giving presence even in our haunts of hiding, even in Emmaus. Luke tells this story to call the church to prayer, the Easter prayer, “stay with us.” It is the most powerful prayer that will ever come off any person’s or congregation’s lips. It is a prayer that will cost us our lives.

May God, then, give us the courage, to pray: “Lord Jesus, stay with us; be our companion in the way, kindle our hearts and awaken hope, that we may know you as you are revealed in scripture and the breaking of bread. Grant this for the sake of your love.” 

                                                                      AMEN

---

^[1]On pages 85-86 of Frederick Buechner’s, The Magnificent Defeat.

A Late Easter

A Late Easter

John 20:19-31

(Gary W. Charles, Cove Presbyterian Church, Covesville, VA, 4-23-2017)

Sometimes Easter comes late. Actually, oftentimes, Easter comes late. It came late for Thomas, but it also came late for his male colleagues. On Easter morning, the Risen Jesus meets Mary in the garden after which she runs to tell the boys, “I have seen the Lord.” That first Easter night, though, they do not throw the party to beat all parties. They lock the door and bolt it, close the curtains, and huddle together, awash in a puddle of fear, giving Mary’s report almost no credence. 

          Then the Risen Jesus arrives. He is clearly the crucified Jesus, because the marks of torture cannot be missed, but at the same time, he is the resurrected Jesus, something more than a disembodied ghost on the loose. He arrives not to lecture them, “Why in the world didn’t you trust what Mary told you this morning?!” He arrives to reassure them, to show them that resurrection is the final word of God. Unfortunately, Thomas is gone; on that incredible night, Thomas misses Easter.

When the missing disciple returns with the groceries, his colleagues stumble over themselves telling him exactly what they had not believed when Mary told them earlier that day. After they tell Thomas all about the wild and mysterious visit by the Risen Jesus, he does not shout, “Amen! Hallelujah” nor is he wracked with doubt – “Maybe what they are saying is right, but I am just not sure.” No, Thomas is dead certain that his good friend Jesus is still good and dead. He is not “Doubting Thomas,” a flawed nickname if there ever was one. He is “Dead Certain” Thomas. The Greek is extraordinarily emphatic here, something like, “I will never believe what you are saying; do you think I have lost my mind?”  

          The Gospel writer also tells us that Thomas is a “Twin.” I would suggest that is more than a genetic statement. In fact, most folks walking around today in and out of the church are Thomas’s twin. One of his most famous “twins” was our own Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson was a big fan of Jesus, but only the all-too-human, good moral teacher, Jesus. In the “Jefferson Bible,” Jefferson gets rid of all the miraculous stories of Jesus with razor precision, including the Easter miracle. In Jefferson’s Bible, the story of Jesus ends this way: “Now, in the place where He was crucified, there was a garden; and in the garden a new sepulcher, wherein was never man yet laid. There laid they Jesus. And rolled a great stone to the door of the sepulcher and departed.” Like the disciple Thomas, his “Twin,” Thomas Jefferson, did not doubt that Jesus was somehow both human and divine; Jefferson knew that Jesus was only human.

As far as we know, Easter never came for Jefferson, but as the story unfolds, it does finally come for Thomas. It comes one week later when the Risen Jesus returns to the same house and this time Thomas is home. The Risen Jesus enters the room and says what we say every time we worship together, “Peace be with you.”   

Jesus then turns to Thomas and invites him to do what most of us would love to do – to prove that the dead Jesus has risen, to confirm that by God’s grace the tomb or the urn is not the final reality for our loved ones or for us. Jesus tells Thomas to: "Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not be unbelieving, but believing" (John 20:27, Author’s Translation).

Instead, “Dead Certain” Thomas does exactly what he swore he would never do. He does not take Jesus up on the offer. Thomas believes without completing the empirical test. In fact, Thomas makes one of the most profound professions of faith in all the New Testament. He looks at the crucified and resurrected Jesus and proclaims, “My Lord and my God.”

Traditionally, the Sunday after Easter is called “Low Sunday.” The crowds are gone, the music a bit more subdued, the Hallelujahs a little less boisterous, the lilies out the side door. My friend, Martin Copenhaver describes the day well:  “To be in worship on such a day can feel a bit like showing up at a party after most of the guests have left and those who remain report on what a grand time you missed by coming too late” (Feasting on the Word, Year A, Vol 2, p. 394).

It was “Low Sunday” when Easter came for Thomas, when he went from “Dead Certain” that all the Easter talk was so much wishful thinking to being dead certain that somehow the crucified and Risen Jesus was standing right before him and he exclaims, “My Lord and my God.”

Notice how Jesus receives this burst of devotion from Thomas. Jesus does not pat Thomas on the back and congratulate him on this new found faith. Instead, Jesus asks Thomas a question and then makes a sweeping statement. Jesus asks: "Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe” (v. 29).  

“Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” Somehow, the Risen Jesus knew that for most people Easter will come late, must come late, because Thomas was one of the few who saw the Risen Jesus, crucified marks and all. Easter comes at all to any of us because the Risen Jesus still comes to us in the lives of people who help us to say “yes” to faith, people who teach in winsome ways or preach with persuasion or write with too much conviction to be ignored.  

“Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” Easter came to me because of so many people who passed on the faith, who dared to say “yes” to the Risen Jesus even though they could not prove it. Easter came to me because of my maternal Methodist grandmother who taught me to love the God I meet in the Psalms, especially the King James Version of the Psalms, even though I could never convince her that Jesus did not speak King James’ English.

Easter came to me because of parents who did not talk the faith often, but who lived the Christian faith in ways that I understand better each day. Easter came to me because of special adults who were not repelled by my doubts and questions as a youth, but instead,  invited me to do what the poet Rilke advises:  “Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer” (Letters to a Young Poet).

Easter came to me because of women and men in every church that I have served who have been walking examples of the goodness of God, women and men who loved me and forgave me, even when I was unlovable and unforgivable. Easter came to me because of Christian social activists who taught me that God loves this world and has little use for pastors and people who want to hide in church. These are the ones who have modeled for me the Risen Jesus’ blessing of “peace,” teaching me that strength does not create peace but peace creates strength.  

          Easter came to me because of Wellford Hobbie who taught me that it is a profound privilege to stand in the pulpit, so do not waste God’s time; because of Bud Achetemeir and Jim Mays and Sib Towner who taught me that the Bible is like walking through a magical door into a room with the greatest mysteries of life, so do not treat it like a bland, moral cookbook; because of Bill Oglesby who peeled away the pretty niceties of pastoral care, so I would never be tempted to think that you can call in care for those in need.

          Easter came to me as a gift from unsuspecting men and women throughout my life who gave to me the gift of Easter faith. Yes, I know the correct theological answer is that the gift of faith comes from God’s Spirit and it does. But its delivery system is living, breathing, women and men of faith. Take a moment and think about who delivered Easter to you, who helped you believe beyond all your uncertainties, amid all your questions, who makes it possible for you to pray to God even though not one of us can prove that God exists, much less is listening to us.

          If Easter has not yet come for you, is still running late, look around. You are surrounded by a community of Easter people, not “dead certain,” not “without a doubt” people, but Easter people nonetheless. They did not come to faith by themselves and I suspect they would welcome the company as they journey past their unbelief into the mystical and marvelous land of belief.

          Yes, sometimes Easter comes late, but thanks to our generous and generative God and thanks to generous and generative communities of God’s people, Easter comes.

          HALLELUJAH!

AMEN!

  

An Early Easter

An Early Easter

Text: Matthew 28:1-10

(Gary W. Charles, Cove Presbyterian Church, Covesville, VA, 4-16-2017)

I was a bit annoyed. Renee Grisham was interviewing the novelist, Christina Baker Kline about her new book, “a piece of the world.” In the interview, Kline told us the back story of Christina, actually a historical figure who is the young woman lying awkwardly in the field in Andrew Wyeth’s iconic painting, “Christina’s World.” You will see a print of his painting in your pew. Take a brief look at it.

Then, Renee did what any good interviewer would do. She asked Ms. Kline to read from her new book. Kline took the book, flipped to the last few pages and started to read. Who does that?! Who reads the end of a book to a group of potential readers of the book? I don’t want to know how a book ends before I read the first page. I was tempted to shout: STOP.

While I was stewing over this obvious marketing mistake, Kline’s words somehow managed to draw me into “Christina’s world.” In the novel and in real life, from an early age, Christina suffered from a degenerative neurological disease that eventually would leave her physically mangled and unable to walk. All her life, she is the subject of people’s pity, “poor Christina,” a pity that she rejects with intense pride. Most people, even those close to her, know her only by her infirmity, “poor crippled Christina.”

In the novel, Andrew Wyeth asks a much older Christina to pose for a portrait in the field. By this time in her life, the disease has left her with almost no ability to walk. She crawls wherever she needs to go. When Christina views the finished painting, she sees herself at much younger age. She realizes that somehow Wyeth has captured her, portrayed her, and understood her, in a way she has almost never, if ever, been seen and understood. In the penultimate sentence of the book, the older Christina is reflecting on the younger Christina found in this painting. About Christina, Kline writes: “What she wants most—what she truly yearns for—is what any of us want: to be seen” (p. 296). By the time Kline finished the reading and closed the book, I knew I had been absolutely wrong. I needed to read the rest of the story.  

Over the years, I have found that most people do not know what to do with Easter, including church people. They know about all the trappings of Easter—family get-togethers, egg hunts, big meals, new clothes, occasionally, a festive hat, bright colors, lilies, and lots of alleluias—but to know Easter this way is not unlike only knowing Christina as that infirm girl in Wyeth’s painting; there is so much more to know about Easter, so much more to see.  

In one way, Easter is all about seeing Jesus, seeing him as more than an exemplary moral leader, a clever teacher, a fiery social activist, a miraculous healer, a brutal victim of Rome’s violent hand. Easter is all about seeing Jesus, beloved child of God, flesh of our flesh, bone of our bones, in whom and through whom God wrenches life out of the jaws of death.

In another way, Easter is all about the human, crucified, and risen Jesus, seeing us – not the public us, not the dressed up for Easter morning us, not the put your best foot forward to impress others at church us—but seeing the real us beyond all our masks, amid all our brokenness, despite all our infirmity, and yet loving us nonetheless.

 A great irony of Easter in the church is not only how hard it is for us to see Jesus, but how hard we make it for Jesus to see us through our confident chorales our boisterous Alleluias, as if Easter were ever about us setting aside our doubts and fears; to see us through our anger at God over the death of a loved one, the loss of a job, the decline in our capacities, the betrayal of a friend.

Easter is about the human, crucified, and risen Jesus who sees far beyond Peter’s inexcusable denials to a person whom he will entrust with the leadership of the church. Easter is all about the human, crucified, and risen Jesus meeting Mary in the garden and even though at first she cannot see Jesus through her sorrow, he can see her. He sees beyond her sadness and he gently invites her out of the tomb of grief, saying, “Mary, don’t you weep.”

 “What she wants most—what she truly yearns for—is what any of us want: to be seen.” I cannot begin to explain the Risen Jesus, how a man crucified, dead, and buried, is not finally shackled by death. I cannot begin to explain how the walk-the-earth-with-disciples Jesus is also the fresh-out-of-the-tomb Jesus. I cannot begin to criticize Thomas for considering all this Easter talk as so much wishful thinking and religious nonsense. He is in good company, even among many who sing the “Hallelujah Chorus” every Easter morning.

 I can rejoice, though, that the human, crucified, and risen Jesus that I follow sees me, the real me, the without a robe me, the scared of aging and dying me, the too-often-short with my family me, the filled with “what if” religious questions me, the sometimes fine but often failed friend me, the struggle with weight and body image me, the frustrated at bureaucracies, including the church, me. I do not have to pray pretty prayers to assuage God or try to impress Jesus on Easter morning, because God sees me, God knows me just as I am. God sees you. God knows you just as you are. 

That can be a terrifying truth, to be seen and known that intimately. It can also result in an early Easter, for whenever we realize that we are seen and known by a loving and merciful God, Easter has come. Hopefully, Easter will come at our family’s dinner table this morning, as we taste the bread that never runs out and drink from the cup that is never empty. The fare for this meal is soul food, food that gives you Easter dreams when you sleep, dreams of a world where there is enough bread and enough drink for all, where there are always enough loving homes and everyone has access to quality health care, where there are so many people fighting for peace that those who holler for war are drown out. 

In Luke, the human, crucified, and risen Jesus walks with distraught disciples to a town called Emmaus. They are too deep into their grief to see Jesus. It is not until the bread is broken that they see the One who is just waiting to be seen and has seen and known them all along the journey.

So, scoot yourself up to this table, enjoy a heaping helping of this soul food that has been prepared for you and me, then get up from the table and see the world that God loves and for which Christ died and yet lives. Get involved in bringing Christ’s peace into this fearing, vengeful, and death loving world. Do it not because the world has changed today, but because you have. 

What did Kline say about Christina, “What she wants most—what she truly yearns for—is what any of us want: to be seen.” Lean into the truth that the human, crucified, and risen Jesus sees us, knows us, forgives us, welcomes us, loves us, and maybe by God’s glorious grace, Easter may come as early as today.

          AMEN
. 

The Real Triumphal Entry

The Real Triumphal Entry

Text:  Matthew 21:1-11

(Gary W. Charles, Cove Presbyterian Church, Covesville, VA, 4-9-2017)

When Jesus entered the holy city of Jerusalem, there were all kinds of expectations living in that crowd. You are about to listen to an imaginary letter written by a member of a Jewish religious party, the Zealots, who were active in the time of Jesus. The Zealots believed in the power of violence. Some Zealots were no doubt in that Palm Sunday crowd, trusting that Jesus, the Promised Messiah of God, would lead the occupied Jews in a mighty overthrow of Rome. Listen now to this letter to Jacob. 

Dear Jacob,

No life is lived without regrets. As I prepare for evening prayers, I regret you were not with me this morning in Jerusalem. Nothing I say can capture the frenzy of being here for the high holy days. As you know, you do not stroll through this city during the holidays, you squeeze between vendors and tourists, while Romans make an embarrassing show of their power and strange looking Jews from lands I have never heard of pour into the Temple.  

Jacob, as you know, I am not one easily stirred to change my ways or to think differently than I have always thought. I take comfort in tradition and am usually uncomfortable with any who challenge it. I mean no offense by what I am about to say, but I am here less because of your urgings over the years to “go to Jerusalem,” and more because I could not stay away this year.

As a boy, I spent hours fighting the imaginary Philistines and their loud-mouthed, taunting toad, Goliath. I was young David slinging my two smooth stones against the enemy, watching the giant bleed to death, while I shouted a victory cry to God.

Like you, Jacob, I have lived all my life with Goliath spewing his putrid breath all over our land, restricting the movement of our people, taunting us for sport, keeping watch over whatever we do, humiliating us by profaning the Temple, crucifying anyone who gets in the way, and doing things to our women that I cannot bear to imagine.  

Like you, Jacob, I have lived for the day when someone would sling two smooth stones at that Goliath called Caesar, for the day when the Promised Messiah of Israel would rise up against Rome, call together a mighty legion, and deliver a decisive blow against our enemies. I have longed for the time when we could join the chorus of angels responding to the Psalmist’s question, “Who is the King of Glory?” with the glad shout, “The LORD, strong and mighty.”

That is why my heart aches tonight with a strange mixture of regret and exhilaration. Had you been here this morning, you and I would have danced like two proud Jews at a wedding feast when the glass is smashed. Forgive me though, I am getting ahead of myself; I am talking about everything except what did happen this morning. 

I know that your health is not what it once was, certainly not good enough to make this difficult journey. So, as you have often done for me over the years, let me be your eyes for this day of days. Before I do, though, you know me well enough to know that I am not easily impressed by the presence or prowess of another man. Few men alive could do battle with me and live to battle me again. The LORD God, Master of the Universe, blessings be unto him, gave me great strength of body and agility of mind. Not only am I not easily wrestled to the ground, I am not easily fooled by the words of those who purport themselves wise, but are really fools.

I am not one prone to follow, but to be followed by those seeking my counsel or fearing my reprisal. The thought that I would leave behind even an afternoon nap to follow a carpenter from Nazareth is almost laughable. I was born into a prominent family in an influential town; Jesus is from Nazareth that backwater town about which the ancient prophet rightfully asked, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”

Jacob, I know that this Jesus has captured your imagination as well. You were the one who invited me to listen to this wanderer, to watch his enthralling way with people and how crowds came to him like thirsty ones to a pool of water. I do not put much credence in fish tales of miraculous doings, but I do remember how the ancient prophet spoke that when the Promised One of God came that the blind would see, the deaf would hear, and the binding of captivity would burst.

I have followed this Jesus for some time now, even though I am no follower of any man. I have watched him do battle with the best of our debaters and bring healing in ways that I cannot begin to explain. I have prayed, asking, “LORD God, is he the Promised One whom you have sent to redeem our people? Is he our long awaited Messiah who will crush Rome like a wedding glass and restore to us our land and our dignity?”

Finally, God answered my prayer this morning, Jacob. Before today, I did not know how shrewd a military leader this Jesus is. You remember the prophet Zechariah’s ludicrous saying, “Lo, your king comes to you; . . . humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey” (Zech. 9:9)? Zechariah was trying to pacify the powers that be then, for you and I know that no king arrives anywhere on a beast of burden. Rome knows that as well.

So, what happened this morning? How did King Jesus make his grand entrance into Jerusalem? Not just on one beast of burden but two, looking like the ringmaster in a circus. I nearly fell over laughing at the sheer brilliance of his military strategy.

No occupier likes to see a crowd gathering, particularly around anyone but their king. The crowds around Jesus have nearly tripled in size since you last heard him, Jacob. That fact alone made me reluctant to come to Jerusalem.  I steer clear of Romans in a bad mood and big crowds of celebratory Jews, even though they are my own people, always make me nervous.

The Romans on watch must have looked at this crowded, comical procession, and sighed in relief. When we tossed our cloaks and laid our branches and shouted our “hosannas,” our “God save us,” it must have given them a great laugh, and if God is good, their last laugh. They must have laughed themselves silly over this “triumphal” entry into holy Zion. Their sides must have hurt from chortling at this surreal scene of Jesus “the King” sitting astride two burdened beasts with mostly, country peasants tossing branches on the ground as if Jesus were about to mount his throne.

While the Romans laughed in derision at this patchwork parade, I laughed in delight that Jesus was finally ready to rule with the full force of God.  Finally, Jesus will turn this crowd of pitied followers into an unstoppable force of God’s soldiers to join with legions of angels to restore us to our home, our land and like the Egyptians crossing the Red Sea, the Roman hyenas will soon choke in pools of their own filthy blood. 

 As for our brown-nosing brothers, the Sadducees, they will soon find themselves lamenting that they were sleeping with the enemy. And, the pious Pharisees will soon find that they have underestimated this Jesus, losing sleep when he overturns their tedious teachings and stagnant traditions.

 What a brilliant decision that Jesus made to enter Jerusalem like a clown. At least his entrance looked that way to Rome. This morning, though, to those of us zealous for God, we know, at last, we know that Jesus is now poised to do what God has sent him to do – what the wisest prophets have promised from of old. The Romans do not fear this clown, nor do our brothers the Sadducees. The Pharisees do not respect him and his disciples do not understand him. They all will soon learn. Jacob, this is why I wish you were here now, not just to have witnessed the great scene this morning, but to see the devastation that the LORD God is about to unleash on Rome.

 I fear the most for those closest to Jesus, what he calls his “disciples,” those who have followed him month after month. They have heard him talking about the impotence of hatred, the futility of fighting, not lifting sword against sword, the senselessness of one nation imposing its will on another nation. Little do they understand that Jesus has just been pacifying Rome, reeling them in with his verbal nonsense. Little do they see that when all the Jews have arrived for Passover that Jesus will send Pilate into the streets crying for mercy and the Roman guards will wish they had somewhere to run.

Jacob, for those of us who are zealous for the LORD, this is the time for which we have prayed. This is the time when God will turn our plowshares into swords and our new David will lead us. He will not only liberate our people but  will liberate the Roman people as well.  

On this blessed night, I will lift up my voice to the heavens in thanks for Jesus – the one man I will follow, follow with sword in hand until the Sadducees suffer, the Pharisees cower, the disciples know and the Romans taste the same justice that we have known these many years. Jacob, surely today as Jesus entered Zion, we have come to the brink of the reign of God for which you and I have prayed. Surely, today begins the first true holy week. 

O brother Jacob, how I wish you were here.

That is one way to see Jesus, as One who will embrace violence for a holy cause. The Gospel writers invite us to see a different Jesus, a Jesus who will enter Holy Week and weep with Martha and Mary at the sight of death, a Jesus who will tell Peter to put away his sword, a Jesus who will pray for his executioners even as nails are being driven through his hands, a Jesus who though wrongfully executed at Golgotha will insist that we reject violence and trust in his suffering love.

Follow this Jesus, and his entry into Jerusalem and into our lives will truly be triumphant.

  AMEN

                                                       

Last Word

Last Word

If only

If only

If only

Two short words

Yet long words

Longing words

Piercing words

Inflamed words

Spoken without filters

Wrenching words

Condemning words

Mournful words

Spoken by Martha

Spoken by Mary

Spoken by us

I am

I am

I am

Two last words

Grave busting words

Life-giving words

In flesh words

Spoken by

the last Word

Gary W. Charles, April 2, 2017

(inspired by John 11:1-45)

Last Word

Text: John 11:1-45

(Gary W. Charles, Cove Presbyterian Church, Covesville, VA, 4-2-2017

If you want to make lots of money in the movie business today, dust off an old Marvel comic book and resurrect an action superhero. Along with remakes of the classics – Superman, Superwoman, Wonder Woman, the Incredible Hulk, and Batman, newer movies also feature Wolverine, Spiderman, Ironman, Aquaman, Thor, Captain America. In the comics, superheroes find a winning way to confront super villains and no matter how evil the world, superheroes always prevail in the end.

Some people see Jesus as yet one more superhero and they read today’s story that way. As Superhero Jesus, he hears about the impending death of his friend Lazarus, but does not rush to save him, because he knows that even after Lazarus dies, he will go to the tomb, shout down death, and brother Lazarus will come out dancing. He dismisses the “if only” protestations of Martha and then Mary, because superheroes always prevail in the end; so Martha and Mary should know that! Later,  Jesus can even go to his own tomb knowing that as a superhero he will only be paying it a fleeting visit.

I doubt if the movie business will ever make much money off “Jesus the Superhero,” though Mel Gibson gave it a good try some years back. Even in John’s Gospel, Jesus is way too human to fit into a comic cape. Jesus does what any feeling human being does in the face of death; he joins his friends Martha and Mary and he weeps.  

Jesus weeps. Well, that is a problem and the presenting cause for Jesus to be disqualified from admission into the Superhero Club. Superheroes do not weep; they get even! They chase down the mutant gene that has caused Lazarus to get sick unto death and then they destroy that deadly gene. They zoom into the tomb and in a fantastic display of power walk out of the tomb holding the dead man, now living, on their shoulders. Then they round up all the scoffers in the crowd and destroy them with a fantastical flourish. That is what superheroes do! They do not weep!

No matter how hard we try to script him that way, Jesus is no superhero. True, in John, there are hints of superhero behavior by Jesus. He knows what the dense disciples cannot figure out; he knows that Lazarus is not having a three day sleep; he knows that Lazarus is dead. In this story, Jesus is more than a human friend of Lazarus; he is also the Promised Child of God, chosen to bring life to the world. Jesus does what no one before and no one since has done; he calls Lazarus, long dead, to walk his stinking self out of the tomb. And, Lazarus does.

Even so, throughout John, Jesus is all too human. He meets Martha and Mary, just as he meets us, in our grief. Faced with the death of a friend, Jesus the not-so-superhero weeps. Faced with the pain of grief and horror of death, Jesus wept. He still does.

Jennell, Kelly, and I have each spent significant time in Haiti. The poorest country in the Northern Hemisphere, a short plane ride from Miami, was devastated by a catastrophic earthquake in 2010, only to be followed by a catastrophic hurricane in 2016, only to be stripped of its natural resources by international businesses and foreign countries, and Jesus weeps.

Did you know that our country has “the second highest child poverty rate among 35 industrialized countries . . . A child in the United States has a 1 in 5 chance of being poor and the younger she is the poorer she is likely to be.” (Children’s Defense Fund). Over twenty million children in the U.S. live in extreme poverty, many having access to no more than one meal a day, while income inequality has reached record highs, and Jesus weeps.

In the 140 years of record-keeping, the past ten years have been the warmest years on record and last year was the warmest year of all (source: NOAA), and still leaders across the land play ostrich when asked to deal with the daunting consequences of climate change, and Jesus weeps.

A few years back in Atlanta, Brian and Sharon and Joshua Blount paid us a visit. Josh went for a run and was stopped by the neighborhood patrol. His only offense was that he was a young black male running in a predominantly white neighborhood, and Jesus weeps.

Hardly a day passes without news of a friend, a church member, a colleague whose body is being assaulted by cancer or whose mind is under attack from dementia or whose personality is being ripped apart by mental illness, and Jesus weeps.

The church in America has reared one or more generations of young people who do not see Jesus as a Superhero nor do they see him as the beloved and chosen Child of God. For too many people today, Jesus is simply not on their everyday radar at all. They do not necessarily think poorly of Jesus; they simply do not think of him at all, the One who is the light of the world and our living water, the resurrection and the life, and Jesus weeps.

Maybe John made a mistake in how he tells the story of Jesus? Maybe the story should begin where it ends, with the Risen Jesus looking far more like a superhero, walking through doors, appearing and disappearing out of nowhere. Maybe John, along with Matthew, Luke, and especially Mark, start their stories in the wrong place.

After all, who wants to follow a Jesus who hours before his own death begs God to change God’s mind? Who wants to follow a Jesus who can be angry enough at economic exploitation to disrupt shady commerce going on in the Temple? Who wants to follow a Jesus who does not call down a legion of angels against wrongful execution as devils nail him to a cross? Who wants to follow that kind of Jesus?

I do. I want to follow a human Jesus, who weeps in the face of death, who gets angry in the face of economic exploitation, who trusts in the grand love of God even when that love does not bypass the tomb. I want to follow Jesus right out of Lent and into Easter, right out of all that is deadly in me and in the world into the life-giving purposes of God. 

I want to stand by my mother’s and father’s and brother’s graves and know my Redeemer Liveth and because Jesus does so will my father and brother and mother  and so will you and so will I. I want to eat this bread and drink this cup because Jesus invites me to a feast where the food never runs out and where the dress is “come as you are.” I want to follow Jesus into prison cells and under the bypass of highways, into homeless shelters and into refugee camps, and  into schools where the children enter hungry every morning, because if the parable Jesus tells elsewhere is true, that is where I will surely find Jesus, not the Superhero Jesus, but the Beloved Child of God, Jesus.

I want to trust in the all-too-human, weeping, crucified, and yet, by God’s grace, risen Jesus who is the last word of God, a word of life, who gives life, who calls forth life even from the bowels of death. Now that is a Jesus worthy of all my trust. In that Jesus, I do trust.

AMEN