"I am thirsty...it is finished" (Fifth Sunday in Lent)

John 19:28-30

28 After this, when Jesus knew that all was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the scripture), "I am thirsty." 29 A jar full of sour wine was standing there. So they put a sponge full of the wine on a branch of hyssop and held it to his mouth. 30 When Jesus had received the wine, he said, "It is finished." Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.

                 “God is in control.” I’ve heard that a lot; I’ve even said it myself. I’ve heard it standing in the pile of rubble that was once a house before it was destroyed by a tornado. I’ve heard it on the lips of those who lament that things don’t go their way. I’ve heard it from those who have been waiting patiently for so long only to have to find a reason to wait longer. I’ve heard it in a few lectures, read it in books, listened to it in chapels and sanctuaries from pulpits like this one, and I’ve heard it whispered in funeral homes as families try to comprehend why their loved one had to die. “God is in control.”

            I suppose it’s a lot easier to say that than attempting to deal with the raw realities of this life. If one can simply say that God is in control then one can dismiss difficulties as part of an elaborate, divine plan—as something that will benefit them in a more positive way in the (hopefully near) future. To say, “God is in control” can relieve us the burden of having to wrestle with difficult decisions—trusting that the outcome was what God had planned all along. In many ways, when some say “God is in control” it is as if they are declaring that whatever happened, whatever is happening, or whatever will happen is all because God has moved the pieces around on the great chess board of existence. Taken to its ultimate conclusion, to declare that God is in control is to suggest that God is responsible—and not just for the happy, sappy, spiritual, and religious stuff, but for everything.

            To say God is in control is to suggest that while God allows healthy children to be born to happy, healthy parents, God also allows poor children to contract crippling cancers, that God sends rain at the right time on a withering garden while natural disasters displace the poorest people in the world, that God makes a way for justice in the lives of the wrongly accused, while permitting the horrendous acts of violence perpetrated by those with distorted devotions and ignorant hatred. To so easily declare that God is in control says to those looking for an excuse that God is merely toying with us, amusing himself with our problems and the difficulties of this life. If God is ultimately in control, then doesn’t that mean that God has to bear the responsibility for all of the bad things in this world as well as the good? All of the joy, all of the sadness, the love, the heartbreak, the preservation, the devastation, the building up, the destruction, life and death?

            When we say “God is in control” I think we have the tendency to imagine a divinity like that of the ancient Greeks and Romans, one who is seated in some elaborate throne room, a large, flat table before him, and on that table is a map of the entire world. There are small dots or figures on that map, each one representing a life here on Earth, and God is moving them around on the map, controlling their every movement, thought, action, and consequence. I think we imagine God in the way I used to play with my He-Man toys (and the My Little Pony he rode): I controlled their movements, their actions, even their thoughts and plans. They did nothing without me knowing and without my manipulation. I think if we were all truthful about it, that’s the sort of thing we might imagine whenever we say, “God is in control”—a divine being in another dimension, governing our every situation, movement, and emotion. For some of us, this is the kind of God we want, the kind of God we can understand, the kind of God that makes sense—a God who is in control.

            The fourth gospel, the Gospel according to John, certainly gives us the image of a God who is in control. It’s written right there in the opening line of the gospel prelude: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”[1] And it carries on throughout John’s gospel; Jesus seems to always be in control. The Jesus of the synoptic gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) has a few flaws here and there: he doesn’t know who touched him when power once left him to heal a hemorrhaging woman; he doesn’t know the day or hour when the Son of Man will return; it takes him two tries to heal a blind man. But in John…well, Jesus is firmly in control: he turns water into wine to save a party; he seems to know what’s going to happen before it does; he heals people without seeming to really try. When he’s told his best friend is sick he doesn’t go right away, but waits until his friend is good and dead to show up and call him out of the grave. He tells Pilate (the Roman governor of the province and most politically powerful man on the scene) that he has no power of Jesus unless it comes from God. Even when it comes to his crucifixion, John’s gospel contradicts the other gospels by saying that Jesus carried the cross all by himself—there’s no Simon of Cyrene there to help![2] Jesus is in control.

            Even in the passage before us, as Jesus breathes his final breaths, it seems he is in complete control. He says, “I am thirsty.” Why? Is it because he is suffering from dehydration in the midst of his agony? Is it because the hot, Judean sun has scorched his lips and parched his tongue? Is it because he’s pleading for some relief—any relief—from his pain, from his torment, and he hopes that the drink will ease his pain and usher him over the threshold of death? I believe it’s a sign of his humanity, a sign that Christ truly felt the pain, was God Incarnate, and not just a shell of flesh holding a divine spirit. But that’s not what John tells us, is it?

            The gospel says, “After this, when Jesus knew that all was now finished, he said (in order to fulfill the scripture), ‘I am thirsty.’” Jesus knew that everything was completed, that everything was accomplished, so John tells us Jesus says, “I am thirsty” in order to fulfill the scripture. What scripture? Well, most folks point to Psalm 69 (a portion of which we heard earlier in the service), a psalm not too unlike Psalm 22 (which Jesus referenced with his words from the cross we heard last week). It is a prayer for deliverance from persecution, a prayer that ends with God restoring his people. For John, Jesus doesn’t say he’s thirsty for any sort of physical need; he does it to fulfill scripture. Jesus is still in control.

            Then we’re told in verse 30—after he’s given sour wine to drink (fulfilling the referenced scripture of Psalm 69—Jesus “said, ‘It is finished.’ Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.” This is a powerful image: the Son of God, announcing the end of his own life, bowing his head, and dying. It may be hard to hear it with just one reading, but even in these last few seconds, John still shows us a Jesus who is in control. The phrase, “It is finished” is a translation of the Greek word tetelestai, a word that is better understood as “accomplished.” It is the idea that a task has been completed, but not in order to be put away, or checked off a list. It’s the sense of finishing something with a purpose beyond itself, like, say, graduating from college. Christ is in control as he declares his work, his ministry, his life, and even his death accomplished.

            Then, the very next thing John tells us is that Jesus “gave up his spirit.” In the other three gospels, Jesus “breathed his last”—a rather direct way to say he died. But the way John tells it, Jesus is active, in control, as he gives up his spirit. Death doesn’t slowly descend upon him, the darkness doesn’t close around him as the blood leaves his body and the air leaves his lungs. Jesus gave up his spirit. Even his death was in his control according to John.

            So what does it all mean? Why does John give us an “in-control” Jesus, even on the cross? Does it even make sense? I mean, think about it: If Jesus were really in control, couldn’t he have stopped this whole thing before it ever got started? Couldn’t he have simply just held up his hand when the crowd called for him to be crucified, silenced them all, and performed some powerful act that would have proven beyond a doubt that he was the Son of God? Couldn’t he have done something to convince Judas that he was betraying God in the flesh, some convincing words that would have halted Judas’ plans? Why didn’t Jesus, on that Sunday he rode into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey, take that moment of triumph and adoration to show all those who were waving palm branches and laying their clothes in the road that he was the Word made flesh? If Jesus was in control, why did he die—why was he killed at the hands of those it would seem he could have so easily controlled? Was Jesus really in control?

            Perhaps we need to redefine what it means to be in control, to see power from Jesus’ perspective…control from the cross. What does it say to us that the One who spoke the universe into existence, the One who parted the sea for Moses and the Israelites with a blast of his nostrils, the One who spoke to Elisha in the silence on a mountain, the One who fed thousands from a boy’s lunch sack, the One who walked on water, healed the sick, gave sight to the blind, made the lame to walk, and even raised the dead—what does it say to us when that One fulfills scripture with his thirst and gives up his spirit? It says to us that power, control, is not found in the coercion of creation. It says that true control is not defined by the ability to manipulate fate and pull the strings of human existence as if we are all simply marionettes on well-crafted stage. The cross says to us that God is not some far-off deity humoring himself with humanity in some great board game in the sky. The cross says to us that God’s control is found in his love for us, a love that is so pure, so real, that nothing can escape it. The cross says to us that when everything seems to be going to hell, God is among us, beside us, within us, going through life’s darkness and light with us. That’s a God who is in control, a God so sure of the power of his love, that we are freed by it. That’s a God who is in control, so sure of the power of his love within us to change that world, to make it better, that he has entrusted us to do it! That’s a God who is in control, a God so powerful that he can lay down that power and even die. It’s the kind of control that comes to us through a cross—not the supremacy of a scepter and crown, not the authority of an empire or other government, not the power of a cosmic conqueror with the strength to destroy worlds and slay enemies. It’s the kind of power that can only come through the love of God, a love strong enough to even overcome death. God is in control. Praise be to God. Amen.

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[1] John 1:1

[2] John 19:17

"My God, My God, Why have You Forsaken Me?" (Fourth Sunday in Lent)

Mark 15:33-39

33 When it was noon, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. 34 At three o'clock Jesus cried out with a loud voice, "Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?" which means, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" 35 When some of the bystanders heard it, they said, "Listen, he is calling for Elijah." 36 And someone ran, filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on a stick, and gave it to him to drink, saying, "Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down." 37 Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last. 38 And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. 39 Now when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, "Truly this man was God's Son!"

            She sat in the same pew every Sunday, the same seat in Sunday school, Bible study, and prayer meetings. Folks noticed when she wasn’t there, because everyone loved her. They let her know every Sunday with hugs and kisses on the cheek. They let her know with cards and cakes, with occasional visits and phone calls. Her husband had been gone for years; they had no children.  After every service, every meeting, she would achingly slide behind the wheel of her car and slowly wind her way back home, where she would sit in her chair and stare at the wall—the pictures cataloging a life of joy and celebrations. She’d sit there until dark, maybe turn on the television just to hear other voices. Then she’d shuffle down the hall to lie in the bed until sleep came.

            There came that day (a day that will come for all of us) when health was no longer the luxury it once was, when she was too weak to walk, too weak to bring the spoon to her mouth. She was moved from her home and across town to a different home. Her pew was vacant for a little while, her absence felt by fewer as the days and weeks ticked by. The visitors thinned out as time passed and her condition progressed. The phone stopped ringing. Then, one evening, with the low roar of the television as the only other presence in the room, she exhaled one last time. She was alone. (Selah)

            His was a life to be envied. He had a beautiful wife, adoring, successful children, a reputation in his community of charity and generosity. So many looked up to him. He taught Sunday school, was a generous giver of his time and money. The lives he touched, the lives he changed can’t be counted. The pictures on his desk, on his wall, on his phone captured a life of adventure and excitement, of vacations in exotic places with his family. Everyday seemed to be filled with joy and purpose for him, yet in those few moments when the busyness hushed, when those around him were occupied with other aspects of their own lives, he was left with only the sound of his own voice echoing in his mind. Then one day, when the weight of it all—the weight of an enviable life, the heft of a remarkable existence—seemed too heavy to bear, a few too many pills silenced that echoing voice in his head. Surrounded by those he loved, admired and adored by those who loved him, he was alone. (Selah)

            For over thirty years he was surrounded by family and friends. He was raised in a time and place when most (if not all) of the family stayed close to home, took up the family business, and worshipped together in the same place. Even as an adult, when he seemed to strike out on his own, seeking to fulfill his vocation that came from some holy, other source, he was engulfed in the presence of others. He was there, in line with the multitude, as his cousin John was baptizing in the Jordan River; when he came up out of the water it was clear to some that even God was with him as the sky tore open and the voice from heaven said, “This is my beloved son. I’m pleased with him.”[1] It seemed everywhere he went people flocked to him, asking for advice, seeking help, needing healing: some came wanting an insight into the scriptures, some came wanting to heal a sick friend, others came pleading for the life of a sick child, and still others came asking the deep, difficult questions of existence. Thousands followed him wherever he went: all four gospels tell of a time when he and his disciples had to provide food for at least five thousand others. They were always there, following him around wherever he went. He was never alone.

             Jesus seemed to be inundated by the presence of others. It should come as no surprise then that in several places throughout the gospel accounts we’re told that he would withdraw from the group, find somewhere he could be alone with his thoughts, a place where he would not be bothered, a place to quietly pray. Any parent who has had to stay at home with the wild, running, screaming children knows that feeling—the need to just have a moment or two of peace, away from the noise, the demands, the complaints…that need to just be alone. It shouldn’t shock us that Jesus needed to retreat once in a while, especially when there were thousands of others begging for a moment of his time, thousands of voices calling his name, wanting his attention, but that all changed.

            Mark (I think) tells it most succinctly, most hauntingly, in chapter fourteen. It was just after one of those times when Jesus needed to be alone, when he needed a moment or two to pray. It was at a place called Gethsemane, just outside of Jerusalem, where he told his disciples to wait. He took the three closest to him (Peter, James, and John) and walked on a little farther. Then, he charged them with the task of staying awake and keeping watch as he went on a little farther still, to be alone with his thoughts, his prayers, his grief. Then, after having to wake up his watching friends three times, Judas arrives to betray him. Jesus is arrested, and as soon as the cuffs are on we hear words that weigh heavy on the page in verse fifty of that chapter: “All of them deserted him and fled.” He was alone. (Selah)

 From that moment on, Jesus would be shuttled back and forth between Jewish authorities and Roman officials. His innocence questioned, simultaneously confirmed and denied. Even his closest follower would deny ever knowing him—not once, not twice, but three times, even cursing at the very notion that he knew Jesus. The same crowd that followed him for so long, the same multitude that seemed to hang on his every word, the same people who witnessed his works of mercy and power, the same mass that made it near impossible for him to be alone, these people now called for the life of a murderer in exchange for Jesus’ life. When they were asked what should happen to him they all shouted “Crucify him!” Gone was their desire to know him. Gone was their need to be near him. Gone was their want to witness his works of wonder. Like a child caught in the midst of mischief, they have piled the fault on and pointed the finger at Jesus. “We’re not with him. We were just checking to see what he was up to. We were following him because we wanted to keep an eye on him.” They shouted all the more, “Crucify him!”[2] His disciples deserted him; the crowd turned on him. He was alone. (Selah)

Alone, abandoned, Jesus is flogged, handed over to be crucified. He is mocked by those who see him—those who once huddled together to hear him and his words about the kingdom of heaven. Nailed to the cross, Jesus is joined by two strangers, strangers who Mark tells us taunted Jesus (though Luke tells us one would ask to be remembered by him). He isn’t crucified with two who followed him. He isn’t executed with those who ate at the table with him. Not even the one who—when Jesus told him he would be rejected and killed—declared “Over my dead body!” is there. Even the One whose voice declared from the ripped heavens by the Jordan that Jesus was his Son, the One who commanded the disciples to listen to Jesus on the Mount of Transfiguration, the One to whom Jesus had turned to in prayer those times he went by himself to pray—even the Father seemed absent as the sky darkened at noon. It was as if creation had gone off track in the absence of the Creator.

For three hours the darkness lingered. For three hours Christ hanged on the cross, in the darkness, alone. Then, “At three o'clock Jesus cried out with a loud voice, ‘Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?’ which means, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’"[3] He was alone, and in that loneliness, Jesus cried out with the words of Psalm 22, a psalm pleading for deliverance from suffering. All have deserted him; even God seems to have abandoned him in this dark hour. The pain and suffering that came with the self-giving love of Christ was compounded by the deepening darkness, the immense isolation, the lingering loneliness. It proved too much to bear, for we are told: “Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. Now when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, ‘Truly this man was God's Son!’" In his loneliness and grief, in his pain and suffering, with a pleading cry and final breath, Jesus is finally recognized as the Son of God.

It’s not at the manger with a host of angels singing glory to God in the highest heaven. It isn’t on the shore of Lake Galilee as Jesus ends his wondrous walk across the water. It isn’t by the tomb of Lazarus in Bethany when the one once dead come lumbering forth from the grave. It isn’t on a hillside as baskets weave their way through the hungry masses following Jesus’ miraculous multiplication of fish and bread. Jesus is recognized as the Son of God when in the midst of loneliness, grief, and suffering he breathes his last. But isn’t that when we tend to recognize God?

Isn’t that where we most often see Jesus, when we feel we’re at the end of our rope, when the weight of the troubles of this world cause our souls to ache, when we’ve walked out on the limb and it seems everyone else stayed behind to cut it out from under us? Isn’t that when we feel the need for a loving God most keenly, when all hope seems gone, when all our friends and family have left us, when the silence seems too loud, when the way seems too dark? When we’re alone.

We say those words so often, the words of the psalmist in the old King James Version of the twenty-third Psalm: “Yea, thou I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…” Yet so often it seems hard to believe that God is with us—especially in the shadowy valleys. When the bills pile higher…when the chemo isn’t working…when the divorce papers have to be signed…when the rent is due and the car won’t start and there’s not a single dollar in your wallet…it can be hard to believe that God is with us. When the meds don’t work…when the depression sets it…when the children don’t mind…when the judge says “guilty”…when the casket is lowered in the ground after an untimely end and an unfair fight…it’s easy to believe we’re alone in all of this. When others cast judgment on behalf of God…when cherry-picked Bible verses seem too pithy…when the pseudo-theology of a white-washed Christian culture says things like “oh well, God has a plan” or “the Lord works in mysterious ways, and we have to trust him” and it all just seems to shallow to matter…it can be difficult to believe that there is a God who loves us enough to die for us. When life seems too hard to carry on, it can be hard to believe in a God who sits on a throne in the clouds above us—thankfully, we do not worship that kind of God!

For our God is One who has taken on our burdens and our cares—not in some fanciful, transcendent sense, but in the reality of flesh and blood. We are loved by a God who has wept with those who mourn, eaten with those who were hungry, laughed with those who have rejoiced, prayed with those who searched for guidance, and yes, suffered with those who were suffering. We worship and serve a God who has literally walked this earth and felt what we have felt. We worship and serve a Christ who has even felt the horrifying pain of loneliness! And in that we take comfort! In that good news we find hope that when the way seems dark, when all others have deserted us, there is One who never will, One who has gone on before us, One who has shown us that through the pain, through the heartbreak, through the darkness, there is resurrection! There is life!

So, when the way is dark before you, when it seems as if all others have abandoned you, when you feel most alone, even in the presence of so many, remember that Christ has been in your place and he is in that place with you—even now—so that you will never be there alone. May we be the real presence of Christ in each other’s lives, so that when we feel the grip of grief, the shadow of death, the darkening presence of loneliness, we won’t have to face it alone. Amen.

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[1] my paraphrase of Matthew 3:17; Mark 1:11; Luke 3:22

[2] Mark 15:14b

[3] Mark 15:34

"Here is Your Son...Here is Your Mother" (Third Sunday in Lent)

John 19:25b-27

25b Meanwhile, standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother's sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. 26 When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, "Woman, here is your son." 27 Then he said to the disciple, "Here is your mother." And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home.

            Johnny woke up Monday through Friday (and sometimes Saturday) before the sun was up.  His mother Listine and his father Sonny did the same. You see, all three of them worked at the same plant, so all three of them rode to work together in Johnny’s old, green Dodge truck. They lived on a red clay road that the county would grade and gravel every year or two, and every morning Johnny would get behind the wheel of that green jalopy while his momma sat next to him and his daddy next to her. He’d drive off the clay road onto the paved road for a couple of miles, then turn right onto another dirt road, and about a quarter mile down that road, waiting by the mailbox at the end of a gravel driveway was Rose.

            Rose always wore a hair net over her rarely-brushed hair, a flannel shirt that looked like it was cut for a man a good bit bigger than her, baggy jeans tucked into rubber boots, glasses as thick coke-bottle-bottoms over her crossed eyes, and a pair of fluorescent-colored ear plugs around her neck on string of blue or green plastic.

            Johnny would stop his truck in front of Rose’s house. She’d open the door and climb in as Sonny and Listine slid closer together and closer to Johnny. He’d never even put the truck in park; all four of them, together in Johnny’s beat-up truck would head on down that clay road until it ended, turn on the paved road again, and find their way in the early moments of daylight to the plant where they all worked. The only days this early morning ritual didn’t repeat were on the days when Johnny was sick or on vacation.

            It’s really not a very interesting thing I suppose—four people riding to work together, perhaps bending the law a bit as they ignored the maximum engineered occupancy of their vehicle. But you see, Johnny, Sonny, Listine, and Rose all lived in a small, rural community in South Alabama, and Johnny, Sonny, and Listine were black, while Rose was white. They lived in a part of this country where people still hold on to prejudices of the past, where it is a bit uncouth for an older white woman to be seen on a regular basis with a poor, black family, never mind riding together with them in the same truck or working with them at the same place. But Rose never seemed to see it that way. They were all friends. They looked after each other: Johnny drove them all to work; Sonny and Listine grew Turnips and Collard Greens to share with Rose; and Rose grew tomatoes and peppers to share with them. Sonny would come over to drop off vegetables for Rose when she got older, but he never came to the front door or came inside the house—a custom left over from the racist residue that still sits on so much of the South.

            They were friends who cared for one another and looked out for each other, Sonny, Listine, Johnny, and Rose. I know because I watched Johnny on many Friday afternoons drop my grandma off at her mail box (hair net, rubber boots, ear plugs, and all), and I was there on a few occasions when Sonny would pull in the driveway in his old, silver Lincoln, with his blue overalls and straw hat, and a bushel of greens for Grandma. I think about them from time-to-time even though Grandma’s been gone for over five years now, and I’m not even sure if Sonny and Listine are still alive, or what Johnny is doing. I think about them as I think about the way God calls us to love one another, the way Christ commands us to care for one another with a love that sees past whatever biases and bigotries that others may try to convince us are right. I think about how they simply cared for each other; they didn’t make grand gestures of sacrifice, nor did they ever receive any awards or recognitions. They cared for each other in the way they met the most basic needs that allowed them all to live life. The words we have heard from Christ from the cross this morning are words that call each of us to care for each other the very same way.

            You see, by now, at this point in the gospel story, I kind of want to move past this sort of stuff. Jesus has been preaching, teaching, healing, and living with his disciples for a few years now, and all during that time, all throughout the gospel accounts, Jesus has had the same message: “Love God and each other,” or to put it that way it appears throughout the entirety of Holy Scripture, “Love the Lord your God with all you heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, with all your strength…and love your neighbor as yourself.” At this point, however, when Christ is there upon the cross, dying for the sins of the world, breathing his last, bringing the eternal plan of God to fruition, I want to focus on the theology of it all. I want to move past this seemingly over-simplified notion of loving God and each other to more complex questions like the nature of the atonement, the Trinitarian relationship present at the crucifixion, what happened to Christ between his death and resurrection.

            At this point I want to start picking apart the complex soteriology of a divinity that would die in an act of self-sacrifice. I want to read on to the mid-stretching words of those like Paul and Augustine, to begin the process of exegesis in order to form rules and regulations regarding who is right and who is wrong. I want to use the cross and Christ upon it to point to some far-off certainty that assures my present comfort and tranquility whilst allowing me to point my fingers at others, condemning them to damnation for all eternity. At this point in the gospel narrative, as Christ hangs upon the cross that would prove to be the source of life for all rather than the death of one, I am ready to be done with this fanciful notion that the life of faith is about anything other than what it takes to secure my place in eternal comfort.

            But then I hear these words before us this morning, and I hear Christ in his agony between the certainty of life and the mystery of death look to his mother and say, “‘Woman, here is your son.’ Then he said to the disciple [whom he loved], ‘Here is your mother.’ And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home.” In those final hours of pain and torture, those moments when the God who created the universe was surrendering himself in the ultimate act of love, in those moments on which all of history turn, Jesus looks from the cross to his mother and his best friend and says (in essence), “Take care of each other.” There in that moment about which theologians have written volumes, that moment in which one would expect expressions of eternal exhortation, we find Jesus with the same message he’s had all along: “Love each other…care for one another.”

            Jesus looks to his mother Mary, the one who has known him longest, the one who swaddled him in a manger, the one who hosted Magi in her home as they came to worship the future king, the one who worried when he seemed to be lost while staying behind in the temple, the one who has been beside him all along, he looks to her and says of the beloved disciple, “here is your son.” It is as if Jesus is saying, “I, your son, am almost gone, but here is one who needs you, one who will take care of you, one who will love you.” Mary would have been destitute without a son or husband, forced to live the life of a beggar or even a prostitute, but with a son, with a male who would take the responsibility of caring for her, she could avoid such a life. This is why Jesus says to the beloved disciple, “Here is your mother.” It is now this disciple’s duty to care for Mary; to be sure that she is looked after, that she has what she needs and is not left to beg on the streets.

            One can spend a great deal of effort attempting to explain this scene, citing the identity of the beloved disciple as a cousin or relative of Jesus, and therefore the one who would naturally be charged with caring for Mary. One could point to the possibility that this is the normal custom of the crucified in the ancient Roman Empire, that the one being executed would often settle his estate in the final hours of his life from his cross. One could speculate that Mary and the beloved disciple are merely metaphors, standing as symbols for everything from the Jewish traditions of the Old Testament to the collective presence of the Church. But in the end, this scene, these words from Christ on the cross are pregnant with power as they are, for in these words we hear Christ in his final moments upon the cross declaring one of the foundational truths of the kingdom of God: take care of each other; love one another.

            We don’t want it to be that simple though, do we? We want this faith thing to be more complicated. We want more doctrine, more rules, more lines being drawn, more walls erected, more checkboxes. We want to be able to label right and wrong. We’re more concerned with orthodoxy than we are orthopraxy, which is a five-dollar way of saying we’re more concerned with knowing what’s right than doing what’s right.

            When Christ says to his mother and the beloved disciple to take care of each other, to love each other, we want it to mean something more. We want Jesus’ words from the cross to fit the enormity of the moment, words that tell us something about the mystery of God’s kingdom, words that have the power to change the world—not words about looking after his widowed mother. But then again, aren’t these words truly powerful? Don’t they speak to the enormity of this moment? Don’t they truly tell us something wonderful about the mystery of God’s kingdom? For these are words that hold the power to change the world!

You see, Christ’s words to his mother and his disciple are words he could so easily speak to us—that he does speak to us! “Take care of each other. Love each other!” What would happen to our world if we all stopped looking out for ourselves and began looking out for each other? What would our lives be like if ceased looking for reasons to ignore one another’s pain, if we stopped trying to avoid each other’s problems, if we stopped justifying our callousness by blaming others for their failures and misfortune? What would our community look like if we cared enough to make sure every hungry child had food to eat, if we made sure every cold home had heat, if we did our best to make sure every childless mother and motherless child was cared for? What would happen if we—all of us—cared for those who aren’t in this room with us this morning, those who may never join us for worship? What would happen if we quit helping others for a pat on the back and started serving others because it is the very thing Christ calls us to do—even from the cross!? What would this world look like? I think I know…it’d look a lot more like the kingdom of God.

With these words for Christ from the cross we find hope, hope in a loving God who shows us that real power is found in the kind of love that one is willing to die for. We also find hope in our ability to change the world through the power of love for others. It doesn’t take the kind of power that only comes with money or fame; it doesn’t take the kind of power that comes with influence or connections. The kind of power that can change the world, the power of love for others, comes in the most simple ways like stopping to talk to a neighbor, buying someone’s lunch, sending a card, giving a hug, sharing your garden, dropping by for a visit, making sure someone has heat when it’s cold, or driving someone’s grandma to work at the chicken plant every week. With these words from Jesus, simple and specific as they may seem, we are reminded even from the cross that love for each other is what brings the kingdom of God on earth as it is in heaven. We are reminded of Christ’s command to care, of the undeniable call to love.

Let us love one another. Let us faithfully answer Christ’s command to care by relentlessly loving those around us without condition. Let us see mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, sisters and brothers in the faces of those we meet every day. Let us love God, love each other, and together we can change the world for the glory of our Lord, for the kingdom of our God. Amen. 

"Today you will be with Me in Paradise" (Second Sunday in Lent)

Luke 23:39-43

39 One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, "Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!" 40 But the other criminal rebuked him. "Don't you fear God," he said, "since you are under the same sentence? 41 We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong." 42 Then he said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” 43 Jesus answered him, "I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise."

            Have you ever read or seen a “Chick Tract?” Maybe you’re not even sure what one is. It may help if you know what a tract is in the first place (at least in the evangelistic sense): a tract is usually a small, printed publication with some sort of theme or eye-catching art that attracts a reader’s attention, with the singular purpose of presenting a “plan of salvation” to the reader. A “Chick tract” is a tract written and illustrated by Jack Chick, an Independent Fundamentalist Baptist with a talent for drawing in a sort of comic book style. Chick’s tracts are actually pretty great works of art (in fact, many people, including non-Christians, collect them as culture art pieces). The message inside of them is pretty straight-to-the-point, old-fashioned, fundamentalist, salvation-is-a-transaction stuff.

            Chick tracts tend to focus around a story. One of the more typical plots of a Chick tract goes something like this: Johnny is a good kid who works hard at his job, loves his family, volunteers in his community, and even attends church every week, but Johnny hasn’t said the “sinner’s prayer” or “asked Jesus into his heart” in the way fundamentalists expect him to, so when Johnny dies unexpectedly (he’s hit by a bus, has a heart attack, goes down in a fiery plane crash, or some other attention-getting form of immediate death), he finds himself burning in the eternal fires of hell with the devil (horns and all) and his demons forever and ever.

On the other hand, there’s Charlie. Charlie is “bad boy”: he cusses, drinks, smokes, drives fast, breaks the rules, and he may even have long hair! Charlie doesn’t go church, doesn’t believe in God, and doesn’t plan on doing either anytime soon. Yet, when Charlie gets sick and knows he’s about to die, a preacher (or other Christian) tells Charlie that he’ll go to hell if he doesn’t accept Jesus into his heart and pray a “sinner’s prayer.” Of course, Charlie—right before his death and just in the nick of time—prays the right prayer, and just after he dies he finds himself in heaven. The moral of this sort of story is pretty clear: it doesn’t matter how you live your life, so long as you say the right prayer at some point before you die, then you can go to heaven and not spend eternity suffering in hell. I hope you can see the inherent flaws in such a pseudo-theology, the notion that all that really matters is making sure you’ve said the right sort of prayer at some point in your life, even if it’s right before you die.

Yet, it seems that the story before us this morning, the story of the “penitent thief,” shares a similar plot—at least on the surface. Here we have a man, a thief, a criminal (whom tradition has named Dismus, or Dysmus),[1] and in his very last moments, with some of his final breath, he confesses his crimes, admits he deserves the punishment he and the other criminal are receiving, and asks Jesus if he’ll remember him when he comes into his kingdom. One could easily extrapolate a formula, a “plan of salvation” from this crucified criminal’s confession. However, it’s Jesus’ words that change this scene into something more, his second set of words from the cross that force us to listen and understand what is happening in this moment. You see, this scene isn’t just about some wild, rebellious soul squeaking his way out of hell at the eleventh hour. It isn’t a precedent for avoiding a life of discipleship, or a proof-text excuse to ignore the gospel call of love and service to others. It’s none of those things, nothing of the sort. To water down this scene to such a trite expression of what it takes to get to heaven or avoid hell is to ignore the rest of Jesus’ teachings throughout the gospels about what it means to live a life of discipleship and the very nature of the kingdom of God. We need to hear it again, to listen closely to what’s being said.

Listen again to the first criminal’s words in verse 39: "Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!" His words are a personal echo of those words we heard (last week) from the leaders and soldiers in verses 35 and 37. The difference here is that this criminal wishes for Jesus to save himself and him! The irony present in Luke’s telling, of course, is that Jesus is actually saving them all—saving us—by remaining there on the cross, by showing the world that the power of God is found in the self-emptying love of one willing to die for those he loves. This first criminal, however, wants to be freed from the horrendous execution he is experiencing; he wants off his own cross; he wants to set his feet back on the ground, his arms around family. He wants to be saved from the pain and humiliation that comes with crucifixion, to be spared the long, agonizing death reserved for those whom the Romans wished to make an example. His tone is sarcastic, taunting even. He never believes for a moment that Jesus can deliver him from this pain, but it’s seems at least worth a shot. The salvation he wants is pain-free, without humiliation, a salvation that offers freedom from discomfort and suffering. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be the kind of salvation Jesus offers.

            Only Luke tells us about the conversation between these two criminals, when the second rebukes the first in verses 40 and 41: “‘Don’t you fear God,’ he said, ‘since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.’" Here is the criminal’s confession: “We’re getting what we deserve, but this man is innocent.” He is the third one (along with Herod and Pilate, not exactly heroes in the gospels) to proclaim Jesus’ innocence.[2] After his rebuke of the first criminal and his confession of their collective guilt, the second criminal turns to Jesus in verse 42 and says, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

            Here is a man sentenced to death, quite literally in the middle of being executed with Jesus, and he asks to be remembered by Jesus when he comes into his kingdom. This is way more than just some confessional desire to go to heaven after he dies. This is a dying thief recognizing Jesus, (whom he calls by name—the only one in the gospel accounts who does so) in the midst of his pain and suffering, as the one bringing the kingdom he has been speaking about since the beginning. This isn’t Peter on the cross. It’s not Andrew, Levi, James, or John. It isn’t even his mother Mary or any of his siblings. The one asking to be remembered, the one confessing his belief in Christ’s coming kingdom of God isn’t one who’s been hearing about it for years as he traveled with the rabbi. It isn’t one who’s witnessed the miracles of healing, the feeding of thousands, or the raising of the dead. No, it is one who sees the pain and anguish of Jesus, one who witnesses the love of one suffering for his beloved. That’s the one—the only one—who makes any sort of confession, any request of Jesus as he suffered on the cross.

            His request seems to be a meager one, to simply be remembered by Jesus when he comes into his kingdom, to be remembered when the conquering king returns so that he may not be thrown out or crushed with the other enemies of the kingdom. He asks that Jesus remember him for his last-minute defense of Jesus’ innocence, to be spared from whatever vengeance Christ may be bringing on those who turned from him, those who crucified him. It is a request to be included in the coming, future kingdom of the righteous. This man wants to be remembered, included, not left out. He wants to be remembered so that if and when Jesus—the King of the Jews as it said so clearly above his head—brings this kingdom he won’t be forgotten and treated as an outsider. It is a humble request of self-preservation, yet even so, it is shown to be misguided by Jesus’ response.

            In verse 43 Jesus answered him, "I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise." Jesus’ response to the criminal’s request is so much more than an affirmation that he’ll get to go to heaven when he dies. Jesus’ words speak of the immediacy of the kingdom, the immediacy of the real salvation that he has been bringing with the in-breaking kingdom of God. Salvation, heaven, the kingdom, paradise isn’t just some far off, distant place beyond the clouds where everybody wears white robes, plays the harp, and skips hand-in-hand on golden streets along a crystal sea behind a pearled gate. The kingdom of heaven is among us—just as Jesus said from the beginning of his ministry, and with these words to this thief Jesus reminds us that it is an immediate, present reality. Salvation isn’t something that happens to us when we die. It isn’t just a reorientation of our post-life destination. Salvation is something that affects us here and now—TODAY!

            And here’s the big thing—when Jesus tells this crucified criminal that he will be WITH Jesus TODAY he means NOW, not “in a little while, when we’re both dead and in heaven.” Jesus is saying that salvation isn’t pain-free—it took place on a cross! Salvation isn’t without pain, trials, suffering, confusion, or even death, but the power of Christ transforms our pain, our suffering, our struggles, even our defeats into something glorious in the kingdom of God. For when we truly wish to be with Jesus, to be remembered by him in his kingdom, to be saved, we are seeking the way of the cross, a way that leads through selfless love and compassionate sacrifice. We are seeking something that matters right here, right now—not something that only matters when we’re dead.

            So let us live as if we believe that salvation is something that we experience here and now—not simply something reserved for us when we die. Let us live as if we believe the kingdom of heaven is here, among us, now. Let us face the hard times of life knowing that even they will be transformed into something glorious for God’s kingdom. Let us look forward to the good times, knowing they are but a glimpse of the fullness of that in-breaking kingdom of heaven. Let us live as if we truly believe that we are in the presence of Jesus—that he is with us even at this very moment, that today, we can be with him. Christ is here in this place at this very moment. The kingdom of God is among us here in this place at this very moment. Won’t take hold of the salvation that Christ has offered freely to us through his love, the salvation that does not wait for your death to mean something, that salvation that brings you into the real, immediate presence of Christ? Won’t you call on Jesus and live in with him today? Amen.

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[1] Darrel  L. Bock, Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament: Luke 9:51-24:53. Baker Academic: Grand Rapids, MI (1996). p. 1856.

[2] Ibid.