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.

Water Into Wine

John 2:1-11

The greeting from our United Methodist wedding liturgy includes these lines:

With his presence and power

Jesus graced a wedding at Cana of Galilee,

And in his sacrificial love

Gave us the example of the love of husband and wife.

Every time I say those words at a wedding, I feel like it’s a bit of a stretch. Not the sacrificial love part, but the part about Jesus at the wedding in Cana. It’s as though we’re saying, in the history of why marriage is important to the church, that part of that reason is because Jesus also went to a wedding and made sure the wine didn’t run out. To be honest, the story of the wedding at Cana doesn’t seem all that solid of an endorsement of marriage, at least not to the extent that our wedding liturgy might have us believe. Yes he was present, yes he was helpful, but he didn’t offer a blessing, or comment really, he was just a guest, and he didn’t disrupt the wedding, didn’t overturn tables or call the whole ordeal a disgrace. It’s just not as compelling as it would be if Jesus had spoken at length on how good and wonderful it is to be married and how we should all do it as soon as possible.

All we really know is that Jesus was a helpful, if somewhat reluctant wedding guest. Jesus didn’t say much about marriage. He talked about divorce, but didn’t encourage or discourage marriage, beyond sticking with your vows once you made them. We assume that he was never married, but as the Da Vinci code has pointed out, there has long been some speculation on the matter.

Marriage is not an original Christian idea. It’s a longstanding Jewish custom to be sure, but the first 1000 years of Christianity didn’t value marriage. After all, Christians were concerned with the quick return of Jesus and personal holiness, and all the trappings of marriage and family were distractions and if not downright evil.

Paul said it was not a good idea to marry unless the alternative were burning alive with passion (1 Corinthians 7:9). But he really thought it’d be better if everyone were single like himself.

But I digress. This story about the wine at the wedding, isn’t really about a wedding and certainly isn’t about marriage. Instead, the wedding is a backdrop for Jesus’ first miracle. John chooses to show us Jesus’ first sign of turning water into wine. At first blush, it seems like a party trick, but Jesus is rather discreet about it, and not at all interested in doing it at first when his mother pointedly tells him that they are out of wine and Jesus says “what’s it to you or me? Who cares, it’s not the end of the world.” It’s certainly not healing the sick, giving sight to the blind, or feeding thousands, it’s giving wine to a few hundred wedding guests, helping the host to save face. In the grand scheme of things, a fancy wedding is not a big deal, then or now.

Can you just imagine, you’re one of hundreds of guests at a wedding, you’re at a reception, and the Embassy Suites has run out of wine and it turns out that Christ is there and he lends a hand?

Can you just imagine being in an earthquake, in say, Haiti, and it feels like the entire world is falling apart and crushing you and it turns out that Christ is there, but the world continues to collapse?

What does it mean that Jesus saves a wedding celebration but not thousands of innocent people in Haiti?

As I was watching the events unfold, and reading the news, I kept wondering if Pat Robertson would say anything ridiculous. And sure enough, he didn’t disappoint.

In case you missed it, the evangelist who famously declared 9/11 and Katrina to be acts of divine punishment for the gays and lesbians in our country, for our acceptance of abortion, and for our overall level of immorality has stated that the Tuesday’s earthquake in Haiti is because of a pact they had made with the devil. That’s right, hundreds of years ago, the Haitians won the rebellion against the French only because of a pact with the devil.

And obviously for Pat Robertson, this abundance of badness has something to do with the poor people of Haiti and God and Satan. Instead of geographic forces, compounded on economic ones. I’m sure it’s hard for him to understand that bad things happen like that but they do. They just do. It’s part of life.

And I’m sorry for going after him, because Pat Robertson is a child of God too. And while he’s extreme, there are still lots of people, even me sometimes, who think that we deserve either our bad or good fates, at least sometimes, and we do, sometimes, but not always or usually and certainly not when it’s an earthquake instead of say, ruining a life because you decide to drive drunk. There are differences.

For Haiti, the miracle is in the response, the whole world sending the troops, food, volunteers, coming to help, all of us praying. The miracle will be in the slow rebuilding of a destroyed country. It’s not immediate or glamorous like water into wine, but it is love and concern and respect and human decency.

And this passage, while about God’s extravagance, isn’t really about the injustices of the world either. At it’s heart, the gospels show us over and over that God wants abundance for us: delicious feasts and flowing wine. The kingdom of heaven is after all like a wedding banquet, and Jesus is happy to provide the wine of salvation. That every day on earth is not a feast day is certainly a tragedy, but it’s not God’s fault. It’s not God’s fault that we don’t enjoy our lives to the fullest, that we don’t stop to enjoy a good meal nearly as often as we should, that we don’t cultivate enough deep and lasting friendships, that we don’t spend enough time with our families, that we don’t read enough good books, or take as many good, deep breaths as we should.

And it’s not God’s fault that tens of thousands of God’s children are dead, wounded, scared, hungry, thirsty, mourning, and in so much need. Tragedy is not God’s design. God’s intention is for those of us who are safe and fortunate to reach out to others because we are all meant to live abundantly good lives whether we live in the US or in Haiti.

When Jesus shared the last supper, he used delicious foods to represent his body and blood. He didn’t offer up a cup of vinegar and say drink from this all of you, this is my blood of the new covenant, instead he chose a cup of wine—something tasty and rich with imagery of grapes and harvest and vines, as he is the vine and we are the branches.

God gives to us out of radical abundance, sacrificial love, flesh and blood, grace and mercy. Thanks be to God.

Homage

Matthew 2:1-12

In case you are wondering, I am a Pisces. That means I am introverted, dreamy, artistic, sensitive, and fishy. Just a quick survey: how many of you know your astrological sign? And how many of you ever glance, even just casually, at your horoscope in the paper?

Here’s what the prophet Isaiah has to say about the practice of astrology:

“let those who study the heavens stand up and save you those who gaze at the stars, and at each new moon predict what shall befall you. See, they are like stubble, the fire consumes them; they cannot deliver themselves from the power of flame. No coal for warming oneself is this, no fire to sit before! Such to you are those with whom you have labored, who have trafficked with you from your youth; they all wander about their own paths: there is no one to save you” (Isaiah 47). So beware: Astrology is a path that leads to nowhere.

In Matthew’s tale of the Magi, he writes that they have seen a star rising and have come to pay homage to the child who has been born King of the Jews. Because they observe and follow the stars, the magi are astrologers. Biblical translators have not always been comfortable with this, and so the NRSV and the King James call them “wise men” and the hymn we just sang refers to them as “kings.”

Matthew tells us very little about these cameo characters. They could have been Persian priests or Arab kings. They could have been named Melchior, Gaspar, and Balthasar as according to tradition. But whoever and whatever they were, Matthew tells us that they practices astronomy, and were most likely magicians or sorcerers, who found the star of Jesus and followed it until they found him. They were certainly not Jews, but they knew a king when they found him, and they knelt before him, and gave his family expensive gifts. And because of them, we kneel when we pray and we give each other gifts at Christmas.

Of course, the church has not always been so kind to those who conduct alternative spiritual practices. Recently, some folks have been quite upset about the Harry Potter books and Christian children reading and learning about witchcraft. And here, we have a group of star-gazing wizards, worshiping Christ in the Bible. Matthew offers no judgment or commentary, does not explore this interesting relationship between pagan magicians and a Jewish king, just leaves it there, perhaps to show us just how universal Christ is, that even these men recognize the truth of Jesus. In fact, the magi are better informed about the nature of this young child than are the chief priests and scribes who Herod consults.

This story makes it possible for us to consider the validity of different faith practices. Instead of condemning astrology, proving that it is false, or showing that Jesus is better, Matthew lets us know that it actually is quite effective and accurate. The magi find a message in the stars, they follow it through, and they find Jesus. It might not be a conventional route to the Messiah, but it’s a successful one nonetheless. Which leaves us with the prospect that God can be found by alternate faith routes.

The scandalous part is that Matthew doesn’t mention anything about their faith after meeting Jesus. He doesn’t say that they stop practicing magic. Obviously, the astrology they used worked, because it led them to Jesus. What could it mean if they met Jesus and yet didn’t change or convert? We don’t know if they ever found out what happened to Jesus as an adult. There’s a legend that the apostle Thomas baptized them on his way to India.

They might have been like Gandhi, who loved Jesus and his teachings, particularly the sermon on the mount, but was not interested in associating with Christianity. He once said: "I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. They are so unlike your Christ." And so Gandhi believed in Jesus, followed his teachings, and yet remained Hindu. Perhaps this was also the case of the magi, who found a Jewish king, were in awe of him, but remained astrologers—perhaps it’s possible that they were both pagan magicians and Christians, just Christian in the sense that they worship Christ, but are not part of the religion of Christianity, especially since that wouldn’t exist for a few more decades.

But whatever happened to them afterwards, we know that the wise men went looking for Jesus—and they already knew they were looking for a humble child who would become this king. They were seekers--those who are looking for something, but aren’t sure what, are maybe looking for God, or for meaning in their lives, or for answers, or for community, or just for something bigger and more secure than themselves.

In church evangelism lingo, we contrast “seekers” with “believers” as if when someone finds their beliefs, they stop seeking altogether. Hopefully we’re all seekers, whether we’ve been here forever, or just walked through the doors for the first time, whether we’ve always believed in Jesus, or we’re still not sure what it is we’re looking for or what we believe in.

The gospel reminds us that Jesus comes for everyone, Jews, gentiles, and foreign magicians—everyone can recognize Jesus as the Messiah and pay him homage.

The magi are a small group of outsiders, showing us the proper way to worship Christ: kneeling and offering gifts, showing us that sometimes it’s the seekers who are better able to kneel at the manger than those who have done so their entire lives. As Stephen Bauman writes: “Not every committed Christian in name has a taste for actually kneeling in the dust and muck of a barn in a backwater town with astonished recognition that this is where God prefers to make an entrance.”

We all need regular reminders that no one is above another, that no one has an exclusive claim to truth, and that there are many and varied paths to find it. Epiphany gives us a chance to reflect on holy humility:

What if the magi walked into a church, and were told to leave because of their practices—and yet they were among the first to ever worship Jesus?

What if Gandhi were kicked out for being Hindu, even though he understood the message of Jesus so thoroughly?

The Magi, might not be Christians, they might follow stars, but they were wise enough not to worship the star of Bethlehem itself, but the source that gave it light.

Light has come to the world--the scandalous light of Jesus, that still surprises this cold, dark world. Amen.