“And they returned to Jerusalem with great joy, and were continually in the temple, praising God”. (Luke 24:52-53)
Monday. That glorious Sunday has come and gone. Is the world different because of what has happened? Are we different? If the resurrection of Jesus was the consummate reconciliatory event of all time and not just a nice bit of tradition, then there has to be a change in the way we understand and experience God, others, and ourselves. At the very least, our lives must have a different quality. There needs to be a deep shift in how we perceive and experience reality, in how we conduct our lives, in how we choose what we choose. Why do we live with hope and purpose rather than living in constant despair? What has changed? We still need to go to work and pay our taxes and care for our sick and bury our loved ones. We still need to deal with harsh governments and natural disasters and cruel terrorists and incurable diseases and wretched poverty and social injustice and unemployment and painful election cycles and racial injustice and cruel wars and pain and weeping and mourning. We still live in a world where those who think they are strong try to stay in power by trying to overpower those whom they think are weak, a world that tries to solve its problems by taking sides and by waging wars and by dropping bombs. What has changed? “And they returned to Jerusalem with great joy, and were continually in the temple, praising God” (Luke 24:52-53). Hope was born that day. The tragedies we see all around us are not the end of the story. We serve a God who is all-wise, all-loving, all-powerful, He has a glorious plan, and He can never be defeated. God is building a group of people, his Church, who are learning to love him with all their heart, soul, mind and strength, and who are learning how to love and honor each other in the ways of love, self-sacrifice, authenticity, and genuine compassion. Jesus will return to set up his kingdom of peace on the earth. God’s plan is unfolding as it should, and the end will be good. It will have been worth the journey. How do we live in the meantime? We learn to love God more deeply and to walk in his ways more fully. We continue to learn how to love another. We continue to ask God to help us to become more like Jesus. We become people who care. By living as compassionate people who love God and who love each other, we point forward to the coming kingdom and we model it, as citizens of a kingdom that has not yet been established on the earth. We do not try to force the kingdom of God on people as though we could bring in the kingdom through human effort. We become a people who are known for our love, not for our politics. We offer the water of life to those who are thirsty. Those who are thirsty will come. For those of us who have come to know Him, the world doesn’t need for us to be angry, militant culture warriors who are trying to remake society after our own image. The world needs for us to be a joyful company of humble, gentle and courageous men and women who are forever marked and defined by the Cross and the Resurrection, people of hope in a hopeless world, people who point people to Jesus by being like Jesus, people who dare to believe that the joyful declaration of Resurrection Sunday didn’t end on Monday morning. After all, the tomb is still empty!
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And when the sabbath was past, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome, had bought sweet spices, that they might come and anoint him. And very early in the morning the first day of the week, they came unto the sepulchre at the rising of the sun. And they said among themselves, Who shall roll us away the stone from the door of the sepulchre? And when they looked, they saw that the stone was rolled away: for it was very great. And entering into the sepulchre, they saw a young man sitting on the right side, clothed in a long white garment; and they were affrighted. And he saith unto them, Be not affrighted: Ye seek Jesus of Nazareth, which was crucified: he is risen; he is not here: behold the place where they laid him. (Mark 16:1-6)
Sunday! The tomb is empty! He is risen! He is risen indeed! Love is greater than hatred, mercy is greater than sin, life is more powerful than death, good is greater than evil, sin and death have been conquered! He’s alive! There are no lost causes, there are no helpless cases, there is nothing beyond the reach of God’s love, there is nothing beyond the scope of Christ’s redemption. Jesus lives, and so, too, shall we live! The universe stands witness to the fact that God is indeed God, the one who is both All-Powerful and All-Merciful, the Creator of Sustainer of the Universe, the One who is too righteous to ignore our sins but too loving to leave us in our sins. It demonstrates that God is righteous, and that He is loving, and that the universe is moving in the right direction because God is at the helm and the Lamb has overcome. If God is God then He can never be defeated, and the resurrection declares that God has accomplished what He set out to accomplish. The universe makes sense again. Defeat has been defeated. We now have a reason to be joyful! Resurrection Sunday is a declarative celebration that is worthy of the celebration we would have if war and violence and injustice and poverty and discrimination and cancer and AIDS and all other diseases were abolished on the same day, times infinity, because it marks the defeat of all the enemies of God and of humankind, forever. It marks the defeat of humankind’s two greatest enemies, sin and death, out of which all the other of humanity’s problems flow. It marks the breaking of the curse of sin and death. The head of the serpent has been crushed by the wounded heel of the woman’s seed. God had created an unspeakably beautiful and glorious universe, humankind had rebelled, sin and death had reigned for a season, but in the resurrection of Jesus God has the last word. God will accomplish his purposes. Sin and death and their consequences have been abolished. God is at work restoring his children, his earth and his universe to their original wholeness and beauty, and all obstacles have been forever defeated by the One who died and arose from the dead. God can never be defeated, and his purposes are good. Herein lies our hope and our joy: He is risen! Sunday! Glorious Sunday! Death conquered, sin defeated, hope restored, curse broken! The power of sin and death has been broken, and hopelessness can never again be an option. The hands that were pierced are now raised, though still pierced, in the joyful “Yes!” of the victor. He’s alive! God is real, God is alive, God is victorious, and God can never be defeated! The universe is singing its song of celebration, though not every heart is tuned to hear the song. God hears the joyful sound, and His heart is made glad. I want to join in the song; I want to share in His gladness! Humanity, open your eyes, your redemption is here! Look, see, believe, rejoice! And now when the even was come, because it was the preparation, that is, the day before the sabbath, Joseph of Arimathaea, an honourable counsellor, which also waited for the kingdom of God, came, and went in boldly unto Pilate, and craved the body of Jesus. And Pilate marvelled if he were already dead: and calling unto him the centurion, he asked him whether he had been any while dead. And when he knew it of the centurion, he gave the body to Joseph. And he bought fine linen, and took him down, and wrapped him in the linen, and laid him in a sepulchre which was hewn out of a rock, and rolled a stone unto the door of the sepulchre. And Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joses beheld where he was laid. (Mark 15:42-47)
Saturday. Could it be that He is really dead? There are no words for this. There is no right way to feel. There is no way to frame this that makes sense. There is no happy ending. It’s just painful. That’s all. What happens when the one you put your hope in dies and you are left alone? There is no darker hopelessness than when hope itself dies. There is no consolation. There is no encouragement. It’s just so dark… so very dark. That’s just the way it is. The world is still and silent. He died and was buried, and the devastation is unspeakable. Hope died, and the silence is deafening. The hands that gave life now lie lifeless in the tomb, the lifeless hands of a lifeless corpse. The people begin to sing their funeral dirge. There’s nothing else left to do. Creation groans in suspended animation, caught somewhere between death and life. The earth waits. The universe holds its breath. Saturday is a day of waiting and wondering. It’s a day of holding one’s breath. It’s a day of grieving over unfulfilled hopes and frustrated goals and broken dreams and unanswered prayers. It’s a day of straining our eyes, looking for a point of light in the darkness. It’s a day of straining our ears, listening for the faint sound of a new drumbeat. It’s a day of passing through the valley of the shadow of death, and learning that the shadow of death is not the same as death itself. It’s a day of realizing that the journey is not over, though now it must take a different turn. It’s a day for learning that our value lies in being created by God and in being loved by God and in being who we are, not by what we think we ought to accomplish for God or for humanity. It’s a day for honest doubt and a day of reassessment. It’s a day when we come to learn that even if we lose our grip on God, God still holds onto us, and we realize that that is enough. It’s a day of walking by faith when we cannot see, and of trying to catch a glimpse of the God we can neither see nor hear, and maybe we begin to question the very things that we were afraid to question earlier. It’s a day of giving ourselves permission to face our deepest doubts and our deepest fears. It’s a day for recognizing that we are not always right and we are not always strong, and that deep inside we are weak and broken and vulnerable, and that’s OK. In fact, it’s beautiful. That’s when we discover our own humanity. That’s when discover how much we have in common with the rest of the human race, and that’s when we catch a glimpse of what God had in mind when he created humanity in his own image. That’s when we realize that only what is broken can be brought to God for healing, and that is the beginning of healing and wholeness and hope and genuine community. Hope and beauty and new birth find their roots in the valley of the shadow of death. After all, it’s the valley of the shadow of death but it’s not death. It’s Saturday. And they bring him unto the place Golgotha, which is, being interpreted, The place of a skull. And they gave him to drink wine mingled with myrrh: but he received it not. And when they had crucified him, they parted his garments, casting lots upon them, what every man should take. And it was the third hour, and they crucified him. (Mark 15:22-25)
Friday. Death cannot be dressed up. It is ugly. It is brutal. It is painful. Death by crucifixion is an unspeakable horror. Other ancient peoples executed their criminals and then displayed their dead bodies on poles as an example of what happens to those who oppose the rule of the land. Only the Romans were cruel enough to place them on poles while they were still alive. For Jesus, the day of death had come. His years of loving God and loving people have reached the point of no return. Now Jesus must die, for love of God, for love of man. The ultimate love. The ultimate sacrifice. The ultimate obedience. How can one man die for the sins of others? There is no other way. Having loved us, he loved us to the end. Having loved his Father, he obeyed him to the end. It was the day of darkness, the day of separation, and it was inevitable. It had to happen or there would be no hope for any of us. It had to happen in order for God to be both just and justifier. If God is God and sin is sin and forgiveness is forgiveness, the dark death of the Son of God on that dark Friday simply had to happen. We do not seek to fully understand. Friday is not the time to analyze, but to weep. We stand in horror, and with gratefulness, and with broken hearts of love. This is what He did to prove His love. Worthy is the Lamb… Two planks of wood and some nails are arranged in a pile. That’s all the equipment He’ll need. Painful, bloody steps to the place of execution, the place of the offering, the place of reconciliation. The hands now pierced with nails: Cold, sharp, painful nails mercilessly hammered through the hands of the One who loved because He is Love. Friends and enemies stand to witness the self-sacrifice of the Lamb, for love of God, for love of man. Friends and enemies brought together to this place, at this time to watch, to weep, to wonder. God and man brought together in this place, at this time to witness and experience the ultimate act of reconciliation and the price is death—slow, painful, excruciating death. The dark death of Friday’s cross was not for the man who died. This death was for the world—no, for me! And they that passed by railed on him, wagging their heads, and saying, Ah, thou that destroyest the temple, and buildest it in three days, Save thyself, and come down from the cross. Likewise also the chief priests mocking said among themselves with the scribes, He saved others; himself he cannot save. Let Christ the King of Israel descend now from the cross, that we may see and believe. And they that were crucified with him reviled him. (Mark 15:29-32) And so the mocking continues, even when Jesus is on the cross, even by the criminals who were crucified alongside of him. They ask why he does not save himself, but they do not understand that if he saves himself he cannot save them. The death of Jesus was for us. He could have stopped the process at any time. He could have pressed the “abort mission” button, but had he done that you and I would still be in our sins, with no hope of salvation, no hope of forgiveness, no hope of an intimate relationship with God, no hope of a life-transforming spiritual awakening, no hope of meaning for our earthly existence, no hope beyond the grave, no hope of eternal life in intimate relationship with God forever. We would be condemned to live forever in existential isolation and darkness under Dante’s sign “Abandon all hope here”. By saving himself he would have left us alone to wander in our own self-imposed darkness. He suffered our darkness so that we might live in the light. He died our death so that we might experience his life. He suffered the penalty for our sins so that we might experience God’s unconditional love and forgiveness. May God open our eyes and our hearts and enable us to understand what the death of Jesus means for the world, and what it means personally for us. May we be people who are defined by the cross of Jesus. May we be a Church that is defined by the cross of Jesus. The Cross, together with the Resurrection and the Return, is what defines us. It is what makes us who we are. And at the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani? which is, being interpreted, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? (Mark 15:34) These words fill me with horror. What could be more horrifying than spending one’s entire life in complete submission to God, experiencing the deepest trust possible because of deepest intimacy possible, only to feel forsaken at the end. Before we rush to our theological explanations, we need to take a moment to feel the horror of it all. Don’t rush off to explain. Don’t rush off to celebrate the resurrection. Closing the theological loop now would be premature. Feel the horror. Feel the loneliness. Feel the hurt. Feel the isolation. The Son feels abandoned by the Father. God feels abandoned by God. Whatever the theological explanation, the feeling was real. The horror was real. The darkness of that moment in the soul of Jesus is unimaginable. It was the worse nightmare in the universe, but it was real. The emotional pain was real. The agony was real. It wasn’t only physical pain that Jesus felt on the cross. It was the emotional and spiritual pain of feeling abandoned not only by his friends, but by God Himself. The wretched agony that Jesus was experiencing at that moment can never be described or replicated. Jesus experienced all the physical, emotional and spiritual pain and brokenness and isolation that the universe could dish up against him. It happened once for all. The universe can contain that degree of pain only once. Jesus was forsaken that I might be accepted. Jesus was condemned that I might be forgiven. There is something very deep going on here. Something at the heart of the universe exploded. Something deep in the heart of God exploded, and out of that explosion flowed the love and mercy that forgives a billion people of their sins and reconciles the inhabitants of a rebellious planet to their good Creator. He was forsaken that I might be reconciled. His death is my life. We need to feel the horror before we can dare to celebrate. And the soldiers led him away into the hall, called Praetorium; and they call together the whole band. And they clothed him with purple, and platted a crown of thorns, and put it about his head, and began to salute him, Hail, King of the Jews! And they smote him on the head with a reed, and did spit upon him, and bowing their knees worshipped him. And when they had mocked him, they took off the purple from him, and put his own clothes on him, and led him out to crucify him. (Mark 15:16-20)
We mock that which we do not understand. They did not understand him, so they mocked him. He says he’s a king. He thinks he’s a king. OK, then give him a purple robe and hammer a crown of thorns into his scalp and let’s pretend to worship. Maybe that will make him happy. Give me what he wants, and then kill him. The abuse that Jesus endured in the Praetorium was both physical and psychological, and it was brutal. Nothing is as degrading as mockery. Mockery is the ultimate indignity. Mockery is a way of saying “We no longer take you seriously. We don’t value you enough to take you seriously”. It’s easier to mock a person whom we don’t understand than to try to take him or her seriously. After all, if we take him or her seriously, we may need to look into the mirror and see something about ourselves that we don’t like about ourselves and that we’d rather not see. That’s too painful. It’s easier to mock. The higher and more noble the character of the one is who is being mocked, the more painful the mockery. The more truthful the words of the one who is being mocked, the more blasphemous the mockery. Here was God himself who had come to save his people from their sins and from themselves by telling them the truth. The one whom they were mocking was indeed Israel’s God and King, who deserved Israel’s worship and the world’s worship, and your worship and my worship. The true King was mocked as though he were a counterfeit King, and the King is none other than God himself. This is the ultimate mockery. Some of us know the words of the song: “Ashamed, I hear my mocking voice call out among the scoffers”. Those words are very perceptive. We need to see ourselves among the mockers. After all, it was our sins that put Jesus on the cross as well as anyone else’s. He died for the ones who sinned, the ones who mocked, the ones who put him on the cross. That includes all of us. We don’t remember the events of “Good Friday” as the day they killed our Savior. We remember them as the day we killed our Savior. He died for the very ones who were mocking him. He died for the very ones who nailed him to the cross. He died for the very ones who sinned against him. Us. He died in our place. He died wearing our name tag. He died bearing our name. He died as though he were you. He died as though he were me. “Substitutionary atonement” is more than just a doctrine. It means he loved us enough to die in our place, for us, as us, as though he were us. He took our death penalty. He suffered the execution that we deserved. We cannot dare to call ourselves Christians if the death of Jesus for our sins leaves our emotions untouched. We need to see ourselves among the mockers. We need to know that the cross that Jesus died upon is the cross that was intended for us. And when they had mocked him, they took off the purple from him, and put his own clothes on him, and led him out to crucify him. And they compel one Simon a Cyrenian, who passed by, coming out of the country, the father of Alexander and Rufus, to bear his cross. (Mark 15:20-21) The mocking is over. Now the cruel work of execution by crucifixion begins. Simon is conscripted to carry the cross for Jesus. We do not know whether Simon was a friend or a foe of Jesus or if he even knew who Jesus was. Whatever he was planning on doing that day as he was traveling out of the countryside, his plans were suddenly changed at the whim of a Roman soldier who commanded this passerby to carry the cross of the Son of God. And now Simon must bear the heavy weight of the cross on his shoulders, knowing that he is bearing the means of execution for the weary, thirsty and pain-ridden man who is stumbling up the hill alongside of him. (As I am writing this I’m reminded of how beautifully this scene was portrayed in Mel Gibson’s movie “The Passion of the Christ”). Simon saw the sights and heard the sounds and smelled the smells and felt some of the pain that Jesus was feeling as they climbed the hill together. What kind of bond might have been forged between Jesus and Simon as they silently made their way together up to the Place of the Skull? Did they make eye contact? What did they see in each other’s eyes? Was Simon ever the same after his participation in that dark death march? We have no way of knowing, but history forever links the name of Simon to the event of the crucifixion of Jesus. We cannot tell the story of Jesus of Nazareth without also telling the story of Simon the Passerby who carried the cross of Jesus. And so it is with many of us. We think we are passers-by to the unfolding drama of Jesus of Nazareth, but suddenly we discover that we are in the story. Suddenly we discover that the story is not only about Jesus; it’s also about us. We become bearers of the cross of Jesus. His cross becomes our cross. We become identified with Jesus in a way that what happens to him affects us, and what happens to us affects him. The Jesus story becomes our story. Something in our spirit is awakened that enables us to cross the line from being Simon the Passerby to becoming Simon the Bearer of the Cross. It takes a spiritual awakening. On another occasion Jesus explained it this way (this is paraphrased): Humans can reproduce only human life, but the Holy Spirit gives birth to spiritual life. So don’t be surprised when I say, ‘You must be born again.’ The wind blows wherever it wants. Just as you can hear the wind but can’t tell where it comes from or where it is going, so you can’t explain how people are born of the Spirit.” (John 3:6-8 NLT) And they came to a place which was named Gethsemane: and he saith to his disciples, Sit ye here, while I shall pray. And he taketh with him Peter and James and John, and began to be sore amazed, and to be very heavy; And saith unto them, My soul is exceeding sorrowful unto death: tarry ye here, and watch. And he went forward a little, and fell on the ground, and prayed that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him. And he said, Abba, Father, all things are possible unto thee; take away this cup from me: nevertheless not what I will, but what thou wilt. (Mark 14:32-36)
Gethsemane. We have it all wrong. We expect to see strong men, brimming with confidence, conquering everything that is in their path. There is no place for struggling, there is no place for weeping, their is no place for agony. Only conquest. Only victory. Get in line behind them or they will crush you. If they are there to protect you, then get behind them. If they are against you, then may God help you. Strong men don’t struggle. Strong me don’t agonize. Strong men don’t weep. But what about this man? He is the strongest man who ever lived, and yet he struggles and he weeps. What is this strange paradox of strength and vulnerability? He wrestles as he weeps. Does that mean that he is weak? How can a strong man weep? He experiences agony. Strong men don’t have the time or the patience to agonize. They are too busy conquering those who are so weak, those who weep, those who agonize. Isn’t that the way it works? Perhaps we have it all wrong. How could the strongest man who ever lived be the most honest, the most vulnerable, the most human? Strange paradox. A God who wrestles. A God who struggles. A God who is honest about what he is feeling. A God who is vulnerable. God with a human face. Fully God and fully man. We might be able to catch a glimpse of what it means for Jesus to be God in a human body, but will we ever come to understand what it means that this Jesus who is fully God is also fully man? And will we ever come to understand that while he came to show us who God is, he also came to show us what it means to be fully human? Will we ever come to understand that strength does not mean that we hide from our weakness, but that we honestly face who we are and what we are feeling in the vulnerability of authenticity? We try too hard to keep it together. We try too hard not to let our emotions show. We try too hard to pretend we are not human, and in the process we become less human, we lose our connection to and commonality with the rest of humanity, and we cast aside our core belief that humans are made in the image of God. Jesus was too strong to pretend He wasn’t human. He was too strong to deny the fact that he was struggling. He was too strong to deny the fact that he needed to rely on his Father. He was too strong to deny the fact that he needed his friends to be around him. He needed their support and he needed their encouragement, and he was strong enough to admit that need. He was strong enough to be human, even though he knew that you and I would probably be tempted to interpret his strength as weakness. After all, that’s how we interpret it in each other, and that’s how we interpret it in ourselves. And so he wrestled to submit to the will of his Father, as we so often do. He wrestled with honesty, with authenticity, with genuine tears falling from a very human face, but in the end he trusted his Father with a deep and abiding trust that knows only intimacy as its source, and so he obeyed. May we be strong enough to be real, to be vulnerable, to be genuine, to be human, just as Jesus did. Through the struggling and through the tears, may we learn to trust in our Father’s love enough so that we can do what he asks us to do, just as Jesus did. May we learn to live our lives as children of the Father, knowing that the outcome is in our Father’s hands, and that our Father’s hands are powerful enough to protect us because our Father’s mind is wise enough to guide is and our Father’s heart is loving enough to do what is best for us. This is the strong and vulnerable weakness of humanity that was modeled to us by Jesus as he wrestled and as he wept, trusting in the heart of his Father. And he sendeth forth two of his disciples, and saith unto them, Go ye into the city, and there shall meet you a man bearing a pitcher of water: follow him. And wheresoever he shall go in, say ye to the goodman of the house, The Master saith, Where is the guestchamber, where I shall eat the passover with my disciples? And he will shew you a large upper room furnished and prepared: there make ready for us. And his disciples went forth, and came into the city, and found as he had said unto them: and they made ready the passover. And in the evening he cometh with the twelve. (Mark 14:13-17)
Passover. A night of joy; a night of tradition; a night of celebration with family and friends; a night of remembrance; a night of definition. Passover is the night of knowing who we are because of what God has done in our past, which shapes how we see ourselves in the present and how we set our aspirations for the future. It’s a night that helps us to understand our destiny; a night of remembering our story as it fits into the much bigger picture of God’s story. It’s a night of locating ourselves in time and space by remembering the move of the hand of God in the history of His people and by using that as a reference point. There is no better place to celebrate the Passover than here in Jerusalem. Passover is ritual and a remembrance but it is also a meal. When we eat together we remember who we are and to whom we belong. We renew our bonds with our family, with our friends, and with our God. Surely it is good to break bread and to share the cup with those we love. Something sacred happens when we gather for a common meal. It is good to eat together. But tonight is not an ordinary Passover. It’s the last meal that Jesus will have with his friends. They would celebrate the Passover in abbreviated form. After raising the last cup they would sing a song, and then they would head out to the Mount of Olives, where the night of wrestling would begin. His disciples must have been struggling to know how to celebrate that particular Passover on that particular evening in Jerusalem. How does one say good-bye to a friend? What can you say at your last meal together? Do you choke back the tears, or do you let them flow freely? What does it mean to “be strong” when your closest friend is about to die? Why should you even have to be strong? Is it strength to hold back the tears, or is it strength to vulnerable enough to weep, to embrace, to grieve? These are the thoughts that may have been racing through the minds of the disciples as they prepare this final meal. “They are going to kill him. Let us go with him that we might die with him”. The table is set. Jesus reclines with His friends. The meal begins: One final meal before the execution, the offering, the strange self-sacrifice where One is both Priest and Lamb. One last time to eat, to drink, to laugh, to embrace, to be close to His friends. Last words spoken. Last memories. The hands are open, offering bread and wine, offering Himself. Then comes the crisis of the Garden, strangely counterpoint to another crisis in another Garden long ago, and now the hands are clenched into fists, not of defiance, but of resolve: “I’m going to go through with this. Nothing will stop me”. Decision made. Jesus entered Jerusalem and went to the temple. He looked around at everything, but since it was already late, he went out to Bethany with the Twelve. (Mark 11:11)
Monday. It all looked so promising, but now we’ve got our doubts about this Jesus. We were all assembled here in Jerusalem ready to follow him, but he didn’t lead us the way we wanted him to lead us. He didn’t lead us to Herod’s palace where we could kick out Herod, that poser of a king, overthrow the Romans and re-establish God’s kingdom. Instead this Jesus came into the temple, looked around, and left. Now it’s Monday, we’ve stopped waving our palm branches and we’ve gone back to work. Our day of celebration is over and nothing has changed. Herod is still King, the Romans are still in charge, and Jesus and his loyal band of followers are out in a sleepy little one-horse town where nothing ever happens. Bethany—quiet, tranquil, boring Bethany. You don’t raise an army in Bethany. You don’t start an insurrection in Bethany. You don’t overturn an empire from Bethany. That’s not where things happen. What’s going on here, Jesus? Disappointed again. How much disappointment can we handle? More disillusionment. More broken dreams. Why dream when dreams don’t come true? Maybe we’re missing something. Maybe there are some missing puzzle pieces, and the whole puzzle would make sense if only we could find those missing pieces. Maybe there is still a flicker of hope that some good can come out of this. After all, our history has shown us that God doesn’t do things according to our script. David defeated Goliath, not by tackling him down and beating him to a bloody pulp, but by using a slingshot and a smooth stone. Jericho came down, not through a battle but by marching around in circles and blowing trumpets. Sampson’s strength was in his hair. Our ancestors were delivered from Egyptian slavery by the shedding of the blood of lambs. Our God does whatever He wishes; He is not obligated to follow our script. If we wrote the script and God followed it, then we would be God. That’s not the way things work. We should have known better. Great God of our Fathers, when we cannot understand what you are doing, help us to trust in your character. Help us to believe that you are wise enough to know what is right, compassionate enough to want what is right, and powerful enough to do what is right. When we cannot see what you are doing, help us to trust you in the darkness. Help us to trust that your heart is good, that your heart is toward your people and that your ear is toward their cries. You’ve helped our people in the past. Help us again, now. We need your help. We need your hope. Help us to remember. Help us to believe. Help us to trust. Perhaps some good can come out the gentle rabbi and his odd disciples, asleep tonight in Bethany while the rest of the world is sleepless and restless. You did not forsake us on that Passover night so many centuries ago. Forsake us not tonight. And many spread their garments in the way: and others cut down branches off the trees, and strawed them in the way. And they that went before, and they that followed, cried, saying, Hosanna; Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord: Blessed be the kingdom of our father David, that cometh in the name of the Lord: Hosanna in the highest. (Mark 11:8-10)
Sunday. The Middle Eastern sun is high and hot as an enthusiastic crowd starts to line the main streets of Jerusalem, cheering, celebrating, giving each other “high fives” as the young rabbi rides into the city on a donkey. Their people had suffered under oppressive regimes for centuries—the Egyptians, the Babylonians, the Assyrians, the Medes and the Persians, the Greeks, and now the Romans—and their frustration had reached the boiling point; there was no turning back. An oppressed people can be kicked around for only so long before they start to fight back. At some point someone has to draw a line in the sand—and this young rabbi could be just the man for the job. The people are looking for a champion —someone who would fight for them; some rugged son of David who would stand and turn and face the Goliath of Rome and raise his clenched fist and shout the challenge to the arrogant enemies of God and of His people: “Who are you to defy the Living God?” And so they follow him, cheering as they go. “Hosanna!” “Save now!” “Deliver us from Roman oppression!” “Give us back our kingdom!” “Make Israel great again!” These are the cries that come from their mouths that echo the hopes that they treasure in their hearts as they follow this strong but gentle rabbi who claims that he has come from God and is returning to God. Goliath is about to fall. God and His people are about to be vindicated. The enemies of God and the enemies of God’s people are about to be defeated. No one defies Almighty God and gets away with it—at least not for long—and now the day of reckoning has come. Even as they cheer, what are the questions that they may be asking within themselves that they dare not verbalize? Why the donkey? Shouldn’t a warrior-king be charging into the city on a white horse? Where are the armies? That embarrassingly ordinary-looking bunch of unarmed “disciples” who insist on followed him everywhere he goes doesn’t exactly look like the kind of people who could march in and take over a city, let alone push back an empire. Something is not quite right about this turn of events. Something is not going as planned. This young rabbi seems to be departing from the conventional script. Why this talk about “love your enemies”? What kind of king is this? What kind of man is this? He talks of God as though he really knows Him. Could anyone know God that intimately? He speaks of God as being his Father in a way that seems almost scandalous. His way of dealing with people is not that of a warrior-king. He relates to people as though he really loves them. Can a warrior-king love his people? How can a conqueror allow his heart be touched by the needs and cares of his people and treat them as his friends? He seems too gentle to be a warrior and too loving to be a king. His authority is won not by his harshness, but it’s somehow tied to his gentleness. He acts more like a servant than a king. He gathers his followers neither by threat nor by coercion but simply by being who he is. His people are his willing followers because at a place deep within themselves they know that there is something about him that’s worth following—or so they say. He teaches, but not as the other rabbis. He’s different. He’s a son of David, perhaps, but a different kind of son. The people are perplexed but they dare not give up their hope, so they continue to follow and they continue to cheer, waving their palm branches as the entourage enters the city. Perhaps something good will come of this; perhaps not. If he is the long-awaited Deliverer, the strong man who will set right all in the world that is wrong, then they are in the right place at the right time, following the right man. Rome is about to fall, and they are getting a front-row seat. Some day they will tell their children and their grandchildren that they were there on that historic day when the king came into Jerusalem, turned the tables on Rome and restored the Kingdom of David. If he is not the Deliverer then they have nothing left to lose, and so they continue to follow, and so they continue to cheer. |
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