Hospitality of Lydia

Acts 16:9-15

In the book of Acts, we travel with Jesus’ followers to new lands as they spread the good news. Paul has a vision of a man asking for help in Macedonia, with his companions, Paul travels to this Roman district in Europe. On the Sabbath, they go to the river. Perhaps there is a temple or synagogue there or just a known place for gathering and prayer and there they find a group of women worshipping God. Among these women is Lydia, a dealer of purple cloth. We know very little about Lydia, but what we do know is fascinating. The rest we could imagine from the text.

Lydia was a rarity in those days, not defined by husband or children, but by her textile business. She was her own woman, successful and free. The leaders and elites of Macedonia looked to her to supply the luscious purple fabric for their robes. And in return, they paid her well with money and respect. They listened to her, this woman who possessed a strange authority, as she measured out bolts of the fabric, she told them stories of a foreign God, not the gods of Rome, not stories of Jupiter, Apollo, or Venus, but stories of a tribal God of Israel—a single God who was greater than the many, a God who created, a God who protected and liberated, a God of love and mercy. Lydia was strange indeed, but the people accepted her.

She observed the Hebrew Sabbath and would gather with other women by the river side. There they would worship this God with songs and prayers. They would tell each other stories of their encounters with God.

One day, several men, foreign travelers joined them. And the one named Paul began to tell them new stories about this same God: about how this God had also become human, had lived and breathed among them, had appeared to Paul, and showed him the error of his ways as a zealous Jew who persecuted Christians, and had convinced him that he, Jesus, was truly the Messiah, the Son of God, for whom they had waited for so long. Lydia was immediately convinced that this man spoke the truth—that the Messiah, whom she had heard about, had really and truly come—had died, and then risen again, and continued to live through his believers. She vowed to do whatever she could to help spread this new message. Since she was already telling the story of God, she would happy tell this story of Jesus too. She asked to be baptized and to have her whole household baptized as well, so that they might all begin this new journey. And finding out that these foreigners were traveling missionaries, with no place to call home, Lydia insisted that they stay at her house and use her good fortune to help spread the good news.

God opened her heart and she, in turn, opened her home. After her baptism, she turns her house into a base for the spread of Christianity in Europe. Her baptism leads immediately to hospitality and a sharing in all the risks of mission.

Luke, the writer of Acts, doesn’t expand on just how important Lydia’s hospitality is, but we can see that she gives them a home-base. A place to sleep and eat, a place to return to from preaching and later from prison. Paul and his companions are in a foreign country, they have no place to call home, and the gift of Lydia’s home provides much needed creature comfort so that they can have the physical strength and sound mindset to continue the work of God. Maybe she went out and preached too, or maybe she continued with her business, providing fine clothes for the rich, telling them her story, of this Jesus she had met and of these travelers staying in her home.

Hospitality: no matter who it is from is a great gift: having a place to go, to stay, to sleep, to eat, to rest weary bones and fill empty stomachs, a place of safety cannot be overestimated. Neither can kindness to strangers.

Lydia is a model, an early church mother, for us now and for the church. Jesus might have asked Lydia to give up her wealth, to sell her house and follow him—but she gives these things to god in different ways: she doesn’t sell her house, but she gives it to Paul for God’s purposes.

What if we extended our resources: our time, our money, our space to help feed those who are hungry? It would be our basic task as Christians, and a clear example of Lydia-like hospitality. It would not change the whole world, but it could help, in small ways, to transform part of the world. What if we served breakfast, once a week, to the homeless and hungry in Alexandria, right here in our social hall?

This might include coming in on a weekday morning before you head to work or go about the rest of your day. It might include scrambling eggs or having a cup of coffee with someone who is struggling and in need. It might include washing table clothes, setting up tables, or buying food. This is not the kind of thing that is easy. It won’t be for the feint of heart, but it will be for the kingdom of God. After all, it is so important to eat a healthy meal in the morning. Most of us know how much some caffeine and protein can make a huge difference. On a cold morning, we could provide a warm place to sit for an hour or two. Our neighbors could find church doors that are open, and people who care—not because of our own agenda or because we have to, but because God cares. For people living on the margins, seeing a volunteer, someone who gives their time and effort just for the sake of giving it away, can give these folks so much hope—just to know there are people in the world who would care for them and expect nothing for themselves in return is life-changing.

Paul responded to a vision from God.

Lydia responded to Paul’s message of God.

How will we respond?

Doubting

John 20: 19-31

Easter Sunday is rarely an appropriate time to engage in a discussion of the factuality of the resurrection. Congregations on an Easter Sunday want to hear a word of hope, they want to sing their alleluias, they want to know that Jesus still lives. Especially if this is the one Sunday a year they come to church, they want to hear a story of impossible odds, a story of grace and above all love.

But this Sunday we join the disciples, particularly Thomas, in wondering if it’s all true. Though the gospel accounts differ, in all of them Jesus appears first to some of his female followers, then to the rest of his disciples in various locations. In Matthew it’s in Galilee, in Mark on a country road, in Luke on the road to Emmaus, and in John, in a locked room. The main point for all of these encounters is that the resurrected Jesus appears to his disciples and tasks them with carrying on his work because he’s back, but only for a little while. In the book of John, Jesus first appears to Mary Magdalene who then goes and tells the rest of the disciples about the empty tomb and the gardener who turned out to be Jesus. We don’t know if the disciples believe her, but the first thing Jesus does when he appears to them, after he calms them down with a word of peace, is to show them his wounds, to show them that he’s really the same guy. At the very least, their disbelief is a possibility that Jesus has already considered and he’s prepared to offer evidence. Proof that the writer of John then, extends to us with his gospel as his testimony.

The “proof” offered in the gospel of John does not meet our standards. John’s testimony would not hold in a court of law or even a news article. An account of Jesus apparating through a locked door doesn’t prove anything to us 2000 years later—did you see it? I sure didn’t. We’d need video footage and scientific experiments to show the plausibility of a divine person traveling through solid material. We might need Jesus to stand before us and demonstrate what he can do. We’d need much more than just seeing his hands or placing our own in his side. We would need even more proof than poor old doubting Thomas.

The Life of Pi by Yann Martel tells the story of a young man named Pi, who ends up on a life boat with various wild animals when a ship with his family and their zoo animals sinks. It’s a tale of remarkable survival as he keeps himself alive for 277 days with a hungry, adult Bengal tiger on board. It’s a beautiful story of faith and strength and careful managing of the tiger. In the end, when Pi has found safety and a maritime official, Mr. Okamoto is questioning him in an investigation of the ship’s sinking, a slightly different story is revealed than the one he has told through the entire book. The animals turn out to bear a striking resemblance to other people who had been on the ship and the possibility of a much darker story of human desperation while at sea emerges. With the two accounts, Mr. Okamoto doesn’t know what to do, but Pi points out that he can’t prove either story, but will just have to take Pi’s word for it. So he then asks Mr. Okamoto: “So tell me, since it makes no factual difference to you and you can’t prove the question either way, which story do you prefer? Which is the better story, the story with the animals or the story without animals?” Mr. Okamoto agrees that it is “The story with the animals.” Pi’s response is: “Thank you. And so it goes with God.”

We cannot prove the resurrection one way or the other. We cannot say for sure that it did not happen, that it was merely a resuscitation, or some sort of trick of hide-the-body the disciples played. We cannot say for sure that it happened. But we do know that Jesus really does continue to live and breathe in and among us. We know this because Jesus is God and God is everlasting. This is the important part. Not the mechanics of Jesus’ dead body being restored to life—because how or if God did that, isn’t something we can discover. Is it possible for God? Surely. Does that mean it happened, in any sort of factual historical sense? Not necessarily. Is it the better story, full of the truth of God’s redeeming love? Absolutely.

A few years ago, there was much talk of the “Jesus tomb,” a tomb found in Jerusalem where people named Jesus, Mary, and James had all been buried together, possibly around the time that Jesus Christ had lived and died. There was great speculation about how to prove if this was Jesus the Christ and what implications there would be and the possibility of the death of Christianity and the shattered faith of millions. There’d never be anyway to analyze the bones to determine if this was Jesus of Nazareth, not resurrected, but buried after all. But what if they could prove, beyond a doubt that it was? Christian doctrine would have to change, but would it die? Would we have nothing left to believe in? Could Jesus still be the Messiah? Could Jesus still be God? These are not easy questions, but the truths of Christianity are much more valuable than the provable facts. If it’s a beautiful story of love and redemption, does it have to have happened that way?

The reason this debate is not appropriate for Easter Sunday, is because whether or not the physical resurrection happened, isn’t the point. Believing or not is a matter of faith, not history or science, or fact. Some Christians find it impossible to believe without the resurrection. Some don’t find it necessary at all.

We certainly have doubts now and they range all the way from doubting the existence of God to doubting the goodness of God to doubting our world to doubting ourselves. After his death, the disciples continued to have a very powerful, physical experience of Jesus. And even with all of this physical presence, they still have doubts.

Jesus shows them his hands and his side so that they can see it’s him with their own eyes. He breathes on them, giving them the Holy Spirit, in a way they can feel. When Jesus breathes the Holy Spirit into them, it’s very much like when God the Creator first breathed life into Adam. That account of human creation was also very physical, very tactile, very personal. God formed a human being with God’s own hands out of the dirt of the earth and breathed divine breathe into him so that he might have life. So too, Jesus instructs his disciples with touch and breathe. Jesus breathes on the disciples. Asking them to carrying on—authority to forgive sins, etc—to carry out his ministry, with the guidance and strength of the Holy Spirit.

If we haven’t gotten the message, Jesus continues to be God incarnate—God in a flesh and blood body. Not a ghost, not a zombie, but the real thing. Just how this is possible is one of the mysteries of faith. Because God continues to care about human beings—all of us, our souls and our bodies, because God took great care in forming us in the first place, and continues to take great care with us.

Peace be with you.

The Last Supper

Luke 22:14-20, 39-46

During the last supper, Jesus uses familiar ingredients to tell the story of what he is about to do. He gives his disciples a tangible way to remember and celebrate him, and a way of bonding them and us together. He uses bread and wine, elements that are already rich in Biblical imagery of wheat and harvest, vines and branches. Since this is also the Passover meal, the bread is unleavened, a sign of the hurry the early Hebrew people were in and the wine, Jesus’ blood, is also the blood of the lamb, a symbol of life and covenant.

For those observing the first Passover in Egypt, death was coming that night. Salvation from that death was immediate, not a promise for a distant future. The Hebrew people had to eat their meal of lamb and bread and bitter herb, prepared in a particular way, that very evening, in order to save their lives, and show their obedience to God. God was done with the various amusing plagues on the Egyptians, this time God meant business.

Jesus’ meal is also close to death—not that very night but soon. His meal comes on the eve of trial. After he shares the bread and the cup, he goes out to the garden to pray, to ask God that the cup of suffering might be removed from him if it would be God’s will.

At the same time of the feast, the high priests are conspiring against Jesus. Judas has already agreed to sell insider information to the high priests who will have Jesus arrested. And Jesus reveals to the disciples that one of them will betray them. As they ask, “is it I, Lord?” Jesus and Judas both know who it will be. And yet, Jesus doesn’t turn Judas away from the table. Instead, he gives him a morsel of forgiveness and a sip of salvation. Jesus’ table is open to everyone, to friends and to enemies alike.

The first group of disciples were far from perfect. They denied Jesus, they fell asleep while he was praying, they brandished the sword instead of resisting passively. Do this in remembrance of me, he says to Judas who will betray him and to Peter who will deny him and pretend to forget.

But when they share the loaf and the wine, they will have the chance to remember Jesus again. Even though this memory is dangerous. Because it is the memory of a man who resisted empire and local religious authorities. It is the memory of a man who did not resist arrest, who did not defend his innocence either physically or verbally, who resisted the entire unjust system that would crucify him on a cross.

Through the celebration of Communion, he invited them to remember all that they saw, and did, and learned when he walked and breathed among them. The fruits of the harvest and of the vine were there to remind them that it had all really happened and to remind them of their ongoing purpose, work, and commitment to make things right in the world—to never stop telling the story of Jesus.

To all of his disciples throughout the centuries, Jesus says: “Remember. I am with you. Even when you can’t see me, even when it seems like I’m truly gone, when you taste bread and drink wine, which you will do every day of your lives, remember me. My flesh, my blood, they live within your flesh and blood. You consume my body, so that you may be my body for the whole world.”

We celebrate our own community of disciples in the shared loaf, the shared body of Christ and in the common cup and common life of service together. Christ is spiritually present in the bread and juice. Christ is physically with us in the hands that give and receive.

We remember the Christ who continues to live and breathe among us. We remember that he was arrested and tried, tortured and killed. And he did this all out of love so that we might live. Amen.

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.”

Transfiguration

Luke 9:28-36

Exodus 34:29-35

Today is Transfiguration Sunday. It’s the last Sunday before Lent starts and we celebrate the glory of God and God’s acts of salvation through Moses and Jesus—both human beings, both chosen by God to be messengers to the people.

In the popular Twilight saga, there’s something interesting about vampire skin. Like traditional vampires, they do not go out into the sun—but not because they are afraid, or find the sun deadly, but because their skin changes. It’s not painful for them, but if they do it in front of mortals, they will instantly be revealed as something completely other.

When vampire Edward wants to reveal to his human girlfriend just how different and scary he is, he takes her to a meadow and steps into the light. As the sun filters through the trees and hits his skin, he shines with a bright white light, as if his skin is made out of thousands of diamonds—vampire purists make lots of fun of these sparkly vampires. But when mere mortals see this dazzling skin, they are amazed, afraid, intrigued.

This past week, it’s not difficult to imagine something ordinary transformed into something glistening white, but it may be hard, by now, to fully appreciate that glory and beauty especially when it’s still hurting your back or threatening your life with killer icicles.

When Moses goes up the mountain to talk to God, he stays for forty days. God gives him the commandments by which the Hebrew people will live. God blesses Moses with this information, with this conversation, with this time together—but he doesn’t force Moses to see his face, he turns a back to Moses, to save him the pain of seeing God’s face. When Moses comes down off that mountain, to the Hebrew people who are waiting below, his face is shining, a dazzling, white light. They are reluctant to approach him and for their benefit, Moses hides his skin with a veil.

This story of Moses stretches to our Gospel lesson today, extending God’s faithfulness all the way from the Hebrew people in the wilderness to Jesus and his disciples. Jesus, John, James, and Peter go up a mountain to pray—to be with God. And as the three disciples are fighting to stay awake, the see Jesus with Moses and Elijah, and Jesus is suddenly transformed into a glorious, glowing being, transformed face and bleach white clothes.

This glowing effect is the glory of God. In Hebrew the term is Kabod, This is very close to the Hebrew term for horns, which is why if you are familiar with Michelangelo’s statue of Moses you may remember that he has a set of horns coming out of his head! But it actually means “to be loaded down with riches.”

This glory comes from proximity to God because God has seen Moses and seen Jesus—has validated and blessed them—because they’ve been seen by God or have been in God’s presence—seen the way God sees them, as glowing, lovely beings. And they are so loaded down with the glory of God, that this light of God shines out of them.

Oil of Olay is really missing out here on the best skin care regime EVER: drink lots of water and pray daily.

So as we look at our own dull winter skin, what does that say about us? Have we ever shone with the light of God? Is it just covered up with the grime of the world? Is there anything particularly glorious about any of us?

A fun trick, with any story, is to think of which character we identify with the most. Do we pick the most glamorous and heroic character or do we go with the underdog? In today’s stories, do we identify with Moses and Jesus—with the messengers of God, or do we identify with the less than faithful Hebrew people and the disciples.

For me, I’ll have to go with the one who’s yawning through the whole thing, who’s fighting off sleep, and just about misses the entire event altogether, and when he realizes what’s going on, is still clumsy at responding to the wonder if front of him, the scripture even says he didn’t know what he was saying. I identify with Peter.

I’d love to tell you that after a week of sermon preparation that I’m glowing after basking in the presence of God. I imagine that most of us are really like Peter, looking at something amazing: prophets returned from the dead, Jesus revealed as God, the voice of God in a cloud, and thinking okay, let’s build some tents, let’s figure out how to make this permanent maybe that’s how we all are—ready to build something insignificant, to focus on something we can understand—creature comforts and preservation—and not looking to where Jesus is going next, hoping to settle down in comfort, maybe take a nap, instead of moving onward to Jerusalem and all the mystery and terror that will hold. Come to think of it, I’d much rather take a nap on that mountain, build a small commune for Elijah and Moses, instead of travel on toward Jerusalem, to fear and persecution. Peter may be a coward at times, but sometimes the safe route is rather appealing.

But then we completely miss the point. If we fall asleep, we pass the holiness, we’re blind to the glory, we are not amazed or dazzled by the presence of God.

The Transfiguration points to Jerusalem, points to the rest of Jesus’ work, points to the tragedy, the disaster, and the blessed restoration. Thanks be to God.