From Joy to Disaster

Luke 23:1-49

Jesus finally makes it into Jerusalem. It’s a triumphant entry—full of pomp and circumstance, full of hope and possibility as the masses cry out to him “save us!” But their hope and joy will soon turn to disappointment: Jesus isn’t what they expect, salvation isn’t easy, and he will not turn out to be a quick solution. And the cries of praise, will turn to cries of death threats—because we are all Fickle human beings.

Jesus has a full itinerary for the holy city. As he enters Jerusalem, he weeps: “If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes . . . because you did not recognize the time of your visitation from God.” (Luke 19:41-44).

He enters the temple, overturns the tables, and cleanses the “den of robbers.” He teaches in the temple for a few days and all the while, the priests, and the scribes, and the leaders search for ways to kill him. They are supposed to be the religious authorities, and this man is trying to change everything, and completely criticizing their practices and authority. But so far, they can’t do anything, because the people are completely “spellbound.”

The joyful religious expectation of the crowd doesn’t last long and they begin to turn against him. It’s slow at first, but their excitement dwindles. Perhaps it’s when they realize how much Jesus will demand of them. Perhaps it’s when he mentions that their beloved city, of memories and relics, will be destroyed. His critics publicly attack him, looking for any slip up. They confront and try to trick him, on a procedural note, on the question of taxes, so that they might get him into trouble with the government, but Jesus doesn’t fall for it and isn’t about to suggest civil disobedience. “Whose face is on the coin,” he asks. Give that coin to the man who’s on it: “to Caesar what is Caesar’s, to God what is God’s.” He denounces the scribes for their corruption. But then his teachings take a turn, he tells of the coming destruction of Jerusalem and the distress that will follow.

In the midst of all of this action and preaching, his disciple Judas, under the influence of evil and greed, makes a deal. They still don’t have proper charges, and never will, but with the disciple’s betrayal, Jesus popularity is beginning to erode. They probably do not like this talk of destruction and wrath. Jesus isn’t shaping up to be the kind of savior we really and truly want—one to take us, shelter us, and make it all better, to give us power, and a kingdom again. This disapproval becomes just after Jesus’ arrest, did they loose faith when he didn’t escape and save himself? What kind of savior can save us, if he can’t save himself? What strange hypocrisy. Some might have realized where this was all heading, and where Jesus would take them—and it didn’t look one little bit like salvation, it looked like death. The cross has always been a stumbling block. We worship a crucified savior, a risen Lord to be sure, but a Messiah who faced death as a criminal before the glory of the resurrection.

And because his popular approval has eroded, the authorities, both religious and civil, have more confidence in going after him. And suddenly, our triumphant savior, is arrested, we standby, watching him be betrayed, beaten, humiliated. Like any criminal. And we wonder if he was ever really the Messiah. The full scope of emotion in such a short time leaves us reeling.

We know there is blessed victory in the end, but before we get to the celebration, we must endure the suffering first. Before we get to the crown, we must suffer the cross.

The religious authorities take Jesus to the local civil authority, to Pilate. And like any good District Attorney, Pilate doesn’t want to try a criminal that he can’t convict and mercifully doesn’t want to put the wrong man to death. They mount the lies against him, even saying that Jesus told them not to pay taxes, which is clearly not what he actually said. Pilate only cares about the accusation that Jesus is claiming to be a king. So Pilate asks, did you call yourself a king? And Jesus says, “You say so.” Jesus could really use a lawyer at this point, but he goes on defending himself in this enigmatic way instead of stating clearly “No, I didn’t technically say those words.” And Pilate finds that Herod actually has jurisdiction here and sends Jesus on his way.

And Herod, Herod, that fox, who has been waiting to fulfill his own father’s longing of meeting this man, the famous threat. But like Pilate, his questioning gets no where and he sends Jesus back. With no solid charges, Pilate wants to flog Jesus and release him.

But the crowd cries out and beg him to release a murderer instead—to trade Barabbas who is a true threat to society, but somehow not as scary as Jesus. In their minds, it would be better to have a murderer on the streets than Jesus. They choose a murderer because of their fear and misunderstandings. They choose to do the exact opposite of what is good for them

And so Jesus carries his cross and dies beside two other criminals. Even in those final moments, his innocence is recognized by one of the criminals and by a Roman Centurion. But it doesn’t make a difference.

And so Jesus suffered and died. He was brave, he was merciful and full of grace. But he died. Leaving his disciples and his family to wonder what on earth had just happened—to wonder what they had done with the last few years of their lives, and was it worth it, the miracles, the people they had healed and met and dined with, so important at the time, so meaningful, so life changing. But here they are at the foot of the cross, and they just had to wonder why he couldn’t just save himself, why he couldn’t have just said the right words and gotten himself out of it all . . .

I hope for them, in the back of their minds they remembered Jesus’ words, about how all of this was going to happen, but it had to feel like disaster to them . . . they also went from celebrities, to outcasts, hiding out, hoping not to be recognized, even though that had been so visible just days before.

As we head into this week, may we remember the hopeful celebration of Easter that awaits us. May we remember that God can transform anything: even a death by capital punishment, into an act of salvation.

Let us pray:

With holy anger, Christ,

Disrupt the power that feeds

Upon the cruel sacrifice

Of others’ rights and needs.

As you turned over tables

And sent coins

Spinning and jangling

Across the temple floor,

Disrupt the unholy commerce

In our hearts:

Selling faith

For security

And trade justice

For peace.

By your holy anger

Drive out every transaction

That profanes

The house of prayer

By that same anger start

What evil can’t defeat:

A stubborn passion in the heart

To see god’s will complete.

Baptize us with fire

Hotter than Herod’s wrath

Until we no longer mute

The fury in our hearts

At the slaughter

Of the innocents.

Baptize us with fire!

But do not let our rage

Grow bitter as the din

Of fierce mean minds that fail to gauge

When anger turns to sin.

Instead, let anger be

The first note

In love’s ascending scale,

The starting tone

Of heaven’s dove:

“O Jerusalem, Jerusalem,

if only you knew

the things that make for peace . . .”

Instead, let anger be compassion’s kindling fire

That lights in us the energy to live as you desire.[1]

---

[1] Troeger, Thomas H. Above the Moon Earth Rises: Hymn Texts, Anthems, and Poems for a New Creation

God’s Justice

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

The story of the prodigal son is the third in a series of parables that Jesus tells the tax collectors and sinners, the Pharisees and scribes. The stories all share a common theme: there is the lost sheep—in which the shepherd leaves his 99 sheep in order to find the one that was lost. There is the woman who searches her entire house until she finds a single coin. And now the story of the youngest son who runs off, squanders his inheritance, and then comes back, humbled and apologetic, only to be greeted triumphantly by his father.

What was once lost now is found. Even if it’s only one seemingly insignificant thing like a tax collector or a sinner

It’s a comforting story. If we get lost along the way, even if we’re the only one missing, God will come back, find us, and bring us to safety. God isn’t going to choose to save the many over the one; God is going to save all of us. And it doesn’t matter if we’ve wandered off, gotten lost in a couch cushion, or really blown it and run away—God still goes looking. It’s such good news because we’ve all been lost. We are lost. We all desperately want to be found. We want to be welcomed, to be taken in and greeted with a feast. We want that extravagant generosity, from God, and from the people in our lives—that unconditional forgiveness, even when we’ve left, and squandered all our riches, and slept in a pen with pigs.

It’s not such a great story, if you’re a Pharisee or a scribe, the older brother, one of the 99 sheep, one of the coins in the purse, one who has always done what you’re supposed to do, followed the leader, not gotten lost. It’s not particularly fair to the first who become last.

Sometimes we’re the older, faithful sibling, and sometimes we’re the younger reckless one, but the good thing is that God loves both of them, loves us all the same, and none of us deserve it. The father is generous enough to give out the inheritance without strings or questions—able to give out that freedom, suspecting, perhaps knowing that it will be completely abused, but giving out that choice nonetheless. And upon return, the younger son, knowing he has sinned, fully repentant, comes back home with his ears down and his tail between his legs. He doesn’t even ask to be his father’s son anymore, because he’s blown his chance, he doesn’t deserve that honor. He just needs a place to work and sleep, and he’s happy to be a servant. But his father’s extravagant grace strikes again, and he does the unexpected, he opens his arms, and welcomes his son home, as a true son, as a beloved son—no need for penance or second class citizenship, his old place is restored, and he is honored for his return.

Haven’t we ever wandered away from God, haven’t we wondered how God would receive us, if God would receive us, if God would turn away from us, or take us back only after a trial period of good behavior, and even then there would be conditions and restrictions. Maybe we feel that way now. If God really knew us, knew all the things we had done and thought then God wouldn’t love us. We’ve rejected God and turned away too many times, we’ve been told that God won’t love us anymore, doesn’t want us. The comparison to a loving parent only goes so far—because too many times parents really do turn away from their children, do withhold their love, and refuse to face them and welcome them as their own. But God isn’t like that. God doesn’t care why we left or how long we were gone or what we did or thought or said, no matter how truly terrible. No matter if it gives us chills or keeps us up at night, no matter if it’s the most horrible thing a human being has ever done, God is still happy to see us—and it’s a real, and genuine welcome, not hesitant, not conditional, but it’s as if we never left, never turned away, never failed in our own love.

And the real point of the parables is that none of us deserve this extravagance. It’s not fair and it’s not just, but it’s mercy. The big brother, the little brother—neither deserve it.

Sara Miles is the author of two books and the director of ministry for St. Gregory’s Episcopal Church in San Francisco. There, she runs a food pantry that feeds 800 people every week. And unlike most pantries, they give away food for anyone who needs it. They don’t keep records, or keep track of who qualifies for food stamps, or who got food last week, or who has legal citizenship. Because if you’re hungry and you need food, then you can have it, whether or not you deserve it, because that is exactly the point. The food is like God’s grace and no one deserves it. What we actually deserve is usually pretty harsh. The world’s justice can also be pretty harsh.

God is not just. God is not fair. God is merciful.

And so our response to others is not to be just, or fair, but to be merciful. John Wesley spoke a lot about social holiness: he said there was no such thing as holiness without social holiness, no such thing as only personal holiness that is devoid of caring for others—meaning we have no choice but to care for others, even our frivolous little brothers.

It could be easy for Americans to look at other countries and wonder why they can’t be more like us—with resources, stable building structures, public water works. Just like it could be easy for the well-off to wonder why those living on welfare just can’t take care of themselves, why those living below poverty levels can’t have healthy meals. It could be easy to say that those who are poor and those who struggle have done it all to themselves, have somehow chosen to live this way—that they have taken all their resources, and all the chance in the world, and squandered them away in dissolute living. That we shouldn’t help people because they’ll just become dependent on us. We should love them, but only at a distance.

Through the United Methodist Committee On Relief, we send help to those who need it, both nationally and internationally. Perhaps it’s not just or fair, that we send aid to other countries that may not deserve it in the worldly sense. Sometimes UMCOR probably helps the younger brother—the one who didn’t take the right risks or make the right plans, because any disaster—natural or human made—has lots of compounded causes, some mistakes, some accidents, some that could’ve been prevented, some that could never have been imagined.

Jesus feeds people, loves people, heals people, and it’s not about whether or not they’ve worked hard and deserve it, because it’s grace, and none of us deserve it.

And this is social justice. Earlier this week, radio personality Glenn Beck urged everyone whose church proclaims social or economic justice to leave it. He said it was all code for communism and fascism. He urged listeners to go talk to their priests, to ask if they were involved in this whole social justice thing, and to leave their churches if the answer turns out to be yes.

Just to be clear, if you are in any UMC, the answer to Mr. Beck’s question is “Yes.” Yes, you are part of a church that cares about social justice, that cares about God’s justice, which may not always seem fair, but is always full of grace and mercy.

We care about the least of these because that’s what Jesus urged us to do.

And the best way to affirm this stance of the UMC, for today, is to give to UMCOR to help ensure that God’s merciful justice continues to spread throughout the world. Amen.

Foxes and Hens

Luke 13:31-35

For us, now, Lent is an inward journey of the soul. But it also marks the outward journey of Jesus, 2000 years ago, to Jerusalem and to the cross. In some of the gospels, Jesus doesn’t seem to know exactly what is going to happen—he just has a general idea. Luke leads us to believe that Jesus knows exactly what the upcoming days will hold for him—knows that despite Herod’s threats, he will not be killed just yet, not until he has made it into Jerusalem, and he will not give into any threat, will just continue doing his work because he’s too busy to worry about his own life. When the Pharisees, acting on Herod’s behalf, try to get Jesus to stop healing and casting out demons, Jesus lets them know that he knows they’re working for Herod and asks them to pass along just how much he’s not intimidated by “that fox,” so much that he’s not even worried about insulting this puppet king. He channels other prophets like Uriah and Jeremiah who were murdered in Jerusalem when they dared to speak out against the kings of Israel. It is simply ridiculous for the Pharisees and Herod to suggest that Jesus will die before reaching the holy city.

At one time, Israel was a roaming people, people under the covenant of Moses. But eventually, they became a monarchy—with Jerusalem as their capitol of royal complacency—the favor of God evident by their power and military prowess, and not their special relationship with God. Jesus laments over this lost city, and even laments over the Pharisees who live within the holy city’s walls. He tells them he’s not a threat since the city is so unwilling to change, “you get to keep your house,” he says. Ultimately, Jesus is not a threat to them, because they and the people are not willing to let him—he knows he will not be able to save Jerusalem this time.

In case we think Jesus is so brave before a fox because he’s an even tougher beast who could eat that fox for dinner, Jesus reveals what type of animal he is: a chicken. And not just any chicken, but a female chicken. Can you imagine the fox getting a whiff of this? Ooooh, tough! But of course, Jesus is never who we really expect. The scriptures speak of God as an Eagle, able to soar and to protect, but Jesus doesn’t go for this image.

As always, Jesus’ concern is not for himself. The news that Herod wants to kill him is not news, especially since Herod’s father already tried to kill him as an infant. He moves on toward Jerusalem, not with fear and concern for his own life and death, but with sadness over the people—for this brood of baby chicks, who refuse to be gathered up in safety.

When I was little my uncle raised chickens in Rockingham County. Each chicken house had about 20K chickens, and when you’d walk in, the little chicks would scatter, like a moving, yellow carpet. They were surprisingly easy to step on, and yet difficult to catch. He didn’t have foxes to worry about, but he did have a few feral cats who were very good and sneaking their supper. And the chicks were largely unprotected, thousands of babies, and no mother hen.

The people of Jerusalem, like little yellow chicks, are unprotected, with at least one fox on the loose. Jesus is the mother hen, who cannot get to them, because they will not allow her to come close and gather them up in safety. She can protect them, and wants to so badly, but they scatter when she comes close—they do not know who or what is good for them.

Looking out for ourselves, loving ourselves, protecting our own self interest, looking out for number one, that’s the easy thing. Loving others, trying to save them, that’s the most vulnerable, helpless thing. When we stand with our arms open wide and welcoming, not really knowing how our gesture will be received, our heart and chest exposed, we are unable to block or defend ourselves—because this is how you stand when you mean it.

The fox is not welcoming or protective. He’s calculating, cunning, vicious, and a coward. He sends the Pharisees instead of going himself, but Jesus lets them know that he’s not playing that game. He won’t be scared away. But he also won’t put up a fight. Chickens are not known for bravery, do not have magnificent talons, are not even terribly attractive. But they care for their young. They sit patiently on their eggs, keeping them warm until they hatch, and they chase the chicks around making sure they stay where they are supposed to—the meanest ones can peck and scratch, but what is that compared to the chops of a fox?

Jesus longs to gather up the chicks—not just the few he has managed, but all of them. The fox offers is really just a power-hungry fool, and not all that powerful in the grand scheme of the Roman empire.

Jesus the hen, offers only protection with her own body. Medieval mistic, Julian of Norwich wrote of Jesus as our mother, only better than an earthly mother because he doesn’t feed us milk, he feeds us his body. If the fox wants to kill the chicks of Jerusalem, he’ll have to kill the mother hen. He sneaks up on her one night, while she and the chicks are sleeping in the coup, and when he snatches her in his teeth, the little yellow chicks scatter in 20K different directions. She dies, with her wings stretched wide, open, inviting, ready to gather her brood, and yet completely empty.

Something much bigger than the death of a hen is going on. The language of brooding is the same in Genesis, God the Creator “brooded” over the waters of creation, birthing the earth into existence. Jesus the son was present at this beginning, and it’s no accident that he broods over the people of Jerusalem—not with immediate success—but will eventually triumph with the creation of a new heaven and a new earth and a new Jerusalem. The time will come, says Jesus, when everyone will greet him as a king—not like a king Herod, but as the true king as we say “blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”