Risk and Knowledge: Good Friday

Holy Week is a journey. We walk with Jesus this week, from his triumphal entry into Jerusalem, to his Last Supper on Thursday, to his cross on Good Friday, to the empty tomb in the darkness of Saturday night, and finally to the glorious light of Sunday morning. To walk with Jesus on the way to Sunday, and beyond, is to share in the risks he took for us.

But what does Jesus risk on this Friday? To risk is to trust. To risk is to take something precious to you and offer it for some greater purpose, knowing that in the risk you may lose it. But you trust that you won’t lose what is precious to you. To risk, therefore, is to embrace uncertainty. To risk something is to not know whether you will keep what you have or whether you will lose what is precious and valuable to you.

So, what does Jesus risk on this day? To read John’s version of Jesus’s trial and death, you might not think he is risking anything. There seems to be no uncertainty in Jesus throughout this story. Today he is utterly calm before his accusers. In John’s telling of the story, there is no anguished plea from Jesus that he might be spared the bitter cup, as we hear in Matthew, Mark and Luke. Nailed to the cross, there is no cry of apparent despair, “My God, my God, why have you left me.” Last night, we heard John say, “Jesus knew that he had come from God and was returning to God.”

And yet, could any of the Gospel writers have known the depth of Jesus’ knowledge. Could any human being walking with Jesus, even those inspired by the Spirit to write down the Good News, have known all that was in the mind and heart of this man who is also God? This man, Jesus Christ, is like a large diamond. You walk around it. And at every different angle, the light shines on it, and you see a different aspect of its beauty. You will never be able to see the full beauty of that diamond. You will only see aspects of its beauty. But the more you walk around it, the more you see.

That is more true of the Passion than any other event in Jesus’ life. Here is the collision of divinity and humanity. He who is God dies today. He who is God fully embraces the human condition of uncertainty, fear, and death. He who is God embraces the risk that comes with being human.

But what exactly was he risking? He had come from God and knew that he was returning to God. He knew that on the other side of that dark veil was eternal life. And that’s more than we can claim to “know.” But our definition of “knowledge” is different from how the children of Israel understood knowledge. The King James Bible is not easy to understand. But in this year, the 400th anniversary of its publication, there are still insights in that translation that no modern version can equal.

For instance, only the King James gets it right that when we have sexual intercourse, we “know” each other. That’s how the Israelites understood what happened in that most intimate act of human beings. We moderns have increased our powers of observation so much that we equate knowledge with an object which we can observe and study and make intellectual statements about. Our ancestors in the faith understood that true knowledge also means a shared experience that we come to know, not just in our brains, but in depth of our hearts right down the bowels that tremble inside us. To “know” something is to share in the experience of that something.

For Jesus to have been truly human, he had to have known the human experience of having to walk in trust that the reward would be worth the risk. So when he came to this day, this hour, did he “know” that there would be something on the other side? Since none of us has shared that experience, none of us can say that we “know” the answer. But as Jesus knew what it is to be human, I believe that knowledge included our experience of death. I believe that Jesus risked his life in trust that there would be a light on the other side of the dark tunnel.

But then, how could Jesus have known that he was God? To quote one of my favorite biblical scholars, N.T. Wright, “His ‘knowledge’ was of a more risky, but perhaps more significant sort: like knowing one is loved. One cannot ‘prove’ it except by living it.” Throughout his public ministry, Jesus did things, which his fellow Jews understood, only God could do. Commanding the sea to be still; feeding thousands with just a few loaves of bread and some fish; pronouncing forgiveness of sins.

And today in John’s Gospel, as the Jewish people prepare to celebrate the Passover, Jesus makes himself the lamb. On Passover, a lamb was slaughtered as a reminder of those first lambs who were slaughtered on that first Passover in Egypt. On that night, the Spirit of the Lord passed over the houses of the Israelites who painted their doors with the blood of their lambs. In John’s Gospel, Jesus is crucified and dies as the Passover lambs are being slaughtered in the Temple. He is the one Passover lamb whose blood saves us from eternal death.

But Jesus doesn’t pass over death. He chooses to pass through death, trusting as he passes through death, he is blazing the trail by which we will pass through death. Jesus “knew” what he was doing, and that only God could do it. Only God could die and yet live. But that knowledge was much more than a cold fact lodging in his brain. The knowledge of resurrection and eternal life could only be experienced. It could only be known in the doing.

What human being, save the insane, would dare to claim such “knowledge.” And what human being would actually dare to live out such “knowledge.” Only a human being who “knew” that he had come from God and “knew” that he would return to God. No human being has ever risked so much as did Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ of God. And there is nothing that we human beings risk, day after day, that will not be rewarded a hundred times over. We just need to give whatever it is we risk to Jesus Christ in prayer. And he will take it with him to the other side. There is no death that we die, day after day, through which we will not pass to the other side.

In our risks, and in our deaths, Jesus Christ is with us in the midst of them. And he is also waiting for us on the other side.

The image is of a painting by Barnett Newman: 13th Station of the Cross: Jesus Dies

Risk of Intimacy: Maundy Thursday

Holy Week is a journey. We walk with Jesus this week, from his triumphal entry into Jerusalem, to his Last Supper on Thursday, to his cross on Good Friday, to the empty tomb in the darkness of Saturday night, and finally to the glorious light of Sunday morning. To walk with Jesus on the way to Sunday, and beyond, is to share in the risks he took for us.

That word, “risk,” came into my mind during the Stations of the Cross last Sunday. It came into my mind with such force, that it almost felt like a separate voice. Perhaps, as we prepare to break ground on the new sanctuary, and embark on a new journey of faith, it might help us all to consider the risks that are inherent in any new undertaking. In our life of faith, we yearn for those rocks that we find which keep us above the torrent of waters and will stand against the howling winds. But we who call ourselves Christians need to pay close attention to the risks that Jesus took for us.

Tonight, at supper with his disciples, Jesus takes a risk with them. He takes off his outer robes, not robe. He takes off all his outer garments, and is left before his disciples, male and female, with nothing on but the loincloth wrapped around his crotch. And then he takes on the lowest task of any servant, the washing of dirty, dusty feet. By stripping to his underwear, Jesus risks a level of intimacy that is embarrassing, even shameful.

We are offended when someone exposes himself to us, either physically or emotionally beyond our comfort level. The kind of exposure Jesus made before a roomful of men and women we do only with the one person with whom we are the most intimate in this world. And yet, he whom we call our Teacher and our Master exposed himself to all those he called friends. He risked embarrassment and shame for the greater reward of trust between himself and his disciples. And we His disciples today, who call him our Teacher and our Master, we are called to share in that risk.

If anything, the risk of washing feet in our time may be even greater than in Jesus’ time. At least, then one’s sandal-clad feet were open to view. For the most part, our feet are covered and hidden from public view, which probably means that they might actually get dirtier and smellier with the accumulated sweat of the day. But ultimately, the meaning of any ritual is given by those who do it. Whether with feet or hands, ask yourself: Am I prepared to love my fellow members of Christ Episcopal Church as Jesus Christ has loved them? Am I prepared to risk the exposure that comes with the kind of intimacy which Jesus showed to those with him on this night?

Jesus Christ risked everything for our salvation. The risk began with his claim to be a king on Palm Sunday. Tonight, he escalates that risk with an intimacy that is shocking. He will risk even more tomorrow. Tonight, he invites you to begin sharing in his risk, and his reward.

What Kind of Tree Are You? Wednesday, Holy Week

"Cursed is he who trusts in man…And turns his thoughts from the LORD. He shall be like a bush in the desert…It is set in the scorched places of the wilderness, In a barren land without inhabitant. Blessed is he who trusts in the LORD…He shall be like a tree planted by waters… It has no care in a year of drought, It does not cease to yield fruit.” (Jeremiah 17:5-8)

In Jeremiah’s prophecy the withered bush in the desert, and the tree planted by water, have one thing in common. They are both planted, by someone else. In this case, Jeremiah seems to be saying that those who are like withered shrubs have given themselves over to human beings. They have let human beings plant them. The trees, on the other hand, have trusted in the LORD God, and have let God plant them.

But did not the bush and the tree have some freedom to decide where they would be planted. Those who were like bushes in the desert turned from God, and that is a movement, which plants can’t do. So, whether you’re a bush or a tree would seem to depend on your choice of who to trust, sinful humans or God.

In his book, The Four Loves, C.S. Lewis writes that God plants in each of us a garden, which is our human nature. Without God’s grace, coming down like rain and sunshine, we all wither. But God also gives us the ability and the will to “dress” our garden, Lewis concludes, through the work of prayer and the pruning of self-examination.

As we “dress” the garden that has been planted within us, and around us, let us never forget that Jesus did the same. At the beginning of John’s Gospel, we hear that “the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.” The Greek word translated “dwelt” literally means to “pitch your tent.” In the Eugene Peterson paraphrase, The Message, we hear that the Word “moved into the neighborhood.”

Jesus laid down his roots among us. He placed his trust in the rain and sunshine of his Father’s grace. And when it came time for him to be pruned, he trusted. When it came time for his seed to die, he trusted that it would bear much fruit. Whatever pruning God asks of us is not as bad as the pruning Jesus endured. Whatever is in us that needs to die is not as terrible as the death that Jesus endured.

So, in the words of that obnoxious get-to-know-you question, what kind of tree are you?

Palm Sunday: The Passion of our Lord

Jesus is on trial for his life. He faces the literally “excruciating” sentence of death by having nails hammered into his wrists and his feet, then being left to suffer the pain and humiliation of being hung on a cross for hours before exhaustion leaves him unable to use his legs to lift the air out of his lungs, and he finally suffocates.

And yet, on trial for his life, as he is questioned, first by the High Priest then by Pilate the Roman Governor, Jesus has only three words to say in his defense: “You say so.” That is all he says in his defense. And those three words are not even really of defense of himself, because Jesus will not concede the authority of either the religious or political leaders to judge him. They presume to question him. But with just three words, Jesus turns the question back on them. The Questioned ends up questioning the Questioners.

“I put you under oath before the living God,” the High Priest demands of Jesus, “tell us if you are the Messiah, the Son of God.” And all Jesus says with a shrug of his shoulders is, “You say so.” And so he turns the question back on the High Priest. What do you think the Messiah, the Anointed of Israel, is supposed to look like? Is he supposed to look like you, High Priest, a religious leader who will lead the worship of Israel in exactly the right way?

And what should the Son of God look like? Should he come down from heaven in a blinding light that drives every human being to their knees before the power of God? Do you want a Messiah who can command human beings to do the will of God, while their hearts remain closed to God's love? And so the Questioned questions the questioner.

“Are you the King of the Jews?” Pilate the Roman Governor questions Jesus. And all Jesus says with a shrug of his shoulders is, “You say so.” And so he turns the question back on Pilate. What do you think a King should look like? Should he look like your Emperor, Tiberius, in Rome? Should he look like a man who can use people for his own pleasure and benefit simply because he has the power of life or death over them? Should he be a military conqueror who creates an empire of resentful slaves? Should he be a soldier victorious in war, at least until the next one?

And so the Questioned questions the questioner. The High Priest and Pilate both condemn Jesus – don’t be fooled by Pilate’s empty gesture of hand-washing. But Jesus does not condemn. He simply leaves them with his questions for them to consider for all time.

I daresay that none of the questions you might have for Jesus are as accusatory as those asked by the High Priest or Pilate. But questions we do have for Jesus. Why do tornados destroy churches and lives? Why do some people become slaves to addiction? Why do people cause so much pain to themselves and others? Why are communities changed by economic and social forces beyond their control? How do we pick up the pieces? Why should I have to accept a “new normal” that doesn’t seem to be as good as the old normal?

Underneath their accusations, there was genuine pain and uncertainty for the High Priest and Pilate. What kind of Messiah can you be, Jesus, if you can’t deliver us from Roman oppression, the High Priest really wants to know. How can you be the kind of king that crazy Tiberius in Rome would actually listen to, Pilate really wants to know.

We all have questions of Jesus. I invite you this Holy Week to bring those questions in prayer to the One who stands before you bound, and ready to hear your questions as he stood ready to hear the High Priest’s and Pilate’s. And if you fear to ask those questions because they might sound like accusations, do not fear. Jesus has heard them before. He did not condemn the High Priest or Pilate and he certainly won’t condemn you.

But after you ask your question, listen in your hearts for Jesus’ answer, or perhaps I should say, listen for Jesus to turn the question around. Listen for Jesus’ question. Let him ask you what you’re really afraid of. And unlike the High Priest and Pilate, let his question change your hearts and your lives.

That’s what repentance means: to change your hearts and your lives. But in truth, in repentance, it is Jesus who changes your heart, if you will take your questions to him, and listen to his questions for you.

Take Away The Stone: 5th Sunday of Lent

Why does Jesus wait two days after hearing from Martha and Mary that Lazarus is dying before he starts out toward Bethany? Is poor Lazarus just a ball that Jesus plays with, as a friend of mine once put it? Perhaps not. It probably took Jesus at least two days to walk from wherever he was on the east side of the Jordan River to Bethany. But by the time He arrived, Lazarus had already been dead for at least four days. Lazarus was likely dead when Jesus received Martha and Mary's message. And if Jesus knew two days after getting the message that Lazarus was "asleep," He surely knew that He would not be able to save his friend from physical death.

Jesus did know what no one else could possibly have known. "This sickness isn't fatal. It's for the glory of God, so that God's Son can be glorified through it." There was no doubt that Lazarus was dead when Jesus arrived with Lazarus already four days buried. Lazarus becomes the greatest of the seven "signs," which is how John refers to Jesus' miracles. In raising Lazarus, Jesus reverses the decay of physical death, and points to the future resurrection we all will share.

But that still leaves the sisters Martha and Mary. It may not matter to Lazarus any more, but when Jesus does arrive, they knew that He waited two days before coming to them. I find it even more incredible, then, that Martha can show such faith even at this time: "Lord if you had been here my brother would not have died. Even now, I know that whatever you ask of God, God will give you...I believe that you are the Christ, God's Son." No one has called Jesus the Son of God up until now in John's Gospel. Even now, Martha is steady and solid in her trust of Jesus.

Mary is more passionate and more questioning. All she can do is throw herself at Jesus' feet and only repeat Martha's words, "Lord if you had been here my brother would not have died." But she is not afraid to let out her questions, her doubts, perhaps even her anger, before Jesus. And neither should we. But both sisters still lack one thing in their faith.

Martha trusts that her brother will rise in the resurrection "on the last day." But when they come to the tomb, and Jesus says, "Take away the stone," Martha protests: "the smell will be awful." Martha does not understand that Resurrection is not just the glorious future that is promised each of us. It is a life that Jesus calls us to live now, today, this morning, and all the mornings of our lives. But to do that, we must take away the stone.

We all must take away the stone that shuts us in with our worries for the future, our anxiety over the crises of today, our resentment over past and present hurts. We protest, as did Martha, Lord, the smell will be awful. And don't suppose that it wasn't awful at first when the stone was taken away four days after the burial. What will we find when you take away the stone? We will find whatever in us smells awful. We will find whatever in us must die. That death may come in the form of rejection. It may come as the loss of something dear to you. Or it may come as something you choose to sacrifice in the hope that something better will.

At the beginning of this service, I read “An Exhortation” from the Book of Common Prayer. Let me repeat this: “If, in your preparation, you need help and counsel, then go and open your grief to a discreet and understanding priest, and confess your sins, that you may receive the benefit of absolution, and spiritual counsel and advice; to the removal of scruple and doubt, the assurance of pardon, and the strengthening of your faith.” There is a form for reconciliation, or “confession” in our Prayer Book. It is not required. But it is there if you ever decide that you need a friend to be with you when you take away the stone. But as with the other sacraments of the church, like Baptism and the Eucharist, it is not the priest to whom you confess, and it is not the priest who forgives you. The priest is merely the channel through which the grace of God in Jesus Christ flows to you.

“Where have you laid him?” Jesus asked Martha and Mary. Today, Jesus asks us, where have you laid your worries, your anxieties, your resentments and your shame? Take away the stone, and you will find Him who reversed the decay of death, who gave himself up to the same death as ours, and is always beside us, right now in this life, in death, and in the next life.

Breaking Ground and Setting Sail

Christ Episcopal Church is truly “rising from the rubble.” The Episcopal Diocese of Alabama has given its approval to the construction of a new worship building for Christ Church. On the one-year anniversary of the tornado, Easter Sunday, April 24, Bishop Kee Sloan will join the people of Christ Church in celebrating the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, and of Christ Church, by breaking ground for the new sanctuary.

We were required to get the approval of the Diocese before construction could begin. That process included the submission of floor plans for the new sanctuary, and information on how the construction would be financed. If Christ Church planned to borrow any money, that would have needed to be approved by the Diocesan Council.

But thanks to a generous settlement with Church Insurance Co., over $50,000 in contributions, and the Christ Church trust fund, it will not be necessary to borrow any funds to build the new church. Construction will begin as soon as the architect completes her more detailed construction drawings in about six weeks.

Long known as the “Little Gray Church on Main Street,” the new sanctuary will maintain the simple, yet elegant character of the original sanctuary. But looking to the future, the Vestry approved a design that will be able to realistically seat over 120 worshipers, compared to the 90 that could be fitted into the old church.

There will also be a small chapel for midweek worship and individual prayer at any time. The Chancel with the Altar will be much more spacious than in the original sanctuary, as will the Sacristy which houses those things needed for the Altar. And the Flower Guild will have their own room to make their contribution to the beauty of our worship that reflects, however dimly, the joyous beauty of God.

If you think about it, the church looks a lot like an upside-down boat. It is the place where we seek spiritual safety from the storms of life. It is also our faithful companion through the changes of life. The new sanctuary for Christ Episcopal Church looks back to the beloved little church that its founders moved from Piedmont in 1978. And it also looks forward to a future of spiritual growth.

When we break ground on Easter Sunday, we will also set sail on the next part of Christ Church’s journey, with Christ and with Sand Mountain. As we navigate the changing waters of time and circumstances, may the community that is Christ Episcopal Church make their new boat a place of spiritual refuge, nourishment and encouragement.

4th Sunday of Lent: Holy Questions

John only relates seven of Jesus' miracles. We'll hear the greatest of them next Sunday. We've heard the sixth this morning. And John doesn't actually call them miracles. He calls them signs. We give thanks for the mighty work that Jesus does when he brings the healing of broken bodies. But why does God bring healing: for the sake of the healed and those who love them? Yes, but such healings are temporary. We will not take our bodies with us. Jesus’ miracles of healing will help us the most if we can see them as signs, pointing to those things of the spirit that we will take with us.

All those things that hurt our souls; our fear and our anger, our distrust; those things we will take with us unless we understand the signs of God's trustworthiness that Jesus gives us. And if the Good News of Jesus Christ is about more than getting well, it is also more than a list of do’s and don’ts. The confrontation between Jesus, the man born blind, and the Pharisees was about one of the biggest don’ts as the Pharisees understood God’s law.

Jesus' healing of the man born blind was a certainly a sign to the Pharisees. He didn't need to make mud by mixing his spit with dirt and rubbing it on the man's eyes to heal him. Certainly the voice of his command would have been enough to give sight to this man born blind. His use of these "props" -- the dirt, the spit, the mud -- were a sign to the Pharisees then and the Pharisees now about the danger of passing off man-made rules as divine commands for all time. They were a sign to the Pharisees then and now of the danger of reducing salvation to a checklist of do's and don'ts. Jesus freed the man born blind. And Jesus frees us to ask new questions of Him, and through our Spirit-led conversation to receive new answers. Above all, Jesus Christ frees us to trust that when we do our best to follow him, His grace will lead us home.

Specifically, it was Jesus rubbing the dirt and spit together that was a violation of the Sabbath commandment to rest. The Law of Moses had been right to ban the making of clay because that act recalled when the Israelites were forced to make clay bricks for the the Pharaohs' pyramids. The Sabbath was a day for the Israelites to celebrate their freedom from human enslavement. But more than a thousand years later, in this situation, the Sabbath command against making clay would have left a man enslaved by his blindness.

The Pharisees belived in the Law of Moses, all 613 individual rules of that law. If one man could go one day and keep the Law of Moses totally, all 613 rules, the Pharisees belived that God himself would come down and make his kingdom among men. But they forgot that God had given the law to a particular people at a particular time and a particular place. And by Jesus' time they had made those 613 rules something that had not been God's intention. By Jesus' time those rules had become a constitution that could never be amended. They had become a checklist of do's and don'ts with no understanding of the Spirit which had inspired them.

It's understandable that we should look for bright lines, like the green arrow moving out from the Fidelity office. As long as you stay on the line, your road to wealth and financial security is a sure thing. We are tempted to do the same thing with religion. Make the line clear as day, stay on it, not deviating one step away from that line, and the road to heaven will be as easy as the line to financial wealth. The truth is that neither line is as clear as we want it to be. What do we do when the line of righteousness and "doing the right thing" points in one direction, but the line of mercy points in another? And so begin the "Questions on the Way."

That's the book we've been reading and discussing in our Adult Sunday School. It's an excellent summary of how the Episcopal Church understands its particular expression of Christianity. There are answers to the questions asked in "Questions on the Way," which often lead to more questions. But that is how the life of faith must be. And I would rather live out my faith not fearing the questions, than picking one set of answers and barring the asking of any more questions, just to save myself the fear of my comfort being disturbed.

I will be wrong at times. But I will not make my answers into an unbreakable Sabbath law, because Jesus might be ahead of me, asking more questions. I will trust His grace to correct me in good time, and to lead me home.