Easter Sunday, 2024 - Easter Faith

It is the shortest account of the resurrection—only eight verses long. It is also the strangest account. It records no appearances of the Risen Christ. It ends with the women running from the tomb in fear. Having been traumatized by what they experienced, they told no one about it.

The story of the resurrection in the gospel of Mark is so strange that other people wrote what they considered a more appropriate ending. There is a short ending that follows verse 8 and a longer ending—beginning with verse 9—that reflects the resurrection stories found in the gospels of Luke and John.

What if the strange ending of Mark’s gospel was by design? What might the gospel writer have been trying to say with this seemingly abbreviated, strange ending? What is its meaning for us on this Easter Sunday?

The abrupt ending leaves the end of the gospel hanging, waiting to be written. The implication is that we, the readers, have to write the ending. It is as though the biblical writer is saying “Write your own ending.” We write that ending by how we respond to the story—by what we do.

The heart of the story is found in the words of the young man dressed in white. “Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you” (Mark 16:6-7).

There was no encounter with the Risen Christ to confirm what the young man said. All they had were his words. “He has been raised; he is not here.” The only evidence that what he said was true was “there is the place they laid him.” Confirmation that what he said was true would come when they acted on what he said. “He is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.” They would see the Risen Christ when they did what the young man said to do.

In the first part of his gospel, the gospel writer told a story of a woman who was healed when she acted on what she believed to be true. The woman suffered from a condition in which she had been hemorrhaging for twelve years. Her condition kept her physically depleted. It isolated her from the community as it made her ritually unclean. Her pursuit of medical help had cost her everything she had. Having heard about how Jesus healed people, she thought, “If I but touch his clothes, I will be made well” (Mark 5:28). Believing Jesus could heal her, she slipped up behind him in the crowd and touched the hem of his cloak. Immediately, she was healed. Jesus, sensing “that power had gone forth from him" (Mark 5:30), turned to see who had touched his cloak. When the woman came forward, Jesus said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease” (Mark 5:34). This story shows us what faith looks like. Faith is believing something to be true, then acting on that belief.

The young man’s instructions challenged the women to act in faith. “He is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.”

The gospel of Mark also tells the story of a blind man whose healing required a second touch. The writer used the blind man as a metaphor for the disciples. His story is their story. The man was blind, unable to see. In the first half of the gospel, the disciples were blind. They did not recognize who Jesus was. They struggled to understand what he taught. The man was healed of his blindness with Jesus’s first touch, but not completely. He could see, but not clearly. “I can see people, but they look like trees, walking” (Mark 8:24). In order for him to see clearly, Jesus had to touch his eyes a second time. Only then was he was completely healed. In the second half of the gospel, the disciples recognized Jesus as the Messiah (Mark 8:29). They could see, but—like the blind man after the first touch—they did not see clearly. They struggled to understand or accept what Jesus taught about what he would experience in Jerusalem. They struggled to understand what was involved in being a disciple. They needed a second touch. The resurrection offered the second touch.

We live as Jesus’s disciples by embracing what he taught, allowing his teachings to shape our lives. As his disciples, we write the ending to the gospel by acting on what he said.

In other words, we write the ending to the gospel through faith. We believe what Jesus taught and act on it. We allow his teachings to shape how we live.

Being a disciple—like believing in the resurrection—is an act of faith. What Jesus taught goes against the way the world trained us to think and live—what Jesus called “the yeast of the Pharisees and the yeast of Herod” (Mark 8:15). To be a disciple is to live out of a servant spirit (Mark 9:35) rather than the self-serving, what’s-in-it-for-me, do-whatever-it-takes-to-get-ahead spirit that drives the way the world functions. To be a disciple is to use power to serve, addressing the needs of others (Mark 10:42-45) rather than the way the world uses power—over, down against others, for personal benefit at their expense. To be a disciple is to be out of step with the world.

Faith is believing something to be true, then acting on it. It is embracing what Jesus taught, allowing it to shape how we think and live.

We write the ending to the gospel of Mark by being Jesus’s disciples who put into practice what he taught—who do what he said.

This Easter, we have the opportunity to write our own ending to the story of Jesus’s resurrection.

Holy Saturday, 2024 - Waiting

It was the Sabbath—the day after the Passover. Jesus had been crucified the day before. After receiving permission from Pilate, Joseph of Arimathea had hastily removed his body from the cross and placed it in a near-by tomb as the Sabbath was quickly approaching. There had been no time for anything other than putting the body in the tomb, wrapped in a linen cloth. Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joses had watched him bury Jesus’s dead body (Mark 15:42-47).

Saturday. The Sabbath. The day after Jesus had died.

The disciples huddled in fear behind locked doors (John 20:19). Would the religious leaders and the Roman soldiers who had killed Jesus come looking for them, his followers? Their fear was laced with their grief and guilt. After all, they had all fled, deserting him in Gethsemane when the temple guard arrested him. Now, he was gone—dead.

What was Peter thinking and feeling—Peter who had sworn that he would die for him; Peter who had denied that he knew him, not once but three different times? Was his grief overshadowed by guilt and remorse? Was he filled with self-hate and despair over what he had done?

What about the women? They had been at the cross. They had seen him die. They had seen where Joseph had buried his body. Now, on this Sabbath day, they sat with their grief and disbelief, making plans to wash and anoint his body as soon as the Sabbath was over. They waited, filling the time with their preparations.

I wonder if the detail of Roman soldiers ever gave any thought to the three men they had crucified the day before. Did the soldier who had won Jesus’s garment with a roll of the dice wonder about the man who had worn it? about what had happened that he was arrested and sentenced to die? about why he was called the king of the Jews?

Did the centurion—the officer in charge of the detail assigned with the gruesome task of crucifying Jesus—do any more reflecting on Jesus? Seeing the way Jesus died—not the way he had seen other men die by crucifixion—he had said, “Truly this man was a son of God” (Mark 15:40). Did he continue to reflect on how Jesus died? Did Jesus haunt his thinking in the days that followed?

Simon of Cyrene had been compelled by the Roman soldiers to carry Jesus’s cross for him as they led him to Golgotha (Mark 15:21). Did he get away from the cross as quickly as he could or did he hang around to watch the soldiers crucify Jesus? Did he know who Jesus was? Did he ever escape the memories of that condemned man, beaten to within an inch of his life, whose cross he carried?

Because it was the Sabbath, the religious leaders were likely involved in Sabbath observances. Did the events of the previous week invade their religious observances? Did their religious observances lead to any self-reflection, identifying the part they played in those events? Did their thoughts of Jesus—if they had any—stir any sense of remorse or guilt? Or did they simply feel immense relief that they would never have to deal with him again?  

We each deal with pain—death, loss, violence, trauma, failure, grief, regret—in different ways. The experiences of these people who were there on that Sabbath invite us to reflect on our own life experiences as we wait in anticipation of Easter morning.

This Holy Saturday, we reflect as we wait.

Good Friday, 2024 - Reflecting on Jesus's Death on the Cross

 It’s not always about us.

Good Friday—the day Jesus was crucified. The day he died on a Roman cross.

Each year, a common theme is repeated about Good Friday. This theme is repeated in a variety of ways. Jesus died on the cross for our sins. Because of our sins, we deserved death, but he died in our place. He paid our debt. Through his death on the cross, we have forgiveness of our sins.

This theme lies at the heart of evangelical theology. It is accepted as the only way to understand Jesus’s death on the cross. It is seldom questioned. I guess that’s where I come in. You know me, always looking at things from a different angle. (In case you haven’t figured it out, that different angle is the character of God revealed to Moses and in Jesus of Nazareth.)

I am uneasy with this Jesus-died-for-me thinking for a number of reasons.

I am uncomfortable with what this thinking implies about God. It speaks of God’s wrath that had to be appeased before God could/would love and forgive us. In this thinking, God provided a means of appeasing that wrath in sending the Son to die on the cross. This understanding of God does not align with the biblical witness about God.

In the description of God’s character given to Moses (Exodus 34:6-7), there is no mention of wrath. The central feature of God’s character—according to that revelation—is God’s steadfast, faithful love. God’s love is steadfast—i.e., it never waivers. It is faithful—i.e., it never gives up on or abandons us. This covenant love is expressed in forgiveness. Forgiveness is an expression of God’s character. It is a part of what makes God to be God. God’s steadfast, faithful love moves God to embrace us just as we are, in our sinful nature. BTW—this revelation came in the wake of the golden calf incident in which Israel violated the covenant, breaking it. God refused to give up on or abandon them in spite of their failure. God replaced the broken covenant with an unconditional covenant (Exodus 34:10). This truth is what Moses learned as he interceded for the people (Exodus 32:7-34:10).

The prophet Hosea understood the depths of God’s love. Having proclaimed judgment against the nation, the prophet spoke of how the prospect of judgment tore at God’s heart. In the end, God’s love overcame God’s anger “for I am God and no mortal” (Hosea 11:9). “I’m not like you,” God said.

            How can I give you up, Ephraim?

            How can I hand you over, O Israel?

            My heart recoils within me;

            my compassion grows warm and tender (Hebrew: blazing hot).

            I will not execute my fierce anger,

            I will not again destroy Ephraim;

            for I am God and no mortal,

            The Holy One in your midst,

            and I will not come in wrath (Hosea 11:8-9).

Hosea’s words point to another reason I am uncomfortable with Jesus-died-for-our-sins thinking. This understanding of Jesus’s death reflects merit-based, deserving-oriented thinking. Death is what we deserve because of our sins. Merit-based, deserving-oriented thinking is our default thinking as humans. It is how we relate to one another. It is not, however, how God relates. God does not relate to us out of what we have done or not done—that is, according to what we deserve. God relates to us out of who God is—out of God’s character of love. The psalmist expressed it this way:

            He does not deal with us according to our sins

            Nor repay us according to our iniquities (Psalm 103:10).

The reason the psalmist gives for this reality is the greatness of God’s steadfast, faithful love.

            For as the heavens are high above the earth,

            So great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him (Psalm 103:11).

That steadfast, faithful love is expressed in forgiveness.

            As far as the east is from the west,

            so far he removes our transgressions from us (Psalm 103:12).

God relates to us out of who God is, not out of who we are. God loves us because it is God’s nature to love, not because we deserve it. Nothing we can do can change that love. God relates to us out of grace. That grace is expressed in forgiveness. That forgiveness is given freely, lavishly, unconditionally—not because Jesus died on the cross.

The list goes on. This Jesus-died-for-our-sins thinking keeps the focus on us. We are subtly center stage in this story even though we focus on Jesus and his death. Behind his death—according to this version of the story—is us. This version of the story—like so many of our religious practices—is at its core egocentric. It is about us.

This version of the story is about us and our sins. This version of the story keeps us focused on sin—how we fail to measure up. It does nothing to move us beyond our sins even though it proclaims the forgiveness of our sins. The apostle Paul spoke of salvation as a transformation of our hearts and minds. He spoke of living in the Spirit and in the power of the Spirit “so that the just requirement of the law might be fulfilled in us, who walk not according to the flesh but according to the Spirit” (Romans 8:4). That’s moving beyond sin. Paul spoke of being conformed to the image of Jesus (Romans 8:29). That’s spiritual maturity.

This Jesus-died-for-our-sins presents a one-and-done transaction. Believe, accept, be forgiven, go to heaven. It ignores the relational dimension—God’s relationship with us, our relationship with God, living in relationship with God through the indwelling Spirit. It ignores the concept of growth that is the essence of life—growing in the likeness of Christ. It has no hint of being God’s partners in doing God’s work of bringing the kingdom into reality on earth.

In my opinion, this Jesus-died-for-our-sins thinking is an impoverished concept of salvation that misses the point. It reflects egocentric thinking, keeping the focus on us.

So what is the alternative to this Jesus-died-for-our-sins thinking?

Jesus’s death on the cross is about God, not us. It is about God’s love. It is an expression of the steadfast, faithful love of God that never gives up on or abandons us. It proclaims how God responds to us and our sins—with forgiveness. “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:34). As Richard Rohr has said: Jesus did not die on the cross to convince God to forgive us; Jesus died on the cross to convince us that God has already forgiven us. Jesus’s death on the cross shows how far God will go in loving us—not just the cross, but the incarnation; not just forgiving us, but embracing us as beloved children.

In shifting the focus from us to God, we open the door to the possibility of our falling in love with God in response to God’s love for us. We just might love God in return. We might be captivated by the beauty of God’s nature and character. Focusing on God and God’s unconditional love just might cultivate within us a desire to love God with a love that is greater than our love for our own egocentric selves. Then, everything will no longer always be about us.

Maundy Thursday, 2024

The day probably started out like every other day when it was time to celebrate the Passover—“On the first day of the Unleavened Bread, when the Passover lamb is sacrificed” (Mark 14:12). Someone had to take the lamb to the Temple to be sacrificed while others had to prepare the room and the dishes for the Passover meal. Nothing about the day prepared the disciples for what they would experience as they gathered that evening for the Passover meal.

The Passover celebration followed a carefully scripted liturgy built around the Passover meal. It told the story of how the LORD acted to set the people of Israel free from their slavery in Egypt. Each dish shared during the meal recalled some aspect of the story. As faithful Jews, the disciples knew the liturgy by heart and could recite it along with those who were assigned the different parts in it. That night, however, Jesus didn’t follow the script. They never forgot that night or what Jesus did. What he did was that disturbing.

Jesus said three disturbing things that evening.

The first thing he said was that one of them—on the twelve, one of their trusted circle of companions, one who was sharing the Passover meal with him—would betray him. That betrayal would result in his arrest. Naturally, they were distressed by what he said. One by one, each sought to reassure him—and maybe themselves—by saying, “I would never do such a thing!”

Then, of all things, Jesus changed the Passover liturgy—the liturgy that had been used by every generation since the Passover had begun to be observed. That liturgy was sacred! That night, Jesus didn’t talk about how the LORD acted on behalf of the people trapped in Egyptian slavery. Rather, he talked about how the LORD was at work in his death—in his body broken for them, in his blood shed poured out for them. He talked about his blood as the blood of the covenant that bound the LORD and the people together in relationship with an unbreakable bond. It made no sense!

The third disturbing thing he said was after the meal as they made their way from the city to the place they often escaped to on the Mount of Olives. “You will all become deserters” (Mark 14:27). First, one of them would betray him! Now all of them would desert him! What in the world was Jesus thinking?! They had followed him for going on two years, through thick and thin. Why would they desert him now?!

Peter—good ole Peter, you could always count on him to say something when no one else would—challenged what Jesus said. “Even though all become deserters, I will not” (Mark 14:29). Jesus responded to Peter’s vow of loyalty with another disturbing prediction. “This day, this very night, before the cock crows twice, you will deny me three times” (Mark 14:30). Not only would Peter desert him, before the next morning Peter would deny that he even knew Jesus—not once, but three times! Jesus’s words cut Peter like a knife. He pushed back, asserting, “Even though I must die with you, I will not deny you.” That’s when all of them found their tongues and vowed the same.

Betrayal, desertion, denial—not to mention all his talk during the Passover meal about his own death! It was all so disturbing, so unbelievable. Yet, before the night was over, Judas had fulfilled his promise to the religious leaders. He led their soldiers and a mob to Gethsemane where he knew Jesus would be. He used a kiss of greeting to identify Jesus, betraying him into their hands. As they grabbed Jesus, binding his hands, one of his disciples—was it Peter?—made good on their vow. Wielding a sword, he attacked the slave of the high priest, cutting off his ear. Jesus, however, rebuked the attack. He even healed the man’s ear! That’s when the disciples ran, escaping into the night. Fleeing for their lives, they deserted him as he had said they would.

Peter, at least, followed the mob in the shadows. As Jesus was on trial before the Sanhedrin, he tried to go unnoticed in the courtyard so he could hear what was going on. He could not escape being seen, however. When someone accused him of being one of Jesus’s followers, he—fearing for his life—denied it. Then it happened again and again. Then the rooster crowed, announcing the dawn of a new day.

The disciples never forgot that Passover or all the disturbing things that happened on it—just like Jesus said they would. Neither have we.

Holy Week, 2024 - Wednesday - In Remembrance of

She drew reprimands from others along with complaints about what she had done. Yet Jesus defended and praised her for what she did. 

It was Wednesday of that Passover week—just two days before Jesus was crucified. Jesus was in Bethany having dinner at the home of Simon the leper. As he sat at the table, this unnamed woman approached him, carrying an alabaster jar containing a very expensive ointment made of nard. Those who reprimanded her noted that it would have cost a day laborer a year’s salary to buy it—“this ointment could have been sold for more than three hundred denarii” (Mark 14:5). Without saying a word, she broke open the jar and poured its contents on Jesus’s head. She anointed him with oil. “You anoint my head with oil” (Psalm 23:5).

That’s when others at the dinner began to grumble among themselves, complaining to one another about what she had done. They were angry with her for using the ointment to anoint Jesus (Mark 14:4). They complained that she had wasted the ointment. Selling it and giving the money to the poor would, in their opinion, have been a better use of it. As is so often the case with those of us who believe we are right and the other is wrong, the critics voiced their disapproval and anger. “They scolded her” (Mark 14:5). They reprimanded her for what she had done. Their reprimand not only expressed their disapproval of how she used the ointment, it belittled her for doing so. They attacked her.

Jesus stepped in at that point to put a stop to how they were attacking her. “Let her alone” (Mark 14:6). He argued that they—not surprisingly—did not understand what she had done. “Why do you trouble her? She has done what she could; she has anointed my body beforehand for its burial” (Mark 14:6, 8).

The disciples were seemingly oblivious to what Jesus was facing even though he had spent the past six weeks telling them over and over again what would happen when he got to Jerusalem. This woman, however, had heard what he was saying. Even more, she sensed the battle he was fighting inside himself as he faced the events that were beginning to unfold. That sensitivity led her to respond with compassion to him—to do something to ease the burden that she sensed was weighing so heavily on his mind and spirit—to share the sorrow she sensed beneath the surface—to express her love for him. She expressed her love by anointing him with oil. “She has done what she could” (Mark 14:8).

Jesus affirmed her as he applauded her generosity and compassion. “Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her” (Mark 14:9). Although we don’t know her name, even though she is often overlooked and forgotten, this woman’s compassion and generosity—though criticized and reprimanded at the time—are still remembered because of Jesus’s appreciation of them. She was, after all, there for Jesus when no one else was.

The gospel writer frames this woman’s story with two stories that carry a radically different tone. While this woman’s story is one of sensitivity, compassion, and sacrificial love, the two framing-stories are about plotting, deceit, and betrayal. The characters in these stories act out of unrestrained self-interest. Interestingly, they—unlike the woman—are identified. The first story—which precedes the woman’s story—tells how the religious leaders plotted Jesus’s death. “The chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to arrest Jesus by stealth and kill him” (Mark 14:1). The second—which follows the woman’s story—tells how Judas approached the chief priests, volunteering to betray Jesus to them. These two stories set in motion the events that would lead to Jesus’s death—the death the woman anticipated.

“Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her” (Mark 14:9). In keeping with Jesus’s words, I add my voice in telling what she did. She anointed the head of Jesus which he interpreted as anointing his body beforehand for its burial. I also speak of why—as I understand it—she did so. She acted out of her sensitivity, compassion, generosity, and sacrificial love. In doing so, “she has done what she could” (Mark 14:8).

On the Wednesday of Holy Week, may we be like her, doing what we can.

Holy Week, 2024 - Tuesday - The End of the World

What Jesus taught the disciples that Tuesday evening of Holy Week would have sounded to them like the end of the world.

On Tuesday of that Passover week, Jesus spent the day in the Temple compound, exercising control over it after having done a house-cleaning in it the day before. His day was filled with teaching, fielding questions, and avoiding the attempts to trap him wielded by the different religious and political factions. The religious authorities were furious with him for taking control of what they considered to be their world. They were set on arresting him. All they needed was an excuse.

As the day ended, Jesus and his disciples left the Temple complex, heading back to Bethany for the night. As they left, one of the disciples spoke with wonder about the structure. “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” (Mark 13:1). The quarried stones that had been used in the construction of the compound—the foundation, the walls surrounding the complex, the various courtyards and porticos, the temple itself—were indeed massive. The majority were limestone blocks that measured thirty-seven and a half feet long, eighteen feet wide, and twelve feet thick. The unnamed disciple’s comment suggests he was overwhelmed with the sheer massiveness of the complex. It also suggests he was surveying the structure in anticipation that he and his companions would assume control of it when Jesus revealed himself as the Messiah. His comment could be understood to mean, “Just think, Jesus! All of this is going to be yours (and ours)!”

Jesus’s response to the disciple’s statement would have squelched his enthusiasm while leaving him bewildered. “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon anther; all will be thrown down” (Mark 13:2).

What Jesus taught his disciples on that occasion is known as the Temple Discourse. It is found in Mark 13. What he said was going to happen would have been almost beyond their ability to imagine. The Temple was going to be destroyed. That reality would have sounded to them like the end of the world.

For over five hundred years—since its dedication in 515 BCE—the Second Temple had been the center of Israel’s religious life. (The first Temple—Solomon’s Temple—had been destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BCE.) By the time of Jesus, the Second Temple was known as Herod’s Temple because of Herod’s work in expanding the Temple compound. The people viewed the Temple as the dwelling place of God on earth. It was one of three pillars around which their faith was built—the law representing their covenant with God, the Davidic monarchy representing the LORD’s rule in the life of their nation, and the Temple as God’s dwelling place in their midst. The Temple embodied the heart of their identity as the covenant people of God. To think of it being destroyed was simply unimaginable.

In the discourse, Jesus taught about the coming crisis in which the Temple would be destroyed. That crisis and destruction occurred in 70 CE when the Roman army, after a three-year siege, destroyed the Temple. Using apocalyptic language, Jesus also taught about the end of the age—the end of the current age that would usher in the age to come when heaven and earth would be reunited and God would reign on earth. The destruction of the Temple was not the end of the age.

While the destruction of the temple would have sounded to the disciples like the end of the world, it was not. It was, however, the end of the world as they knew it.

The end of the world as we know it is a normal part of life. It does not always involve a life-shattering crisis as the disciples faced. As the years go by, life as we have known it gives way to a different stage of life in which we face new realities and new challenges. We get married, leaving our youth and life as a single behind. We have children with all the joys and challenges they create. The kids go off to kindergarten and, then, before we know it, they graduate from high school, moving off toward adulthood and leaving us with an empty nest. We go through the loss of a job or a career change or a relocation. We walk through an unexpected divorce or a health crisis. We come to retirement, leaving the work years and the productive stage of life behind. We cope with the death of spouse. In all of these situations—and many more—we experience the end of the world as we have known it.

We are living through the end of the world as we have known it—in the splintering of The UMC through the disaffiliation process, in the decline of the institutional church in the US and growth of the NONES, in the growing diversity and corresponding shrinking of the “white” demographic within our nation, in the resurfacing of racial, ethnic, and religious bigotry in our national politics—a pushback against the decline of WASP power, in the climate of extremism in the political arena displacing a commitment to the “common good,” in the rejection of science and education as respected sources of truth in our culture, in the abandoning of public education as a primary means of “getting ahead” socially and economically in life.

What happens to us when we experience the end of the world as we know it? How do we deal with the loss of the old? How do we face the new reality with its many unknowns?

Change of any kind—even change that we want and choose—stirs anxiety and fear. Facing new experiences that require different ways of thinking and new skills for coping also stirs anxiety. By nature, we resist change and the new it brings. We cling to the familiarity and comfort of what was. We live as though what is will always be. Yet, it is the nature of life that what was gives way to what is next. What is never remains the same.

As Jesus spoke about the coming end of the world as they knew it, he sought to prepare his disciples for what they would face. He told them to beware (twice—Mark 13:5, 9), be alert (Mark 13:23), beware and keep alert (Mark 13:33), keep awake (twice—Mark 13:35, 37).

His exhortations carry the idea of being aware—i.e., self-aware—as opposed to being on our guard about some external danger. The greatest danger seldom lies outside ourselves. It lies in the anxiety-driven emotional reactivity that stirs within our hearts and minds. Our anxiety can cause us to look for a quick fix that will help us escape the pain and struggle of the situation (Mark 13:6) rather than recognizing, addressing, and learning from the issues reflected in our struggle. Anxiety can cause us to be reactive to the situation rather than staying present, aware of and contributing to how God is at work in the situation (Mark 13:9-13). To be alert is to live consciously rather than unconsciously—thinking and choosing how to respond rather than unconsciously reacting out of unrecognized, unaddressed, and unresolved anxiety-laden issues from the past. To keep awake is to be aware of and responsive to what is happening in the present rather than being lulled into the complacency of old habits and immature patterns of the past.

We cannot avoid the end of the world as we know it. It does happen and will happen again. We can, however, allow our faith in God to guide how we deal with such times. Faith helps us look at what was with gratitude, treasuring the goodness we experienced in it. It trains us to look at the new that will be with confidence, trusting God’s steadfast, faithful love to sustain us, guide us, provide for us, and bless us in what will be. It empowers us to live in the present with self-awareness, managing our anxiety so that we can be God’s partner in what is happening in the moment.

On this Tuesday of Holy Week, how are you experiencing the end of the world as you know it?

Holy Week, 2024 - Monday

The gospel of Mark presents the clearest outline of the events in Jesus’s life during what we call Holy Week—the week of Passover, the week leading up to his death on the cross. The gospel places Jesus’s cleansing of the Temple on Monday, following his entry into Jerusalem on Sunday—Palm Sunday.

On that Monday, Jesus took charge of the Temple complex. He drove out those who were selling and buying the animals that the Temple authorities had certified as meeting the requirements for sacrifice. He turned over the tables of those exchanging Roman coins into Temple currency—at a significant rate of exchange, of course. He refused to let people traffic through the Temple compound, arguing with the prophet Jeremiah that it was “a house of prayer for all nations” not a market place (Mark 11:17).

The gospel writer wrapped the story of Jesus’s cleansing the Temple with two stories—both centering on a particular fig tree. The first story points to the meaning of Jesus’s actions in the Temple; the second applies the principle found in the story of the fig tree to our lives as individuals.

On the way to the Temple Monday morning, Jesus saw a fig tree in leaf. As he was hungry, he was eager to gather some figs to eat on the journey into Jerusalem. However, when he reached the tree, it had no fruit. Consequently, he cursed the tree: “May no one ever eat fruit from you again” (Mark 11:14). Fig trees put on fruit before they leaf out. Thus, the presence of leaves suggested the presence of fruit—which is why Jesus anticipated finding figs even though, as the gospel writer noted, “it was not the season for figs” (Mark 11:13). Jesus cursed the tree for having the appearance of being fruitful but failing to produce fruit.

The gospel writer used the fig tree as a metaphor for the Temple. The Temple, too, had the appearance of being fruitful but failed to produce the fruit for which it was created. It trafficked in sacrifices and religious acts but failed to help people know God or connect with God. It failed in its primary purpose—to be a house of prayer where people could meet God. Jesus’s cleansing of the Temple was his confrontation of the Temple’s failure to produce the fruit that was expected. Jesus’s curse of the fig tree foreshadowed the destruction of the Temple—the focus of Jesus’s discourse found in Mark 13.

The second story of the fig tree happened the next day—Tuesday—as Jesus and the disciples made their way back into Jerusalem. As they walked the same road they had walked on Monday, the disciples noticed the fig tree—the one Jesus had cursed—had withered away to its roots (Mark 11:20). Peter called Jesus’s attention to the dead fig tree. In response to Peter, Jesus taught about faith that could move mountains—specifically, the mountain they were standing on, the Mount of Olives. “Truly I tell you, if you say to this mountain, ‘Be taken up and thrown into the sea,’ and if you do not doubt in your heart, but believe that what you say will come to pass, it will be done for you. So I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours” (Mark 11:23-24). As the Mount of Olives still stands today east of Jerusalem, Jesus’s language was clearly metaphorical. The mountain to which Jesus referred was not a literal, physical mountain.

To what mountain, then, was Jesus referring?

The gospel writer offers a clue in the next verse—a verse that introduces a topic that seems out of place in the context. “Whenever you stand praying, forgive, if you have anything against anyone; so that your Father in heaven may also forgive you your trespasses” (Mark 11:26). This verse suggests the mountain that can be removed by faith is a mountain that resides in our hearts—the inability to forgive someone who has wronged us or hurt us. The lack of forgiveness is generally held in place by harbored anger and resentment that views the other as an enemy and treats them as evil. It holds onto the hurt as evidence of the other’s wrong. The mountain in our heart—the lack of forgiveness—is part of a mountain range!

This second story continues the theme found in the first two—being fruitless while presenting the appearance of being fruitful. These things—the inability to forgive another, harboring anger and resentment, viewing the other as an enemy and treating them as evil, holding onto hurt—keep us from producing the fruit expected of the followers of Jesus. Carrying these “mountains” in our hearts allows us to have the appearance of being a follower of Jesus without producing the fruit that goes with discipleship—loving as Jesus loved, forgiving as Jesus forgave, accepting all as beloved children of God, living out of a servant spirit (just to name a few).

So how do we avoid the issue raised in the story of the fig tree—having the appearance of being fruitful while being fruitless? Jesus said the key was faith (Mark 11:22)—faith that is expressed by praying (Mark 11:24). Moving mountains is God’s work, not ours. Our work is to pray in faith about the “mountains” we recognize in our hearts, confessing them to God. In acknowledging them to God, we give God permission to remove them. Jesus’s promise was “and it will be yours” (Mark 11:24).

Jesus confronted a fig tree and the Temple for having the appearance of being fruitful while bearing no fruit. He then taught his disciples how to avoid the same fate. He taught them (us) to pray with faith, confessing the “mountains” that were in their heart to God.

God is in the mountain-moving business. The Spirit is in the heart-cleansing, spirit-healing, life-transforming business. As the followers of Jesus, we are in the fruit-producing business . . . as long as we have enough faith to pray about the “mountains” in our hearts.   

Palm Sunday, 2024 - What You Don't See

What you don’t see is the key to understanding the story.

Palm Sunday—the last Sunday of Lent, the beginning of Holy Week—recounts the familiar story of how Jesus entered Jerusalem that particular Sunday.

The Passover was possibly the most holy—certainly the most popular—of all the Jewish festivals. Jewish pilgrims from all over flocked into Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover. The celebration was built around the Passover meal. The celebration called for the sacrifice of a lamb that would be roasted and eaten during the meal. It followed a carefully crafted liturgy that recounted how the LORD had delivered their ancestors from slavery in Egypt. Each dish used in the meal was a reminder of something from that experience. As that particular dish was eaten, that part of the story was told. The liturgy was recited in the first person in an effort to make it feel as though they themselves had been there during that first Passover meal.

Emotions ran high during the Passover festival. As the festival celebrated the birth of their nation, it stirred the people’s resentment toward Rome and her domination of their nation. It stirred their desire to throw off the yoke of Rome. This resentment, fueling their desire to escape the boot of Rome on their necks, often spilled over into violent protests and rebellion. In order to deal with this repeated scenario, Rome had built a military garrison—Fortress Antonio—within the city, adjacent to the temple itself. This location allowed a swift response by the Roman soldiers to any protest that got out of hand.

Pilgrims from Galilee were among the crowds flooding into Jerusalem for that particular Passover festival. These pilgrims knew Jesus. They had witnessed his healing miracles. Some would have been among the crowd of 5,000 whom he had fed with five loaves and two fish. They came to the festival, believing Jesus was the long-awaited Messiah. That belief carried with it the hope that Jesus would use his power to break Rome’s stranglehold on their nation.

Jesus understood all of these dynamics—the nation’s religious history, the political nature of this religious festival, the resentment toward Rome, the nation’s desire for a military king like David—the Son of David, the Messiah—who would deliver them from their enemies, the beliefs and expectations of the Galilean pilgrims. He used these dynamics to make a statement about himself. That statement was made in the form of a parade.

Jesus designed and orchestrated the parade. He arranged for the donkey on which to ride, including a password that would gain the owner’s release of the donkey. He chose the time—the first day of the week of Passover. He chose the location—the eastern approach to and the Eastern gate into Jerusalem, the primary entrance used by the pilgrims from Galilee. Each of these aspects of his plan was designed to contribute to the statement he was attempting to make.

In choosing to ride a donkey, Jesus drew on the words of the prophet Zechariah.

            Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion!

            Shout aloud, O daughter of Jerusalem!

            Lo, your king comes to you;

            triumphant and victorious is he,

            humble and riding on a donkey,

            on a colt, the foal of a donkey (Zechariah 9:9).

Alluding to this prophetic text, Jesus proclaimed himself to be the Messiah.

The pilgrims from Galilee contributed to his proclamation. Singing the messianic psalm, Psalm 118, they proclaimed Jesus to be the Messiah. Using the psalm, they prayed from deliverance—Hosanna!, which means, “save us!” Using their cloaks and palm branches from the trees, they created a “red carpet” for him as Israel had done when Jehu was proclaimed king (2 Kings 9:13). Palm branches were a national symbol, similar to our US flag.

The meaning behind Jesus’s choice of the day, the time of day, and the Eastern gate is found in what you do not see.

Roman history from that period and that region tells us that each year, on the first day of the week of Passover, the Roman procurator Pontius Pilate made his way from his residence on the Mediterranean coast to Jerusalem in order to be in Jerusalem for the Passover festival. He would enter Jerusalem through the Western gate of the city, riding a warhorse and leading a military parade. He led a legion of Roman soldiers, reinforcements for the Fortress Antonio in anticipation of political trouble during the festival. The soldiers were dressed in full battle attire—shields, helmets, breastplates, swords, spears. The message of the parade was clear: Roman soldiers would deal swiftly and ruthlessly with any who dared to defy the authority of Rome.

Jesus, too, chose a parade to make a statement. He chose the Eastern gate in contrast to Pilate’s entrance through the Western gate. He chose a donkey in contrast to Pilate’s warhorse. He chose religious pilgrims in contrast to professional soldiers dressed in battle attire.

The heart of Jesus’s message was in the contrast. He did not come as a warrior-king like David who used power to dominate, control, or destroy. He would not use his position or power for his own benefit. Rather, he would use his power on behalf of others. He came to serve. He was a servant king.

The Zechariah text adds clarity to what Jesus said about how he would use power.

            He will cut off the chariot from Ephraim

            and the war horse from Jerusalem,

            and the battle bow shall be cut off,

            and he shall command peace to the nations (Zechariah 9:10).

Jesus rejected the way empire uses power—the way of war; the use of power to dominate, control, and destroy.

Because of what we do not see—the military parade entering Jerusalem at the same time, on the same day, on the other side of the city—we often miss what Jesus was saying that day with his parade. Jesus—the long-awaited Messiah—came as a servant. He came to serve, using his power on behalf of others, to address the needs of others. He rejected the way the world uses power—over, down against others, for personal benefit, at the other’s expense—and thus the ways of war.

To be the followers of Jesus is to embrace the way Jesus used power—to serve. It is also to reject—as Jesus did—the way the world uses power. It is to reject the ways of war. As the followers of Jesus we are to be a servant people following a servant king.

Fifth Sunday of Lent, 2024 - Discipleship in a Grain of Wheat

 The gospel of John is the most theologically oriented gospel of the four gospels. Its theology far surpasses that of the other gospels.

Each of the gospels is unique, written for a different purpose, to a different audience. The gospel of Matthew—written for a Jewish audience—presents Jesus as the long-awaited Messiah who fulfilled what was written in the Hebrew Scriptures. The gospel of Luke—written for a Gentile audience—presents the key characteristics of the kingdom of God as reflected in the life, ministry, and teachings of Jesus and in his death and resurrection. The gospel of Mark describes what it means to be a follower of Jesus, portraying the discipleship journey as moving from the way the world trained us to think and live to the servant spirit Jesus taught and lived.

In contrast to these three synoptic gospels, the gospel of John teaches us how to think about God and the ways of God—theology. It is full of stories found in no other gospel. Each story presents theological truth and/or is followed by theological teaching.

·       This gospel teaches us about the incarnation—the Word made flesh (John 1:1-18). A repeated motif in the gospel is descending and ascending—“coming down from heaven” paired with the theme of ascending back to the Father (resurrection).

·       In Jesus—the Word made flesh—we see what God is like. “No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son who has made him known” (John 1:18). Jesus said to Philip, “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father” (John 14:9).

·       The gospel of John teaches us that God loves the world (John 3:16), which means God loves us. Because of God’s great love for the world, God gave the gift of Jesus his Son.

·       It tells us about God’s gift of eternal life—God’s quality of life—that is given through Jesus (John 3:16, 10:28). “And this is eternal life, that they my know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you sent” (John 17:5).

·       It is the gospel of John that teaches us the need to be born again from above (John 3:3).

·       It teaches that true worship is to “worship the Father in spirit and truth” (John 4:23).

·       This gospel teaches about the Spirit, the “spring of water gushing up to eternal life” (John 4:18, also 7:38-39). The Spirit—like Jesus the Son—is also a gift of the Father, sent “to be with you forever” (John 14:16). The Spirit—who “abides with you” and “in you” (John 14:17)—teaches us the ways of God that Jesus taught (John 14:26; 16:12-15).

·       It is in this gospel that we find the great “I am” sayings of Jesus—each a theological metaphor. “I am the bread of life” (John 6:35, 48), “I am the bread that comes down from heaven” (John 6:41), “I am the living bread that came down from heaven” (John 6:51), “I am the light of the world” (John 8:12, 9:5), “before Abraham was, I am” (John 8:58), “I am the gate of the sheep” (John 10:7, “I am the good shepherd” (John 10:11, 14), “I am the resurrection and the life” (John 11:25), “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6), “I am the true vine” (John 15:1, 5).

·       It is the gospel of John that presents Jesus’s new commandment. “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another” (John 13:34-35, 15:12). This teaching is the gospel’s clearest statement about what is involved in being a disciple.

·       This gospel—using the metaphor of a vine and branches—teaches us about abiding in Christ (John 15:1-17). Abiding is the key to discipleship as it leads us to experience the joy of Jesus (John 15:11) as we love on another as Jesus loved (John 15:12).

·       Instead of Jesus’s prayer in Gethsemane, the gospel of John records Jesus’s high priestly prayer (John 17) in which he prays that his followers “may be one, as we are one” (John 17:11).

·       This gospel speaks of Jesus’s death and resurrection as being glorified (John 12:16, 23, 28; 17:1).

The primary focus of the gospel of John is Jesus as the Word made flesh—revealing the Father, doing the work of the Father, glorifying the Father. Interwoven with this central theme, amid the various stories, are hints about what it means to be a follower of Jesus—discipleship.

 Discipleship involves being born again from above (John 3:3), participating in God’s quality of life—eternal life, worshiping in spirit and in truth (John 4:23), experiencing the Spirit as “a spring of water gushing up to eternal life” (John 4:14, 7:37-39), owning responsibility for one’s own life and wholeness (John 5:1-14). The gospel repeatedly presents being a follower of Jesus as embracing and following his teachings. This repeated emphasis is the theme of chapters 6-10, i.e., eating his flesh and drinking his blood (John 6:53-58), walking in the light of life (John 8:12), embracing the truth that sets us free (John 8:31, 36), recognizing and following the voice of Jesus (John 10:3-6, 14).

Beyond these subtle hints are three specific teachings about discipleship. Two were identified above. The heart of discipleship is loving one another—the new commandment (John 13:34-35; 15:12-17). The key to discipleship is abiding in Christ (John 15:1-17). Abiding is a dimension of the Spirit’s presence and work in our lives (John 14:15-27). This abiding is what empowers us to love one another. The third teaching expresses discipleship in a nutshell—or, rather, as a grain of wheat.

“Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there will my servant be also. Whoever serves me, the Father will honor” (John 12:24-26).

Discipleship involves dying. Specifically, discipleship involves dying to the self we unconsciously constructed in order to be accepted and valued by the world—what I call the egocentric constructed self. We constructed this self by following the thinking of the world, conforming to its expectations. It was constructed through self-effort as we measured up to the expectations placed upon us by those around us. It is grounded in merit-based, deserving-oriented thinking. At the core of this false persona is a comparing and competing spirit. We seek to be like those we consider to be successful and significant. We compare ourselves to those who fail to measure up as well as we do, unconsciously feeling superior to them. To refer to this identity as egocentric is to say that it is self-focused. It operates out of a self-centered, self-serving, what’s-in-it-for-me spirit.

Dying to this egocentric constructed self is what it means to “hate their life in this world.” It is to reject the thinking of the world and what it values. It is to die to who the world told us we needed to be. Holding onto this egocentric identity is to lose our life. It is to miss the God-quality of life for which we were created. It is to miss who God created us to be.

This kind of dying is what Jesus did. He refused to live by the expectations and demands of the world. Rather, his life was shaped by who he knew God to be and by the ways of God. As a result, he was out of step with the world in which he lived. He was constantly in conflict with those around him. Ultimately, this refusing to conform to the expectations of the world led first to being misunderstood and then to being rejected by the world, ultimately resulting in his being executed on a Roman cross.

Reflecting on a grain of wheat, Jesus identified a principle which God had designed into the fabric of life. This foundational principle is rooted in God’s own divine nature of self-giving love. The principle: dying is the way to life. Death leads to resurrection. When a single wheat seed is planted in the ground—i.e., dies—it bursts forth in a stalk of wheat that produces more seeds. Similarly, Jesus understood his death would lead to life for others—eternal life. “And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself” (John 12:32).

Dying to our egocentric constructed identity is necessary if we are to love one another as Jesus taught. Loving one another requires a self-giving, servant spirit—the opposite of the what’s-in-it-for-me spirit of the egocentric self. It requires us to move beyond comparing and competing, beyond deserving-oriented thinking. Loving as Jesus taught requires us to reject the way the world taught us to think and what the world values.

Dying to our egocentric constructed self is only possible as we abide in Christ. Abiding in Christ is staying attuned to and in step with the Spirit. Dying to the egocentric constructed self is the work of Spirit who lives in us. It is the Spirit who teaches us what Jesus taught. It is the Spirit who empowers us to love as Jesus taught. It is the Spirit who guides us in loving one another.

The gospel of John is the most theologically oriented gospel of the four. Even its concept of discipleship is a theological concept, grounded in the theology of the incarnation. In a nutshell—or a grain of wheat—discipleship is dying in order to live. It is giving oneself in love for the sake of another. It is dying as Jesus died—the incarnation—which results in living as Jesus lived—the resurrection.

“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit” (John 12:24).